The Scottish Witch

by Cathy Maxwell

  Harry prided himself on being careful. He wanted no bastards, especially ones that could carry on the curse.

  However, this time he was powerless to withdraw, and no completion could have ever felt better.

  Slowly, he brought them both to the ground, holding her as if she were made of gold.

  Silence stretched between them, a silence filled with the pounding of their own hearts. Harry didn’t know if he’d ever be able to move again. Their mating had been unexpected but physical, demanding.

  The best he’d ever experienced.

  And then she broke the magic of the moment with a horrified “What have I done?”

  She started to untangle herself from him but Harry would not let her go.

  “Stop,” he ordered as she struggled against him. “Stop.”

  She struck out at him. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Miss Maclean, Portia,” he said, wanting to calm her, and yet he was confused himself, especially when he realized she’d been a virgin.

  God help him.

  Harry was not one to deflower innocents. The evidence was damning. There was the stain of blood upon his breeches.

  She noticed it as well. “Oh no,” she said, her voice wavering as if she were ready to fall to pieces.

  “It’s not that bad,” Harry hurried to say.

  She gave him a look that would have made a clergyman run.

  Harry warded off her anger with a hand. “It’s not. Trust me. I won’t let any harm come to you.”

  Her answer was to slap his hand away.

  And Harry knew she had a right to be angry. He’d taken what had been only hers to give and had done so with wild abandon. But he had not been alone. She had been a willing participant and far from virginal in her desire.

  Just thinking about what had been between them caused his body to stir with interest—

  “The cat,” he said. “Where is the cat?” Harry rose to his feet.

  “Owl? What does Owl have to do with this?”

  “That is no cat,” he informed her. “The cat is Fenella.” He was certain of it. Harry buttoned his breeches as he began searching every corner and crevice of the barn. The cat had just been there. The cat was still there. He could sense it, but he could not find it.

  Portia had managed to come to her feet. She leaned against the wall for support, her face still alarmingly pale. “There is no Fenella,” she said. “Fenella is the name in a book.”

  “A book?” Harry crossed to her. No one had mentioned a book. “What book?”

  She shook her head. “One I found. Please, leave me.”

  But he couldn’t leave, not after she had shared that tidbit. He took her by the arms. “Please, you must help me. What book did you find?”

  “A book,” she lashed out. “It’s nothing important.” Tears had come to her eyes.

  The sight of her crying went straight to his heart. She was not the sort who broke easily. He’d hurt her and she was the innocent in all of this.

  “Please, tell me about the book,” he pleaded.

  Her response was to raise her knee and practically geld him.

  His sex was still sensitive from their lovemaking. Her blow was doubly effective.

  Harry let loose his hold, bowed over in pain. Freed, Portia tore off into the night, escaping into her house.

  Meanwhile, Harry could barely breathe. He wheezed and gasped, waiting for the pain to subside, helpless to chase her.

  And what if he did? She was too distraught to help him.

  Slowly, Harry came to his feet. He would talk to her on the morrow. She needed to think. He needed time to think as well. He didn’t understand what had happened any more than she did.

  But he did know one thing—he was coming closer to Fenella.

  No one was waiting for her inside the house, and Portia didn’t stop running until she reached her room. She slammed the door behind her, afraid he was following.

  For one long moment, she leaned against the door, her heart pounding in her ears, a hundred separate thoughts all jumbled and confused in her brain.

  She placed a hand over her eyes as if to erase the memory of what had just happened from her mind. She sank to the floor.

  Her body still pulsed with the memory of being joined with him, of having him deep inside her, and she feared she was wanton—because she’d liked it. There had been a moment when the pain had been unbearable, and yet, she would have not let him stop.

  Portia hugged her arms around her. So that was “making love” and it had earned its reputation. She’d never felt so alive, so uncontrolled before in her life.

  She’d also ruined herself.

  Fear raised its ugly head. Now what would she do?

  She had thrown herself into the arms of the most notorious rake in the— Her mind froze, unable to think of how far and wide Colonel Chattan’s reputation spanned, and then decided, yes, he must be the worst in the world! How else could he have seduced her so easily?

  And she had thought he’d been angry when he’d first entered the barn. There had not been anger in his kiss. No, there had been hunger, and desire, and passion, and—

  Making love was the most remarkable experience in her life.

  Portia felt as if she had just opened a Pandora’s box.

  She’d liked it. He’d felt good inside her.

  Even now a curl of yearning unfurled in her womb. She had lost her virtue, and besides being shocked and alarmed at what would become of her, she had a very strong desire to kick up her heels in joy.

  So this was what life was about.

  This was what poets meant when they scribbled about love. They were not speaking of some sort of staid, soulless wanting but of a complete, boundless celebration of two bodies becoming one.

  It was an incredible thought, until she remembered that Colonel Chattan had a reputation for becoming “one” with a goodly number of women.

  Portia stood up. She still wore her cloak. In the darkness of her room, she walked over to the window. It overlooked the barn.

  The lamp hanging from a post in the barn had been blown out. All was quiet.

  She strained to see him in the shadows, but he was not there, and she began to cry.

