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

by Maxwell, Cathy

  “Fenella had a daughter named Rose who loved Charles Chattan of Glenfinnan. She claimed they were handfasted, which at the time, to Rose, was the same as being married.”

  “I’ve heard the story. It’s common knowledge amongst the locals. They think Charles was a traitorous scoundrel.”

  “I believe he probably cared for Rose but he didn’t consider them betrothed. Or perhaps he did. We Chattan men are capable of being scoundrels.”

  He gave a self-deprecating smile as he said this, but Portia wasn’t so certain he wasn’t giving her a warning as well.

  The colonel continued. “Charles’s parents managed to contract a marriage to an English heiress for him. He chose to do as his parents asked, which was reasonable, especially for the day and age—”

  “Protesting too much?” she suggested.

  “Perhaps. I wasn’t there, and I was teasing about Chattan men being scoundrels.”

  “I’m not so certain,” she murmured. He frowned. “I was told she jumped from a tower.” He nodded. “She had to have been heartbroken . . .” She paused.

  “What is it?”

  “Let me see the book.” He handed it to her and she turned to the page with the spell and the word “Charles” written in the tearstained margin. “Could this be from her?” She handed the book back.

  His reaction would have been the same if she had given him the crown jewels. “Yes, Rose could have written this.” He traced the writing as if he could divine something of that woman from centuries ago.

  Portia felt her eyes fill with tears. “Hers is a terrible story.”

  “It happened a long time ago,” the colonel said.

  “I know, but I can imagine how she must have felt.” And Portia could, especially with him sitting so close. She barely knew him, and yet all he had to do was touch her and she threw aside convention and priorities. Of course, she didn’t love Colonel Chattan. She hadn’t known him long enough to love him . . . and she would not be so foolish as to do so.

  However, she did understand how powerful Charles Chattan’s betrayal must have been, given Rose’s love for him.

  “Tell me about the curse,” she said. She’d remembered the story from Mrs. Macdonald’s telling but she wished to hear what he had to say.

  “Fenella was angry,” he said, “and she wanted revenge. She ordered a funeral pyre built for her daughter’s body. As a suicide Rose couldn’t be buried on church ground, so Fenella honored the old ways. They say she cursed Charles Chattan as her daughter’s body burned and then she leaped onto the fire itself and died with her daughter.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “And it was very effective,” he agreed somberly. “She said that when a Chattan falls in love, he will die . . . just as, I suppose, her Rose died.” He looked down at the page of the book again.

  “And the curse always comes true?”

  “Yes. Charles Chattan of Glenfinnan fell in love with his English heiress and dropped dead within a year of his marriage. His wife was carrying his son, a son that fell in love, and he, too, died, and so on. The pattern has been the same. A Chattan marries, his wife is with child, and then he dies. The pattern has been almost the same for nearly two centuries. My forebears have done everything they could think possible to break it.”

  “You say almost two hundred years? When has it been different?”

  “With my father. Before his time, the Chattans had sought the advice of priests, cardinals, bishops, the pope, self-proclaimed witches, Gypsies and fortune-tellers. They tried not to fall in love, and have always failed. Each time they have left behind a son who bears the weight of the curse. My grandfather and his father married women they could not abide. It was a hateful life and one that led to their early deaths. My father followed in their steps, but he had a better temperament for keeping his distance from his wife. He’d been bred for that. Perhaps all of us have. You see, if death is the penalty for love, one learns not to love. One learns to guard his heart.”

  “I can imagine,” she agreed.

  “My father was the first of his line to have more than one son. There are three of us. My brother, Neal, myself, and my sister, Margaret. She is the first daughter to be born of our line in two hundred years. Then, after my mother died several years ago, my father did a very foolish thing.”

  “He fell in love,” she surmised.

  “Head tumbling over heels,” he confirmed, nodding. “With an opera dancer far younger than even myself.”

  “And then did he die?”

  “Within six months.” He closed the book, leaning toward her. “He wrote a letter to us to be opened upon his death. He said loving his wife, Cass, was worth death. He said life had been empty before her, that he’d done more living in the months he was with her than all the fifty-some years before his marriage.”

  Portia sat a moment, studying him as she digested all that he’d said. His story was contrary to reason and nature. She could have dismissed it for a grand tale save his sincerity.

  “My brother is in love,” he said. “He’s a good man, a noble one. I’m a wastrel and certainly of loose morals. I’ve cost men lives, drunk too much, had a taste for opium; I’m a sinner through and through and have deserved to die many times over. But Neal is one of the finest men in England. He doesn’t deserve this fate,” he said, tapping the cover of the book. “Especially for loving his wife, Thea. He should have a chance to see his son grow to manhood. If I don’t find a way to break this curse, his death will be on my head. I don’t know if I can live with that knowledge.”

  “What of yourself? Do you carry the curse?”

  “We don’t know,” he replied, his expression bleak. “Possibly. I am male; I am a Chattan. As for my sister, Margaret fears that even if she isn’t a part of the curse, she could carry the legacy of it. She fears for any children she could have.”

  “She is married?”

