The Scottish Witch

by Cathy Maxwell

  “How are you, Colonel?” Minnie said with great warmth.

  “Very well, thank you. I believe my friend the general might be making some progress in the pursuit of your mother. I suggested he might actually muster the wherewithal to speak to her.”

  Portia glanced back at the door and was surprised to see that her mother was walking out with General Montheath and seemed to be listening to what he was saying.

  “I’m surprised,” Minnie admitted.

  “He’s determined,” the colonel answered. He turned to Portia. “May I have a moment?”

  Portia shook her head. “I’m so sorry. We are leaving.”

  She would have walked off but Minnie stopped her. “Oliver is not here yet and he is the one who drove us. Don’t be in such a rush, Portia. You can talk to the colonel while I go see what is keeping Mr. Tolliver.” She didn’t wait for Portia’s protest but hurried off.

  Nor did Colonel Chattan wait to tell her what he wanted. “I need to see you.”

  “I don’t believe that is a good idea,” Portia whispered furiously. “Not after last night.”

  “Are you all right?” He sounded anxious as if he truly cared.

  Portia didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t say anything, choosing instead to study a point beyond him.

  He made an impatient sound. “We can’t pretend nothing happened between us. We should discuss it.”

  No, Portia definitely didn’t want to discuss it with him. She was also not comfortable talking to him in such a public place. Lady Emma came into her line of vision. The girl’s jealous eyes narrowed as she saw the two of them together, and Portia knew she was assuming the worst.

  In this case, she’d be right.

  Portia could feel him frown at her continued silence. “There is nothing to discuss,” she answered, and would have walked off but he stepped in her path.

  “I want that book,” he said.

  The book again.

  “You can’t have it,” she said, annoyed and not quite understanding why. Apparently, concern for her wasn’t his primary purpose in speaking to her.

  “Name your price.”

  Her price?

  “What price can you place on what it has already cost me?” she answered.

  His expression changed. The determination in the set of his jaw softened, and in his eyes was the bleakness of regret.

  And Portia wished she’d never spoken. It pricked her pride that he was sorry, because, actually, she wasn’t. She hadn’t realized that until this moment.

  She began backing away, afraid of what she might reveal if she stayed there any longer. She was afraid he’d offer excuses. She didn’t know what she wanted but it wasn’t apologies.

  And so she said the one thing she knew would make him leave her alone. “You can have the book.”

  Colonel Chattan gave a start as if he hadn’t expected her to make the offer. “I’ll come to your house—”

  “No.” She couldn’t afford to let Lady Emma confirm her suspicions. She glanced over to where the duke’s daughter stood with several of her friends. They had their heads together, and Portia knew that didn’t bode well for her.

  She also couldn’t let herself fall apart and imagine things that were not true. Colonel Chattan was reputed to have made love to almost every woman who had crossed his path. To him, she was no different from the others, and she mustn’t let herself think otherwise.

  Without facing the colonel, Portia said, “There is a shepherd’s bothy not far from the Great Oak. I’ll meet you there in two hours.” She walked off without waiting for his answer.

  Harry watched Portia march away, her back poker straight, and didn’t know what to think. She’d dismissed him. No woman had ever dismissed him before.

  They had made love last night with a passion he’d never known, and she had barely looked him in the eyes today. He’d known governesses who were more yielding than she was.

  And they did need to discuss what had happened last night between them. He wanted to. He, the man who rarely discussed anything with a woman or anyone else.

  “Chattan,” Monty said, rushing up to him, “I followed your suggestions and they worked!”

  It took a moment for Harry to pull his thoughts away from Portia Maclean. “My suggestions?”

  “I tried to be myself around Ariana,” Monty announced proudly. “I asked her a direct question and she spoke to me. We had a conversation.”

  “Did she speak kindly?” Harry had to ask. Lady Maclean had spoken to Monty before but not with the sweetness of her sex.

  “Yes,” Monty said as if that was quite an accomplishment. Harry started walking to where they’d tethered their horses, and the general fell into step beside him. “I asked her opinion about a soiree I’m having. I told her that I desperately needed advice from an accomplished and well-respected hostess as herself. I asked if perhaps she could give me a moment of her time, and she did.”

  “You are having a soiree?” Harry asked with disbelief. He mounted his horse.

  “It’s one of those words the ladies like,” Monty said, climbing into the saddle of his own horse. “She didn’t question my use of it. Anyway, the conversation went better than I could imagine. Who knew that all I had to do was ask Ariana questions and then she’d answer me and we would be talking?”

  “Monty,” Harry said, concerned for his friend, “are you certain this is the woman you want?”

  “With all my heart,” Monty replied.

  “Poor bugger,” Harry said under his breath. He set Ajax down the road.

  “I don’t expect you to understand, Chattan. You aren’t the sort of man who knows how to love or even values it.”

  This comment caught Harry’s attention. “I value love.”

  “I challenge that,” Monty said with his newfound confidence. “Tell me, have you ever been constant to one woman for, let’s say, more than three weeks or even three days in your life?”

