Page 32 of Claimed by the Clan Chief

“And without something of his it can’t be made.”

“I have this.” Una tugged a round brass pocket watch from her apron. “It’s his. Does nay work, hasn’t for years, but usually he has it with him.”

Isla eyed it. If ever anyone deserved an ill wish it was Rabbie Finlay. But should she do this favour for Una? Doing so would be admitting she ken how to.

“Please,” Una said. “I promise I won’t tell anyone about it. I’ll hide it under Rabbie’s bed next time I go to see my bairns, in a few days probably if my ribs hold up to the walk. He won’t find it. Lazy good for nothing wouldn’t ken the right end of a broom to hold. Never cleans the place up. That’s what I do on my day off.”

Isla shook her head. “I don’t ken about this. Ill wishes are serious things.”

“Aye, I ken.” Una gestured to her face. “And this is a serious situation.”

“I can’t argue with that.” Isla took the watch. “Aye, okay, I’ll do it.”

“You will?”

“As long as this stays between us. Forever. You can’t tell a soul.”

Una drew a cross on her chest. “Absolutely. Cross my heart and hope to die. I’ll take your secret with me to my grave.”

Isla nodded and wrung out the cloth. “I’ll just tidy up here then I’ll set to it.”

“That quickly?”

“It won’t take long.”

“Ah, good.” Una sighed. “And fill it with as much ill luck as you can.”

* * *

Half an hour later Isla sat at the far end of the walled kitchen garden. She’d explained to Mrs. Humphrey that Una would be late to work owing to a bad night with Rabbie, then excused herself to get on with her task.

What Isla had really wanted to do was head off early to visit her aunt. It was a long walk so unless she was going to have a full afternoon there it didn’t seem much point going.

She sighed and strung together three yew twigs with two yards of string soaked in ale. Rabbie was very partial to ale so that would make the ill wish more personal for him.

As Isla then threaded three long black crow feathers into the mesh of string, thoughts of McTavish came to her mind. Quickly she pushed them aside. She needed to only think of Rabbie Finlay and how he deserved bad luck for as long as possible. That would also make the ill wish more personal for the man who deserved it. The last thing she wanted was for Trevor McTavish to have bad luck—she only wanted good things for him. Unlike Rabbie he was a good man; salt of the earth, her aunt would call him.

Isla began to thread sprigs of parsley through the string along with the pocket watch, which had a small rusting chain. Parsley was the devil’s plant. Growing so slowly, it had to visit the devil seven times to ask permission to sprout. Parsley therefore was on speaking terms with the devil. The fluffy leafed plant would ensure the devil was within the ill wish, and therefore never far from Rabbie.

When the ill wish was complete, Isla cursed it with a few lines taught to her by her aunt.

“Upon this day may Rabbie Finlay learn not to toil with evil. And if he does act or think with hate and rage then cast this ill wish curse upon him, to render him ill of luck, ill of health, ill of happiness. Thou shalt be punished. May the devil himself live within these strings and feathers, so mote it be.”

She held the ill wish up, allowing the easterly wind to tickle through it. Then satisfied her work was done, Isla slipped it into her pocket and walked quickly back to her room.

Una was lying on the bed, sleeping.

Isla placed the ill wish on the bedside table, adjusted the blanket on Una’s resting form, then quietly left her be.

Isla made a point of avoiding everyone in the castle and again sneaked from the kitchen garden and into the meadow. The sun was shining and the grass still held a hint of dew. To her right a skylark sang his frustration at her sudden appearance and in the distance a small herd of deer grazed.

But before heading off in the direction of her aunt’s village, Isla paused and looked back at the castle. Was McTavish still in there? Had he set off for Edinburgh yet? And if so when would he be back?

It was then she spotted a horse coming at speed toward her. A large bay with a flowing dark mane and tail. Upon it sat a huge Highlander, his kilt flapping and his tunic trailing behind his wide body.

Her heart rate picked up and a delicious sense of excitement settled in her chest. “McTavish.”

The ground beneath her shuddered as the thud of the horse’s hooves got closer. She stood there, staring at him, her body seeming to come to life in his presence.

---