Lyon's Bride and The Scottish Witch with Bonus Material (Promo e-Books)

by Maxwell, Cathy

  “He will not escape me,” Fenella vowed.

  “But he is gone,” Ilona said. “He has become a fine lord while we are left to weep.”

  At last the moon was high in the sky and the bonfires’ flames were hot and strong. They feasted on the wood, making it crackle and sending sparks and ash into the air.

  The time was right. Nain had said a witch knows when the hour is nigh—and this would be a night no one would forget. Ever.

  Especially the Chattans.

  The fires had drawn the curious from all over the countryside. They stood on the shore watching. Fenella raised her hand. Her clansmen and her kin fell silent. Her son Michael, laird of the Macnachtans, picked up the torch and held it ready.

  Fenella brought her hand down, and her oldest put fire to the tender of his sister’s funeral pyre.

  ’Twas the ancient way. There was no priest here, no clergy to call her out—and even if there was, Fenella’s power in this moment was too strong to be swayed. It coursed through her. It was the beating of her heart, the pulsing in the blood in her veins, the sinew of her being.

  She stepped to the edge of the rock and stared down over the burning pyre. The flames licked the skirt of Rose’s white funeral gown.

  “My Rose died of love,” she said. She whispered the words but then repeated them with a commanding strength. They carried on the wind and seemed to linger over Loch Awe’s moonlit waters. “A woman’s lot is hard,” she said. “ ’Tis love that gives us courage, gives us strength. My Rose gave the precious gift of her love to a man unworthy of it.”

  Heads nodded agreement. There was not a soul around who had not been touched by Rose. They all knew her gift of laughter, her kindness, her willingness to offer what help she could to others.

  Fenella reached a hand back. Ilona placed the staff that Fenella had ordered hewn from a yew tree and banded with copper.

  “I curse Charles Chattan.”

  Raising the staff, Fenella said, “I curse not just Chattan but his line. He betrayed her for a title. He tossed aside handfasted promises for greed. Now let him learn what his duplicity has wrought.”

  The moon seemed to brighten. The flames on the fires danced higher, and Fenella knew she was being summoned. Danse macabre. All were equal in death.

  She spoke, her voice ringing in the night.

  “Watchers of the threshold, Watchers of the gate, open hell and seal Chattan’s fate.

  “When a Chattan male falls in love, strike his heart with fire from Above.

  “Crush his heart, destroy his line;

  “Only then will justice be mine.”

  Fenella threw her staff down upon her daughter’s funeral pyre. The flames now consumed Rose. Fenella could feel their heat, smell her daughter’s scent—and she threw herself off the rock, following her staff to where it lay upon Rose’s breast. She grabbed her daughter’s burning body and clung fast.

  Together they left this world.

  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 was so young. A vital, handsome man with so 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.

  Prologue

  Camber Hall

  Glenfinnan, Scotland

  November 15, 1814

  What had started as a gentle mist was turning into sheets of rain when they least needed it.

  Portia Maclean charged up the attic stairs in a race against the leaks in the roof.

  “Cold, drafty, leaky house,” she muttered, stomping on each step in her frustration. There were two buckets up there that were probably full from the rain the day before. She had been hoping she could put off the chore of emptying them. Now she was on a race against Nature.

  The attic was not her favorite place. It smelled of must and was full of wooden boxes, crates, trunks and old furniture from what seemed to be centuries of previous tenants.

  Portia could not stand the smell of dirt and decay and she hated cobwebs. She always held her breath when she came up here and prayed she never saw any of the spiders she knew had to be lurking in the rafters. Spiders that watched her, waiting for an opportunity to jump down upon her.

  A shiver went through her at the thought, or at imagining any of the other multiple-legged creatures that lurked with those spiders.

  The first bucket was close to the staircase and was, as she had suspected, almost full. She pushed the bridge of her wire spectacles up her nose, waved away a wet cobweb dangling from the ceiling, and picked up the bucket handle with both hands. She lugged it to the small window overlooking the front drive. Humidity had swollen the wood—again—so she had to give the sash a few pounds of her fist for it to open.

  She poured the water out, returned the bucket to its place and went in search of the other in the far corner where the attic was darkest, even in the afternoon.

  Anxious to finish this unpleasant task so she could return to the fire in the kitchen, Portia wound her way around the accumulated boxes, trunks, tables and crates toward the steady drip of water dropping into the bucket. Here was where the roof leak was the worst.

  Portia found the bucket and made quick work of emptying it, closing the window when she was done. She was hurrying to place the bucket back under the leak when a streak of white blazed across her path.

  She stumbled backward in surprise, reaching out for the first available surface to catch her balance, and ended up tipping a precarious stack of junk down onto her. She fell to the floor in a crash of wood and billows of dust.

  Coughing, Portia needed a moment to grasp what had happened to her and to be certain she was all right. The noise of her fall had been so loud, she was surprised her mother and her sister hadn’t heard and come to check on her.

