The Scottish Witch

by Cathy Maxwell

  Thomas estimated they would reach Loch Awe in three, maybe six days’ time, depending on the weather. “There is no direct line from here to there,” he had informed Margaret. “Let us hope the weather is in our favor.”

  No matter how long the trip took, it would be too long for Margaret. She sat on the tufted velvet coach seat with her fists clenched, anxious to arrive at their destination—and uncertain of what to expect. Fenella’s book was on the seat beside her. Her brother’s gun was in a traveling bag at her feet.

  A gentle mist had started outside. They’d had to close the windows against it. Margaret hoped it didn’t turn into a rain or, worse, sleet. She’d heard traveling in the highlands in winter could be treacherous.

  “You should relax, my lady,” Smith advised. She was in the seat across from Margaret and was doing a bit of needlework to while away the time. Margaret didn’t know how she concentrated on the stitches without feeling slightly ill, especially in such poor light. Margaret couldn’t even read when she traveled.

  “I’ll relax when we arrive at Loch Awe,” Margaret said. She’d not told the servants why they were making this trip. Balfour and Thomas, longtime retainers, were probably aware of the curse, but not the others. Well, save for Rowan.

  And then she heard the meowing.

  She frowned. “Smith, do you hear something?”

  The maid scrunched her face and cocked an ear. “I don’t hear anything out of the ordinary, my lady.” She returned to her embroidery.

  They traveled on and Margaret heard the sound again, loud and distinct this time. She scooted around on her seat. “I hear a cat. The sound is coming from the boot. No, it is coming from beneath the coach.”

  “I’ve not heard a sound other than the coach wheels and the horses,” Smith replied. “Well, except for the arguing of the men in the box.”

  “Then something is wrong with your ears,” Margaret answered. She knocked on the roof. There was a panel there that could be slid back and forth to allow her to speak to the coachman.

  “Yes, my lady?” Balfour said. The misty rain splashed in through the door.

  “There is a cat beneath the coach somewhere. Let us stop and rescue it.”

  “Now, my lady?”

  “Of course,” Margaret said, suddenly anxious for the diversion. It helped to have another concern other than the curse. “I would feel sad if something happened to the cat and we had done nothing to help.”

  “A cat,” Balfour repeated as if mystified.

  “Yes, a cat,” Margaret insisted.

  The door was slid shut and within minutes the coach stopped.

  The vehicle leaned as Balfour climbed down from the box. Margaret opened the door slightly. “Do you see the cat?”

  “I beg your pardon, but I do not, my lady,” Balfour said.

  Margaret heard the meow again. “Oh for pity’s sake,” she said, pulling the hood of her cloak over her head and opening the door wider so she could step out of the coach.

  Rowan and the driver had climbed down from the box as well. Thomas took this opportunity to check on the horses. The outriders also gave their horses a rest.

  The road was muddy. Margaret lifted her skirts to protect the hem. She wore her walking boots, good, sensible shoes for the weather.

  Balfour looked very aggrieved. “There is no cat, my lady.”

  Margaret had to see for herself. She bent down to look at the undercarriage and there, clinging for her life, was a small, mud-covered cat.

  “Poor kitty,” she said, offering a hand.

  The cat let go of her precarious perch and raced to Margaret’s arms. Picking up the cat without a care to her gloves, Margaret said to Balfour, “See, there was a cat.” She didn’t wait for his response but cooed, “You poor muddy thing. Smith, hand me that shawl in the corner of the seat.”

  Silently, her face puckered with suspicion, Smith did as ordered.

  Balfour said nothing, other than raising his eyebrows.

  Margaret dismissed the servants’ reactions. She was quite pleased with herself for saving the cat. Here was a project to help her pass the time.

  She climbed back into the coach.

  “Are we free to leave, my lady?” Thomas asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Margaret responded. She was busy using her shawl to wipe away the mud. Kitty did not like these ministrations but tolerated them.

  Balfour shut the door.

  “Oh, look, Smith, this cat is white beneath all this mud. And she has a funny head.” Margaret held up the cat for her abigail to see. “Her ears are folded over. Poor thing to have deformed ears and yet how precious you look.”

  The cat purred and rubbed her cheek against Margaret’s thumb, and Margaret was charmed.

  Smith did not answer. Instead, she huddled into her corner of the coach with a look of grave concern on her face. Margaret tired of her sullenness. Some people just didn’t like cats.

  Obviously, Balfour and Smith were two of them.

  The cat meowed.

  Margaret smiled. “You are the sweetest thing. And what big eyes you have for a kitty. What is your name?”

  Of course the cat didn’t answer other than to continue its contented purring.

  “Owl,” Margaret said, the name coming to her, and it seemed to fit. “I shall call you Owl because you remind me of one with your funny ears and large eyes. Are you as wise as an owl?” she asked.

  The cat meowed an answer and Margaret laughed. “We have a new travel companion, Smith. One that will keep us entertained on the way to Loch Awe. Owl. Such a precious little cat.”

  With a snap of the whip, the coach continued on its way.

