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

by Maxwell, Cathy

  Darkness fell early this time of year. Portia carefully tucked the hat inside a black cloth bag she’d used whenever her family moved. Her plan was to steal out of the house as Portia but change in the woods once she’d reached the Great Oak, a landmark many knew located deep in the forest.

  Satisfied she had done all she could, she went downstairs for dinner, only to learn from Glennis that her mother had already received her supper tray and that Minnie had said she was too indisposed to eat.

  “Poor thing, she truly cared for Mr. Tolliver. She isn’t taking the new information we heard very well,” Glennis said in her soft brogue. She was of Portia’s age with a head of red, curly hair and sky blue eyes. They were in the kitchen with only their candles and the hearth for light. It was a cozy atmosphere and one for confidences.

  “What new information?” Portia asked, wanting to know what Glennis knew.

  “About Mr. Tolliver,” Glennis said. “He’s been keeping company with a lass in Fort William.” She set a plate of stew on the table for Portia.

  “What?” Portia was shocked. How do you know this?”

  “My aunt is his housekeeper. She said he’s been traveling to Fort William several times a week since last he called on Miss Minnie. He always bathes and dresses well before he goes.”

  Portia had to close her mouth that had dropped open. “Why, that ugly toad,” she said, the words spilling out of her. “How dare he treat my sister that way.”

  “We’d all thought she’d sent him away,” Glennis said. “But when I saw her this afternoon, I realized it couldn’t be true.”

  “Her affections were firm,” Portia said, stoutly defending her sister. She took her seat in front of her dish of stew. “Mother interfered and I believe she said some things to Mr. Tolliver that were not true—however, I am shocked that he has changed his heart so quickly.” Were all men the same? Were they all like her father? “When I hear of how shallow men are, I am thankful I am on the shelf.”

  “They are not all that way,” Glennis said, drying her hands on the apron over her skirt. “My Jamie is a good man and a fine husband.”

  “Well, you must have the only one,” Portia said, picking up her fork. She needed to eat so that she had her strength for traipsing around the woods. “This is not the first gentleman Minnie has placed her trust in and been disappointed. There was a young man in London who disappeared after Father died and he discovered the severity of our circumstances.” She didn’t shy from speaking this way in front of Glennis. She owed the maid back wages, which she was determined to pay, and so they had already shared a blunt, difficult conversation.

  “The heart doesn’t know defeat,” Glennis said. “Hers will love again. And you may fall in love yourself, miss.”

  Portia shook her head. “I’ve yet to meet a man who made me feel ‘love.’ Then again, I am not a giddy creature. I’ve met handsome men, but never one who has touched my heart. And I’m of an independent spirit,” she announced. “I don’t think I was meant to marry.”

  “But aren’t you ever lonely?” Glennis asked.

  “No,” Portia answered, a touch too quickly. Loneliness was not something she could let herself dwell upon. “I have responsibilities and a busy life. I haven’t time to be lonely.”

  “But don’t you yearn for a man you can lean on?”

  Portia thought of her father. “A man is the last person I would lean on.”

  “What of children, Miss Portia? Don’t you want them?”

  That question was too personal. Too frank. Portia rose from the stool. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t think on it often.”

  “I think about it every day,” Glennis said, picking up Portia’s dish and tossing the contents into a bin. She scooped sand from another bin and scrubbed the dish with it. “Jamie and I want wee ones, but we haven’t been blessed yet.”

  “Well, I’ve not felt that yearning,” Portia said.

  “Sure you have,” Glennis answered. “Every woman has it.”

  Portia shook her head, but didn’t speak. How could one explain to a person as blissfully happy as Glennis that not all lives were uncomplicated? That Minnie might search for love, but Portia didn’t believe in it. She couldn’t after watching her parents’ marriage. It had been a sham. Her father hadn’t given a care for any of them. Minnie didn’t truly remember a time when he’d been around, but Portia did. He’d been more of a visitor than a family member.

  And Portia had spent too many years scrambling to make ends meet when he’d not send money to support them to have any respect for his memory. She was better off alone, although there were times she wished she wasn’t so alone.

  Then again, one couldn’t be hurt when one was alone.

  This was not something spoken of to the cook.

  “Good night, Glennis,” Portia said instead, and picked up her candle.

  “Sleep well, Miss Portia. I shall see you in the morning.”

  “Yes, thank you,” Portia said, and escaped to her room.

  The house was dark and quiet, and Portia was too nervous to sit and wait passively for the clock to move forward.

  Reasoning she wanted to arrive at the oak early to don her costume and see that all was as she wished it, she put on her dress of holly leaves, covering it from prying eyes with her heavy wool cloak. She drew on her gloves and raised the cloak’s ample hood over her head to hide her face. Picking up her bag stuffed with her hat and plaid, she left the house.

  She worked in the barn every night after dark but she’d never left the property. It was a brave thing she was doing, going out on her own into the night, and an exciting one. She still wore her spectacles although she fully intended to remove them once she reached the Great Oak. If she kept them on, the Chattan might discover her identity if he asked questions. Not that many women wore spectacles in the valley.