  Instead, all was quiet save for the rain on the roof. Her younger sister, Minnie, was probably down in the kitchen, and their mother . . . well, Lady Maclean might be in the bedroom almost directly below where Portia was now, but rarely stirred herself for anyone.

  Portia wiggled her toes and her fingers. Nothing was broken. She was all right . . . but what had that flash of white been? She was a practical woman and not given to flights of fancy, well, other than her very reasonable distaste of bugs. If she saw something, then there was something. But before she could investigate, she needed to dig herself out of this mess.

  She shoved a wooden crate off her legs. It had been filled with old shoes, clothes and hats, none of it salvageable. She and Minnie had already investigated the attic last June when they’d first moved in. She lifted the box and set it on top of a trunk and was just turning to pick up the empty bucket off the floor, when a book fell onto the floor right in front of her.

  A book. There were never enough books to read in the house. It was a heavy, leather-bound book and so aged, the binding was falling off its spine. Portia forgot
about the bucket and the leaks. She took the book and hurried back to the window so she could inspect it better in the light.

  The book was handwritten. The paper was yellow and brittle. She had to be careful with it. There were pages and pages of writing. Perhaps poetry? She adored poetry—

  “It’s recipes,” she said, disappointed. She frowned again, attempting to decipher the faded handwriting. Yes, recipes, but not the sort she was familiar with. “How to remove warts,” she read and then curled her lip in distaste at the instructions to make a mash of onions and potatoes and apply to the wart for no less than ten days. “The whole poultice will stink after that period of time,” she mumbled to herself. She turned a few more pages, and her imagination was captured. There were recipes for strawberry wine and what to say when surrounded by a toadstool ring to protect one’s self against evil. Who would have imagined toadstool rings were evil?

  “ ‘Queen of the Meadow, take this evil from this house,’ ” Portia chanted and then hummed her disbelief. She wasn’t superstitious. Toadstool rings were toadstool rings. They harbored no magic, or at least not the ones she tromped through.

  She flipped more pages and found one that was wrinkled and the ink smeared as if someone had shed tears over the recipe titled, “To Reclaim True Love.” The word “Charles” had been written in the margin. The name wasn’t in the same handwriting as the recipe, so perhaps this spell had been used. Perhaps some woman, years earlier, had pined for Charles.

  Portia wondered if, after the spell, he’d come back to her. And if he’d been worth it!

  Love was a mystery to Portia. Her sister was in love with Mr. Oliver Tolliver, the valley’s physician, but who knew what would become of it. Right now, Minnie was pining because Mr. Tolliver had not called in three days. Portia thought the man was busy with his duties. A doctor was always at the beck and call of his patients, and she’d told Minnie as much. Minnie was not convinced. She feared he had lost interest.

  Portia herself had never been in love, and after witnessing Minnie’s miserableness waiting for Mr. Tolliver these past few days, was grateful to have been spared. Then again, her father had taught her well that men could be selfish creatures with no thought of using women and then discarding them. After all, wasn’t that what he’d done with his own family?

  Of course, since she was seven and twenty and lacked a dowry, the likelihood of Portia ever marrying was long past. She was a penniless spinster, an old maid. She’d made her peace with it.

  That didn’t mean that she didn’t find this love spell fascinating—

  Her thought broke off with insight. Love spell? Yes, this was a book of spells.

  Fascinated, Portia flipped through more pages. The toadstool chant wasn’t the only spell that made her chuckle. There were spells to rid a house of demons—she should share these with Reverend Ogilvy—and to keep people she didn’t like from crossing her path. She wondered if she could use that on the daughter of her landlord the duke. The very pampered and petty Lady Emma, daughter of the Duke of Moncrieffe, had lorded over the valley as the reigning beauty until the Macleans had arrived. Minnie had usurped her place, and Lady Emma was not happy.

  On the inside front cover page of the book was a list of women’s names. Most were unreadable. However, the last one on the list caught Portia’s eye. Fenella. If ever there was a witch’s name, Fenella was one.

  At that moment, Portia’s musings were interrupted by the sound of a small meow.

  Portia cocked her head, unsure if she had heard correctly. How could a cat find its way into the attic?

  As if answering her question, a small white cat climbed onto the lid of a trunk close to Portia’s right hand.

  Or at least she thought it was a cat. The body, tail, and sweet face were all catlike. However, the ears were different. They folded over, giving her head a flat roundness, much like the shape of an owl’s.

  The ears weren’t the animal’s only different feature. She had the largest, most expressive eyes Portia had ever seen on a kitty. They, too, were owlish in expression: all-knowing, all-wise . . . with a touch of almost human understanding.

  Portia shook her head, thinking she was being far too fanciful now.

  The cat jumped to the floor. She walked around Portia’s skirts and rubbed her face in them, purring softly.