  Portia knew she was undone.

  No one would marry her now. She’d been used.

  And, perversely, she wished Colonel Chattan would “use” her again.

  Oh no—another wanton thought. If her mother knew, she would fly into a rage. If Minnie knew, she would be sorely disappointed in her older sister.

  And then Portia realized if anyone in the valley knew what had happened, she would be ostracized. Their opinions of her would change. She was the spinster, the daughter who would take care of her mother, her family. The daughter who did everything right and who had a stellar reputation.

  She also had to be realistic. Colonel Chattan had no passion for her, although he had shown quite a bit of energy!

  No, he’d been punishing her . . . she thought. Portia wasn’t certain. When he had first confronted her in the barn, he’d been very serious, and then everything had changed. Everything.

  And she didn’t completely understand herself or her reactions to him. Such unbridled passion frightened her. And he frightened her because he could inspire it.

  He also attracted her.

  Of course, who knew how he felt now? She had not been kind to him. In her panic, her horror at her behavior, she’d kicked him, but she’d needed to have a moment to herself to think. He’d sounded like a lunatic with his talk of witches and possessed cats. She’d needed distance from him. She had to regain her perspective.

  Her kick had accomplished more than she could have imagined. They’d always told her that was the way to protect oneself, and they’d been right.

  Owl jumped up on her bed
, interrupting her fevered thoughts.

  Portia hadn’t realized the cat was in the room.

  She glanced at the door. Owl had been outside. No one would have let her inside . . .

  Portia made an annoyed sound. Now Colonel Chattan had her suspecting the cat, and the idea was ridiculous.

  Cats weren’t witches. Witches weren’t even witches. Portia was a modern thinker. Believing in spells and curses was the purview of the superstitious. The women labeled witches were often like Crazy Lizzy, lonely old women with baffled minds.

  Owl had curled up in a tidy ball at the foot of the bed. She looked peaceful in the moonlight. And an overwhelming tiredness stole into every fiber of Portia’s being.

  What had happened tonight had been traumatic. It was too much to take in.

  Portia climbed into her bed, fully clothed. She took off her precious spectacles and placed them on the bedside table. Using her cloak as a blanket, she sank down into the mattress and closed her eyes.

  Owl moved up the bed to her, moving with a cat’s light grace. She snuggled in next to Portia, kneading the folds of the cloak with her paws as she made herself comfortable. Portia fell asleep to the cat’s contented purring.

  The next morning, Portia woke up exhausted. It took a moment for her to realize she was still fully dressed. Her room was cold and muscles she hadn’t known she possessed, secret muscles, ached in a way she’d never felt before.

  And then it all came back to her.

  She sat up with a start and covered her mouth with her hand as if to stifle a scream.

  A knock sounded on her door. “Portia, have you overslept?” Minnie said. “We leave for church in an hour. Are you all right?”

  Portia never overslept. And usually she was the one who knocked on doors, not the other way around. “I’m fine,” she mumbled to her sister, surprised her voice worked.

  “I’ll take breakfast to Mother,” Minnie offered. “Mr. Tolliver is coming over to escort us to services.” She left. Portia could hear her walking down the hall for the stairs.

  Church. She must prepare for church.

  Portia untied the strings of her cloak that was still around her. She felt like herself, and yet she felt different.

  “Owl?” Portia remembered the cat sleeping beside her. She looked around the room, but there was no answering meow.

  Sliding off the bed onto her knees, Portia searched under the bed. No cat. Fenella’s book was there, but no Owl.

  And she told herself she was being silly. Cats had a hundred ways of going in and out of places. She was allowing her imagination to grow foolish.

  Rising from the floor, Portia walked over to the washbasin. Of course the water was cold. She should have washed last night when Minnie had brought up the pitchers. She poured the water into a bowl and began undressing—and that was when she saw the bloodstain on her petticoat.

  For a second, the room seemed to spin around her. “No, no, no,” she said softly, and then she met her face in the looking glass on the wall.

  The woman who stared back at her looked as if her world was about to come to an end. How foolish she had been. The rampant desire, the lust of the night before evaporated in the light of this new day.

  “It’s over. It’s done,” she told that image. “Don’t think on it.”

  All would be fine; all would be well. She needed to carry on as she normally did. That was what she would do. It was all she could do.

  Portia began washing her face. She picked up a cloth and scrubbed all over her body as hard as she could. Within the hour, she felt a bit like her old self, although she had no appetite for breakfast.

  She was absolutely certain that her sister and her mother and even Mr. Tolliver could see a change in her, because she could see the change in herself. She was certain of it. Her eyes were darker, her skin lighter, her features older.

  But no one else in her family seemed to notice.

  And the barn where the deed had been done seemed remarkably normal. No signs of struggle or savage passion. Even Honey, who had to be a witness to the goings-on, greeted Portia with her usual nicker.

  None of that stopped Portia from feeling guilty. Her penance was to worry as Mr. Tolliver drove them to the church meeting.

