The Scottish Witch

by Cathy Maxwell

  With a triumphant laugh of joy, Harry brought her out into the aisle and lifted her up as if she weighed nothing. He swung her round and kissed her, right there in the church in front of everyone.

  A burst of applause surrounded them.

  Even the Scots had been moved by Harry’s declaration to her.

  Portia kissed him back, realizing in his arms was where she was meant to be. She never wanted to spend another day as miserable as she had been without Harry.

  Their kiss was more than a kiss—this was a welcoming, a promise, a commitment.

  And when they were done, they could only stare in each other’s eyes, grinning like two happy fools.

  It was the Reverend Ogilvy who brought them back to the moment. “May we continue with the Christmas service now?”

  Harry bowed, directing Portia back into the pew and, squeezing his way into a seat beside her, almost dumping the general onto the floor. He held her hand as if he would never let it go—and he didn’t. Not through the service, or the Christmas dinner afterward hosted by General Montheath with her mother as hostess, or through the evening.

  For Portia, it was enough to be with him. Her fevered anguish of the past days had evaporated, replaced by more happiness than she had ever known.

  While the other guests and her family visited, she and Harry sat quiet and alone, just pleased to be in each other’s company.

  But there was one question Portia had to ask. “Did you really see my cat, Owl?”

  Harry appeared surprised. “The cat with the deformed ears? Yes, several times. I told you she came to me one night. Why are you asking?”

  For a second, Portia was tempted to tell him that they were the only ones who could see Owl, and then decided against it. Whether Owl existed or not no longer mattered.

  There was one piece of information she needed to share with him. Portia whispered in his ear that she believed she was with child. Perhaps she was being overanxious. It was too soon to tell, but she knew.

  Instead of being alarmed, Harry hugged her, and she could see she’d pleased him greatly.

  The curse would have to be brought to an end, but it would not be done so by them. They understood that now.

  They had made their decision.

  They would love and love well.

  They were married by special license the day after Christmas, St. Stephen’s Feast Day.

  Harry had not been certain Portia would marry him. After all, she was a headstrong bit of muslin. However, he’d hoped for the best and had sent his man Rowan off to make the arrangements. It had not taken much effort. Scotland was more lax in its marriage laws than England, and Harry had seen to it that the bishop was well compensated for his assistance.

  The Duke of Moncrieffe, in defiance of his daughter’s pouting, had offered the chapel. The wedding breakfast would be hosted by General Montheath and Lady Maclean. Lady Maclean had come alive at the prospect of another dinner to plan. Poor Monty was going to have a future of entertaining, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  Once Portia had told him he was to be a father, Harry had been happy he’d made the arrangements he had. He did not want to delay the marriage any longer than necessary.

  He’d even spoken a word with the duke over Christmas dinner, and a tentative agreement had been reached between them for the purchase of Camber Hall. Harry knew how much the house meant to Portia. He also wanted to see his son raised in a place that would support his child. The people of Glenfinnan, while not having been particularly welcoming to him, had demonstrated their care and concern for Portia. They would see her well after Harry was gone. He also liked the idea of his son being in touch with his Scottish roots. It seemed a good thing.

  The morning of their wedding was one of clear skies and a cold wind. Winter was arriving in the Highlands.

  Harry and Monty made their way early to church, and Harry was not surprised that Portia and her family were already there.

  She was wearing her best dress, the one she’d worn to the dance, the one she’d worn when he’d declared himself to her. Her hair had been carefully styled high on top of her head, but the Scottish wind had already freed her curls from pins and put roses in her cheeks.

  He thought she had never looked more beautiful.

  The service was short and to the point. For that, Harry was grateful to Reverend Ogilvy. The best moment for him was when he put his signet ring on his wife’s hand.

  His wife.

  Harry had thought never to have one. Now, he was so proud of Portia, he could not imagine his life without her. He’d been a shell of a man until he’d met her.

  And no woman could have been as perfect for him. He adored everything about her, including her stubbornness. He liked her spectacles, her curls that defied any taming, her nose, her mouth, and her delicious body.

  But what he loved the most was her mind. His Portia had courage. She had wisdom. She would see his son safe. His generations might not destroy the curse, but he believed a future one would. He had no fear for his son.

  They adjourned to Monty’s house, and the whisky poured freely. For the first time, Harry felt no pangs of desire for spirits. No yearnings. Instead, he felt whole and complete as a sober man.

  They were just sitting down to the wedding breakfast when a new visitor arrived, one Harry had not anticipated—his sister, Margaret.

  The company had been so involved in the celebration they had not noticed the arrival of her coach. Margaret entered the dining room unannounced, moving as if the wind had blown her in.

  She was a tall woman with curling black hair and the Chattan’s shrewd blue eyes. She had been a celebrated beauty when she’d made her come-out. Everyone had expected a brilliant match, everyone, that is, save her brothers. They knew the burden of the curse and were not surprised when Margaret had withdrawn from social circles.

