Then, out of sheer athleticism, the horse turned away. It started to slide, losing its balance on the muddy road, but regained his footing.
The man never lost his seat. Indeed, he barely moved. He rode as if he and the horse were one.
She lowered her arms, amazed she was safe.
The horse pranced in place, the white of its eyes rolling. The rider’s scowl was so deep and angry it was more frightening than the near accident.
“Don’t you have sense to stay out of the road?” he demanded in a harsh voice that could have belonged to the devil himself.
He didn’t wait for her defense but put heels to flank and went riding away in a flurry of hooves and dirt, the hem of his greatcoat flying behind him like a cape.
Portia watched him go . . . and then came as close as she ever had in her life to fainting.
“Miss Maclean,” she heard a man shout. “Are you all right?”
Dazed, Portia turned toward the sound to see Laird Macdonald’s gardener Robbie running toward her.
“I saw what happened,” Robbie said in his brogue. “I was thinking for certain you were going to be trampled.”
“I was as well,” Portia said. Her legs had begun to shake.
“Here, miss, take me arm.”
Gratefully, Portia did as suggested. He led her toward the stone manse that served as Laird Alexander Macdonald’s seat as well as an inn since the laird proudly honored the Highland custom of an open house.
Laird Macdonald was a young man and had great plans for Glenfinnan. These included the building of a proper inn and a monument to his ancestors who had served the Jacobite call. It appeared almost complete. The tower and building overlooked the loch and could be seen from the house.
Portia thought it rather silly of the laird to build such a tower. Yes, she had Scottish roots but held English loyalties—and the ’45 uprising was not something she thought a prudent man should commemorate. Of course, her opinion was not shared by most of the valley and she kept it to herself.
Then again, no one had ever accused Laird Alexander Macdonald of Glenalladale of being prudent. He was a rake through and through, a man who owed everyone money, including the Bishop of Lismore. Fortunately for Portia’s peace of mind, the laird had been spending the majority of his time in Edinburgh, or else, such was his reputation, they would have had to lock up Minnie.
Mrs. Margaret Macdonald, the laird’s housekeeper, held the door open for them. She was a robust woman with a frizz of strawberry curls beneath her mob cap. “I saw what happened. I was looking out the window and I saw that bounder almost bowl you over. Here, come in, Miss Maclean. A bit of whiskey will make you feel right,” she promised in her lilting accent.
Before Portia could blink, she’d been gently set in a chair before the fire in the sitting room, and a dram of amber whiskey had been pushed into her hand. “Drink,” Mrs. Macdonald ordered. She and Robbie had poured a dram for themselves as well.
Portia took a tentative sip. Whiskey drinking was not a habit she’d cultivated yet. It seemed to her that everyone, man, woman and child across the countryside, indulged in whiskey a wee bit too much. However, this time the whiskey was appreciated. The smoky flavor of it did not put her off, and the warmth that spread to her limbs helped restore her frayed nerves. Her legs stopped shaking and she found breathing easier.
“Who was that man?” she asked the servants.
“A Chattan,” Robbie answered, spitting the word out.
“A Chattan?” Portia repeated.
“Yes, he’s Colonel Harry Chattan. And they are not all bad, Robbie,” Mrs. Macdonald said. “There is a good line of them.”
“Aye, the Scottish ones. Fought alongside us in ’45. But he’s of English line. Traitors all,” Robbie said, spitting in actuality this time, aiming for the hearth. Portia was surprised Mrs. Macdonald didn’t want his hide for spitting in her clean house.
The rain threatening all morning finally came. The sound of it made this meeting in the sitting room more intimate, and slightly more sinister.
“What would an English Chattan be doing in Glenfinnan?” Portia asked.
“He’s witch hunting,” Mrs. Macdonald said.
For a second, Portia wasn’t certain she’d heard her correctly. She almost laughed until she realized the Scots were serious.
