The Scottish Witch

by Cathy Maxwell

  Miss Portia followed like a child who hated anything unpleasant.

  Harry had to smile. “Good day, Lady Emma. Miss Maclean.”

  “How nice to see you here,” Lady Emma said in a voice overladen with honey. “I was paying a visit to my friends Miss Portia and Miss Minerva, and had no expectation of meeting you here. How did you know what I was about?”

  Harry had to marvel at the woman’s ability to make it sound as if he pursued. “Lucky happenstance?” he suggested.

  “Very lucky,” Lady Emma echoed, sliding a triumphant glance toward Miss Portia, and as far as Harry was concerned, the game was on now.

  There was no easier way to discourage a woman, even an aggressive puss like Lady Emma, than to pay court to another.

  So he made much of shifting his gaze to Miss Portia, of smiling warmly, of moving into step beside her.

  Miss Minerva had noticed the exchange, and a secret smile came to her lips. She was no one’s fool. “Let me tell Mother you are here. Please, come inside.”

  “I must beg off,” Miss Portia said. “I am involved in something else right now. Please forgive me.”

  “Of course we do,” Lady Emma hurried to say.

  “I cannot,” Harry interjected. “I came specifically for a moment with you.”

  Miss Portia’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. She recognized nonsense when she heard it. “I am sorry I may not accommodate your wishes.”

  “But you can,” Harry insisted pleasantly. “Come inside, just for a bit. The general and I will not stay long.” He took her arm so that she could not run off, and was also gallant enough to offer Lady Emma his other arm. “My lady?” He thought it a peaceful offering.

  Lady Emma did not. She sniffed, her smile tight. “General, will you escort me?”

  Monty was still on his horse. His glassy-eyed expression was one Harry often saw on the faces of green recruits. Moments before he had been telling Harry of all the gallantries he would visit upon Lady Maclean. He now appeared ready to pass out.

  “General? You are joining us?” Harry prompted.

  His friend responded to his voice. “Yes, yes,” Monty said, and dismounted.

  Miss Minerva had already gone inside, presumably to announce they had company. Lady Emma placed her hand on Monty’s arm and together they climbed the three stairs to the front door.

  Harry started to follow them, but Miss Portia pulled back. “What game are you playing?” she demanded in a low voice.

  “Game?” he asked innocently.

  “You know Lady Emma has her interests set on you. Don’t use me to hold her off. You shall make my life miserable.”

  “And how is that?”

  “She’s my landlord’s daughter.”

  If Miss Portia thought that news would bring him in line, she was wrong. “The landlord who hasn’t repaired the slates in the roof? Or applied a bit of paint to the wood of this house?” He demonstrated his meaning by placing a hand on the door frame. The wood was rotted. Harry frowned. “This place is about ready to fall down around your ears. I should talk to Montcrieffe. He should pay you to live here.”

  “Don’t you say a word to him.” Now she had a grip on his arm. “Don’t you dare. I like this house, and I’m thankful we have it.”

  “That doesn’t mean he shouldn’t meet his obligations.”

  She shook her head. “The world must be a very easy place for you. You have rank, you have privilege, you have money to burn on ridiculous notions—”

  “What notions?” Harry asked, confused.

  Miss Portia dismissed his question with a wave of her hand. “Whatever notion you wish. You are handsome, bold, and people come to you.”

  “You think I’m handsome,” he murmured. “Kind of you to notice.”

  “I haven’t noticed,” she lashed out. “And can you not be serious?” She drew a breath as if to steady herself before admitting, “Life is not easy for those of us who are of the genteel poor. My mother insists upon appearances while I’m struggling to see if we can keep a roof over our heads. I am very aware we can fall much further than our present circumstances. So will you kindly stop the pretense of being interested in me and place your randy intentions upon Lady Emma, who will appreciate them.”

  “Randy intentions?” Harry almost choked on his laughter, which earned him another glare from her. He held up his hands as if begging for quarter. “If you think my being pleasant is randy, let me assure you, Miss Maclean, I can be much randier.”

