The Scottish Witch

by Cathy Maxwell

  “I’d be happy to do. She can explain to me what all these herbs are for,” he said.

  “I will, if you wish,” Lizzy answered.

  “Then I’ll go,” Portia said, and went out the door. Harry followed.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. She seems to have forgotten everything we had discussed.”

  “And what were you discussing?”

  “Fenella,” she said, knowing the impact of that one word on him. “But she doesn’t seem to remember now.”

  “Or else she is pretending.”

  Portia glanced back at the hut. “If she is, hers is an excellent performance. I truly believe the conversation is gone from her mind.”

  “What did she mean that you would be my death?”

  She drew a deep breath and released it. “She says she has the gift of sight . . . or the person she was at the time claimed to have it. Right now, she acts completely different. Harry, she referred to Rose as ‘Rose of Loch Awe.’ She told me her family was distant cousins of Rose, Fenella’s daughter. Perhaps that is how Rose met Charles Chattan of Glenfinnan. She may have come to visit.”

  “What else did she tell you?”

  “Not very much. I asked her if she was a witch.” To his raised eyebrow, she explained, “Well, I never knew. Everyone in the valley claimed she is. I believed she wasn’t but all this talk of strange things has made me curious. Perhaps I am the one who is wrong.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “Lizzy said she isn’t, but she has the gift of seeing the future. That’s when she claimed I would cause your death, and then she swooned.”

  He made a scoffing sound. “How could you cause my death?”

  “I don’t know.” She crossed her arms. “Aren’t you worried?”

  Harry shook his head. “No, are you?”

  “I would not want your death on my conscience.”

  “Well, it won’t be there,” he answered. He walked over to Ajax and picked the reins up off the ground. Only then did the well-trained horse move. Harry tied the reins to a low-hanging tree branch.

  He was so vital and alive, so self-confident. He was the warrior, the rebel, the man who feared nothing.

  Yet there was a gentler side to him as well. He cared for his family enough that he would sacrifice his life for his brother’s. She had come to know this side of him well. He was a man who understood her yearnings and pleased her in a way she knew no other could. He was a man who had regrets, who was vulnerable, who had fears but persevered anyway.

  He was the man with whom she’d fallen in love.

  Yes, she loved him.

  She had not intended to do so, but perhaps she’d had no choice.

  She’d started falling in love with him at the dance when he had pleaded General Montheath’s case. Or had she felt the first inklings of love that night when he had knelt in front of her in the moonlight and begged for his brother’s life?

  Crazy Lizzy’s warning now made sickening sense.

  Portia knew Harry valued her, but did he love her?

  No, not yet.

  Could he? Was that what Lizzy had been warning her against? He was a Chattan male. Even as a second son, the curse could apply to him. If he loved her, he would die.

  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t love him.

  For a second, her world was transformed with the knowledge. The green of the firs around her was more green, more vibrant. The air was sweet with their scent. She’d not noticed before, but now, the world was perfect. She loved. Two words more powerful than any magic.

  And that was why she’d grown so unreasonably annoyed with him earlier. I care for you wasn’t enough. She wanted more.

  And yet he couldn’t return her love. Not without paying a price, and that price was too high.

  “I don’t think we should meet any longer,” Portia heard herself say.

  He frowned. He’d been walking toward her but stopped. “Portia, that is nonsense. Of course we should meet—”

  “No,” she said cutting him off. “And I’m not saying this because of Lizzy. I don’t want to see you any longer.” I don’t want you to fall in love with me. But she kept that to herself. “We’re done.”

  He rocked back as if she’d physically hit him but Portia knew better than to linger. She loved him. And she could never let him love her in return.

  In that moment, she felt her heart break.

  He took a step toward her, his expression concerned. She couldn’t let him touch her. She mustn’t.

  This time Portia didn’t walk away from him, she ran, dashing headlong into the woods.

  Harry started after Portia. He understood what was happening with her. Her responses, her behavior were like those of so many women who had thought they’d caught him. She was angry, disappointed.

  He should let her go. The truth of their relationship would be easier for her this way, except Harry didn’t want to just let her go.

  Portia was more than some woman he bedded. He’d never slept with a woman longer than a day or two, and yet, for the past week and a half, he’d been meeting her in the bothy, and it hadn’t all just been sex.

  When he was around Portia, he relaxed. He valued her honesty, her wit, her view of life. She was a bit of a rebel like him, and yet traditional, and a survivor. Those were all qualities he would have used to describe himself.

  Of course, Portia was more passionate about what she believed in than he was. Harry knew he was jaded. The world had made him that way, but Portia was still untouched and he found her refreshing.

  Now, everything had changed, and he didn’t understand why—no, that wasn’t true. He understood.

  He’d wager all he owned that Portia was still angry at him for referring to her as his mistress. He needed to explain more . . . although he’d already attempted to explain himself.

  She would want an apology and Harry did not apologize. In his view of the world, a man didn’t have regrets. He couldn’t afford them. They would cripple him. He wouldn’t be able to go on. He hadn’t even apologized for that fateful day on the battlefield in Vitoria—

  “Ye are wise to let her go,” Crazy Lizzy’s voice said from behind him.

