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

by Maxwell, Cathy

  Owl moved up the bed to her, moving with a cat’s light grace. She snuggled in next to Portia, kneading the folds of the cloak with her paws as she made herself comfortable. Portia fell asleep to the cat’s contented purring.

  The next morning, Portia woke up exhausted. It took a moment for her to realize she was still fully dressed. Her room was cold and muscles she hadn’t known she possessed, secret muscles, ached in a way she’d never felt before.

  And then it all came back to her.

  She sat up with a start and covered her mouth with her hand as if to stifle a scream.

  A knock sounded on her door. “Portia, have you overslept?” Minnie said. “We leave for church in an hour. Are you all right?”

  Portia never overslept. And usually she was the one who knocked on doors, not the other way around. “I’m fine,” she mumbled to her sister, surprised her voice worked.

  “I’ll take breakfast to Mother,” Minnie offered. “Mr. Tolliver is coming over to escort us to services.” She left. Portia could hear her walking down the hall for the stairs.

  Church. She must prepare for church.

  Portia untied the strings of her cloak that was still around her. She felt like herself, and yet she felt different.

  “Owl?” Portia remembered the cat sleeping beside her. She looked around the room, but there was no answering meow.

  Sliding off the bed onto her knees, Portia searched under the bed. No cat. Fenella’s book was there, but no Owl.

  And she told herself she was being silly. Cats had a hundred ways of going in and out of places. She was allowing her imagination to grow foolish.

  Rising from the floor, Portia walked over to the washbasin. Of course the water was cold. She should have washed last night when Minnie had brought up the pitchers. She poured the water into a bowl and began undressing—and that was when she saw the bloodstain on her petticoat.

  For a second, the room seemed to spin around her. “No, no, no,” she said softly, and then she met her face in the looking glass on the wall.

  The woman who stared back at her looked as if her world was about to come to an end. How foolish she had been. The rampant desire, the lust of the night before evaporated in the light of this new day.

  “It’s over. It’s done,” she told that image. “Don’t think on it.”

  All would be fine; all would be well. She needed to carry on as she normally did. That was what she would do. It was all she could do.

  Portia began washing her face. She picked up a cloth and scrubbed all over her body as hard as she could. Within the hour, she felt a bit like her old self, although she had no appetite for breakfast.

  She was absolutely certain that her sister and her mother and even Mr. Tolliver could see a change in her, because she could see the change in herself. She was certain of it. Her eyes were darker, her skin lighter, her features older.

  But no one else in her family seemed to notice.

  And the barn where the deed had been done seemed remarkably normal. No signs of struggle or savage passion. Even Honey, who had to be a witness to the goings-on, greeted Portia with her usual nicker.

  None of that stopped Portia from feeling guilty. Her penance was to worry as Mr. Tolliver drove them to the church meeting.

  There was no church in Glenfinnan, well, no proper church as they’d had in London, which was something else for Lady Maclean to complain over. However, the Duke of Montcrieffe had a chapel on his estate, and his chaplain, a very kind man by the name of Reverend Ogilvy, read services each Sunday.

  Portia was not truly thinking about where they were going and its implications, until they arrived and she saw the crowd gathered there. She was not up to facing very many people. She ducked her head and hurried to the chapel, running right into Lady Emma.

  Her Ladyship looked positively fetching with a berry red velvet jacket over a creamy muslin gown. A cap of the same velvet was tilted at a jaunty angle over her perfectly styled hair.

  Beside her, Portia felt dowdy and haggard—in more ways than one! Her Sunday dress was a sprigged muslin that had been out of fashion when it had been handed down to her by a distant cousin and her hat was the one she wore every Sunday for church. Nor was there anything “jaunty” about her.

  “Hello, my lady,” Portia murmured.

  Lady Emma replied with a lift of her brow and a look down her nose. She moved on.

  “Are you all right?” Minnie asked, taking her arm.

  “I’m fine,” Portia answered a little too quickly. Then paused, turning suspicious. “Why do you think something is wrong?”

  “Just a sense I have,” Minnie answered. “You’ve been so quiet.”

  “I have many matters on my mind.”

  “Is it about Lady Emma and our paying the rent?” Minnie said, dropping her voice lest any of the others around them overhear what she was saying. “I talked to Oliver. He said perhaps he can help. I mean, he doesn’t earn much. Usually his patients pay him in turnips and bread, but maybe we can work something out.”

  Portia put her hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Oh, Minnie, it isn’t the rent.” For a moment, she debated confiding in this person who was closer to her than any other.

  However, the opportunity was swept away by their mother’s approach. “I don’t understand why we can’t have a proper horse and vehicle. I mean, even Mr. Tolliver has one. You hold too tight to a coin, Portia. Too tight.” On that pronouncement she swept into the chapel, and her daughters had no choice but to follow.

  The service was long. Mr. Ogilvy enjoyed hearing himself speak and had a good bit to say. Today’s sermon was on the story of the Prodigal Son. Always before, Portia had cast herself in the role of the oldest son. Not today. She saw herself as the youngest son, the one who was hedonistic and enjoyed sensual pleasures and paid a price—

  It was then Portia realized she could be with child. Chattan’s child. And then everyone would know what she’d done.

