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

by Maxwell, Cathy

  Portia had opened her mouth to speak, but found words deserted her. Was she content? Certainly she was alone.

  And why did Minnie’s assertion make her feel hollow inside?

  “Minnie,” their mother said, “you mustn’t waste time licking your wounds. Mr. Tolliver ran too easily. It was a test, you see. Any man worth his salt would have fought for you. You want a man who is more stalwart. And you want to look your very finest when Mr. Oliver Tolliver sees you again, which will probably be at the Christmas Assembly.”

  The last argument won Minnie over.

  Pride was a funny thing, and Portia could see that their mother had struck just the right chord to raise Minnie’s.

  Minnie’s chin lifted. “You are right. If I don’t go, then he will know how much he has hurt me.”

  “That’s my girl. Portia, hitch the pony cart. Minnie and I are going to Fort William.”

  “Mother, please,” Portia said. “We don’t have money for this.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Maclean said, plucking the coin purse right out of Portia’s hand. “We don’t have money to not do this. Consider it a sensible investment in our futures.”

  “I won’t let her spend it all,” Minnie promised Portia. Now that she had a purpose in mind, that of showing Mr. Tolliver how foolish he was to let her go, color had returned to Minnie’s cheeks. “We just need lace and ribbon. It won’t cost much. I assure you it won’t.”

  “At least let me keep twenty pounds for the back rent and the next quarter,” Portia said. She’d also be able to see to Glennis’s back wages.

  “If you insist,” Lady Maclean answered, and counted out the coins, but she kept the rest. She and Minnie put their heads together and started sharing ideas for updating dresses they already had.

  Portia stood there, listening to them carry on . . . and realized they would soon spend what she had. And then she would need to find more. Always searching for more.

  And she felt very guilty that she had deceived the Chattan only to have her family spend, spend, spend.

  She was not surprised when they returned from Fort William with the information that buying lace and ribbon for old dresses had not been enough. A new dress had to be made for Minnie, and of course it had cost extra since the seamstress had such a short amount of time to create it.

  And her sister had wanted it. In the space of hours Minnie had changed. She’d gone from the heartbroken sister to a woman who felt scorned. Certainly their mother had worked her magic.

  Oh yes, and Lady Maclean had purchased a few “necessities” for herself.

  That night, Portia didn’t go to the Great Oak.

  She’d never intended to. After all, she was not a witch. She could not give the Chattan the spell he wished. And she could not return his money. It was almost gone.

  And so she lay awake, Owl curled into a contented ball at the foot of the bed, while she stared at her ceiling, praying fervently that the Englishman would forgive her for playing him false.

  The problem was, with the image of the man on his knees in front of her burned into her memory, she doubted if she would ever be able to forgive herself.

  Chapter Four

  The “witch” had deceived him.

  Harry had been cheated. The realization had come to him slowly. He’d rejected the idea at first. He’d wanted her to be a witch. He’d wanted her to have the power to save his brother.

  He stood there in the middle of the night staring at the Great Oak, willing it to conjure Fenella. He’d waited for three hours before he realized she would not come. Three hours spent cramped and hidden, three hours when he’d dared to let himself hope.

  And now? He realized the woman might have been some charlatan who had heard of the money he’d been offering. He was humiliated. Cheated. He’d even posted a letter to his sister, Margaret, to take heart, that he believed he had found Fenella. He hated thinking of the false hope he’d passed on to his brother.

  Harry was not a man one crossed. He hated double dealing. Even in the military he was known for wanting the truth, no matter how ugly. Only then could he make a reasonable decision.

  Damn, he needed a drink or the blessed relief of opium. His game leg had started aching and he was angry enough to tear the head off of someone.

  He had to have a release, and for a wild moment, he vented his anger by kicking the tree and stomping on the toadstools, silly, childish gestures, and yet he was in such a rage he needed a release of some sort. He had believed. What a fool he’d been!