  “What do you mean by ‘constant’?” Harry asked, suddenly not liking this conversation.

  “I mean that you are true and faithful to her. That you would cherish her.”

  “I’ve cherished many women,” Harry answered.

  “One at a time, Chattan. One woman, for a long period of time, and because you valued her mind and her opinion as well as her body. I don’t believe you’ve even had a mistress.”

  “I didn’t see the purpose to it,” Harry answered. “Why focus my energy on one bit of muslin when there are all these others begging for me to notice them?”

  “And that is why I know you’ve never been in love,” Monty announced with a crow of satisfaction, as if he’d proven his theory correct.

  “Maybe I don’t want to be in love,” Harry returned. “What good is it anyway? You’ve been miserable being in love.”

  “But today, I am ecstatic,” Monty declared. “I spoke to her and she was civil. I just need to come up with a method to keep her that way.”

  “Yes, you can’t have a ‘soiree’ every day.”

  Monty’s pride in his accomplishment was so great, he dismissed Harry’s sarcasm with a wave.

  But Harry couldn’t dismiss his friend’s criticism. In truth, Harry was reaching the age when bachelorhood was no longer attractive. He’d noticed that once a man closed in on five and thirty, he became overly self-indulgent, spending his time on petty things that didn’t matter like the cut of a glove or ridiculous jealousies. Harry was only a few years away from that age.

  He’d never thought that way before, but since in Glenfinnan and sober, he discovered some of his attitudes were changing.

  His brother had leaped into love once he’d met his wife, Thea. He adored her with all his heart and soul, and Harry had never seen Neal happier. He’d told Harry that life now held meaning whereas before it had lacked any sen
se of purpose beyond duty.

  “Do you feel life has meaning now?” Harry suddenly asked Monty, curious as to his response.

  The general turned to him in surprise. “I was just thinking that. I was looking at the passing scenery that I have seen a dozen times before, and it all looks new to me. There is no reason other than the pleasure I have in Ariana’s speaking to me.”

  Harry took in the stately firs lining the road through Moncrieffe’s estate. It all looked the same to him now as it had when they arrived. They were trees, and he doubted any emotion, even love, could make them seem different to him.

  “Do you still believe I’m a madman, Chattan?” the general asked.

  “Sir?” Harry said.

  “The Shakespeare you quoted, saying love is akin to madness. I don’t feel like a lunatic right now, Chattan. I feel bloody damn brilliant.”

  Harry was stunned by this change in his friend wrought from nothing more than a simple, courteous conversation with a woman who should have been more courteous before.

  “One woman, Harry,” Monty said as if reading his mind. “Try to value one woman. Then maybe you’ll see that everything, even trees, is more than what you thought them to be.”

  Harry didn’t care about trees, but he had been thinking of only one woman.

  And Portia Maclean had made it very clear she wanted nothing to do with him.

  A bothy was a stone cottage left open to all. They were built for shepherds and travelers alike. Anyone was welcome to use them, and bothies of all sizes and shapes could be found around the Highlands.

  Portia had chosen this particular bothy because it was located away from any road or path. Nestled between two rolling hills, it was not easily seen. In fact, someone would have to search to find it. The bothy was also not far from the Great Oak and Crazy Lizzy’s cottage, giving Portia the excuse she needed to go for a walk on a Sunday afternoon.

  Mr. Tolliver had stayed for the Sunday meal Glennis had waiting for them after church. Lady Maclean had been so petulant about his continued presence that she had gone to her room without joining them.

  “She’s pouting,” Minnie had told Mr. Tolliver.

  “She doesn’t approve of us. I should have asked her permission for your hand first. I should have been more proper.”

  Minnie had leaned forward and placed her hand over his. “She would have said no. She has some ridiculous notion that I would have caught the eye of Colonel Chattan and we would have all returned to London.”

  That statement had set off new concerns for Mr. Tolliver. “Do you wish to return to London?” he’d asked, and Minnie had laughed before assuring him she wanted plump, happy Highland babies.

  Portia hadn’t stayed to hear more. Their obvious love for each other was more palatable when she wasn’t facing social ruin. She now knew everything they said about Colonel Chattan was true. The man was an unrestrained libertine. She knew because she had “libertined” with him.

  After retrieving the book from its hiding place under her bed and placing it in a covered basket, Portia knocked on her mother’s door. “Mother, I need to deliver some bread to Lizzy. You must come downstairs and chaperone Minnie and Mr. Tolliver.”

  “I’m not feeling well,” came the weak reply. “You must do it. Oh, and bring me another piece of that chicken we had for dinner and some more peas. I find myself famished.” Her voice had grown stronger as she spoke, and something inside Portia snapped like a twig that was too brittle.

  “Mother,” she said, “I am going out. Go downstairs and sit with your daughter and her intended. The chicken is in the pantry.”

  With those words, Portia turned on her heel and left. Ran, actually, because she’d never told her mother no. She’d always done as bid. But she had more pressing business right now and a flurry of conflicting emotions that were making it hard for her to focus on her own needs, let alone the demands of others.