  Margaret was dressed in the height of fashion. She wore an apple green velvet coat, and a velvet cap of the same stuff upon her head. Lady Emma would have been jealous, Harry thought as he stood and rushed over to welcome his sister. She held him at arm’s length, fire in her eyes. “What is going on here?”

  Instead of answering her question directly, he called to his wife, “Portia, please come here and meet my sister.”

  Portia pushed self-consciously on the nose of her spectacles, a gesture he knew she made when she was nervous. She did as bid.

  “Margaret, this is my wife, Portia.”

  “It is a pleasure to have you here, my lady,” Portia said.

  Margaret made no move toward Portia at all. “You married?” There was a wealth of unspoken disappointment, anger, and fear in those two words.

  “Yes, and happily so,” Harry answered, placing his hand on the small of Portia’s back. Margaret noticed the gesture. She also glanced around the room as if just realizing they had an audience. “Come and eat with us, Margaret, and then we shall talk.”

  The lines of Margaret’s face tightened. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t smile and pretend I am happy with this. You sent a letter saying you had found information that could help our brother and then I don’t hear from you for weeks?” She’d lowered her voice as if not wanting the others in the room to hear.

  “This is Glenfinnan, Margaret. They know about the curse.” He was tired of secrets. Done with them. “Now come, sit and eat. You must be tired after such a long journey.”

  “Are you interested that our brother Neal is failing rapidly? Or do you care? Perhaps neither of my brothers care whether they live or die,” she said, answering her own question. She frowned at Portia. “You will be the death of him.”

  To her credit, Portia did not flinch. “I consider myself the life of him.”

  If she had punched Margaret in the nose, his sister’s reaction could not have been any different. Margaret took a step back, her brows coming together
. Her gloved hands doubled into fists. “I will not sit at the table for this celebration,” she said. “I won’t. Harry, please see me in the other room. I believe we must speak alone.”

  “After I have celebrated,” Harry said.

  Margaret’s reaction was to flounce out of the room.

  Harry gave his wife’s waist a reassuring squeeze and turned to the guests. “You can see I’ve had great experience with strong-willed women.”

  The comment relieved the tension in the room, as he’d hoped it would. But he was conscious all the while through the meal that Margaret waited.

  And wait she must . . . because the Scots were not going anywhere quickly when there was celebrating to do. The afternoon was late before Harry could finally turn his attention to his sister.

  “I shall let the two of you have a moment alone,” Portia said.

  “No, I’d like for you to be there,” he answered.

  She frowned, and he understood why. She’d already recognized that Margaret was going to blame her for this marriage, and to his thinking, that was all the more reason she must be there. Harry wanted Portia to hear him defend her. He did not want his wife to have any doubts as to where his allegiance lay.

  He fetched Fenella’s book and entered the drawing room where Margaret had been sitting stiff and unyielding most of the day. She’d refused several of Monty’s offers of hospitality although she had accepted it for her drivers and her abigail. Margaret had wished to make her displeasure with Harry known, and she had.

  “Are you in the mood to talk, sister?” he asked, directing Portia to a chair. He remained standing.

  Margaret’s hard gaze flicked over Portia and dismissed her. “How could you, Harry? How could you give in to the curse?” She had taken off her coat to reveal a lovely dress of the whitest gauze muslin. Harry thought she had to be chilled wearing it in Scotland’s damp weather

  “Because I fell in love,” he answered.

  His sister practically shouted her frustration. She came to her feet. “You and I had a pact. It was to stop with us. With our generation. You’ve broken my trust.”

  Harry knew she was right. He also knew she would not understand. Someone who had never known the power of love could not comprehend the courage he had gained from it.

  He offered Fenella’s book to her.

  “What is this?” she asked, looking down at the leather-bound tome, its cover cracked with age.

  “A book of spells that Fenella used. Portia found it in the house where she was living.”

  Margaret moved toward the book as if it was the Holy Grail.

  “Fenella wrote her name on the inside,” Harry said as she took it from him. “There is a spell to reclaim a lost love with the name ‘Charles’ written in the margin.”

  “Can it help us break the curse?” Margaret asked.

  Portia answered. “We don’t know, but Harry and I are aware that we do not have the power to do so.”

  “The power?” Margaret echoed. At last she looked at Portia with something other than contempt. His wife was being very patient.

  “We suspect we have taken this matter as far as it can go,” Harry said. “Portia and I sense we have discovered the root of Fenella’s curse. I believe she is on the run.”

  “What makes you say so?” Margaret asked.

  “Because she’s attacking me so virulently.” He held up his left arm. “The curse is reacting in me even quicker than it has with Neal. I believe she is afraid.”

  “You sound as if she is in the next room,” Margaret said.

  “She could be,” Harry answered. “One of those spells is for reincarnation. I have a theory, and it is more of a guess, that Fenella has reincarnated herself over the centuries so that she can keep the curse alive.”

  Margaret went pale. “This is madness.”

  “Aye,” Harry agreed. He placed his hand on Portia’s shoulder. “I don’t want to go further with this, Margaret. I don’t know how much time I have left, and I want to spend it with my wife.”