  For a second, he feared he was going to be slapped. Her cheeks turned a becoming shade of red, and he enjoyed the moment. “I’d wager few people make you blush, Miss Maclean.”

  “Few people want to.” She spat the words out, and would have stormed into the house, but he caught her arm.

  “The simple truth is,” he said, “I like you. You are rather easy to tease, but only because you want to pretend no one notices you. Well, you are out of luck with me.”

  Her lips parted, her temper replaced by surprise.

  He braced himself, curious as to how she would respond to his honest compliment.

  She disappointed him. She ducked her head, pulled her arm from his hold, and dashed into the house.

  Harry was puzzled. Women didn’t run from him. They flocked to him. They searched him out.

  This one didn’t, and he didn’t understand why. There was something more between them, something he wasn’t understanding.

  Did she not feel the pull between them? And if she did, why did she fight it? Why not be pleasant and encouraging to him? Every other woman was.

  Removing his hat, Harry stepped into the house. Monty was standing at attention in the sitting room to the left. Lady Maclean was not present. Her daughter Miss Minerva was playing the hostess and arranging the chairs to Lady Emma’s comfort.

  Miss Portia had not joined the others in the sitting room but was climbing the staircase off the hall as if to escape.

  She was stopped by her mother.

  Lady Maclean came to the top of the stairs, her blonde curls tucked into a lace cap, a cape of the same lace around her shoulders and her hands in fussy lace, fingerless mittens. Her daughter froze like a deer caught in a hunter’s sights. There were some whispers between them. Harry strained to hear what was being said, and then Lady Maclean saw him. A broad smile of pleasure crossed her face. “Why, Colonel Chattan, what a pleasure.” She started down the stairs and was such a force of nature, Miss Portia had no choice but to turn and go ahead of her.

  Lady Maclean reached the bottom step. “I’m so happy you have called. I know my daughter Minerva is as well—”

  She broke off with a frown of disapproval.

  Jasper, that woebegone hound, had returned from his nosey investigation of the barn. He was now on the hunt for Monty and had tracked him here. Sniffing the doorstep, he walked into the house, so enthusiastic his body seemed to be wagging his tail.

  “Out.” Lady Maclean punctuated the word with a finger pointed to the door.

  Jasper gave her a big dog grin and did not obey. After all, Monty never made him obey.

  “I want that dog out of here,” Lady Maclean ordered.

  Monty still stood at attention. He’d not moved a muscle, not even for his cherished dog. It was Harry who shooed Jasper out and closed the door.

  “I can’t stand the beasts. So uncouth, so filthy and annoying,” Lady Maclean said. “I didn’t know you had a dog, Colonel Chattan. I hope I didn’t offend you.”

  “You didn’t, my lady. The dog is not mine,” Harry answered.

  “Not yours?” she repeated faintly, and then her face drained of color as she realized the implications. Slowly, she turned to the sitting room.

  Monty put back his shoulders, trying to look his best. “Good day to you, my lady.” His voice shook slightly. He’d known he would n
ot be welcome.

  “You haven’t changed,” Lady Maclean said with a sniff. “Always with the hounds.”

  For a second, Monty appeared flummoxed; his expression was that of an officer losing the battlefield—and it made Harry angry.

  “He has a champion pack of dogs,” Harry lied audaciously. “The envy of not only Scotland but England as well.”

  Lady Maclean smiled her disbelief. She entered the sitting room and took a seat on the room’s settee. “Please, sit here, Colonel,” she said, patting the seat next to hers. Minerva, take the chair next to the colonel—” she started, but stopped as Lady Emma plopped herself into the indicated chair without so much as a by-your-leave.

  Monty still stood, anxious and ill at ease.

  “Please, sit here, General,” Miss Portia said, directing him to a chair across from her mother. Harry knew she had not intended to stay. She’d hovered by the door but had now apparently decided to champion Monty’s cause and counter her mother’s rudeness. Harry silently applauded her. She’d saved him from having to make a stand that would be doubly harsh.

