Maggie Shayne: Weddings from Hell

Adjusting her focus, she read the letter.

My Dearest Mary,

I write you in this, the month you are to be wed, to beg of you, child, do not make this mistake. Do you not recall how your own ma, my own dear sister, met her end? The way her poor, drowned body washed up on the rocks below the cliffs? And how your Da disappeared, never to be seen again? And never still, not to this day. The curse of the MacLellan brides is real, Mary. You cannot run away from it, even if you run halfway 'round the world. It will find you, lass. And you'll die at your husband's hand. Please, listen to me. Come home, dear Mary, and resign yourself to living the life of a spinster. 'Tis the only way to ensure you'll live at all.

Your loving aunt,

Iris MacLellan

Blinking slowly, Kira lowered the paper to the bed.

Her mother hadn't been hallucinating or out of her mind as she'd been breathing her last. She'd been speaking of something that was real—at least to her it was. Maybe she hadn't believed in this curse of the MacLellan brides before the accident. But once that car had rolled over her body, crushing the life out of it, she must have believed then.

And apparently, she thought the curse would be handed down to her, to Kira. And if that was the case, Kira thought, she really needed to know exactly what it meant. Was every MacLellan woman who married, destined to die by her husband's hand? Could it be true?

Scooping all the letters into a pile, she dumped them back into the shoebox, shoved on the cover, and stuffed it back into the closet. Then she went to the telephone like she should have done in the first place, called her boss, and asked him for the name and phone number of his lawyer.

Three days later, Kira stepped out of the airport in Edinburgh and into overcast weather. There was a heavy mist in the air. It hovered and hung, wet and clingy, like a living fog that attached itself to your face and hair and clothes as if trying to claim you for its own.

Silly thought.

Hairy Tony's legal eagle had been able to verify that Ian Stewart was indeed an attorney in Scotland , and that Iris MacLellan had indeed died. That was enough for her. She'd phoned the man back, and he'd taken care of all the arrangements for her. He'd booked her flight—the tickets had been waiting at the airport as promised. He'd said a car would be waiting to take her to her accommodations. And the entire time his voice had stroked her senses like a lover's caress. It gave her chills, his voice. And she didn't know why.

She peered through the wet air. It was evening, just past sunset, and everything was swathed in shades of gray. But there was a small, boxy black car sitting at the curb, and even as she started toward it, a man got out, and came closer.

"Kira?" he asked.

She nodded, getting a better look at him as he drew nearer, but knowing already who he was. She recognized that voice. It had appealed to her on many levels, from the first time she'd heard it, from its resonance and tone, to its friendly, honest nature, to the accent that so reminded her of her mother, to the feeling it gave her that he was always teasing, just a little.

She was unprepared, however, for the way he looked. He was taller than she'd imagined, and seemed broad in his tan trench coat. His hair was a mass of black curls, all of them wet now where they lay on his forehead. He smiled, and when he did, his velvet-lashed eyes crinkled at the corners and his sensual mouth curved in a way that made her stomach tingle.

"Ian," she said.

"Aye. I'd know ye anywhere, Kira." His eyes, when he said that, probed hers with an intensity that was out of place. He seemed genuinely glad to see her. So glad, she almost expected him to hug her right off her feet at any moment. But he seemed to forcibly restrain himself. "You're a MacLellan, through and through."

"I hope that's a compliment."

"I'll shower you in them, if you like." And then he did hug her. Didn't ask or wait around for permission, just wrapped his arms around her and hugged her hard, as if he'd been doing it for years. Maybe that was the way of things here, she thought. So she hugged him back just as enthusiastically, and she didn't even have to fake it all that much.

And she felt something in that embrace, because it seemed to change, from friendly and welcoming, to something decidedly more intimate.

When he released her and stepped back, he looked as shell-shocked as she felt. He had to avert his eyes as he took her arm and turned toward the car.

"Oh, my bags—"

"I'll be getting the bags into the boot, lass. You first, though." He didn't slow his pace, then opened the passenger door, which was on the wrong side of the car, and held her elbow as she got inside. He closed her door, and rushed away to get the bags, stowing them in the trunk—er, boot, she corrected mentally.

And then he was back, climbing behind the wheel, putting the car into motion, and turning his high-beam smile on her as he did. "You're about to become a very wealthy woman, Kira MacLellan. And it's not the money alone of which I'm speakin'."

"No?"

"'Tis the heritage of the Clan MacLellan. The family you've never known. The history and the lineage—'tis as rich and colorful as any tapestry you could imagine."

"I suppose it is. But I'll be inheriting more than that, won't I, Ian?"

"Aye, there's the money as well. And some of the holdings, I would imagine. I only know in general the plans your great aunt made for you. My father handled the details."

"Yes, but that's not what I meant. I was speaking about the um…the curse."

He jerked the wheel in unison with his head. The car veered as he gaped at her, and then he quickly righted it again, clearly shaken.

"So you know about the curse, then?" she asked him.

"Of course I do. It's surprised I am that you know of it."

She shook her head. "I know very little. I have only my mother's dying words, begging my father to warn me about it, and a letter from my dearly departed great aunt Iris, begging my mother not to marry and bring the curse upon herself."

His lips thinned. It was the first time she'd seen him not wearing a smile. "I dinna believe in curses," he said.

"But you know about this one. More than I do, at least."

"Well, now, that would depend on how much you know, Kira."

She shrugged, turned her gaze inward. "I take it that every MacLellan woman who gets married is destined to die at the hands of her husband, in one way or another." Lifting her gaze, letting it roam over his cheek, and battling the way her insides clenched with raw desire as she did, she said, "Is that about the gist of it?"

"There's much more to it, or so they say. But as I said, I dinna believe in it."

"Still, I'd really like to know the rest of it."

He nodded. "I've no doubt o' that. But as it happens, we've arrived." He pulled the car to a stop, and she looked through the windows at a sprawling castle. Not the kind you might see in a fairytale, but more like something out of a nightmare. Its stone was such a dark gray as to appear nearly black in places. There were barred windows in some sections, spikes lining the uppermost walls, towers on either end that stood like menacing sentries.

"Welcome to Castle MacLellan," he intoned as she stared. And then he touched her shoulder. "Dinna look that way, love. 'Tis much nicer on the inside than it seems from without." He got out of the car, came around to her side, and opened her door. "Shall we?"

She got out, and shivered at the cold, wet embrace of the fog. Or maybe it was at the cold appearance of the stone monstrosity in front of her. Or maybe, she thought, it was none of those things. Maybe it was the certainty that she was about to step right into her mother's secrets, and the gut feeling that once she did, there would be no turning back. Not ever. And life would never be the same.