  The thought was horrific, especially when she remembered how Laird Macdonald’s gardener had kept spitting at the mention of the name “Chattan.”

  Dear God, please don’t let me be carrying his baby, she prayed. In fact, she’d never prayed so fervently in her life—and that was when she felt him.

  The hair at the nape of her neck tingled.

  Portia knew before she turned around that Colonel Chattan sat behind her. He sat directly behind her, and he was staring at her with an intensity that left no doubt in her mind, or that of anyone who noticed, that he was there for her.

  Chapter Ten

  Portia snapped her head back around to focus on Mr. Ogilvy in the pulpit.

  What did Colonel Chattan think he was doing? He hadn’t been to services since he arrived, and he showed up this day? Portia felt her temper rise.

  If he was following her around because he wanted to repeat what had happened last night, he was going to be disappointed. He’d caught her in a weak moment. That woman who had so eagerly leaped into his arms was not she. She’d had a moment of madness but she was sane, sober and remorseful today.

  By the time the services had ended, Portia had worked herself into such a state, she almost couldn’t wait for a confrontation with Colonel Chattan, and then she saw Lady Emma.

  Her Ladyship had realized Colonel Chattan was in the chapel, and she was not pleased that he sat close to Portia.

  Minnie leaned toward Portia. “Now Lady Emma is looking daggers at you. This is very odd, Portia. She is overreacting to a bit of spilled tea.”

  “Yes, it is,” Portia agreed. “Now, if you will excuse me?”

  She didn’t wait for her sister’s answer but brushed by her to leave the pew before Colonel Chattan could say anything to her.

  Fortunately for her, he’d brought General Montheath with him. The general used this opportunity in church to corner Lady Maclean
in the aisle and was attempting to converse. In fact, he seemed insistent he converse, as if he’d been gathering his courage all night for just this moment.

  Her mother blocked the aisle, making it impossible for Lady Emma to move past her, and General Montheath blocked the pew so that Colonel Chattan couldn’t leave.

  Portia was free to leave and she did not dally. She fled the chapel and kept walking. Of course, Minnie had been following her and now caught up with her. “Portia, what is it? You’ve been acting peculiar.”

  “Nothing is wrong. I don’t wish to linger. I want to leave as quickly as possible. I have chores.”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “There is no day of rest for women.”

  “Granted, but we usually spend a few moments visiting with our neighbors,” Minnie said. “Only last week you claimed this was your favorite part of the Sunday.”

  “It is. Sometimes. I’m ready to go.” Portia would have plowed on, but Colonel Chattan had escaped the chapel and had come up behind her.

  Her traitorous body wanted to jump into his arms.

  “Good day, Miss Maclean and Miss Maclean,” he said to Portia and Minnie, as pleasant as one could be. He was obviously not racked with guilt over what had happened last night.

  “How are you, Colonel?” Minnie said with great warmth.

  “Very well, thank you. I believe my friend the general might be making some progress in the pursuit of your mother. I suggested he might actually muster the wherewithal to speak to her.”

  Portia glanced back at the door and was surprised to see that her mother was walking out with General Montheath and seemed to be listening to what he was saying.

  “I’m surprised,” Minnie admitted.

  “He’s determined,” the colonel answered. He turned to Portia. “May I have a moment?”

  Portia shook her head. “I’m so sorry. We are leaving.”

  She would have walked off but Minnie stopped her. “Oliver is not here yet and he is the one who drove us. Don’t be in such a rush, Portia. You can talk to the colonel while I go see what is keeping Mr. Tolliver.” She didn’t wait for Portia’s protest but hurried off.

  Nor did Colonel Chattan wait to tell her what he wanted. “I need to see you.”

  “I don’t believe that is a good idea,” Portia whispered furiously. “Not after last night.”

  “Are you all right?” He sounded anxious as if he truly cared.

  Portia didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t say anything, choosing instead to study a point beyond him.

  He made an impatient sound. “We can’t pretend nothing happened between us. We should discuss it.”

  No, Portia definitely didn’t want to discuss it with him. She was also not comfortable talking to him in such a public place. Lady Emma came into her line of vision. The girl’s jealous eyes narrowed as she saw the two of them together, and Portia knew she was assuming the worst.

  In this case, she’d be right.

  Portia could feel him frown at her continued silence. “There is nothing to discuss,” she answered, and would have walked off but he stepped in her path.

  “I want that book,” he said.

  The book again.

  “You can’t have it,” she said, annoyed and not quite understanding why. Apparently, concern for her wasn’t his primary purpose in speaking to her.

  “Name your price.”

  Her price?

  “What price can you place on what it has already cost me?” she answered.

  His expression changed. The determination in the set of his jaw softened, and in his eyes was the bleakness of regret.

  And Portia wished she’d never spoken. It pricked her pride that he was sorry, because, actually, she wasn’t. She hadn’t realized that until this moment.

  She began backing away, afraid of what she might reveal if she stayed there any longer. She was afraid he’d offer excuses. She didn’t know what she wanted but it wasn’t apologies.