Robbie had taken a seat on a footstool close to Portia’s chair. He placed a knowing finger against the side of his nose. “And well he should.”
“Has he found any?” Portia had to ask, expecting the answer to be no. There was no such thing as a witch.
“We steered him to Crazy Lizzy, but he wasn’t satisfied,” Mrs. Macdonald answered.
“Lizzy is not a witch,” Portia said. “Granted she’s not all there, either.” Crazy Lizzy was an old woman who lived in a hut in the woods. She spent the day talking to herself but she was harmless. Portia tried to take a food basket to her at least once a week, and she wasn’t the only one. Mrs. Macdonald was known to send loaves of bread to the poor soul.
“I know that,” Mrs. Macdonald said, “but the man was offering three hundred pounds sterling. I thought it worth the effort.”
Portia almost fell from the chair. “Three hundred pounds.” With three hundred pounds, the rent would be paid and they wouldn’t have to worry about money for years. No more worries, no more debtors, no more struggle.
“Why is he looking for a witch?” Portia asked.
“Because he is cursed,” Robbie answered, sitting back on the stool and crossing both arms and legs.
“Cursed?” This time Portia did laugh. Neither Robbie nor Mrs. Macdonald joined her.
“You can make light of it, Miss Maclean, but be certain the English Chattans don’t. ’Tis all Charles Chattan’s fault. He handfasted himself to a Scottish lass but betrayed her love when he and his kin went running to England to marry him to an English heiress.”
“When did this happen?” Portia asked.
“Hundreds of years ago,” Robbie answered.
“Then why does it matter?”
Robbie stared at her as if she was a fool. “It has never stopped mattering,” he said. “The Scottish lass took her own life. Everyone knows the story.”
Mrs. Macdonald nodded agreement.
“I don’t know it,” Portia said.
A gleam came to Robbie’s eyes. He had the Highlanders’ love of a good tale. He uncrossed his legs and leaned toward her. “The Scottish lass’s love was true and when Chattan betrayed her, she threw herself from a tower.”
“Aye, sad thing it was, the poor little dear,” Mrs. Macdonald said.
“Did this happen here?” Portia asked.
“No one is certain,” Robbie answered. “The lass was known as Rose of the Macnachtan, and a bonny lass she was. They say she was the most lovely flower in Scotland and had a gift.”
Portia frowned. “A gift?”
“For the sight,” Robbie answered. “For things that we mere mortals cannot imagine. Her mother was a witch and a powerful one, they say. She had her daughter’s beautiful body burned on a shore of a loch and she stood on a rock overlooking the funeral pyre. On that rock, she cursed the English Chattans before she leaped from that rock onto her daughter’s own burning body.”
No image could be more horrifying to Portia’s always active imagination. The room had seemed to darken. The flames in the hearth leaped and danced as if saying, Yes, it is so.
“How are they cursed?” Portia asked Robbie.
“When a Chattan falls in love, he is struck dead. The witch wanted to curse them good. She wanted them to suffer for all time in the way she suffered.”
Logic scoffed at the story. This could not be true.
And yet, here, in this room, with Mrs. Macdonald’s head nodding to the particulars of Robbie’s story, Portia would not be human
if she didn’t feel a shiver of foreboding.
“Did the faithless lover, this Charles, die?” Portia wanted to know.
“He did,” Robbie assured her.
“And are the Chattans still dying?” Portia wondered.
Robbie smiled with ghoulish delight. “Chattan is here looking for a witch, isn’t he?” He sat back, reaching for his whiskey. “We used to have many Chattans in these parts. We lost a good number of them in ’15 and in ’45. Almost wiped out the clan. They were puny fighters. A good number left with John Macdonald when he went to the colonies. Of course, the English Chattans don’t care. They’ve been living the good life in London and beyond, counting their money and the days they have left.” He cackled his pleasure.