  Harry had even fallen to his knees in front of her. He’d humbled himself.

  He marched off, collected Ajax, and tore off across the moonlit countryside as if the devil was at his heels.

  No, he was the devil! When he found “Fenella,” she would rue the day she had thought to cheat him—and he would find her.

  And he tried.

  For the next twenty-four hours, he wore himself and Ajax to the bone, searching for the woman who had deceived him. She was here somewhere. He knocked on doors, paid bribes, followed every path through forests, over moors, along the shoreline.

  Did he know the Scots didn’t trust him? Oh yes, he did, but Harry was beyond caring what they thought. Every fiber of his being was intent on finding this woman.

  Of course, his decision to stay had pleased Monty.

  “So you will be able to attend the Christmas Assembly. That’s good. That’s good,” Monty said, rubbing his hands. “Do you have something suitable to wear?”

  Harry frowned at him, thinking his friend insane. “I am not going to any dance. That is not my purpose here.”

  “But you are here. It’s tomorrow evening. You should go.” He paused to add, “You know I need you. And it is the Christmas season, a time when we should gather for good company.”

  “No.” Harry ran a frustrated hand through his hair and attempted to soften his tone. “I’m sorry, Monty, but I’m not feeling in a festive spirit. I don’t care if Christ himself was present at that dance. I’m failing my brother. I’ve never failed before. I’ve cost lives, but I have never failed.”

  “I only thought since you were here . . .” Monty’s voice drifted off and Harry couldn’t help but pity him, standing there alone, surrounded by his dogs who wagged their tails, eager for his attention.

  Harry raised his hands to protest and then let them drop to his side. “I must leave on the morrow. I travel to Edinburgh.”

  “To what purpose?” Monty asked.

  “There is a man, William Donan at the university in Edinburgh, who specializes in folk stories about kelpies and witches. Perhaps he can give me information.”

  “You don’t know where you are going,” Monty answered, his doubt about the idea clear.

  That was true. But he had exhausted every avenue in Glenfinnan.

  “I’m trying my best,” Harry said, speaking more to himself than the general. He looked to his mentor. “I’m sorry, sir, that I can’t help you. Once I’ve found a way to break the curse, I shall return and we’ll sweep every woman in Glenfinnan off her feet.”

  “I don’t want every woman,” Monty responded. “I want just one, and I don’t know if I’ll ever have her.” He turned away from Harry. “Go on. You’ve been wanting to leave. You need to carry on. Don’t worry about me. We are both good soldiers and understand that there is always a calling higher than our own personal desires.”

  “I wish it was different, sir,” Harry said.

  Monty’s response was a wave of his hand. “Just don’t fall in love, Chattan. It’s worse than hell.”

  Harry could answer that he had already lived his own personal hell, one made up of a love of a different kind, but there was nothing more that could be said that would make the situation better. He turned and left the room. As he passed the dining room, the cut glass of Montheath’s wine and whiskey decanter
s gleamed in the room’s lamplight. Harry gripped the stair railing. His leg was tight with pain and tension from too many hours in the saddle. A dram would make life easier.

  Or make it tortured.

  He’d fought hard to overcome his vices. He would return to them someday, but not until he had saved his brother. With that promise, he forced himself to climb the stairs.

  His valet, Rowan, was waiting with hot compresses for his leg. The servant had been with Harry since his service in India. One day in Calcutta, he’d begun following Harry and had soon made himself indispensable. Over the years, the small man with the dusky skin, unflinching amber brown eyes and impeccable, accented English had proved himself trustworthy, and was greatly valued.

  “How did you know?” Harry murmured, so grateful for his valet’s foresight he could have wept. The moist heat immediately eased the cramping in his leg.

  “The cold damp is not good for your muscles, Colonel,” Rowan answered, sitting Harry on the edge of the bed and helping him remove his coat and boots. The manservant had also kept a steaming pot of water on the hearth and in short order had a cup of special “tea” made of dried lemon rinds, basil and honey.

