But she did notice that her husband was still favoring his left arm. He did most of his driving the rest of the night with his right hand, using his left only for a bit of balance. The driving had to have been a difficult task, considering the skill needed to maneuver their vehicle in such a crowd.
Come to think of it, the night before, she had noticed Neal massaging his left hand, circling the thumb. On an occasion or two, she’d caught him doing the same with his whole left arm.
Later that evening, after she’d put the children to bed, Thea sought out her husband. He had not yet come upstairs for bed. Indeed, for the last several weeks, he’d been working in his office late into the night.
Thea found him there.
He wasn’t working. He sat behind his desk, cradling his left arm against his body.
Seeing her at the door, he looked up and said, “It is starting.”
“What is?” she asked, wanting to pretend that she didn’t know.
“The curse, Thea.”
“Why do you say that?” she demanded.
“My arm is numb. I thought I’d injured a muscle, but it is not healing. In fact, it is growing worse.” He frowned. “I dropped the reins this evening. My hand froze, and I couldn’t move my fingers. The horses startled and we could have caused an accident. I hate to think what could have happened to Jonny.”
Thea came around the desk to him. She knelt on the floor, taking his left hand into hers. “Such beautiful hands,” she whispered. “Strong hands.”
“Not much longer,” he said. “This is how it starts.”
“And then what happens?” she asked, and she found herself strangely unafraid. Holding his hand, a calmness settled over her. He was so alive, so vital. Nothing could harm him. She wouldn’t let it.
“The paralysis spreads. Father had a month. Some have up to a year, with the numbness growing and claiming every limb. Eventually, my heart will cease to work.”
The death he described was horrifying to her.
“Thea, hold me.”
She obeyed instantly. She threw her arms around him and held him tight. “I won’t let you go. You’ve done nothing to deserve this.”
“My hope is to live to see my son born,” Neal said.
She couldn’t bear thinking of his death. She denied it by kissing him. Their kiss grew heated, and Neal’s right hand drew her into his lap. His left arm came around her. The paralysis was gone—for now—and she silently vowed her love would keep it at bay.
He was hard for her. She remembered that first night, with its frenzied passion. She began unbuttoning his breeches. He needed this. She needed it.
Slowly he entered her. How she loved this man, and loved making love to him. He was the center of her world, and she told him with her body how much he meant to her.
They took their time. He kept smoothing his hand over the curve of her hip and across her slightly rounded belly.
What would she tell this son about his father? Or would it be necessary? Would not Jonathan and Christopher share their stories? Oh, yes, they would. Neither she nor her sons would let the memory of this wonderful man die.
Sweet, wondrous love. Once again, he took her to the very heights of pleasure. Every time he made love to her, he claimed more of her soul.
She could not let him go. She wouldn’t.
“We will fight this,” Thea vowed.
Neal’s answer was a sleepy, lazy smile.
He had given up. He’d accepted.
But she wouldn’t.
The heart is a shield.
Thea woke with Neal’s words in her mind.
Well, if they were true, then she needed to find a sword to go with her shield.
She waited until Neal left the house on business before she knocked on Harry’s door. Rowan answered. “Please have the colonel up and downstairs in half an hour.”
“That will be a challenge, my lady.”
“Is he not here?” she wondered.
“He is . . . but he drank port last night.”
Thea felt her patience snap. She had a war to wage, and she needed all the help she could muster. “Have him up.”
She made the same request of Margaret.
Within the hour, she was pleased when both Harry and Margaret joined her in the breakfast room. Harry slumped into a chair and placed his head facedown on the table. Margaret gave her brother a look of disgust.
Thea said, “Neal is dying. It has started.”
Now she’d captured their attention. Harry’s head came up.
“How do you know?” Margaret asked.
“His left arm occasionally has bouts of paralysis,” Thea said. “He says that is how it starts. I want you to know I am not giving up.” She jabbed the table with her finger to emphasize her words.
“He’s not the one who should die. I should die,” Harry muttered. “Why doesn’t the curse take me instead?”
“Because you are too soused to fall in love,” Margaret said without pity.
Her brother glared at her. She glared back and then said, “Be honest, Harry. You are too selfish to love, and I’m too difficult.” She turned to Thea. “What do you think we should do?”
Thea had the dream journal she and Neal had been keeping. She opened it up. “We’ve been writing descriptions of the dreams. There is always fire. One of us is always burning. And quite often there is laughter. It is the most hideous cackle, like a crone’s laughter.”
“That must be Fenella,” Margaret said. “She is the one who placed the curse upon us.”
“Where can we find her?” Thea asked.
“Find her?” Margaret questioned. “She’s been dead for hundreds of years. She died the night she placed the curse upon our line.”
“Or perhaps she has been in hiding?” Thea leaned toward Harry and Margaret. “Has anyone gone after her?”
There was a beat of silence as they considered her words. Harry lifted his head and answered, “Thea, did you not hear Margaret? Fenella died almost two hundred years ago. I would hope she is not around. She’d be a hideous-looking hag.”