  She’d come out of her hut and sat on a stool by the door.

  Harry faced her. “Because she will be my death?” he asked, repeating the accusation she’d flung at Portia before she’d collapsed.

  The crone’s smile grew crafty. She raised a finger of warning. “I saved your life. Leave her be, Chattan. Leave her be.”

  “What do you know of Fenella?” he demanded, walking toward her.

  She stood up, her beady eyes alive with defiance. “I know there is nothing you can do. You are doomed, Englishman. Doomed.” With those words, she ran inside her hut and slammed the door.

  Harry walked right up to it. He would tear down her home if she pushed him too far. He grabbed the door and attempted to open it. The door was barred against him from the inside.

  “I’m not finished with you yet,” he said. “Open this door.”

  There was no response.

  Harry put his shoulder to the door. Using all his strength, he shoved it open, breaking the wooden bar she’d used. He entered the hut, and then stopped.

  Lizzy sat on a stool before her fire. She was staring into the flames and mumbling to herself. Her arms were full of the strangest dolls. They were made of twigs and nuts, stuffed cotton and scraps of whatever she could find. She was holding at least eight, her shoulders hunched protectively over them as if they were children.

  “Leave me alone, leave me alone,” she said repeatedly without looking at him standing there.

  He started for her, and then he smelled the air. In the smoky haze hung the pungent incense of opium. She’d thrown it on the fire. The scent
of it was filling every crevice of the hut.

  He backed toward the door.

  Crazy Lizzy turned to him, still holding her dolls, rocking on her stool. The pupils of her eyes were black pools.

  And he longed to stay there with her.

  Instead, he turned on his heel and threw himself out the door. Outside, he grabbed huge gasps of air, trying to clear his lungs. His nerves were stretched thin. He wanted to return to that hut. He wanted to disappear in it.

  Ajax nickered as if understanding that something was afoot. Harry moved to the horse. He had trouble mounting. His head spun and he had started to shake.

  A month ago, he had taken a cure, sweating out the need for drink and opium, fighting his demons alone. And there wasn’t a day that passed that he didn’t think of returning to them—that is, until he’d met Portia.

  Her sweet body and her quick mind staved off evil desires. She’d kept him strong.

  But she had run away from him, and he suddenly realized he didn’t know if she would come back. Never before had he given a care whether a woman stayed or whether she went. But Portia was different.

  Harry threw himself over the horse. A black despair threatened to engulf him. Fenella knew his weaknesses. She was using every power at her disposal to stop him from breaking the curse—including taking Portia away from him.

  “Walk on, boy,” he whispered to Ajax.

  The horse began moving, and Harry felt his strength start to return.

  He’d been right to come to Glenfinnan. Fenella was here. He imagined her presence in the shadows. She was watching, waiting. He prayed he had the courage to battle her. He’d never met an enemy who knew him better than he knew himself.

  As he regained his senses, he directed Ajax away from the road leading to Monty’s estate. Instead, he rode to Camber Hall. The house was dark. It appeared deserted. They’d probably all gone to bed.

  Could Portia have dismissed him so easily?

  Harry did not know the answer but he had an uneasy sense that all was not as it should be this night.

  Portia had been an innocent in this venture. And because of him, she was now a part of it. He trusted his instincts. There was danger.

  Fog drifted across Camber Hall’s drive, hovering in its woods. Clouds covered the light of the waning moon.

  It was the winter solstice, he realized with a start. December 22, his sister Margaret’s birthday. She’d been pleased that it was to fall on such an auspicious day. Christmas was three days away . . . and suddenly, Harry knew that he was supposed to be here at this place and at this moment. He wasn’t certain what it all meant, but he was to be here.

  In that moment, he felt the presence of his ancestors, of all those good men who’d had their lives destroyed by a witch. The battle lines were drawn. He could feel it in the air.

  He pulled Fenella’s book and his pistol from his saddlebags. He checked the weapon. It was loaded and ready.

  He moved to the tree line bordering Camber Hall’s lawn and took his post in the shadows. The book in one arm and the pistol in his other hand, he stood guard over Portia.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The wind had kicked up a pace. It rattled Portia’s window and seemed to creep in from every nook and corner of her room.

  She had returned to the house distraught and frightened, but if Minnie or Lady Maclean had noticed anything amiss, they didn’t say a word. They were both involved in their own affairs, both happy with life. There had been no questions about her ventures through the day. They’d sought their beds after a day full of plans and with anticipation for what the morrow would bring.

  Portia had never felt such discontent.

  She had walked away from Harry. No, she had run from him, and at a time when he might need her.

  Lizzy’s prediction frightened her, and yet, the crone was a poor, mad soul. She wasn’t right in the head, and Portia knew it. Since when had she given credence to the woman’s rantings? Why now?

  There was no answer to those questions save for her sense that something was amiss.

