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

by Maxwell, Cathy

  And just because she was older didn’t mean that she didn’t yearn in the way other, younger women did. Her head could be turned by Colonel Chattan, and it was. She wasn’t as sensible as everyone gave her credit for.

  She stopped and looked up at the moon, remembering how the colonel had appeared that night by the Great Oak, remembering him on his knees in front of her, begging her to take his life for his brother’s. She’d never thought that a man, especially one such as he, for whom everything came his way, could be so noble. He’d meant those words. He would sacrifice himself for another.

  And if there was anyone who understood sacrifice for a family, it was Portia.

  Tears burned her eyes, born out of a longing for what she could not have.

  Portia lifted her spectacles and swiped at her tears. She was being a goose. She’d come to terms with her fate a long time ago. She lived for Minnie and for their mother. That was it. Her purpose . . . and there was no wishing it away.

  Resolution, that was what she needed. She must not yearn for what she could not have.

  Setting her glasses back on her nose, Portia marched into the barn, and almost said something ugly when she realized she had not finished with her chores that morning. Lady Emma had interrupted her and then the events of the day had taken over. Well, work healed the troubled soul.

  She hung the lamp on a peg in a supporting beam and set to work.

  Quickly, Portia brought in the pony and the goats. She picked up the pitchfork and, to the sound of the animals munching, she started jabbing at the straw with all her might. Work relieved frustration. Work put at bay desires a woman such as she should not have. Work was what life was about, wasn’t it?

  “So at last I see the spectacles,” Colonel Chattan’s deep voice said from behind her.

  Portia whirled around.

  As if she had conjured him, Colonel Chattan stood in the door leading to Honey’s paddock. He wore his greatcoat. He was hatless and his face was devilishly pale in the shadows. His eyes were two hard shards of light. He was angry.

  And for a second, her heart quit beating.

  He walked toward her. “Hello, Fenella.”

  Portia wanted to take a step back. To run.

  She couldn’t move.

  He moved into the circle of lamplight surrounding her, stopping when they were almost toe to toe. He placed his hands on her upper arms, squeezing, lifting her up until she stood on the tips of her toes. He stared into her eyes as if he could read her very soul.

  She started shaking. He was too close, too powerful, too strong, too driven.

  “Why?” he asked.

  One word for which there was no easy answer.

  “I’m not Fenella,” she whispered.

  He shook his head in disbelief.

  “I’m not her,” she insisted. “I wish I could help you but I can’t.”

  “The cat,” he said. “The cat is yours.”

  Portia shook her head. She didn’t understand his meaning. “The cat? Owl?”

  As if summoned, Owl padded into the barn with a low sound of feline satisfaction in seeing them there.

  Heedless of the tension between them, Owl purred and rubbed her back against his leg.

  “Yes, the cat,” Colonel Chattan ground out. “I was almost fooled. I was going to leave Glenfinnan until you sent your cat to me. You wanted me to stay and so I did. Well, here I am, Fenella. What do you want to lift the curse?”

  “I’m not her,” Portia said, her voice faint. “I have no powers.”

  Owl now wove herself around and through their legs, brushing against Portia’s skirts and his boots, purring as she did so, the sound growing louder.

  The air about them seemed to change, to grow warmer.

  He was so close to her she could see every line in his face and the color deep in his eyes. “I didn’t send a cat,” Portia whispered.

  A rush of heat, of desire rose between her legs. If she leaned forward, her breasts would graze his chest and they wanted to do so. They tingled in a way she’d not experienced before.

  His grip on her arms tightened. His eyes had darkened. The anger turned to something she could not name. It was he who moved closer until their bodies fit together. She could feel his heat, his hardness.

  She had never been this close to a man before.

  Still Owl purred, the sound growing until it drowned out everything save the racing beat of her pulse.

  He was handsome. Noble. A man unlike any other.

  A man every woman wished to kiss.

  A man who had captured her imagination in a way she’d not believed possible.

  A man who brought his lips down upon hers.

  Chapter Nine

  This was madness.

  Harry hadn’t come here to kiss Portia Maclean.

  He’d come here to throttle the truth out of her. He wanted Fenella. If she was not the witch, then he knew there was a link between them.

  The lust of battle sang in his blood. He was a warrior. Here was his enemy—and yet, he could not take himself away from her.

  Dear God, her kiss was sweet. Intoxicating in a way that no spirit or drug had ever been.

  The moment his lips met hers, reason flew from his mind.

  She smelled of fresh air, moonlight and the earth. It was a scent more potent than any perfume.

  He’d been holding her arms. Slowly, he let her down to the ground so he could gather her up and kiss her more completely.

  Her response was everything a man could ask. She was eager for his embrace. Her arms slid up around his neck to pull him closer to her. Her breasts flattened against his chest, and Harry found himself impatient with the barrier of his heavy greatcoat between them. He slid it off, letting it fall to the ground at his feet.

  Was the cat still there, winding around them, purring?