  “No, and she won’t. She and I both agree that none of us should have married and certainly we should not fall in love. We want the curse to end here, with us. But Neal didn’t agree. He wanted a son.” The colonel sounded as if he was amazed by the thought. “Thea is a widow and has two sons by her previous marriage. Neal had told me they were enough for him, but Thea got with child almost immediately.”

  His brows came together. He looked up at her, and then away. “I am usually careful when I’m with a lover.”

  Portia felt heat flood her face. She clasped her hands in her lap, trying to be sensible about what they’d done.

  “I don’t want bastards,” he said, “and I don’t have any.”

  Well, there was comfort there . . . she thought.

  “I haven’t been so careful with you.” Now he was the one with a bit of color to his face. It made him appear more masculine, if that was possible. “We shall hope for the best,” he said. “However, I will meet my obligations.”

  Obligations . . . a baby.

  For a second, Portia knew fear.

  “Well, this isn’t going to happen again,” she said quickly. “I don’t understand what comes over us, but it is out of my system.”

  “Mine as well,” he assured her, then paused before adding, “but if it does happen again, I shall be more careful.”

  Portia wished the floor of the room would open up and swallow her whole. She didn’t have conversations with many men, let alone conversations like this. She wasn’t some sophisticated Londoner who dallied with lovers. She wasn’t even certain how he could avoid getting her with child, and her naivete embarrassed her all the more.

  He shut the book and glanced toward the door. “We’d best leave if I’m to have you home before dark.” He stood and offered her his hand. “Thank you for this book and for hearing my story.”

  Rising, Portia said, “I hope it may help.”

  “I pray it does. My sister wrote and said
that Neal is taking more and more to his bed. He grows weak quickly and so is trying to pace himself.”

  The thought went through Portia’s mind that perhaps what he saw as a curse was merely a family disposition toward weak hearts or another malady. Perhaps the timing of all the deaths was coincidence?

  She held her tongue.

  He escorted her from the bothy and picked up the basket for her. “Hold the book for me,” he said, and went to untie his horse.

  The bay had a distinct personality and let him know with a butt of his head he’d not been pleased to be left standing for so long. “I’m sorry, Ajax,” Colonel Chattan said, rubbing the animal’s nose. “I was preoccupied.” He smiled and directed the last in Portia’s direction.

  She felt herself blush.

  He mounted and came over to her, holding out a hand.

  Portia had never mounted a horse this way. And the animal was big, larger than any horse she had ever seen or ridden. “I can walk,” she murmured.

  “Take my hand,” he ordered in a tone that allowed for no disobedience.

  She placed her hand in his. He’d put on his gloves. They were softer than his hands. He easily lifted her up to sit in front of him. His arm came around her waist. She had the book in the basket on her lap.

  “Hold on,” he said, his voice tickling her ear. With a kick, they were off.

  Ajax was a mighty steed. A warrior’s horse. He carried them at a fast clip through the woods toward Camber Hall.

  Colonel Chattan had one arm around her waist. His other hand held the reins. As they rode, the masculinity of him seemed to circle around her, teasing her. He now smelled of sandalwood and the musk of their lovemaking.

  They were close to Camber Hall when she felt his breath on her hair. He kissed her, once, twice, a third time, and then brought his lips down to gently kiss her temple. His hand came up to cup her breast. He kissed her neck.

  Portia knew she should stop him. She could feel his hardness against her. She had a need as well.

  He reined Ajax to a stop. He did not release his hold.

  Pressing his head against hers, he said, “I want to see you again.”

  Portia started to shake her head. “I can’t, Colonel—”

  He hushed her. “Harry,” he said, amusement in his voice. “My name is Harry, and after what we’ve been to each other, I believe we may be less formal.”

  “I can’t meet you, Colonel,” she answered.

  His hold tightened. “I’m not letting you free until I hear you say my name.”

  She glanced at him to see if he was serious.

  He was smiling but he didn’t loosen his hold. “Har-reee,” he said, drawing out the syllables. “Try it.”

  “I’m not that amenable, Colonel,” she responded, proud of herself for standing up to him.

  Her bravado earned a laugh from him. “I’ve known that.” He turned serious. “Meet me again tomorrow.”

  The suggestion alone was enough to send the blood racing through her veins. “I shouldn’t,” she said, common sense warring with this newly discovered desire for sexual pleasure. It was wrong to want him. Wrong to be so willing.

  “Meet me tomorrow,” he repeated, his voice in her ear. “We need to make love naked, at least once.”

  Portia didn’t dare speak. He was her weakness. He was a temptation, a devil.

  “I’ll be at the bothy around noon,” he said. “I shall wait for you.” He then let her down to the ground. Portia started walking toward the house, and then began running.

  Minnie was in the sitting room darning socks when Portia came in the door. Her sister smiled at her and asked how Crazy Lizzy had been.

  Portia stared at her, uncomprehending for a second, and then remembered her excuse for leaving the house. “She is the same as always.” Portia put the basket down on a side table and began removing her cloak.