  Portia had no appetite for the dinner Glennis had left for her. She went to her room, curled up in a ball on her bed and wept, so miserable she’d not bothered to build a fire in the hearth or light a candle by her bed. She cried until the pillow was soaked and she didn’t have the strength to shed another tear.

  She loved Harry and he would not, could not love her.

  However, he had offered for her to be his mistress.

  The pain of that proposal, the humiliation of it, still resided in her. It was easier to focus on that dishonor rather than how she could never have him for her own.

  What if he had offered to make her his wife? Then what?

  And of course that he had made the suggestion of his keeping her was her own fault. She had done nothing to make him believe she wouldn’t entertain such a position. She’d thrown herself into his arms and, in defiance of convention and propriety, had sneaked away every afternoon to meet him like some shepherd’s daughter. And she hadn’t held back in her affections. She had not been decorous and proper but had initiated their lovemaking, had even been at the bothy waiting for him impatiently on many an afternoon.

  Even now her traitorous body yearned for him, but the truth was, the game had changed. She’d discovered she wanted what he was not willing to give.

  There had been a time when Portia had wondered if the sameness of her life was to continue on forever without any variation. She’d wanted more in those days without knowing what “more” was.

  Now she wished she could return to where she’d once been—a time when she’d not risked anything of herself.

  Harry would never love her. The curse had seen to that. He avoided love, and if he hadn’t, someone more beautiful and more clever than Portia would have caught him long before now.

  And then there was Crazy Lizzy’s warning. Portia didn’t know what the woman meant with her prediction of Harry’s death. However, the threat gave Portia one more reason to stay away from him. To protect her own heart, to protect him, she must stay away from Harry.

  Portia heard a soft feline growl from Owl before the cat jumped up on the bed. Until now, she hadn’t known the cat was present in her room.

  Owl stalked the length of the bed before reaching Portia’s arm and rubbing her face against it. Portia reached over and scratched Owl’s ears.

  “Now you show up,” she whispered to the cat. “Where were you earlier when I needed you?”

  Owl rolled onto her back and playfully batted at Portia’s fingers before reaching up to nudge her hand for another pet. Portia obliged, laying her head on the mattress so that she was practically nose-to-nose with the cat. Even in the dark, Owl’s eyes appeared large and human in their understanding.

  “Are you a reincarnated soul?”

  The cat began purring.

  “Is that a yes or a no?” Portia whispered.

  The purring didn’t stop or change.

  “I see,” Portia said. “It is for me to decide.” She lightly touched one of Owl’s folded-over ears with one finger.

  Owl grabbed her finger with both paws, as playful as a kitten.

  “What shall I do, Owl? I love him. Yes, I’ve been foolish. I didn’t think of anything beyond the moment when I let him make love to me. It was so wonderful,” she confided to the cat. “Every moment in his arms has been heaven. Except now I want what I cannot have. He’s too above my touch, Owl. I’m like Icarus whose father made him wings out of wax and he thought he could fly. But he went too close to the sun, and fell to earth. I thought . . .” She paused, her heart as heavy as a stone in her chest. “I thought I could fly. Now I realize I’m probably like every woman Harry Chattan has ever met. I’m just one more. I had thought I’d be the exception or, at least, able to control my emotions. My father’s callousness did not rub off o
n me and I suppose I should be glad, but it just hurts so much—ow.”

  Owl had bitten her finger.

  The cat jumped to its feet and then leaped off the bed. She padded to the closed bedroom door and meowed.

  The bite had hurt. Portia couldn’t tell in the moonlight if there was blood. Sitting up, she sucked the hurt away, frowning at the cat. “Why should I do anything for you?” she asked, and then was struck by the obvious realization the door was shut and had been ever since she’d gone to bed. Owl had not been in the room, or had she? Harry had her imagining Owl had ghostly powers as well.

  Owl meowed at the door, impatient, insistent, sounding very much like what she was, a spoiled cat.

  If Portia didn’t do as Owl wished, then the cat could yowl at the door all night.

  Portia rose from the bed. She still wore her evergreen cambric day dress with its long sleeves. She pushed her hair back from her face. Her curls were going every which way. She should take a brush to it after she changed into a nightdress. She was exhausted but it wasn’t the tiredness that led to sleep. No, she felt spent, defeated, and overwhelmingly sad.

  She opened the door. Owl went out, then stopped in the dark hallway, a silver shadow. Portia started to close the door, and the cat slipped back in.

  Frowning, Portia said, “I’m not playing this game with you.” She started to shut the door, but the cat boldly put herself in the doorway. “Move on,” she ordered. “Make a choice. In or out.”

  Owl grabbed the hem of her dress with her teeth and pulled.

  It was a strange action for a cat.

  For a second, Portia stood in indecision. The cat wanted her to follow.

  Owl turned to go out the door.

  Portia was tempted to shut the door, but then a new apprehension reared its ugly head. Her first thought was Harry.

  “Is he all right, Owl?”

  The cat came back into the room and circled around Portia’s feet before starting out the door again.

  Portia knelt and held out a hand. Owl bit the tip of her finger. The cat was urging her to follow.