  There was no church in Glenfinnan, well, no proper church as they’d had in London, which was something else for Lady Maclean to complain over. However, the Duke of Montcrieffe had a chapel on his estate, and his chaplain, a very kind man by the name of Reverend Ogilvy, read services each Sunday.

  Portia was not truly thinking about where they were going and its implications, until they arrived and she saw the crowd gathered there. She was not up to facing very many people. She ducked her head and hurried to the chapel, running right into Lady Emma.

  Her Ladyship looked positively fetching with a berry red velvet jacket over a creamy muslin gown. A cap of the same velvet was tilted at a jaunty angle over her perfectly styled hair.

  Beside her, Portia felt dowdy and haggard—in more ways than one! Her Sunday dress was a sprigged muslin that had been out of fashion when it had been handed down to her by a distant cousin and her hat was the one she wore every Sunday for church. Nor was there anything “jaunty” about her.

  “Hello, my lady,” Portia murmured.

  Lady Emma replied with a lift of her brow and a look down her nose. She moved on.

  “Are you all right?” Minnie asked, taking her arm.

  “I’m fine,” Portia answered a little too quickly. Then paused, turning suspicious. “Why do you think something is wrong?”

  “Just a sense I have,” Minnie answered. “You’ve been so quiet.”

  “I have many matters on my mind.”

  “Is it about Lady Emma and our paying the rent?” Minnie said, dropping her voice lest any of the others around them overhear what she was saying. “I talked to Oliver. He said perhaps he can help. I mean, he doesn’t earn much. Usually his patients pay him in turnips and bread, but maybe we can work something out.”

  Portia put her hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Oh, Minnie, it isn’t the rent.” For a moment, she debated confiding in this person who was closer to her than any other.

  However, the opportunity was swept away by their mother’s approach. “I don’t understand why we can’t have a proper horse and vehicle. I mean, even Mr. Tolliver has one. You hold too tight to a coin, Portia. Too tight.” On that pronouncement she swept into the chapel, and her daughters had no choice but to follow.

  The service was long. Mr. Ogilvy enjoyed hearing himself speak and had a good bit to say. Today’s sermon was on the story of the Prodigal Son. Always before, Portia had cast herself in the role of the oldest son. Not today. She saw herself as the youngest son, the one who was hedonistic and enjoyed sensual pleasures and paid a price—

  It was then Portia realized she could be with child. Chattan’s child. And then everyone would know what she’d done.

  The thought was horrific, especially when she remembered how Laird Macdonald’s gardener had kept spitting at the mention of the name “Chattan.”

  Dear God, please don’t let me be carrying his baby, she prayed. In fact, she’d never prayed so fervently in her life—and that was when she felt him.

  The hair at the nape of her neck tingled.

  Portia knew before she turned around that Colonel Chattan sat behind her. He sat directly behind her, and he was staring at her with an intensity that left no doubt in her mind, or that of anyone who noticed, that he was there for her.

  Chapter Ten

  Portia snapped her head back around to focus on Mr. Ogilvy in the pulpit.

  What did Colonel Chattan think he was doing? He hadn’t been to services since he arrived, and he showed up this day? Portia felt her temper rise.

  If he was following her around because he wanted to repeat what had happene
d last night, he was going to be disappointed. He’d caught her in a weak moment. That woman who had so eagerly leaped into his arms was not she. She’d had a moment of madness but she was sane, sober and remorseful today.

  By the time the services had ended, Portia had worked herself into such a state, she almost couldn’t wait for a confrontation with Colonel Chattan, and then she saw Lady Emma.

  Her Ladyship had realized Colonel Chattan was in the chapel, and she was not pleased that he sat close to Portia.

  Minnie leaned toward Portia. “Now Lady Emma is looking daggers at you. This is very odd, Portia. She is overreacting to a bit of spilled tea.”

  “Yes, it is,” Portia agreed. “Now, if you will excuse me?”

  She didn’t wait for her sister’s answer but brushed by her to leave the pew before Colonel Chattan could say anything to her.

  Fortunately for her, he’d brought General Montheath with him. The general used this opportunity in church to corner Lady Maclean in the aisle and was attempting to converse. In fact, he seemed insistent he converse, as if he’d been gathering his courage all night for just this moment.

  Her mother blocked the aisle, making it impossible for Lady Emma to move past her, and General Montheath blocked the pew so that Colonel Chattan couldn’t leave.

  Portia was free to leave and she did not dally. She fled the chapel and kept walking. Of course, Minnie had been following her and now caught up with her. “Portia, what is it? You’ve been acting peculiar.”

  “Nothing is wrong. I don’t wish to linger. I want to leave as quickly as possible. I have chores.”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “There is no day of rest for women.”

  “Granted, but we usually spend a few moments visiting with our neighbors,” Minnie said. “Only last week you claimed this was your favorite part of the Sunday.”

  “It is. Sometimes. I’m ready to go.” Portia would have plowed on, but Colonel Chattan had escaped the chapel and had come up behind her.

  Her traitorous body wanted to jump into his arms.

  “Good day, Miss Maclean and Miss Maclean,” he said to Portia and Minnie, as pleasant as one could be. He was obviously not racked with guilt over what had happened last night.