“Where was she from?” Thea asked. “Where did she place the curse on us?”
Again there was puzzlement. Harry glanced at his sister. Margaret spoke. “Well, the family back then was from Glenfinnan. Charles of Glenfinnan was the first to be cursed. I don’t think any of us have a record of where Fenella and her clan were located. It’s one of those details lost in history.”
“Then we must find answers, and we don’t have much time,” Thea said. “Neal wants to live to see his son born. I pray he does. But I want more. I want to defeat this curse. Neal says that over years your family has tried exorcisms and hiring witches for reverse spells. But nothing has worked. So, we must try something else. Harry, will you go to Glenfinnan?”
Harry had his elbow propped on the table so he could hold his head up. He turned bloodshot eyes on Thea.
“Will you go, Harry?” she pressed. “At one time, you were the most fearless of warriors. Can you be fearless once again for your brother’s sake—?”
“What is going on here?” Neal’s voice said from the doorway.
Thea’s gaze went straight to his left arm. He appeared normal, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to relax until the curse had been lifted.
“I thought you had an appointment this morning,” Thea said, trying to shield the journal with her arm. She wasn’t certain how her husband would feel about her sharing it.
“Gilroy had to cancel our meeting,” Neal answered. “What are you hiding there, Thea?”
It was his sister who answered. “We are joining you and Thea in the fight against the curse,” Margaret said stoutly. “We don’t want to lose you, Neal.”
“She told you about my hand,” Neal said. A sad smile came to his face. “I wish you h
adn’t, Thea.”
“They would have noticed sooner or later,” Thea defended herself. “And we have a plan. Harry is going to Glenfinnan.”
“Glenfinnan? What for?” Neal asked.
“Because that was the home of Charles Chattan before he married his English heiress and started our line,” Margaret answered.
Thea was heartened by the enthusiasm in Margaret’s voice, but Harry was quiet.
Neal entered the room, coming around to stand by Thea. He placed his hand on her shoulder. “I want you to know that I have no regrets loving my wife. She has made me the happiest of men. I have done more living with her these past months than I had all the years before my marriage. I’m at peace with whatever comes my way.”
“But I’m not,” Harry said, speaking at last. He pushed himself up from the table. “Thea is right. It’s never good to wait upon the enemy. I shall go to Glenfinnan.”
Neal shook his head. “Harry, you are not in good shape—”
“I’m going, brother. I’m going for you . . . and for me. I will not let you die without a fight. The only people who truly see me for what I am are in this room.”
“Harry, we love you,” Neal said.
“Can you?” Harry said. “I can barely abide myself. What better man than I to wrestle with a witch?”
“It will not be an easy task,” Thea predicted. “Think on it. Her magic must be strong. It has lasted all of this time.”
“Yes, well, she hasn’t met this devil,” Harry answered. He moved toward the door. He stopped and looked back at them. “And for your information, Margaret, I do love. I love you and my brother very much. You are all I have.” He left the room.
“I feel rotten,” Margaret confessed. “I’ve been horribly mean to him. Excuse me while I make an apology.” She followed after her brother.
Thea and Neal were alone.
He didn’t speak. Instead, he leaned over the table and flipped a page of the journal. His fingers brushed over her writing.
“What made you think of this?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“Something you said to me. I woke with it in my mind, and I realized how right you were. You said the heart is a shield. Your forebears have tried so many ways to defeat this curse, but what if we embraced it, Neal? What if we used our hearts as a shield against her evil? What if we went to her and let her know she can steal our lives, but the love we feel for each other is stronger than her powers.”
Neal pulled her up from the chair. He placed his arms around her. “Dear God, I am blessed to have you for my wife.”
Thea smiled up at him. “And I am glad you recognize the fact, my lord.”
His response was to tilt his head back and laugh. The sound was carefree, and Thea put her arms around his waist and hugged him as tight as she could.
“We will defeat this,” she promised. “I won’t let you go without fighting with everything I have.”
“Then Fenella had best watch out,” he whispered. “But whatever happens, Thea, you are my wife and my love. Not even death will be able to change that.”
And then he kissed her.
No man’s kiss had ever had such power over her. He claimed her every time his lips met hers. She loved! And his father had been right when he’d written in his letter that they were sweet words.
At that moment, they were joined by Jonathan and Christopher. The boys had obviously been out in the cold, because the tips of their noses were red. They often went to the stables down the street to help feed their ponies.
“Good morning,” Christopher said in a happy voice. He was always in a good mood in the mornings. He came right over to Neal and Thea and threw himself into the hug. Jonathan did the same. The boys giggled at their audacity, their arms reaching around Thea and Neal’s legs—but Thea didn’t laugh. She thought it was a blessing that her sons had found a father. A blessing that she had found a man she could love for all eternity.
Neal reached for her hand with his left one. He laced his fingers with hers, showing her that his strength had returned. His grip was strong.