  Don’t miss the next

  romantic adventure in

  Cathy Maxwell’s

  Chattan Curse series

  The Devil’s Heart

  Coming 2013

  from Avon Books

  Margaret Chattan knows that in 1814 no one should believe in curses, but she’s convinced that her family is . . . and that it all began in 1632 . . .

  London, 1632

  “Rose can’t have died. Not at her own hand,” Charles Chattan said, repeating the words his clansman had just spoken to him.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie, but she has,” his cousin Drummond said in his clipped Highland brogue while reaching for another piece of beefsteak from a plate on the table before them. They sat in the kitchen before the fire. Drummond appeared worn to fatigue. It was a hard ride from Scotland to London and he had apparently not wasted any time in making it.

  They were alone. Drummond had arrived only an hour earlier with “important news.” The servants had woken Charles. He’d told them not to disturb his father and mother-in-law, Lord and Lady Lyon or his wife, Patience. He wanted to speak to Drummond freely. He had assumed a messenger from Scotland would not be carrying good news, but he was unprepared for what Drummond had to say.

  Charles’s hands began to shake. He reached for the goblet in front of him. He downed the wine, wishing it was something stronger . . . and still his mind could not accept that his willful, vibrant Rose was no more.

  “That’s why the clan sent me here,” Drummond said, hacking at his meat with his knife and shoving it in his mouth like a wolf. “The mood is ugly. Most blame you for her death.”

  “I blame myself.” Charles pushed his chair away from the heavy table. He stood. “She should not have taken her own life.”

  “Aye.”

  “How did it happen?” Charles had to ask. He feared the answer.

  “She jumped from the tower wall of her family’s keep.”

  Apprehension hollowed Charles’s stomach. “On what day?”

  Drummond reached for his wine goblet and drank it down before answering, “Your wedding day.”

  A knife to the heart could not inflict mo
re pain. Charles wanted to double over, to scream in horror, to rant and rave.

  But he would not do that, not here in front of his clansman. Not here in the home of his English wife.

  “I did not mean to harm her.” Charles had to force the words past the tightness in his throat.

  Drummond met his eye and then looked away, a muscle working in his jaw. For a second, Charles thought his cousin would not speak, but then he said, his voice low, “You handfasted her. Did you believe the lass had no pride?”

  Guilt threatened to overwhelm Charles. It was staved off by the worm of resentment. “Handfasting is not marriage. The church frowns upon it. You know that. So did Rose. She understood I had to marry in the church.”

  Drummond pushed his plate aside as if he’d lost his appetite. He stared at some point at the far wall, his censure clear.

  “I—” Charles started, wanting to defend himself, and realizing he couldn’t. A long silence between them. Charles stared at the pattern of the kitchen’s stone floor. Rose. Dead.

  She’d been so vibrant, so beautiful, it was hard for him to imagine her not in this life.

  “There’s more,” Drummond said, breaking the silence. “ ’Tis why my father sent me. Rose’s mother, Fenella, has cursed you.”

  “Cursed me?” Charles raised a distracted hand to his head, combing his hair back with his fingers. “Yes, she should.” His voice almost broke. He could not cry, not here in front of Drummond.

  Not in front of anyone.

  He would have to mourn Rose with his silence. There was too much at stake. His English father-in-law would not want his daughter’s husband weeping for another woman.

  Charles had loved Rose with all his being. He’d meant those handfasted vows they’d spoken between them. But there had been no formality, no witnesses. They’d been words shared between two lovers who had believed the world encompassed each other and nothing else.

  He was wiser now. His parents had never liked Rose. They thought the Macnachtan a rebellious, coarse lot. They did not want their son and heir breeding with her.

  When the very wealthy, very powerful English Earl of Lyon had approached Laird Chattan about matching Charles to his daughter, the answer had been yes.

  These were uncertain times in the English court. Buckingham had been assassinated and the king was at odds with Parliament over the levying of taxes on the nobility. There was fear of a Catholic uprising.

  Lyon had decided Scottish ties could protect his legacy by giving him an escape if England turned to civil war. He’d remembered Charles when he and his father had been presented at court. It was not vanity for Charles to admit he was a handsome young man. Lyon’s daughter Patience was not attractive. She had buck teeth and weak eyes but Charles was confident his line would breed strength, and looks, into her.

  In return for the marriage, Lyon offered a generous dowry that would add greatly to the Chattan coffers and, more importantly, the opportunity of a title. Procured for a very large sum of money was a royal prerogative granting the rights of Lyon’s title to be passed down to Charles and Patience’s firstborn son, a son yet to be conceived. Charles’s parents urged him to waste no time in seeing that matter done. They liked England and enjoyed the delights of the city. They wished to remain there . . . something Charles knew his cousin Drummond and his clansmen would not admire.

  He looked to Drummond now. “If I know Fenella, she’ll curse me every day of her life.”

  “No, she’ll not be able to do that, Charlie. The witch died by her own hand as well.”

  “What?”

  “Rose couldn’t be buried on holy ground, so Fenella had a funeral pyre built along Loch Awe’s shore.”

  “She burned her daughter?”

  “ ’Tis the old way.”

  “ ’Tis the devil’s way,” Charles shot back.

  “Aye, well, you won’t like the rest of it then.”