  The ground was wet and spongy beneath her feet as she left the path and walked into the woods. Clouds covered the sky, but the full moon peeped out every once in a while to guide her way. All was eerily quiet. A fog drifted across the ground and the trees took on sinister shapes.

  Portia refused to let herself think nonsense about ghosts and spirits and dangers, although her pulse was racing madly. What she was doing was a gamble, but didn’t they say fortune favored the bold? And she truly had no other choice. She needed money.

  She was almost to the end of Camber Hall’s property when she noticed a white object hovering on a tree stump. The object moved, jumping into the brush.

  Portia gave a start, her hand going to her throat, but a small meow told her how silly she was being.

  “Owl, you gave me a terrible fright.”

  The wee cat answered with another of her light, complacent meows.

  Portia forged on. Owl followed at a distance, disappearing into the brush from time to time. In truth, she welcomed the cat’s comforting presence.

  After a half hour of hard walking, Portia reached the Great Oak, which was a landmark in this section of the woods. Since the oak was on the way to Crazy Lizzy’s house, Portia knew it well. The tree was set off the path and stood by itself, tall and majestic.

  However, tonight, as she entered the clearing surrounding it, she received a surprise. The clouds had opened around the moon, painting the area a silvery light and highlighting the toadstool ring around the tree.

  “Toadstool rings are not evil,” Portia whispered to herself. Still, its presence brought out a superstitious uneasiness Portia did not know she had.

  A toadstool ring was witchy.

  Yes, they could be found all over, but not this time of year.

  The chant in Fenella’s book came to Portia’s mind and she found herself repeatedly murmuring, “Queen of the Meadow, take this evil from this house,” as she approached the Great Oak.

  The tree was barren of leaves and its tru
nk was so wide around that it would take the arms of two men to encircle it. Therefore the toadstool ring was enormous.

  Portia stepped inside the ring and put her bag on the ground. She raised a hand to lower the hood of her cloak so she could put on her hat, when a deep male English voice behind her said, “Hello, Fenella.”

  Portia froze. She dared not breathe, let alone move. She was not prepared. She still wore her spectacles, but at least her cloak covered her head. And there was no time to make presentation of the dress she’d labored over all day.

  “It’s not midnight,” she said, blurting the first words that came to her mind, and then chastised herself because she hadn’t used any of the special voices she’d practiced.

  “I wouldn’t be a good soldier if I did what was expected, would I?”

  She pulled the hood of her cloak lower over her face to hide her spectacles and slowly turned.

  He was a dark shadow against the forest. The shadow moved and changed into a tall, broad-shouldered man in greatcoat and boots.

  The time had come. She could not show fear or allow herself to feel it. She had come this far to play a part, and so she would.

  Portia raised a gloved hand and, using the witch’s voice she had practiced that day, said, “And I wouldn’t be a good witch if I let you have your way. Begone with you. We have no more business between each other.”

  Harry had not anticipated being dismissed.

  None of the women presented to him as witches before had dismissed him. They all wanted the money or they had been sad and lonely.

  Another difference—this witch was young. Very young. All the others had been crones. In spite of the long cloak, he could tell she had a slender figure, and her arm moved with natural grace.

  A small white cat who appeared not to have ears had come to sit on its haunches beside her as if offering protection. A most unusual cat. Then Harry realized it did have ears that had dropped forward, and almond eyes that watched him as if daring him to take one more step.

  The wind rose, rushing through the clearing and up and around them, and Harry knew in that moment, in a way that defied logic and common sense, that he was supposed to be here. That he was meant to meet this woman.

  Harry wasn’t given to flights of fancy. He was not even particularly superstitious—and yet there was a connection between him and this woman so strong that it could have survived two hundred years.

  She was the one. She was Fenella.

  This was the woman he’d been searching for. He recognized her deep in his bones.

  He’d even overheard her chanting as she approached the tree.

  “Wait,” he said. “I . . .” He paused, and then removed his hat and fell to his knees in front of her. She held his brother’s life in her hands. “I beg a moment of your time.”

  Her head turned slightly as if she didn’t quite believe him.

  “Please,” he said, softening his voice. “Please” was a new word to Harry. He commanded and others obeyed. But then, since he’d started this quest, he’d had to make many changes.

  “I have come so far and searched so hard for you,” he said. “Please, hear my plea.”

  Her arm came down. She drew herself back toward the haven of the tree, as if uncertain, her face hidden in the shadow of her hood.

  Accepting her actions as a sign that she would listen, he launched into his petition. “My brother’s life depends upon your goodwill,” Harry said, throwing all pride away. “He’s a remarkable man. A better man than myself. He has fallen in love, Fenella. You know what that means.”

  She did not reply, but kept her head down. He wished he could see her face. The cat at her feet didn’t blink but stared all the harder.

  “Lyon and his wife are going to have a child. He has everything to live for, Fenella. Everything. He does so much good for the world. You have extracted your price for your daughter’s death. It has been almost two centuries. Let it be, Fenella. Let it be. Let your clan and mine be at peace. Neither you nor I can bring Rose back.”