  “But what of defeating it?” Margaret demanded. “If you know so much, why stop now?”

  “I can’t go on,” he answered. “She knows my weaknesses. I’m not strong enough,” he said, and told her of his meeting with Lizzy.

  “I can’t give up,” Margaret said. “I won’t. You and Neal are all I have.”

  “Then pursue,” Harry said. “But a soldier knows when he is facing an overwhelming force.”

  “Then I am fortunate to not be a soldier,” his sister responded.

  “We also know more about Rose,” Portia said. “She was originally from Loch Awe.”

  “Where is that?” Margaret asked.

  “South and east of here,” Harry said. “I give you the book, Margaret, because you may be the one to see us free. The curse was placed upon us by a woman and done so to honor the spirit of a woman. Perhaps the reason we Chattan males have not been able to break it is that we are the wrong sex. We may be the weaker sex in this case.”

  Margaret considered the book in her hand. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’ve never done anything like this. I’m not strong like you and Neal.”

  “If anything, Margaret, you are the strongest of the three of us. Do not be afraid of your destiny.”

  The moment he spoke those words, it seemed as if the very air in the room changed.

  Margaret held the book to the window’s fading light. Tears welled in her eyes, but his sister was not one to cry. True to character, she angrily wiped them away.

  “I accept the challenge, she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I shall leave now—”

  “No,” Harry said. “You must rest. You must let your servants rest. Tomorrow will be time enough to begin the journey.”

  Margaret hesitated as if ready to argue. She was willful. But then her shoulders slumped and Harry recognized that he had been right, his sister was exhausted.

  “I fear for you and Neal. What if I fail?” she whispered.

  “You won’t fail.”

  His sister seemed to draw courage from his conviction. She straightened. “I will not. I will travel to Loch Awe on the morrow, and Fenella of the Macnachtan had best beware.”

  For the briefest moment, the book seemed to glow in her hands. Uncertainty unsettled him.

  “Perhaps I will go with you,” he said.

  “No, you are correct. I must go alone,” she answered, staring at the book.

  “Margaret,” he said in protest, but she shook her head.

  “We are both safer with you here, Harry. Think, the curse is having its effect on you quicker than it has on Neal. Why? Is it because you are close to Loch Awe and the Macnachtans? Right now, Neal is far too weak to travel. If the same happens to you, Harry, you will become a disadvantage to me because I will worry about you.”

  “True,” he admitted. A warrior had to have focus to go into battle and right now, he realized, his sister was a warrior.

  She looked to Portia. “Keep him with you.”

  “I will.”

  “At least take my man Rowan,” Harry protested. “He is as close as I can come to being with you myself.”

  She nodded and then took her first step toward Harry since she’d arrived. He put his arms around her and hugged her close. “God be with you, Margaret,” he whispered.

  “I will succeed,” she promised. “And I’m not about to fall in love. I’m sorry to say such on your wedding day, but, for me, it is a foolish emotion. Look at what it has cost so many who are close to me.” With that declaration, Margaret left the room.

  Portia leaned against Harry. “Do you believe her safe?”

  “I hope so,” he said. “I pray so.” He brushed his lips across her hair and held her close. “The one thing I know is that I do love you. And no witch may take that away from me.”
>
  Margaret

  Of course Margaret could not sleep.

  She spent a good portion of the night going over Fenella’s book, trying to read the faded handwriting and make sense of words in the old Gaelic she didn’t understand. She wanted answers, solutions, and she wanted them now. That she could lose both her brothers was a horrific thought. They were all the family she had left—save for Neal’s unborn baby. And, if the curse went true to form, her new sister-in-marriage, Portia, was probably breeding as well.

  Margaret could not stand aside and let those children be tainted with this curse.

  The next morning, she was up early and ready to travel, anxious to be on her way to Loch Awe. She thanked General Montheath for the hospitality.

  Harry and Portia managed to see her off. They both looked as if they hadn’t slept a wink the night before and were none the worse for wear. Margaret could only sigh. Love had made her brothers addle-brained. Here she was so worried . . . and they were contentedly in love.

  She did notice that Harry favored his left arm even more this day than he had the day before. He handed her his pistol and his ammunition bag.

  “You know how to use this,” he said. “I taught you. Guard yourself well.”

  “I shall,” she answered.

  Margaret then hugged her brother, gave a perfunctory kiss on the cheek to her new sister-in-marriage, and climbed into her coach.

  She traveled with a retinue. Her abigail Smith accompanied her inside the coach. Smith was new to the staff. Margaret’s longtime abigail, Rogers, had married one of the Lyon household footmen and had begged to stay in London. Margaret debated whether or not Smith would be with her long. The maid had very little personality and would never become the close confidant Rogers had been.

  Four armed outriders, insisted upon by Neal, provided for Margaret’s protection. There were also her driver, Thomas, a coachman, Balfour, and now Rowan, Harry’s quiet Indian valet.

  She wasn’t overly fond of Rowan. His loyalty to Harry was unquestionable, and yet there was something Margaret didn’t trust about him.