  Charles sat in his chair. “Tell me.”

  “While her daughter’s body burned, Fenella placed a curse upon you, Charlie, and upon your line. She then threw herself upon the fire and left this world burning with her daughter. They say her scream still echoes in the air.”

  The horror robbed Charles of breath. “How could she do that?”

  “Rose was her favorite.”

  “But it’s madness.”

  Drummond faced him, his expression bleak. “No madness is the curse, Charlie. Fenella’s words damned you.”

  “She would.” Charles reached for the wine bottle and drank from it.

  “She had a power, one that seemed stronger than most.”

  “I don’t know that I believe in witches,” Charles said. God, Rose dead. Why?

  “Her curse was that if you fall in love, you will die.”

  Drummond looked so concerned, Charles said, “You needn’t worry there. My marriage is one of advantage. I have no love for my wife although she receives my high regard.”

  “The curse isn’t just on you, Charlie, but on your line as well. Be wary.”

  Charles shook his head, suddenly overcome with grief. He could not stay here a moment longer lest he shame himself as a man. He needed to be alone. This was all too much to absorb. He didn’t know what to think, what to believe. He stood. “The night porter will see to your bed, Drummond. Thank you for coming.” It hurt his chest to speak. He didn’t wait for an answer but stumbled toward the door.

  It took all his strength to hold himself together until he reached the sanctuary of his bedroom. All was quiet, the fire in the hearth the only light. He fell onto his knees on the patch of rug in front of it—and the tears came. Big, choking sobs. He could not control them. They racked his body, releasing his grief to the world.

  His Rose, his beautiful Rose. How could he have betrayed her love?

  He’d meant those vows he’d made when they handfasted to each other. She was the only one who held his heart and now she was gone from him forever.

  ’Twas his father’s doing that Charles hadn’t married her. He’d swayed Charles by telling him the oldest had responsibilities. And it had been Charles’s own vanity. He’d sold his soul for a title for his sons, and Rose had paid the price—

  “Charles, what is it?”

  Patience’s sweet voice made him realize he was not alone. She must have heard his grieving from her room that adjoined his.

  Hurriedly, he tried to gather himself up. He swiped his shirtsleeve across his ravaged face. “Nothing.”

  He felt Patience kneel on the floor behind him. He pressed his lips together, willing himself not to break.

  She placed her arms around his shoulders, leaning her head next to his. “What is it, Charles?” she asked in her soft, gentle voice. “What grieves you so?”

  He knew he shouldn’t tell her. It would not be wise. A man didn’t speak of past loves to his wife, and yet he could not help himself. He told her of Rose. He babbled of her, anguished tears breaking him down.

  And Patience, dear, plain, sweet Patience, held him in her arms and listened.

  She listened. Nothing more, nothing less.

  But it was what Charles needed.

  And when he was done, when his grief had its run, she told him it was all right. “She knows you love her, Charles. She knows that now.”

  “Her soul cannot be in heaven—”

  Patience shushed his fear. They lay beside each other on the rug before the hearth, her arms still around him. “I cannot believe God would not forgive her. Her heart was broken, Charles, and no woman can bear a broken heart.”

  “I did that to her.”

  “You did,” his wife agreed, “but you did it innocently. She was very lovely?”

  He nodded.

  “Then you may have assumed that someday she would find another to love. It would have been expected.”

 
“Yes, that is what I thought, what I hoped,” Charles whispered.

  “Then it is not your fault she made a different choice,” his wife said, soothing him. “It is not your fault.” She kissed him then, a kiss that grew heated until they began making love right there on the floor.

  His body responded. He grew hard and needy. He was young and strong and very male. A woman mourns a death, a man must replace. It was the way God made them.

  As he entered his wife, it was as if Charles was coming home. Patience was kind. She was good. She was willing. She would never cause him the pain Rose had.

  And in the moment when he watched his wife’s plain face grow beautiful in the ecstasy of desire, Charles felt in himself the first stirrings of love. It was that easy.

  His father had been right to steer him toward the Lyon heiress. She was good for him. He would be good for her.

  He would love her.

  Six months to the date after his wedding, Charles Chattan died. His heart stopped. He was sitting at his table, accepting congratulations from his dinner guests over the news his wife was breeding, when he fell facedown onto his plate.

  The news of his death shocked many. He had been a vital, handsome man with much to live for. Had he not recently declared to many of his friends that he’d fallen in love with his new wife? How could God cut short his life, especially when he was so happy?

  The only clue to his being unwell was that he had complained of a burning sensation in his left arm. It had been uncomfortable but his physician could find nothing wrong with him.

  However, Chattan’s marriage was not in vain. Seven months after his death, his wife bore a son to carry on the Chattan name . . . a son who also bore a curse.

  And so it continued. They tried to stop the curse. Generation after generation attempted to break the witch’s spell, and did not succeed.

  Such was the power of Fenella.

  The last days of December

  1814

  Margaret Chattan knew she was going to die.

  She closed her eyes, pain searing through her body. Bones were broken. Her head hurt. Sleet fell down upon her but its coldness was no match for the numb certainty inside her that this was the end of her life.