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  The Cursed

  De Wolfe Connected World

  By Cathy MacRae

  Text copyright by the Author.

  This work was made possible by special permission through the de Wolfe Pack Connected World publishing program and WolfeBane Publishing, a dba of Dragonblade Publishing. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original World of de Wolfe Pack connected series by Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc. remains the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc., or the affiliates or licensors.

  All characters created by the author of this novel remain the copyrighted property of the author.

  De Wolfe Pack: The Series

  By Aileen Fish

  The Duke She Left Behind

  By Alexa Aston

  Rise of de Wolfe

  By Amanda Mariel

  Love’s Legacy

  One Wanton Wager

  By Anna Markland

  Hungry Like de Wolfe

  By Ashe Barker

  Wolfeheart

  By Autumn Sand

  Reflections of Love

  Reflections of Time

  By Barbara Devlin

  Lone Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 1

  The Big Bad De Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 2

  Tall, Dark & De Wolfe: Heirs of Titus De Wolfe Book 3

  By Cathy MacRae

  The Saint

  The Penitent

  The Cursed

  By Celeste Barclay

  A Spy at the Highland Court

  By Christy English

  Dragon Fire

  By Danelle Harmon

  Heart of the Sea Wolfe

  By Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  Master of the Moor

  By Emily E K Murdoch

  Whirlwind with a Wolfe

  By Hildie McQueen

  The Duke’s Fiery Bride

  By Jennifer Siddoway

  De Wolfe in Disguise

  By Kathryn Le Veque

  River’s End

  By Lana Williams

  Trusting the Wolfe

  Ruby’s Gamble

  By Laura Landon

  A Voice on the Wind

  By Leigh Lee

  Of Dreams and Desire

  By Mairi Norris

  Brabanter’s Rose

  By Marlee Meyers

  The Fall of the Black Wolf

  By Mary Lancaster

  Vienna Wolfe

  The Wicked Wolfe

  By Meara Platt

  Nobody’s Angel

  Kiss an Angel

  Bhrodi’s Angel

  By Mia Pride

  The Lone Wolf’s Lass

  The Last Wolfe Lass

  By Michele Lang

  An Honest Woman

  By Rosamund Winchester

  The Defender and the Dove

  By Ruth Kaufman

  My Enemy, My Love

  My Rebel, My Love

  My Rival, My Love

  By Sarah Hegger

  Bad Wolfe on the Rise

  By Scarlett Cole

  Together Again

  By Sherry Ewing

  To Love a Scottish Laird

  To Love an English Knight

  By Tammy Andresen

  To Want a Rogue

  By Victoria Vane

  Breton Wolfe Book 1

  Ivar the Red Book 2

  The Bastard of Brittany Book 3

  By Violetta Rand

  Never Cry de Wolfe

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  De Wolfe Pack: The Series

  Words of Interest

  About The Cursed

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  From the Author

  About the Book

  About the Author

  More Books by Cathy MacRae

  Words of Interest

  Curfuffle – probably comes from the Scottish Gaelic car meaning to “twist” or “bend” combined with another Scots word fuffle meaning “to disorder”

  Dandilly – a spoiled or over-indulged young person

  Dobbie – a dunce or dolt

  Doocot – dovecote

  Gaupin – A throbbing pain.

  Gawkit – stupid, clumsy

  Gey wheen – a considerable quantity

  Lilty – cheerful, carefree

  Oxter – armpit

  Rickle – ramshackle, decrepit

  Skweegie – Askew, twisted. At the wrong angle, out of shape.

  Snapper – A stumble, stagger. A missed step.

  Struidiment – a mood of agitation or high excitement

  Wheen – a few, a small number, several

  A Conroi is a group of 5-10 knights who trained and fought together.

  Cheval-de-frise (plural chevaux-de-frise) – a defense consisting typically of a timber or an iron barrel covered with projecting spikes; a portable frame (sometimes just a simple log) covered with many projecting long iron or wooden spikes or spears.

  The Cursed

  Rosaline Johnstone believes she has been cursed by the faeries. Betrothed four times, none of her suitors have made it to the altar. This time she’s in love, but if she agrees to marry him, his death will be on her head.

  Walter de Ellerton, deeply religious and a fervent keeper of the chivalric code, has patiently sought the right lady to marry. He has at last found her, the woman of his dreams, and though she professes undying love, she refuses to marry him.

  Caught between the machinations of a wily Scot, the ambitions of an English lord, a vengeful clan chieftain, and the mysterious works of the faeries of Eaglesfield Burn, Rosaline and Walter must break the curse Rosaline believes was settled upon her many years ago—or risk losing their chance to live happily ever after.

  Prologue

  (from The Penitent)

  Mid-summer, 1235

  North Hall, slightly south of the Scottish Border

  Iseabal beamed as Simon planted a kiss on her cheek. He yelped loudly as Ewan dashed across the floor and plowed into his legs. Ewan giggled with delight and Simon scooped him up, lifting him high and giving him a playful shake before setting him back on his feet.

  “Again, again!” Ewan chanted, raising up his arms.

  Simon tickled the boy’s oxter until Ewan shrieked with laughter.