  Harry took a good sip, feeling the lemon’s oil settle in his chest before saying, “I can’t find her, Rowan. I’ve searched every inch of this damned place. Fenella was probably a fraud. I can’t believe I was hoaxed.”

  “She is one of many who were not true, Colonel.”

  “Yes, but the first one who made me believe she was real.”

  Harry stared at the fire. Montheath liked a wood fire. Harry appreciated this choice.

  “What do you do now, Colonel?”

  What did he do now? “It’s not the money. I don’t care about throwing my money on the woman,” Harry answered. “But I can’t believe I was so wrong. I could feel her power, Rowan. She wasn’t like any of the others I’ve met. And her eyes, Rowan, they were like small moons. I know that sounds odd but it was the image I gathered.”

  Harry shook his head. He was starting to sound foolish. “We go to Edinburgh,” he informed Rowan. “There is a gentleman scholar there who is said to know a great deal about witches and the like. We’ll leave at first light.”

  “Are you certain, sir?”

  Harry gave a sharp glance to Rowan. The manservant had never questioned him. “Do you believe we should stay?”

  Rowan didn’t answer immediately, taking his time hanging Harry’s jacket in the wardrobe. Harry waited. He expected a response.

  The manservant turned and then said quietly, “There is something here.”

  “Something or someone?” Harry demanded. He had met mystics in the East. He’d often wondered if Rowan was one, if that was the reason the man had taken up with him, because Rowan had certainly chosen him, not the other way around. But he’d never asked. He did so now. “Rowan, why did you follow me that market day in Calcutta? Why did you choose me?”

  “You are a good man, Colonel.”

  “There are many good men. I’m also a man who is fatally flawed. I’ve proved it many a time since you’ve known me.”

  “You are a good man.”

  “But why, Rowan? Why did you choose me?”

  Rowan came over to Harry. He squatted in the native way. His somber gaze met Harry’s troubled one. “I killed a man.” He didn’t wait for Harry to comment but said, “The man deserved to die. He was evil. But I had to atone for my action. I asked goddess Maya for guidance.”

  “Maya?” Harry repeated. There were thousands of Hindu gods. He’d not heard of this one.

  “The Spider, the spinner of magic. She weaves the web of our lives. I asked her what I should do now because no one saw me kill this man. No one questioned me.”

  “Do you regret killing him?” Harry asked.

  Rowan shook his head. “He killed my father for our family’s land. He deserved his fate. His karma. He knew I would come, but he was a powerful man. I gave an offering to Maya and she told me to go with the next man I met. It was you, Colonel.”

  “She told you?”

  A knowing look came to Rowan’s brown eyes. “If you listen, the gods will speak to you.”

  “I doubt that, Rowan. I’ve been beyond God’s hand for too long.”

  “Listen. Ask Maya.”

  The soft command hovered between them.

  “I’m not a praying man,” Harry said carefully, “to my God let alone any others.”

  Rowan shifted his weight. “Perhaps, sir, it is something you should do. Every man must have a belief. How else does he understand his karma?” He bowed, rose, and withdrew from the room, shutting the door behind him.

  The silence in his wake was unsettling. The servant had been with Harry through two continents. He’d been quiet and unassuming, never asking anything, never challenging—until now.

  Harry looked around the room, at the draperies and bed curtains, at the bare floor and the wardrobe. He was alone, and yet perhaps Rowan was right. Perhaps there was something more here. Something he didn’t understand.

  But he did believe man controlled his own fate. His karma sprang from the decisions he made, the actions he took.

  And Harry didn’t look to a Hindu deity for assistance.

  No, he was a lone wolf. It was how he’d survived. How he wanted to be.

  As for God? Harry and God had not been on good terms for a long time. The last time Harry put trust in the Unknown was on a battlefield at Vitoria when he’d charged French cannons. He’d gone alone, leaving orders that his men were not to follow him . . . but they did.