  Harry didn’t care. A force as old as man drove him now. The roof of the barn could cave in on them and he would not break this kiss. He could not.

  He slid his hand inside her cloak, circling her waist and pulling her closer to him. He was hard and anxious. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this excited.

  Her waist was trim. He soothed his hand over the gentle curve of her thigh. She was lean and strong, a different sort of woman from the overly pampered ones he’d grown bored with in London. Her legs were longer than he had first imagined. His mind focused on those legs and on wanting them wrapped around his waist.

  The kiss broke. They had been inhaling each other. He now kissed her cheek, her eye, her ear. His hand found her breast. The weight of it felt good in his hands. He circled the tight, hard bud of her nipple pressed needily against her clothing. Her breath caught in her throat. He was surprised again with how good she felt, and suddenly, Harry was done with seduction. He wanted her. Now. He’d go to pieces if he didn’t have her.

  He unbuttoned his breeches while burying his face in her neck and her hair. His erection practically sprang free from the confines of his breeches like a spring that had been compressed too long. He was hard and ready. Desire gave him the strength of ten men, and he was done with waiting. He’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted this one. His blood sang with need.

  She was pulling at his clothing now, wanting the restrictions between them gone as eagerly as he did.

  But he could not wait for genteel seduction. With an almost animal savagery, Harry lifted her up so she fit against him, pushing aside her skirts as he did so. She still wore her cloak. They were both still fully dressed. But none of that mattered. The moist heat of her body put him over the edge of sanity, especially when he realized she wasn’t wearing drawers, any silly bits of muslin that annoyed a man when he knew what he wanted.

  Harry entered her with one long, smooth thrust and buried himself deep.

  She startled, stiff
ened, then struggled as if to push him away.

  He couldn’t stop. Not now. He wanted her too much. He’d never felt this strong of a bond with any other woman. She held him with a force he could not understand, but that he intended to thoroughly enjoy.

  He began moving, cradling her in his arms as he had his way with her.

  Portia Maclean ceased her struggles. Her body adjusted to his. She was tight, perfect.

  Harry had to have more leverage. He leaned her against the wall of the barn, bracing her with his arms and thrusting, each drive taking him beyond where he’d ever gone before. He was whispering her name and telling her she was beautiful.

  She made soft gasps that excited him more than any other sound.

  Dear God, he would never let her go.

  Her legs were around his waist now. She wore woolen stockings. Someday, he’d see her legs covered in silk. He was not ever going to let such a woman go. She was a magic creature in his arms and he was bewitched—

  She cried out. Deep muscles tightened around him. The force of her release almost brought him to his knees.

  It seemed as if it would never end.

  Like rings of water after a stone is thrown, the power, the intensity of this moment radiated from her and through him, until he could hold back no more. He let himself go.

  Harry prided himself on being careful. He wanted no bastards, especially ones that could carry on the curse.

  However, this time he was powerless to withdraw, and no completion could have ever felt better.

  Slowly, he brought them both to the ground, holding her as if she were made of gold.

  Silence stretched between them, a silence filled with the pounding of their own hearts. Harry didn’t know if he’d ever be able to move again. Their mating had been unexpected but physical, demanding.

  The best he’d ever experienced.

  And then she broke the magic of the moment with a horrified “What have I done?”

  She started to untangle herself from him but Harry would not let her go.

  “Stop,” he ordered as she struggled against him. “Stop.”

  She struck out at him. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Miss Maclean, Portia,” he said, wanting to calm her, and yet he was confused himself, especially when he realized she’d been a virgin.

  God help him.

  Harry was not one to deflower innocents. The evidence was damning. There was the stain of blood upon his breeches.

  She noticed it as well. “Oh no,” she said, her voice wavering as if she were ready to fall to pieces.

  “It’s not that bad,” Harry hurried to say.

  She gave him a look that would have made a clergyman run.

  Harry warded off her anger with a hand. “It’s not. Trust me. I won’t let any harm come to you.”

  Her answer was to slap his hand away.

  And Harry knew she had a right to be angry. He’d taken what had been only hers to give and had done so with wild abandon. But he had not been alone. She had been a willing participant and far from virginal in her desire.

  Just thinking about what had been between them caused his body to stir with interest—

  “The cat,” he said. “Where is the cat?” Harry rose to his feet.

  “Owl? What does Owl have to do with this?”

  “That is no cat,” he informed her. “The cat is Fenella.” He was certain of it. Harry buttoned his breeches as he began searching every corner and crevice of the barn. The cat had just been there. The cat was still there. He could sense it, but he could not find it.

  Portia had managed to come to her feet. She leaned against the wall for support, her face still alarmingly pale. “There is no Fenella,” she said. “Fenella is the name in a book.”

  “A book?” Harry crossed to her. No one had mentioned a book. “What book?”

  She shook her head. “One I found. Please, leave me.”

  But he couldn’t leave, not after she had shared that tidbit. He took her by the arms. “Please, you must help me. What book did you find?”

  “A book,” she lashed out. “It’s nothing important.” Tears had come to her eyes.