  The witch stood silent as if she was part of the tree and nature around her. She’d lifted her head ever so slightly as he spoke and he was shocked because she appeared to not have eyes. Instead, moonlight glinted from where her eyes should be. Again she lowered her head. Harry didn’t know if she was agreeing to his request or merely considering it.

  Harry swallowed and pushed forward, putting all his conviction, all his love for his brother in his words. “If you must claim one last life, let it be mine. I’m a worthless soul. I am burdened by my own senseless, selfish actions. I’ve cost many good men their lives through my rashness and vanity. I deserve to die. In fact, death would be a blessing. But my brother, Fenella, my brother merits happiness. I admire him before all other men. Lift the curse. You have had your revenge. And if it is more blood you wish,” he whispered, spreading open his arms, “let it be mine.”

  Portia did not know what to make of this startling declaration.

  Did he truly believe that one person could claim the life of another with something as simple and silly as a curse?

  Or that there were such creatures as witches?

  Paganism was long dead in Scotland . . . or was it? He spoke with conviction, with belief.

  And there was something unworldly about this moment. There was the moon, the drift of fog, the wind in the trees, and this warrior of a man on his knees in front of her.

  Now that he was no longer scowling as he had been the day before, she could see he was a handsome man, big-boned and with strong features that spoke of a deep character. His hair was overlong, as if he had not had time to seek his barber. It curled around his ears.

  Even in the moonlight, his eyes burned with his sincerity.

  And she was afraid.

  He reached into his greatcoat and pulled out a small leather drawstring bag that he tossed toward the toadstool ring. It landed heavily at her feet. Owl pounced on it immediately, believing it a toy. The cat batted at the purse strings, and then, placing a paw upon it, lay down upon it, claiming it for her feline self.

  “There are fifty silver pieces in that purse. I offer two hundred and fifty more if you will remove the curse,” he said. “If that price is not enough, name what you want and I will pay it. I am a wealthy man but my money means nothing to me if I must watch my brother die.”

  Portia had meant to take advantage of an arrogant man. Instead, she found herself facing a contrite one. A wounded one. This man suffered. He was in pain.

  The spell she had been practicing that afternoon rose to her lips, unbidden by conscious thought. “Power of All Beings Abound, Clear my path that I may walk, Clear my eye that I may see, Depart all that would stop me from being free.” Her voice didn’t even sound like her own.

  “You will lift the curse?” he asked. Straight, masculine brows had come together. This man was nobody’s fool, and here she was playing him for one.

  “I will think on it,” she whispered.

  His jaw tightened. “I cannot accept that answer. I demand certainty. I’m paying for it.”

  Here was the man who had almost run her over.

  Portia shook her head. “I shall think upon it,” she repeated, matching the challenge in his voice with steel in her own.

  He studied her a moment as if weighing his advantage, and then bowed his head. “As you wish. We shall meet tomorrow night?”

  The Chattan was taking charge again, but Portia discovered her knees were shaking. Holding her own against him in this encounter was taking its toll.

  “Tomorrow, midnight, and not before,” she answered. “Now go.” As if to second her command, Owl hissed at him.

  He nodded, placed his hat on his head, and rose to his feet. Portia dared not to take a breath until he had walked away.

  Owl did not move. The cat was listening, and Portia trusted her
. She did not move as well.

  A few minutes later, she heard a horse moving through the forest. The Chattan must have tethered it a good distance away so she would not be alerted to his presence. The horse’s movements faded into the distance, and Portia could release the breath she had been holding.

  She knelt to the ground, her legs almost unable to support her.

  Owl rubbed her back against Portia and purred her pleasure.

  Portia reached for the purse. It was heavy in her hand. She untied the drawstrings and poured the gleaming silver into her hand. This was a small fortune. It was one year of support from her Uncle Ned. They would be able to pay rent and back wages and hold on for another year of their tenuous existence. It would be a good Christmas.

  Portia didn’t linger but picked up her black bag and hurried home. She was very lucky that he had not seen her face, or at least she prayed he hadn’t.

  She took off the dress, stuffed it, holly leaves and all, in the bag with the hat, and hid the lot under her bed.

  After a restless night when she had dreams of knights in armor kneeling before her and wild horses running her over, Portia cooled her impatient heels until late morning to announce to her mother and Minnie that she had heard from Uncle Ned. Her letter and his money to them must have crossed paths in the post, she said, because here was what he had promised.

  Minnie was still very quiet and sad and behaved as if money didn’t matter—but her mother was thrilled. “We need a new frock for Minnie if she is to attract notice at the Christmas Assembly.”

  “I’m not going to the Assembly,” Minnie said.

  “Oh yes, you are,” Lady Maclean announced. “No daughter of mine will go into hiding for a mere country physician. You were destined for better things, my girl.”

  “We have plenty of dresses,” Portia argued. “We don’t need new.”

  “It’s not you I’m buying for,” her mother said. “It’s for your sister. We need her to marry well, or do you want to spend a lifetime of begging Ned for money?”

  “I’m not going to marry,” Minnie announced. “I’m going to be just like Portia. Alone and content.”