  She put on her cloak and went outside. The bothy was about a mile walk from Camber Hall. The fresh air and exercise felt good. It cleared her mind and gave her a moment to prepare for her meeting with Colonel Chattan.

  This would be their first and last meeting. She’d already decided that. She would hand him the book and march off as quickly as possible. There was no use in lingering, because he might have ideas that she would be as unrestrained as she had been the night before.

  Consequently, Portia had taken great care in her appearance. She’d put one of her mother’s lace Spanish vests over her shoulders so that her chest was covered. She’d pulled her untamable hair back as tightly as she could and pinned it severely. Finally, she wore her spectacles. They hadn’t deterred him last night but they were one more barrier.

  She tried not to think of the night before. She wanted to erase it from her mind and thought she had succeeded until she arrived at the bothy and saw his horse tethered and grazing there.

  He had to be inside.

  Portia gripped the handle of her basket with both hands. Her mouth had gone dry and her blood started pounding in her veins. She walked toward the stone cottage.

  There was movement in the open doorway. Colonel Chattan had seen her arrive. He came out, ducking so that he didn’t hit his head on the top of the door.

  He wore his greatcoat open. He looked dashing, a man at home in the world whether it was a battlefield or an isolated stone cottage.

  Portia reached for the book. All she had to do was hand it to him and leave. She didn’t even need to speak.

  And then they would be done.

  He’d have what he wanted and she could return to her safe, predictable life.

  A soft meow caught her attention. Owl had followed her. The cat now leaped up onto a large rock in the hillside.

  If Colonel Chattan saw Owl, he gave no indication. His eyes were on her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin purse. He was going to pay what he’d promised.

  Portia was both thankful and insulted. It was hard to look in his eyes as she approached. There was something about him that drew her to him, and it was best if she kept her attention on anything other than how handsome he was or how masculine.

  She held out the book.

  He held out the money.

  Portia reached for it as he reached for the book—and then, she didn’t know how it happened, but she found herself in his arms.

  And he was kissing her.

  And she was kissing him back for everything she was worth.

  Chapter Eleven

  Monty’s challenge for Harry to focus on one woman had not set well with him. After all, he’d spent most of his life avoiding the dangers of “one woman,” a danger his brother had happily embraced.

  After strong reflection, Harry had decided his wisest course would be to keep a distance from Portia Maclean.

  He told himself he wouldn’t be so strongly attracted to her if he’d been following his old ways of strong spirits and dozens of women. Back then, he’d not been picky about what woman he’d been taking to his bed. They had all been the same to him, or so he wanted to believe . . . because the realization that this pull, this attraction he felt for Portia Maclean, was something more than what he’d ever experienced before left him humble, vulnerable—emotions Harry didn’t like.

  And yet, right now, with her in his arms, he could not stop kissing her.

  Nor was he the only one who felt this way. Her kiss spoke louder than words that even though she could be prickly in public, she was a more than willing participant now.

  He swept her up in his arms and carried her inside the bothy, their lips still locked together.

  Inside, he began undressing her. Her hands were as eager as his. She pushed his coat down his arms so that it fell to the ground. She tugged at his shirt. Her fingers found the buttons to his breeches. She untwisted one, then another.

  He untied the strings
of her cloak and brought her into the circle of his arms. Their kiss deepened as his fingers searched, then found the laces of her dress.

  Harry knew all the tricks and tucks to women’s clothing. It was not a difficult feat for him to unlace her dress. His reward was access to two of the sweetest breasts he had ever held.

  Her skin was creamier and smoother than he could have imagined. The nipples were hard and pink. Perfect, really . . . just as she was. Perfect for him.

  Portia ran her hands up his rib cage, pulling his shirt up as she made her journey. His neck cloth was still tied around his neck and he wore his woolen jacket.

  Laughing, he said, “One moment, love. Not so fast.” He tried to untie the knot in his neck cloth.

  She drummed her fingers on his chest and kissed the sensitive underside of his neck, and Harry could not take it much longer. His fingers became clumsy, and he didn’t want to fool with the knot when he had her to touch.

  Portia was a wicked delight. She didn’t hold back, on both opinions and desires.

  Putting his arms behind him, he yanked at the sleeves of his jacket. He was trapped that way as she lifted his shirt more fully, stepped closer and pressed those luscious breasts against his skin.

  Harry groaned, reveling in the feel of her, delighted by her boldness and innocent sensuality.

  Her hands smoothed down his sides, moving toward his waist. She was kissing him now, her hand against his erection. Her fingers stroked sensitive skin, discovering and measuring the length of him before she held him in her palm, and that was Harry’s undoing.

  Who needed to be naked? Clothes served a purpose, didn’t they?

  Harry shrugged the jacket he’d not yet been able to remove back up his shoulder and used both arms to lift her up to him for a kiss that would devour her if he had his way. He would swallow her whole . . . and he could not wait one moment longer.

  He spread her legs around his waist and entered her with one smooth, strong stroke.

  She was tight, hot, ready, and Harry rogered her for all he was worth. She drove him to madness. She had only to touch him for him to feel an overwhelming need.