  A tray of tea and slices of bread and butter was carried in by a rosy-cheeked maid.

  “Place the tray on this table, Glennis,” Mrs. Maclean said, indicating the table closest to her, and began pouring tea.

  Outside, Jasper barked. He had discovered the sitting room window and leaped in the air to let Monty know he was outside. His ears flapped in the breeze from his effort. The poor dog couldn’t understand he wasn’t welcome, much like Monty.

  Harry helped his hostess pass the cups and saucers brimming with hot, strong tea, using the opportunity to place himself in front of Miss Portia as often as possible. She was determined to ignore him. Her actions didn’t make sense. She was kind to Monty. Why couldn’t she be more open to him?

  Not once did he consider the fault might lie with Miss Portia. He’d learn to read people quickly and she was not one for airs like her mother or—

  “Bread and butter?” Lady Emma said, lifting her nose at the offered refreshments. “How quaint.” She held her portion in one hand as if afraid to take a bite.

  “How delicious,” Harry countered, and it was. The butter was fresh and the bread still warm. Monty had shoved all of his in his mouth with one bite.

  “So, are you enjoying your visit to our corner of the world, Colonel?” Miss Minerva asked.

  “I am,” Harry said. “I don’t know why the Scots are considered such dour people. You all have been welcoming.”

  “That’s because none of us in this room are Scottish,” Lady Maclean said with a twitter at what she perceived as her own cleverness. “Lady Emma’s line is English, as is mine.”

  “I would rather be anything but Scottish,” Lady Emma said.

  “Then how did you arrive in Glenfinnan?” Harry had to ask.

  “Father bought this estate. He loves the sport here. Fishing, hunting. I can’t wait to return to London,” Lady Emma said.

  “And we were victims of circumstance,” Lady Maclean said, heaving a long-suffering sigh. “My late husband, God rest his soul, was knighted for serving his country.”

  That had been luck, Harry thought. He looked over at Monty. They both knew the true story. Black Jack had been in India and rescued the daughter of an officer in the East India Company from being kidnapped. It was an adventurous tale, although most serving with Black Jack knew he was the reason the girl had almost been grabbed by slavers. They’d been in a lovers’ tryst. He wondered if the daughters thought their father a hero.

  Miss Portia answered his question by saying, “He was a rogue, Mother. A rogue.” The words had just burst out of her as if any hint of untruth was unbearable to her.

  “You are speaking of your father,” Lady Maclean chastised.

  “I’m speaking of my sire, Mother. But he was never a father.”

  “Oh dear,” Lady Emma responded in an amused tone. “May I please have some more bread and butter?”

  “She is jesting, Lady Emma,” Lady Maclean said. “Aren’t you, Portia?” This was an unspoken command for Portia to mind her manners, but Portia Maclean was a rebel. She wasn’t afraid to call things as they really were. She ignored the command by suddenly becoming interested in what was in her teacup.

  Her sister jumped into the sudden void of conversation by saying, “I understand it doesn’t grow truly wintry in Glenfinnan until around mid-January. Is that true, Lady Emma?”

  “Yes, the days are mostly rainy but the temperature is generally mild until then,” Her Ladyship replied. “I don’t mind a bit of nip in the air.”

  Lady Maclean started on about how perfect London weather was, but Harry was not interested in conversation or anyone else in the room. He couldn’t take his eyes off Portia Maclean.

  He knew she was aware of him.

  When she thought the conversation had gone on, she slid a glance in his direction, noticed that his focus was completely on her. She started to turn away and then stopped herself. She met his gaze with a level one of her own. Her eyes were more blue than gray. Clear eyes that didn’t flinch from what was honest.

  And then she looked away.

  But Harry found himself unable to do so.

  Her profile intrigued him. He liked her straight nose and flawless skin. Hers was a classic beauty such as that which could be found in Greek sculpture, a beauty that was often overlooked because of its serenity.