  “Can I go riding with ye, Da?”

  With a lifted brow, Simon deftly tossed the question to Iseabal. “What do ye think, Izzy?”

  She waved a hand in the air. “Off with ye and take the lad with ye. ’Tis a fine midsummer day and he needs to be outside.” Glancing at her lightly rounded belly, she wiggled her feet. “I’m going to relax a bit today, I think.”

  “Are ye well?” Concern knitted Simon’s eyebrows together.

  “Och, nary a thing to worry over. I’ve months to go before the bairn makes an appearance. Just feeling a bit lazy this day. Run along. Rosaline will care for me should I need anything.”

  Iseabal watched indulgently as Simon helped Ewan into his boots. With a wave and a shout of good-bye, they were gone, leaving behind blissful silence.

  She sighed and turned to Rosaline.r />
  “They’ll be gone ’til noon if I have my guess. Plenty of time for ye to tell me what’s bothering ye.”

  “M’lady?” Rosaline’s violet eyes widened.

  “Och, dinnae dissemble, lass. Ye are punctual with yer tasks, and never a cross word, yet I havenae seen ye smile, nor do ye spend time with the others. I couldnae ask for a kinder maid, yet yer heart isnae in it.”

  Rosaline glanced down, folding her hands in her lap. Iseabal knew the motions—look away to keep from showing emotion and rest your hands in your lap to still their shaking. Something was amiss.

  “Please let me help,” Iseabal murmured. “It truly matters to me that ye are unhappy.”

  Rosaline’s lips twisted, showing her indecision. Her unearthly eyes snapped to Iseabal’s.

  “The lad I was betrothed to is dead.”

  “Aye. Ye spoke of this to me three months past. Do ye not wish to remain here? I will help ye return to yer family if ye wish.”

  “I fear my da willnae welcome me back. I have three other sisters, as well as two younger brothers, and I was one mouth too many at the table. ’Tis why I was sent to live with James’ family once the betrothal contract was signed. But James died a week before we were to wed, and his parents find me an unwelcome reminder of their loss. I chose to live at North Hall rather than under their accusing eyes.”

  “Why would they accuse ye? He was killed in a raid on the village. Ye had naught to do with that.”

  “Nae. The raid had naught to do with me. Though I truly dinnae look forward to wedding James.” She glanced away again and her cheeks pinked.

  “Then whyever did ye agree to the betrothal?”

  Rosaline shrugged. “I dinnae expect the wedding to happen.” She glanced from the floor to the hearth, and finally to Iseabal. “None of the others did.”

  Iseabal’s eyebrows flew upward. “Saint Andrew’s stumpy toes, lass! How many men have ye been betrothed to?”

  Rosaline’s gaze slid away. “Including James? Three.”

  Simon dismounted and handed his reins to a stable boy who led his horse away. Autumn leaves drifted lazily to the ground, bright gold offerings from a tree in a nearby garden. He dusted his hands on his breeches and strode to the main door of the keep while his personal guard scattered to the various vices of food, drink, or perhaps a game of dice in the soldiers’ quarters.

  Lord de Wylde met him at the top of the wide stone steps.

  “How is your wife and babe?”

  “Ewan grows apace, and so does the babe in Iseabal’s belly—much like the one your wife carries,” Simon noted blandly. A squeal of delight warned him an instant before Lady de Wylde grabbed his neck for a hug, her belly hindering the process. He bent good-naturedly to her kiss, knowing she’d not release him until he’d given her every assurance her sister was well and happy.

  “Ye’ll not beat her by many weeks,” he teased, letting his gaze linger a moment on the mound her surcoat could not hide.

  She smiled sunnily at him. “She is well? Ye willnae let Ewan tire her?”

  “My lovely wife is very content,” he assured her. “Our only contention is whether the babe will be a boy or a girl. I’m hoping for a girl.”

  He offered her his arm and led her into the hall. Walter appeared before they’d taken many steps.

  “Good to see ye, Simon. I wasn’t certain your lady wife would let ye stray far from her side.”

  “Spoken like a man who has yet to find a woman to put up with him,” Simon joked.

  Marsaili rolled her eyes and released Simon’s arm. “Men. I’m leaving now before ye rub knuckles on each other’s heads.”

  Simon and Lord de Wylde laughed. Walter wore a troubled look. Lord de Wylde and Simon exchanged glances. Clearing his throat, Geoffrey de Wylde motioned to the other end of the enormous room.

  “Come with me to my solar. We can discuss matters there in private.”

  Simon relaxed into a comfortable chair beside a long, narrow window where sunlight spilled across the floor. He stretched his legs out before him, pleased to be still and quiet for a moment.

  “Something is on your mind, Walter. I can smell it from here.”

  Walter sent him a puzzled look then shook his head. Geoffrey took his seat at the large desk in the corner of the room and, deftly changing the topic, ignored Simon’s quip.

  “I’m sending a group of soldiers to Eaglesmuir to place a Johnstone in the keep. As per our discussions over the past couple of months, I’ve decided they will be our best allies in the area. My knights have already secured the keep, and they will turn it over to the new lord at the proper time.”