  One man could have made it across the field. A troop of them were easy targets. Harry had survived. He and the mighty Ajax took the cannon—at a tremendous cost. His men had followed him. He’d prayed that day when he’d turned to see his men being mowed down by French guns, but there had been no God to answer his prayer. They had all died.

  And strong spirits and laudanum had helped him face the disaster. He blamed himself. He’d been their commander. If he could have done it again, he would have been wiser. He would have understood the depth of their loyalty. Indeed, he was the one who had set the example of disobeying orders that they had used to follow him.

  Harry rubbed his thigh where he had been wounded. He would have gladly given his leg if it would have saved the lives of those valiant men.

  And Rowan spoke to him of karma . . .

  Harry blew out the candle, slid beneath the sheets, and laid his head on the pillow.

  Rowan had not come to him by chance. That was one thing Harry did believe.

  Of course he dreamed of the battlefield. He couldn’t stop the dreams. They haunted him, except this time was different.

  She was there.

  Although he could not see her face, he knew it was she. She was a glorious creature, hovering above the field as he watched his men being slaughtered.

  And Harry wanted her. He was hard and ready for her. He reached up, the French artillerymen he’d slain watching him with curious expressions, their faces white in death.

  Just when Harry thought he could touch her she moved—no, floated—away from him, drifting to the plains beyond the battle.

  She was swathed from head to toe in a great cloak that moved around her slender frame, the moon in her eyes. She had no hands, no feet, no face, and yet he knew her.

  And there was fire now, all around them. The flames leaped to the heavens but he felt no heat or fear.

  He heard her laugh, the sound seductive, inviting. This was not the sound of a witch. It was the song of an angel. Again he reached for her. His hands went right through her.

  And then Harry wasn’t in the dream. He was in his bed and he sat up, puzzled. She pushed him back down upon the mattress. He could feel her, but could not see her.

  She leaned forward. He sensed the movement as if
his eyes were closed.

  He knew he was still dreaming. This was not real.

  Her head dipped toward his. He wanted to open his eyes, and yet he feared what he would see. She would have no face, only shadows—

  And then her lips touched his. He felt the roughness of her tongue against his lower lip. The touch was real, wet, strange, abrasive—

  Harry came awake with a start, realizing he was being kissed—but not by a woman.

  A cold nose brushed his skin. Again the rough tongue stroked his lip. He reached up what was on top of him and flung it away from him.

  A small body landed on the floor.

  His senses on alert, Harry reached under his pillow for his knife as he rolled out of bed and held it out, ready for the intruder.

  No one attacked.

  He knew he’d been dreaming. Damn, his body was still hard and the blood flowing through his veins hot. The embers in the fire in the hearth sent a warm glow through the room. He held his breath, listening. He was not alone.

  And then he heard the small meow.

  A cat?

  “Oh God,” Harry said, raising the back of his free hand to his lips and wiping them clean.

  What would a cat be doing here in this house that was a haven for every dog that came its way?

  Harry put down the knife, pulled on his breeches, and reached for the candle. He walked over to the dying fire to stir the embers, lit the candle off of them, and turned toward the bed.

  The cat jumped up onto the bed, a cat with an unusual round head and ears folded over. Fenella’s cat.

  Or was it Fenella? The cat’s eyes seemed to view him with a wisdom as old as the soul.

  Cautious now, Harry took a step forward. “Here, kitty. How did you come in here?” His door was shut. The window was closed as well.

  The cat came to its feet, arching its back and hissing at him. Harry stopped. “How did you make it in here, kitty, past all Monty’s dogs?”

  The cat’s lips curved into what Harry would swear was a smile, and then it jumped down from the bed and ran under the wardrobe in the corner of the room.

  Harry followed, falling to his knees and reaching under the furniture to drag the cat out, heedless of claws. And yet, as he stretched his arm in every direction, he felt nothing.