  His musing was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  Miss Minerva was instantly on her feet. “I’ll see who it is,” she said breathlessly as she almost ran from the room. She opened the door and then her lovely face broke into a wide smile. “Hello, Mr. Tolliver. Please come in.” Harry recognized the name as that of the man who was now her intended.

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” Mr. Tolliver said.

  “You could never do that,” she replied. “Here, let me take your hat.”

  He handed a hat to her, but neither of them moved beyond that exchange. They stood staring at each other. They both had the silliest grins of pleasure on their faces, a sign that the couple was in love.

  It was Miss Portia who gently reminded her sister, “Bring the man into the sitting room, Minnie. Or are you going to keep him all to yourself?”

  Miss Minerva’s eyes brightened at her lapse of manners, and a dimple appeared in her cheek. “I might just do that.” Harry and Monty had both stood to greet this new guest.

  “This is Mr. Oliver Tolliver,” Miss Minerva said, pride in her voice. “He is our local physician.”

  Oliver Tolliver? What had his parents been thinking? Harry lowered his head to hide a smile, and then his eye caught Miss Portia’s, but instead of freezing up on him, an answering smile came to her lips. She thought the name silly as well.

  “Yes, I know Mr. Tolliver,” Lady Emma was saying, offering her hand. “He was very helpful when I had the croup. Congratulations on your happy news.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Tolliver said. “I am pleased you are feeling quite the thing now.” He looked to Lady Maclean, who leaned back against the settee as if not wanting to be any closer than she must to him. “It is good to see you are in fine spirits, my lady,” he said, a hopeful note in his voice.

  “Yes. I am,” she replied coolly—and Harry decided he really did not like her. He hadn’t thought much of her before, but to be so rude in the face of her daughter’s happiness? There would be no pleasing a woman such as Lady Maclean. Miss Portia had spoken truly when she’d advised him to warn Monty away. He would give his friend a good talking-to, as well as advising Monty to fall on his knees and thank the Lord he’d never married her. She’d peck a man to death with her tongue, and he now had some sympathy for Black Jack.

  Harry moved forward to shake the physician’s hand. “My congratulations as well. We have not met. My name is Chattan, Harry Chattan, and
this is General Montheath.”

  But before anything else could be said, the screech of a cat filled the air, followed by a woof.

  A white blur ran through the still open front door and into the sitting room, followed by Jasper, fast on the chase with every hound instinct he had in him. He dashed right between Miss Minerva and Mr. Tolliver, almost knocking them over.

  The cat raced for the safety of the settee and Lady Maclean. Jasper didn’t have enough sense to stop. He sent the table with the tray of refreshments flying into the air. The teapot landed right in Lady Emma’s lap. The girl’s cry of outrage was louder than the cat’s screeching.

  But nothing was as loud as Lady Maclean’s furious demand to “Take that beast out of here.”

  Monty jumped into the thick of things. He grabbed Jasper by the scruff of his neck and began dragging the dog out of the room, muttering, “I don’t know what has got into this dog.” Jasper clawed at the hard wood floor in an attempt to gain enough traction to pull Monty back toward the cat.

  Harry was about to point out the presence of the cat. However, words died in his throat once he had a clear look at the animal’s folded-over ears.

  Here was the cat who had visited his bedroom. The cat who was the sign that he’d needed to stay in Glenfinnan. The cat who’d been with the witch that night.

  And the cat sought refuge from Miss Portia Maclean. She had covertly shooed the cat under her chair as if not wanting her mother to catch sight of the kitty.

  For a second, Harry was so shocked he couldn’t think. All that searching, and the woman he wanted was standing right here in front of him.

  Portia Maclean had been avoiding him, but not because of spinster shyness. She was afraid he’d recognize her.

  And on some level, he had. Of course, he had thought it was physical attraction, but now he knew differently . . . or did he?

  Harry paused, unwilling at this moment to confront her. One should always be certain of one’s enemy before making an attack.

  Meanwhile, Monty was mumbling excuses and trying to keep control over his dog, and Miss Minerva and Lady Maclean were occupied trying to soothe Lady Emma’s offended pride.