  And so she said the one thing she knew would make him leave her alone. “You can have the book.”

  Colonel Chattan gave a start as if he hadn’t expected her to make the offer. “I’ll come to your house—”

  “No.” She couldn’t afford to let Lady Emma confirm her suspicions. She glanced over to where the duke’s daughter stood with several of her friends. They had their heads together, and Portia knew that didn’t bode well for her.

  She also couldn’t let herself fall apart and imagine things that were not true. Colonel Chattan was reputed to have made love to almost every woman who had crossed his path. To him, she was no different from the others, and she mustn’t let herself think otherwise.

  Without facing the colonel, Portia said, “There is a shepherd’s bothy not far from the Great Oak. I’ll meet you there in two hours.” She walked off without waiting for his answer.

  Harry watched Portia march away, her back poker straight, and didn’t know what to think. She’d dismissed him. No woman had ever dismissed him before.

  They had made love last night with a passion he’d never known, and she had barely looked him in the eyes today. He’d known governesses who were more yielding than she was.

  And they did need to discuss what had happened last night between them. He wanted to. He, the man who rarely discussed anything with a woman or anyone else.

  “Chattan,” Monty said, rushing up to him, “I followed your suggestions and they worked!”

  It took a moment for Harry to pull his thoughts away from Portia Maclean. “My suggestions?”

  “I tried to be myself around Ariana,” Monty announced proudly. “I asked her a direct question and she spoke to me. We had a conversation.”

  “Did she speak kindly?” Harry had to ask. Lady Maclean had spoken to Monty before but not with the sweetness of her sex.

  “Yes,” Monty said as if that was quite an accomplishment. Harry started walking to where they’d tethered their horses, and the general fell into step beside him. “I asked her opinion about a soiree I’m having. I told her that I desperately needed advice from an accomplished and well-respected hostess as herself. I asked if perhaps she could give me a moment of her time, and she did.”

  “You are having a soiree?” Harry asked with disbelief. He mounted his horse.

  “It’s one of those words the ladies like,” Monty said, climbing into the saddle of his own horse. “She didn’t question my use of it. Anyway, the conversation went better than I could imagine. Who knew that all I had to do was ask Ariana questions and then she’d answer me and we would be talking?”

  “Monty,” Harry said, concerned for his friend, “are you certain this is the woman you want?”

  “With all my heart,” Monty replied.

  “Poor bugger,” Harry said under his breath. He set Ajax down the road.

  “I don’t expect you to understand, Chattan. You aren’t the sort of man who knows how to love or even values it.”

  This comment caught Harry’s attention. “I value love.”

  “I challenge that,” Monty said with his newfound confidence. “Tell me, have you ever been constant to one woman for, let’s say, more than three weeks or even three days in your life?”

  “What do you mean by ‘constant’?” Harry asked, suddenly not liking this conversation.

  “I mean that you are true and faithful to her. That you would cherish her.”

  “I’ve cherished many women,” Harry answered.

  “One at a time, Chattan. One woman, for a long period of time, and because you valued her mind and her opinion as well as her body. I don’t believe you’ve even had a mistress.”

  “I didn’t see the purpose to it,” Harry answered. “Why focus my energy on one bit of muslin when there are all these others begging for me to notice them?”

  “And that is w
hy I know you’ve never been in love,” Monty announced with a crow of satisfaction, as if he’d proven his theory correct.

  “Maybe I don’t want to be in love,” Harry returned. “What good is it anyway? You’ve been miserable being in love.”

  “But today, I am ecstatic,” Monty declared. “I spoke to her and she was civil. I just need to come up with a method to keep her that way.”

  “Yes, you can’t have a ‘soiree’ every day.”

  Monty’s pride in his accomplishment was so great, he dismissed Harry’s sarcasm with a wave.

  But Harry couldn’t dismiss his friend’s criticism. In truth, Harry was reaching the age when bachelorhood was no longer attractive. He’d noticed that once a man closed in on five and thirty, he became overly self-indulgent, spending his time on petty things that didn’t matter like the cut of a glove or ridiculous jealousies. Harry was only a few years away from that age.

  He’d never thought that way before, but since in Glenfinnan and sober, he discovered some of his attitudes were changing.

  His brother had leaped into love once he’d met his wife, Thea. He adored her with all his heart and soul, and Harry had never seen Neal happier. He’d told Harry that life now held meaning whereas before it had lacked any sense of purpose beyond duty.

  “Do you feel life has meaning now?” Harry suddenly asked Monty, curious as to his response.

  The general turned to him in surprise. “I was just thinking that. I was looking at the passing scenery that I have seen a dozen times before, and it all looks new to me. There is no reason other than the pleasure I have in Ariana’s speaking to me.”

  Harry took in the stately firs lining the road through Moncrieffe’s estate. It all looked the same to him now as it had when they arrived. They were trees, and he doubted any emotion, even love, could make them seem different to him.

  “Do you still believe I’m a madman, Chattan?” the general asked.

  “Sir?” Harry said.

  “The Shakespeare you quoted, saying love is akin to madness. I don’t feel like a lunatic right now, Chattan. I feel bloody damn brilliant.”