  “You are such a good person,” Minnie said. “Oliver has commented at how happy he is that our family is a far cry from the sort of man Father was. He confided in me today that there had been gossip in the valley when we’d first arrived. I don’t know how they expected us to be. We wouldn’t have carried on the way Father did. We may be Black Jack Maclean’s children but we have the moral standards our father lacked.”

  Portia smiled, not trusting her voice to speak.

  Minnie put down her piecework. “I’m so happy, Portia. So very happy. I hope someday you meet someone who makes you as happy. And I don’t believe you are too old. I’ve never thought that.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Portia started for the stairs. “I’m going to my room.”

  “Oh, Portia, there is something I should tell you. Mother and General Montheath had their heads together all afternoon. He came calling and she received him without one grumble. He’s given her carte blanche to plan his soiree and she is reveling in it.”

  “Mother and General Montheath?”

  “I know it is amazing, but you know how she likes to spend money. The soiree has turned into a grand Christmas Day dinner. Mr. Tolliver is going to ask his parents to join us. Mother wants to invite the Duke of Montcrieffe and his daughter, Lady Emma. I’m not very excited for that, but Mother feels we must extend the invitation.”

  “How interesting,” Portia murmured. The last thing she wanted to do was spend her Christmas Day with Lady Emma. But she didn’t offer a protest. Instead, she escaped to her room, where she lay on her bed fully clothed as the room grew darker with the day’s end.

  What was she doing? She’d behaved today in a way contrary to her good breeding. She’d behaved as her father would have. She must not go to the bothy tomorrow. She had to resist temptation.

  Then again, she was Black Jack Maclean’s daughter. He’d certainly enjoyed sensual pleasures—and she did wonder what it would be like to lie naked with Harry.

  Harry. Colonel Chattan was a distant figure, a cold one. Harry was a man who whispered in her ear. A man whose touch ignited her senses.

  The next day, Portia met Harry in the bothy.

  He’d been right. Making love naked was truly remarkable.

  And so she met him the following day as well.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I need your help,” Harry said to Portia.

  They had just enjoyed a very strenuous and very happy bout of lovemaking. She was exhausted and lay with her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

  Portia’s excuse to leave the house for her trysts with Harry continued to be her need to help Crazy Lizzy, and she did not lie about the old woman. She did deliver the food.

  But only after spending an hour, sometimes more, in Harry’s arms. And he had been true to his word. They now took precautions to prevent a child.

  Of course, her sister and mother didn’t appear to care where Portia was. Minnie was caught up in planning her marriage to Mr. Tolliver. They would wed on January 2 of the new year. The banns had been posted twice now.

  Surprisingly, Lady Maclean no longer spent her days in bed. She was up and ready for General Montheath’s call. Any of her earlier complaints about him vanished as she almost gleefully spent his money. She still wouldn’t let any of his many dogs into the house, but Portia had caught sight of her mother’s hand reaching down to scratch Jasper’s ear a time or two.

  Therefore, Portia was able to do exactly as she pleased, with only a semblance of propriety. No one questioned her, not even Glennis was suspicious. So far their liaison was a secret, and Black Jack Maclean’s older daughter liked it that way because she was proving to be his child.

  They’d turned the bothy into their own paradise. Harry brought a stack of fur-lined blankets to keep them warm and they didn’t need much else. The weather might be cold or windy or wet, but there in his arms, the world was perfect.

  Her lover was a masterful teacher and Portia was an eager s
tudent. Nor did she weigh the rights and wrongs of what she was doing. She knew it would end someday, but for now, this was what she wanted.

  Indeed, there was only one small matter that concerned Portia—she hadn’t seen Owl since that day she’d first met Harry at the bothy. The cat seemed to have disappeared. Everyone told her cats did that from time to time, but that didn’t stop Portia from worrying and calling for Owl to come home.

  “What do you need help with?” she asked Harry, propping her head up on her hand resting on his chest.

  “The book.” He sat up, forcing her to move. She pulled the blanket up around her breasts. Heedless of his own nakedness, he rose from their makeshift bed and went over to where his saddlebags lay.

  She liked his body. He was hard muscle. She imagined that the Spartan warriors of old must have looked like him. Not even the scar on his leg deterred from his masculine beauty.

  “How did you receive that wound?” she asked.

  A frown marred his brow as he pulled the book from his bags. “A French sword. It came at me and I forgot to move.”

  “The cut must have been deep.” The scar was angry and occasionally she had noticed him favoring the leg. She remembered at the dance, when they’d been on the floor together, he hadn’t hopped and skipped the way the other men had. She’d assumed his reserve was because of pride. Some men didn’t like to dance. But now she understood.

  “It was.” His voice was curt. He returned to her just as she shivered in the cool air. He pulled the blankets over them.

  “What battle were you in?” she asked, snuggling against him and running her hand along the scar.

  “Vitoria. I don’t like talking about it.” He opened the book.

  “Why not?”

  Harry gave her his full attention, his expression somber. “Because I proved myself to be a vainglorious fool and cost many good men their lives.”

  “It was war, Harry. War always costs lives.”

  His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “How callously they speak who don’t witness the cost.”