But Portia’s mind was no longer focused on the curse. Perhaps it was the whiskey, or maybe the rain and the telling of the story, or perhaps it was her own desperate circumstances . . . but an idea began to form, an idea so daring, it shocked her.
“And this Chattan almost ran me over because he couldn’t find a witch?” Portia heard herself asking.
“I don’t know, Miss Maclean,” Mrs. Macdonald said. “The post left a letter for him here. He read it, crumpled it in his hand, stormed out of the house, and went tearing away as if no one else in the world mattered. Oh, foul of mood he was, and that’s why he almost ran you down.”
“He must have received bad news,” Portia said.
Robbie dismissed the idea with a sharp wave of his hand. “Who cares what news Chattan has received? I say good riddance to him. He had clansmen die fighting in ’45, and not a member of his family lifted a finger to help them.”
Portia smiled agreement but she didn’t have a care about Chattan loyalties. He was a wealthy man looking for a witch—and she was a woman with a book of spells.
She really hadn’t had a chance to read the book all the way through. She and Minnie had studied it one night and had a grand time. There were all sorts of recipes in it. The most amusing were the potions and poultices that promised to heal everything from a wart on the sole of one’s foot to a broken heart, each using the same three ingredients—moss, something called “dittany of crete,” and sage. The sisters had surmised it was the words one chanted that mattered, and the feelings when they were said.
Then, there were the more “witchy” recipes that were for those who dabbled in spells a good Christian would not touch, unless she was desperate for money.
It had been those spells that had made both her and Minnie uncomfortable. The book had been tucked away beneath Portia’s bed and had not been pulled out since.
Portia thought of the letter to her uncle and knew it would not be answered, just as her previous pleas to him had been ignored. If her family was to survive, she needed to be bold.
“Is the Englishman staying here?” she asked Mrs. Macdonald.
“No, he’s with that English general that moved to the valley, say what? The early part of the summer?”
Portia’s heart sank. General Montheath.
The general had been a childhood acquaintance of her mother’s and had nursed an unrequited love for her all these decades and had sought her out on the flimsiest of excuses. When they moved to Scotland, he had not been far behind. However, he never called upon her. Instead, he hovered around her every chance he could, such as at church, moving with a stealth that made Portia and Minnie believe he feared pressing his attentions in any manner lest their mother banish him completely.
In truth, their mother was oblivious to such slavish devotion. She ignored him. Portia and Minnie felt a bit sorry for him—Minnie more so than Portia. If the man would call or take some sort of action, Portia could have been more sympathetic to his suit. As it was, she thought him a touch pathetic.
Of course, that didn’t mean she couldn’t act on the plan hatching in her mind.
It was so clear to her. So simple.
She could become the witch.
And the results might save them all.
Portia rose from the chair. “I must be going. Thank you for your assistance,” she said to Robbie and Mrs. Macdonald. “I’m feeling much better now.” She started for the door, pulling her cloak hood up over her head.
“But it is still raining,” Mrs. Macdonald protested.
“Merely a mist,” Portia answered, and then she remembered the letter to Uncle Ned. She pulled it from her pocket along with the coin. It wouldn’t hurt to send it. “I brought this for the post.”
Mrs. Macdonald, who had risen along with Robbie to see her to the door, took the letter from her. “I’ll see to it.”
“Thank you,” Portia said, and practically dashed out of the house.
The rain had let up, but even if it hadn’t, Portia would have left. Her mind buzzed with details, fears, hopes. She’d not felt so alive before in her life.
Her step was hurried in her anxiousness to return home and grab the book of spells from its hiding place. However, as she topped a knoll in the road, she felt compelled to stand there a moment.
From this point, she could see the length of Loch Shiel hemmed in by the dramatic peaks of the mountains Moidart, Ardgour and Sunart. Not far off the shore, St. Finan’s island was an oasis of firs and pines.
The rain-laden wind whipped across the waters before carrying itself up and around Portia.