  The sight of her crying went straight to his heart. She was not the sort who broke easily. He’d hurt her and she was the innocent in all of this.

  “Please, tell me about the book,” he pleaded.

  Her response was to raise her knee and practically geld him.

  His sex was still sensitive from their lovemaking. Her blow was doubly effective.

  Harry let loose his hold, bowed over in pain. Freed, Portia tore off into the night, escaping into her house.

  Meanwhile, Harry could barely breathe. He wheezed and gasped, waiting for the pain to subside, helpless to chase her.

  And what if he did? She was too distraught to help him.

  Slowly, Harry came to his feet. He would talk to her on the morrow. She needed to think. He needed time to think as well. He didn’t understand what had happened any more than she did.

  But he did know one thing—he was coming closer to Fenella.

  No one was waiting for her inside the house, and Portia didn’t stop running until she reached her room. She slammed the door behind her, afraid he was following.

  For one long moment, she leaned against the door, her heart pounding in her ears, a hundred separate thoughts all jumbled and confused in her brain.

  She placed a hand over her eyes as if to erase the memory of what had just happened from her mind. She sank to the floor.

  Her body still pulsed with the memory of being joined with him, of having him deep inside her, and she feared she was wanton—because she’d liked it. There had been a moment when the pain had been unbearable, and yet, she would have not let him stop.

  Portia hugged her arms around her. So that was “making love” and it had earned its reputation. She’d never felt so alive, so uncontrolled before in her life.

  She’d also ruined herself.

  Fear raised its ugly head. Now what would she do?

  She had thrown herself into the arms of the most notorious rake in the— Her mind froze, unable to think of how far and wide Colonel Chattan’s reputation spanned, and then decided, yes, he must be the worst in the world! How else could he have seduced her so easily?

  And she had thought he’d been angry when he’d first entered the barn. There had not been anger in his kiss. No, there had been hunger, and desire, and passion, and—

  Making love was the most remarkable experience in her life.

  Portia felt as if she had just opened a Pandora’s box.

  She’d liked it. He’d felt good inside her.

  Even now a curl of yearning unfurled in her womb. She had lost her virtue, and besides being shocked and alarmed at what would become of her, she had a very strong desire to kick up her heels in joy.

  So this was what life was about.

  This was what poets meant when they scribbled about love. They were not speaking of some sort of staid, soulless wanting but of a complete, boundless celebration of two bodies becoming one.

  It was an incredible thought, until she remembered that Colonel Chattan had a reputation for becoming “one” with a goodly number of women.

  Portia stood up. She still wore her cloak. In the darkness of her room, she walked over to the window. It overlooked the barn.

  The lamp hanging from a post in the barn had been blown out. All was quiet.

  She strained to see him in the shadows, but he was not there, and she began to cry.

  Portia knew she was undone.

  No one would marry her now. She’d been used.

  And, perversely, she wished Colonel Chattan would “use” her again.

  Oh no—another wanton thought. If her mother knew, she would fly into a rage. If Minnie knew, she woul
d be sorely disappointed in her older sister.

  And then Portia realized if anyone in the valley knew what had happened, she would be ostracized. Their opinions of her would change. She was the spinster, the daughter who would take care of her mother, her family. The daughter who did everything right and who had a stellar reputation.

  She also had to be realistic. Colonel Chattan had no passion for her, although he had shown quite a bit of energy!

  No, he’d been punishing her . . . she thought. Portia wasn’t certain. When he had first confronted her in the barn, he’d been very serious, and then everything had changed. Everything.

  And she didn’t completely understand herself or her reactions to him. Such unbridled passion frightened her. And he frightened her because he could inspire it.

  He also attracted her.

  Of course, who knew how he felt now? She had not been kind to him. In her panic, her horror at her behavior, she’d kicked him, but she’d needed to have a moment to herself to think. He’d sounded like a lunatic with his talk of witches and possessed cats. She’d needed distance from him. She had to regain her perspective.

  Her kick had accomplished more than she could have imagined. They’d always told her that was the way to protect oneself, and they’d been right.

  Owl jumped up on her bed, interrupting her fevered thoughts.

  Portia hadn’t realized the cat was in the room.

  She glanced at the door. Owl had been outside. No one would have let her inside . . .

  Portia made an annoyed sound. Now Colonel Chattan had her suspecting the cat, and the idea was ridiculous.

  Cats weren’t witches. Witches weren’t even witches. Portia was a modern thinker. Believing in spells and curses was the purview of the superstitious. The women labeled witches were often like Crazy Lizzy, lonely old women with baffled minds.

  Owl had curled up in a tidy ball at the foot of the bed. She looked peaceful in the moonlight. And an overwhelming tiredness stole into every fiber of Portia’s being.

  What had happened tonight had been traumatic. It was too much to take in.

  Portia climbed into her bed, fully clothed. She took off her precious spectacles and placed them on the bedside table. Using her cloak as a blanket, she sank down into the mattress and closed her eyes.