  Portia was charmed. She set the book aside and picked the animal up. Kitty weighed next to nothing. “So you are the culprit for the knot on my head.” Portia smiled and the cat seemed to smile in return. “What beautiful eyes you have, kitty.”

  The cat closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against Portia’s hand, begging for a pet.

  “Would you like some milk?”

  Those expressive eyes came open. The cat made a sound that could only be interpreted as agreement and leaped down from Portia’s arms. She trotted to the stairs before turning as if to ask Portia if she was coming.

  “I suppose you do,” Portia said with a laugh. “But wait. I must put this bucket in place.”

  She carried the bucket to the corner of the attic. The cat waited for her to finish the chore, taking a moment to gracefully groom herself.

  A pet was exactly what Portia needed. She and Minnie had never had one. Her mother wasn’t fond of animals.

  But they were in Scotland now, her father’s ancestral home. Their lives had changed in so many ways . . . so perhaps it was time they had a pet. Besides, Lady Maclean left her room only for church and visitors, so keeping the cat a secret would not be that difficult.

  Portia walked to the stairs and sat on the floor, fears of spiders forgotten. The cat climbed into her lap. “Owl,” she said. “I shall name you Owl.”

  The cat purred approval.

  Portia would have gone down the stairs, but Owl jumped from her lap and ran back to the window as if to remind her that she had almost forgotten the book. Portia laughed at the cat’s almost humanlike sensibilities and at herself for imagining them.

  “Thank you, Owl, I don’t want to forget it,” she said. “How else shall we know what to chant when we see a bat?”

  The cat purred her approval and followed Portia down the stairs.

  Chapter One

  “Portia, take your eye spectacles off your nose right this minute. You know I don’t like you to wear them around me. Or around anyone,” Lady Maclean complained as she fluffed her pillows so that she could sit up in bed before Portia set the breakfast tray on her lap. Her ladyship’s blonde hair was tucked into a lace cap, and her lace Spanish vest—a short jacket that served no purpose that Portia could tell—covered her lace nightdress. She rarely rose before noon.

  “I need to see them to see, Mother,” Portia responded dutifully. They had this conversation practically every day.

  With an impatient sound, Lady Maclean declared, “You see fine without them. They age you, my girl. Not that you aren’t old enough, but a woman shouldn’t want to call attention to the fact. I don’t understand why we haven’t received our invitation to the Christmas Assembly,” she announced, her mind shifting into another sequence of thought without pause. “They couldn’t not think of inviting us.”

  Oh yes, they could, Portia thought as she walked over to the window to open the draperies.

  When the Macleans had first moved to Glenfinnan, her mother had made it clear she thought herself better than the Scots even though they undoubtedly knew all too well what a scoundrel her husband and Portia’s father, Captain Sir Jack Maclean, truly was. After all, Black Jack Maclean had grown up in these parts, and one thing Portia was learning about country society was that there were no secrets.

  Lady Maclean sighed wistfully, “I always adored Christmas. The parties, the dinners, the gaiety.”

  Portia didn’t remember the parties, the dinners or the gaiety. As far back as her memory went, they usually spent the season being shuttled back and forth among relatives
who didn’t really want Black Jack’s family. “I like not having all those relatives around. It is good to be under our own roof.”

  “Even in Scotland?” Her mother sniffed her opinion and sipped her tea.

  The day outside was overcast with the threat of rain. Portia wondered what the weather would be like in mid-January, when, she’d been told, it finally, truly would go cold. Would the rain change to sleet? She could go out in the rain but sleet was not to her liking. She began straightening the room.

  The family only had one servant, a local named Glennis who did the cooking and the wash. Portia and Minnie managed the rest of the house. Minnie saw to the garden and Portia took care of the chickens, cow and pony. It was a good life, far better, to Portia’s thinking, than the one they’d left behind in England.

  “Your eyes are weak because you read too much,” Lady Maclean said, returning to her earlier complaint. “If you would stop reading, you wouldn’t need them.”

  “Minnie reads as much as I do and she doesn’t wear spectacles,” Portia argued.

  “Poor Minnie,” her mother said in another lightning-quick change of thought, “how are we going to find her a suitable husband if we are not invited to the Assembly? We must go.”

  Portia smiled at that concern. “Minnie has found a suitable husband,” she reminded her mother. She crossed to the bed. “Her affections are fixed on Mr. Tolliver. You may not think him suitable enough—”

  “He is not. I will not let her throw herself away on a mere physician.”

  “He is well respected and comes from a good family.”

  “He is ugly,” her mother pronounced, munching on her toasted bread.

  This was dangerous ground.

  Minnie was a true beauty, with the round, guileless blue eyes and the blonde hair that had once made their mother famous. Wherever Minnie went, heads turned. When they had first moved to Glenfinnan, the sitting room had been full of young bucks, until they’d realized Minnie had set her cap for Mr. Tolliver.