She’d liked Scotland from the moment they’d arrived. She felt as if she belonged here. Of course, there was nowhere else to go. If she did not find a way to stay at Camber Hall, then she, her mother, and her sister would be forced to be a burden upon relatives. Such a fate was unthinkable.
At that moment, an eagle took flight over the loch. It spread its wings and glided through the air above and around St. Finan’s, and she experienced the thrill of destiny.
It was a sign. A blessing . . . or so Portia wished it to be. Had it been mere happenstance that the book of spells had fallen into her hands? She did not know, but she knew what she was going to do with it.
She would become the English Chattan’s witch. She would become Fenella, the name of the last woman to sign the inside page of that book. Fenella. It sounded witchy.
And she would claim—no, earn—the Englishman’s three hundred pounds.
Did her conscience bother her at pretending to be what she was not? She thought of the man who had almost run her over, the angry scowl, the rough voice.
She’d find a way to be at peace with herself. Having enough fuel to keep the fires in Camber Hall burning and plenty of food in the larder would be a good start.
His brother was dying and there was nothing Harry could do about it—not until he found someone or something that could break the curse.
For the first time in his life, Harry knew fear, a fear he attempted to escape by giving his horse Ajax, a mighty bay that had carried him into many a battle, his lead. It felt good to gallop, to release his frustration to the wind. Harry had never failed at an assignment before, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t fail, and yet time was passing far too quickly.
The letter from his sister, Margaret, had not been hopeful. She’d urged him to act with all haste. His brother, Neal, was growing weaker, even as his wife grew larger with child. Margaret wrote her greatest frustration was how happy his brother, Neal, and Neal’s wife, Thea, were: They accept the inevitability of the curse and Neal behaves as if he does not even want to fight it.
Well, Harry did. Neal was the finest man he knew. There had to be a way to break the curse. There must be.
He and Ajax raced over the moors, Harry’s mind working furiously on all he had done, all he had learned. He’d come to Glenfinnan because it had been the home of Charles, the first Chattan cursed. There must be a clue here, something that would give him a direction. He sensed it was true, and Harry always trusted his gut.
But in a week’s time, he’d not learned anything except that Hi
ghlanders have long memories—when they wish to do so.
He’d met many who knew something of the curse and many more who still thought of his family line as traitors since they’d turned their backs on Scotland to marry into the English.
At first, Harry had tried reasoning. After all, over the past two hundred years and more, many a Scotsman had married an Englishwoman. But local lore was such that he discovered his ancestors unforgiven.
“They talk as if they could have won the rebellion in ’45 with my family’s help,” he muttered at Ajax after they had run their fill.
Ajax was tired. He wanted his oats and his hay and didn’t care much what the Highlanders thought of him.
Surprisingly, Harry did. He felt comfortable here, and if his brother’s life wasn’t at stake, he would have enjoyed himself.
As it was, he needed to move on, to continue his search. He just didn’t know which way he should go.
It was dark by the time he returned to Montheath’s house. A groom offered to help Harry with his horse but he saw to his own mount.
Monty had held dinner.
“You shouldn’t have waited,” Harry said, sinking down into a chair at the overladen table and finding himself quite hungry. He’d taken a moment to wash, while informing his man Rowan that they would leave at first light; however, he still wore his riding clothes and boots. Monty was equally casually dressed. This was a simple supper between two bachelors. A good fire burned in the hearth, the bread was fresh, and the leg of venison was still sizzling from the spit.
“You are my guest,” Monty said. “Of course I would wait.” He and Harry had fought in many campaigns together, although Monty was an artilleryman through and though. He liked the powers of guns.
Now, Monty was retired. He was some twenty years older than Harry and had seen far more fighting on numerous continents. He had a whippet-lean body and a full head of white hair. He was also a bit cross-eyed and he had a very strong nose, making him rather unhandsome. Harry didn’t care about looks. Monty was both fearless and cool-headed under fire.
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