It might weaken again. Or it might not.
But in this moment, having it return was the confirmation they needed.
They would defeat Fenella. She knew they would.
As her sons climbed into chairs around the table for their breakfast, she leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder.
The heart was a shield, and the love she felt in this moment was enough to protect them all.
Fenella had best beware.
Harry
It takes hard courage for a man to defeat his demons.
His brother needed him. His family needed him.
And Harry was not ready.
In all his years in the military, he had always been ready . . . but not any longer. His hands shook, his head ached and his body yearned for more drink even after the copious amounts he’d consumed over the preceding day and night.
He’d been trying to ease his dose of laudanum. He’d never really taken it for his leg. Yes, his leg pained him but not beyond something a good soldier could accept.
A good soldier. How long had it been since he’d thought of himself that way?
But now he had another chance to be a hero.
His siblings suspected he’d been attempting to kill himself with heroics that day he’d charged the French cannon position. Perhaps they were right. He certainly was not afraid of death. However, he was not a suicide.
He’d attacked that post because doing so had been needed to win the day. He’d felt invincible at the moment of his decision. War depends upon bold acts, foolhardy acts . . . and men willing to pay the ultimate sacrifice.
Harry had seen the weakness in the French position and had believed that one armed man with daring could take it. Unfortunately, his strong, valiant men had thought otherwise.
Out of loyalty or foolishness, they had disobeyed his orders to stay in rank and had followed him into the attack.
One man could have made it through.
A large number of troops had been easy targets for French sharpshooters.
And the horrific thing was that Harry had been right. He and Ajax had succeeded in their attack. He’d quickly secured the cannon. The French had run from his sword. Wellington could then march forward. However, when he’d turned to give the signal all was well, he’d had to watch his beloved men being mowed down.
Wellington had not faulted him for what he’d done. His actions had enabled British forces to win the day and had saved many lives. There were witnesses who had heard Harry tell Lieutenant Fleshman to stay in position.
Being right didn’t make Harry feel less guilty.
These had been men with wives and families along with feckless bachelors such as himself. He’d drunk with these men, laughed with them, fought beside them. That they would march after him to their own deaths out of nothing more than misguided loyalty humbled him.
It had also become an unbearable burden to carry.
Opium had helped ease it. Drink had always offered solace, and he had embraced it with a willingness beyond what he’d shown before.
And now he was in danger of never being the man he’d once hoped to be. There had been a time, and not too long ago, when he’d thought he controlled his vices. But now they controlled him, and he wasn’t certain when the change had come about . . . perhaps around the time of Thea’s arrival?
Stumbling up to his room, he opened his door and practically fell through it.
Rowan was tidying the bed. He looked up in surprise at Harry. “Colonel, you are not well. Here, let me help you to bed.”
Harry shook him off. “No, not here.” He knew this would not be pleasant. He walked over to the desk by the window, pulled open a drawer and took out a purse. “There is a man, an Alexander Rimmer on Fife Lane, who says he
has a cure. Tell him I am coming to his house. Have him prepare a room.”
Rowan took the money, bowed and left, meeting Margaret at the door. She didn’t ask permission but walked in.
Harry sat at the desk, clasping his head in his hands. Just the thought of leaving the crutches he’d used these past two years more than filled him with anxiety.
“What are you going to do?” his sister asked.
“I want to save Neal,” Harry said. “He’s always been here for me. Yes, sometimes he’s been a pain in my backside, but what brother isn’t?”
“I want to help,” Margaret said.
Harry shook his head. “No.”
“Yes.” She walked over to stand before him. “You weren’t here when Father died. He went quickly, Harry. Faster than I could imagine. You will need my help.”
Visions of his men following him into combat formed in Harry’s mind, only this time it was his sister at risk.
“I go alone.”
She didn’t like his command. Margaret was the headstrong one in the family.
He reached over to pick up one of Christopher’s marbles resting on his desk. It was the shooter. Harry had won it from the boy in a challenge. Christopher had enthusiastically vowed to win it back.
“Life has to mean more than what we have here,” Harry said half to himself, rolling the marble in the palm of his hand. “It must.”
“Neal seems happy,” Margaret answered. “Even knowing what is happening to him, he seems at peace.”
Harry looked up at her. “Are you at peace?”
His sister shrugged. “Love is not for me. I’m better alone. Happier.”
She didn’t sound happy, and the thought went through his mind that she was hiding something. Margaret was a beautiful woman, yet she kept herself apart from the rest of the world.
Of course, he’d chosen to be alone as well, but that was because of the curse . . . and besides, what woman with any sense would want him? He was a shambles of a man, a fool. Then again, he had a legion of senseless ladies who vied for his attention, but they weren’t the sort a man loved.
Harry stood, putting the marble in his coat pocket. “I’m going to Glenfinnan, Margaret, but first, I must take a cure.”
Lyon's Bride: The Chattan Curse Page 23