  “Laird Johnstone has agreed?”

  “Aye. He’ll support it until his son is old enough to manage on his own. Several families of Johnstones left Friar’s Hill when my brothers took the village two years ago. This will give them a place to go if they wish, and shows I do not deal as my brothers did.”

  “’Tis a fair trade. Eaglesmuir is a fine keep near the River Annan.”

  “I’m still organizing men to help with the transition, and will be asking for one of my knights to volunteer to lead them in the next few days.”

  Simon shifted in his chair, his attention drawn to Walter’s lack of interest. “What vexes ye, Walter? Ye’ve not said two words since we entered the room.”

  Walter frowned. “’Tis something ye mentioned a few months ago. I’ve been thinking on it lately . . . .”

  “Ye are one of the most serious men I know,” Simon remarked. “It has taken ye months to reflect on something I said . . . .”

  Lord de Wylde raised a hand and Simon subsided his teasing.

  “What is it, Walter?”

  Walter shuffled his feet. “I don’t know how I would handle a wife.”

  Simon hooted. “I know ye aren’t a virgin, Walter.”

  Lord de Wylde sent him another quelling gesture.

  Walter’s face reddened. “That isn’t what I meant. Housing. Food.” He widened his hands, palms up. “Living.”

  “Ye have but to ask, Walter,” Lord de Wylde replied. “There are a number of cottages within the walls of Belwyck that would do for a wife and family. Do ye have a lady in mind?”

  Walter shook his head. “I have little to recommend me as a husband. I am a warrior, unversed in gentler arts.”

  Lord de Wylde lifted a brow. “Ye see before ye two warriors well-pleased with coming home to the gentler arts as ye put it.”

  Simon leaned forward. “There was a young woman at North Hall . . . .”

  Walter glanced up, eyes widened. “Nae. She’s beyond me.”

  “Walter, ye must banish that ridiculous notion. Any lady of North Hall would be pleased to marry a knight such as yourself.”

  Walter frowned. “Nae. She is betrothed. Likely wed by now.”

  Simon snapped his fingers. “Rosaline! Oh, sweet Rosaline! I fair remember her.” He hesitated, his grin slipping away.

  “What is wrong?”

  “Her betrothed died in the raid at Friar’s Hill when Iseabal first arrived.”

  Walter perked up noticeably. “Has she wed another?”

  “No, at least, not to my knowledge. But she no longer resides in Friar’s Hill.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She has returned home—north across the border. I believe her father is Laird Johnstone.”

  Chapter One

  September 1235

  Middleburn Keep

  North of the Scottish Border

  Near Eaglesfield Burn, New Kirk village

  Chief Johnstone’s knife halted halfway to his mouth. He dropped the meat off the tip of the narrow blade onto his trencher and wiped the steel on the hem of his tunic. “What the devil are ye doing here?”

  Rosaline flinched at the boom of her father’s voice, then clenched her teeth against a scowl.

  Ava, Rosaline’s stepmother, arched a delicate brow, her lashes fluttering over rounded dark blue eyes in exaggerated confu
sion. Rosaline’s three sisters twittered excitedly, hands before their mouths partially hiding their grins, heads close together—so they can muster a single thought betwixt them. Rosaline’s notion was uncharitable, but it was fairly accurate. Her eldest brother, Tom—named for their father—stiffened, but said naught. Elliot, her shadow since his birth nine summers previous, grinned and waved, one eye glittering green, the other sparkling blue.

  “Er, Daughter, welcome home.” Her da rose and motioned her toward the small room to the side of the main hall he used for private audiences. Knowing it best to get the interview over with, Rosaline obeyed. With luck she’d avoid Ava’s inquisition a bit longer. She thought back swiftly to the tiding of magpies she’d seen as she approached the keep. Had there been three or four?

  “One for a girl,” she chanted under her breath, “two for a boy. Three for sorrow, four for joy.” There had been at least four. She sighed with relief.

  The solid door closed behind them with a snick of its metal latch, deadening the clamor in the hall to a mere whisper of sound. Thomas Johnstone stalked to his desk in the corner of the chamber and collapsed into the chair.

  “What brings ye back?” Johnstone growled.

  “Och, ’tis a kinder greeting than the one ye shouted at me a moment ago,” Rosaline couldn’t help but grouse.

  “Shouldn’t ye be breeding bairns?” Thomas Johnstone scowled and Rosaline rounded her shoulders against the pain of rejection.

  “Only if ye dinnae care who fathers them,” she retorted.

  “Dinnae tell me . . . .” Her da closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, a pained expression on his face.

  Rosaline sighed. “Aye. James is dead.”

  Her father scowled. “’Tis nae possible. ’Tis the fourth lad ye’ve been betrothed to who’s died.”

  “Third.”

  Her da paused, his fingers flicking lightly as he counted.

  “Fourth. Dinnae forget wee Ronnie.”

  “Da.” Rosaline tilted her head, summoning patience. “He died when he was twelve summers. He doesnae count.”

  “Ye were betrothed as bairns. He counts. Four.”

  Three. Rosaline met his scowl with a determined one of her own.