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

by Maxwell, Cathy

  “I’m not trying to be callous,” Portia said, a bit hurt by the label. She sat up.

  For a second, he appeared ready to say something but shook his head and opened the book.

  Portia wasn’t ready to let it go. “You should say what you think instead of swallowing your words.”

  “No one cares what I think,” he answered, turning a page.

  “I do.”

  The word seemed to hover in the air. Harry looked to her. “You shouldn’t, Portia.”

  Her throat tightened. “But I do.”

  “I’m not worth it.” He slipped a hand around her neck and kissed her forehead as if ending the subject.

  There was great sadness in him, a sadness that she had seen that moonlit night when he had been on his knees. She placed her hand on his chest, right over his heart. His heart. She loved the steady rhythm of it. When they made love, and his weight was on her, she relished its pounding beat as much as she did his heat and strength.

  “Yes, you are,” she said.

  Again, he pressed a kiss against her brow. He did not believe her.

  He held up the book. “I’ve read this from cover to cover three times,” he said. “I can’t find any clue as to what can be done to break the curse. I find nothing ‘witchy.’ ”

  “What are you looking for?” she asked. He’d changed the topic. He did not want to discuss the matter further and she knew he remained unconvinced of her belief in him. She reached for her spectacles on the stool and placed them on her nose.

  “I don’t know what I’m looking for,” he admitted, stabbing his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I suppose something such as ‘Eye of newt and toe of frog.’ ”

  Portia smiled, recognizing the reference to Macbeth. “Another Scot with a witch problem,” she murmured. She took the book from him and turned a few of the pages. “Why don’t we read this aloud to each other? Sometimes, I miss details when reading silently. Hearing the words spoken makes them clearer to me.”

  “Capital idea. You start, my lady.” He stretched out on their bed of furs.

  She glanced at him, at his spent maleness, knowing that before she went home, he would please her again. He saw where she was looking and laughed. “Read,” he ordered, slipping his hand beneath the covers and placing it possessively on her thigh, and so she obeyed.

  It wasn’t easy reading. Some of the recipes were in the old Gaelic and the ink of many of them had faded. He listened as she stumbled along, watching her intently.

  Portia didn’t read every recipe. She’d scan them for something of interest. There were hundreds of them. She’d barely had time to investigate the book at all before she’d given it to him.

  “Here is something,” she said. It was the last entry in a section. “Reunioning a soul with an animal,” she read. She looked to Harry. “What does that mean?”

  “In the East there is the thought of reincarnation where the soul returns to live again. The Hindus believe all life, including animal life, reincarnates. Read on.”

  “Choose the animal you wish to live on in. Very old power. From Gypsy.” Several of the recipes had given their source. “Make an elixir of mugwort oil and powdered spruce needles. Mix with frankincense resin. Chew while repeating, ‘Life come hither, Life is mine’ until passing.”

  Portia looked up in shock. “What does it mean by ‘until passing.’ ”

  Harry frowned. “Death, I suppose.”

  “How strange,” Portia said, and made a face as she shivered in distaste. “I don’t like this spell.”

  “It can’t work,” Harry assured her. “How many of us choose the hour of our death. How would one know when to start chewing the resin—” He broke off as if struck by a new thought. “Wait a moment, a suicide would know the hour of her death.”

  Portia looked down at the recipe and shook her head. “There is no way of knowing if this spell was used or not. I don’t like thinking about it.” She started to shut the book but Harry placed his hand on the page.

  “How did you find this book? Has it been in your family?” he asked.

  “No, I found it in the attic at Camber Hall.”

  “Was it in a trunk?”

  “Actually,” she said, a strange sense of foreboding rising within her, “Owl gave it to me.”

  “The cat?”

  Portia nodded and told him of going up the attic to put a bucket under where the roof leaked.

  “So the book was on top of something it could be knocked or pushed off of?” Harry asked.

  “I assume that was the case,” Portia answered. “I don’t really know. There are stacks of wooden boxes and crates and trunks up there. I was weaving my way around them when the book dropped down in front of me. I didn’t know why until I saw Owl peek around a corner. She could have jumped from the top of something and knocked the book off.”

  Harry sat up. “Where is the cat now?”

  “I don’t know,” Portia admitted. “The last time I saw her was the first time we met here. She was waiting for me. I haven’t seen her since.”

  He pushed the covers away and stood, pressing his brow with the fingers of one hand as if trying to answer a riddle. He looked to her. “I said to you once, I thought the cat was Fenella.”

  “And I thought the idea ridiculous. I still do.”

  “Fenella took her own life as well,” he said, ignoring her criticism. “She knew when she was going to die.”

  “Oh, not again. Why do you keep suggesting that Owl, a poor little cat with deformed ears, is a two-hundred-year-old witch? That’s impossible.”

  He knelt beside her. “Not if she is reincarnating herself.”

  “Over and over again?” Portia let her doubts show. “Cats can’t repeat chants.”

  “Portia, your cat came to me at General Montheath’s house. I was going to leave Glenfinnan. I’d exhausted every resource in the surrounding area without success. I decided I must go to Edinburgh. There is a man there who specializes in country tales and traditions. Someone suggested he might know of Fenella’s legend. I doubted it but I was on a cold trail. I didn’t know what else to do. And then your cat woke me. I was asleep, in a deep dream, and I didn’t know what it was waking me, and I threw her off the bed. She ran under the wardrobe to hide and I started thinking about how strange it was that a cat had managed to steal inside Monty’s house. The place is a dog haven. They bark at everything. Monty has no control over any of them. And yet, not one of those hounds made a sound to alert us there was a cat on the premises. So I looked under the wardrobe and the cat wasn’t there. I couldn’t find her anywhere in the room.”

  “Perhaps you dreamed her,” Portia suggested gently.

  “You can’t feel dreams. I heard the cat purr, felt the roughness of its tongue. Your cat was in the room and that is when I decided I needed to stay here.”

  Portia looked down at the words of the spell written in the book. Owl was an independent creature and she did have a habit of appearing without fanfare. “There must be a hidey-hole or some other opening for a cat to use to find her way into Montheath’s house. Cats are very clever that way.”

  Harry shook his head. “I know to my bones, Portia, your cat is a part of this. I told you that once, and I feel it more certainly than before.” He took the book from her. “But if your cat is Fenella, then why give us the book? Her hatred was so strong, she would never offer any clues to lifting the curse.”

  She didn’t speak. What he was saying defied common sense.

  “We need to find your cat,” Harry said.

  “Owl comes home when she feels like,” Portia answered, a bit uncomfortable with the idea of him hunting her pet.

  “I must find the cat.” He came to his feet and started dressing.

  Portia watched him a moment, disappointed that her afternoon with him would end so abruptly. �
�Where will you go?” she asked.

  He looked at her, surprised. “With you, of course. The cat comes to you—”

  His voice broke off as he realized the import of what he’d said. “The cat comes to you,” he repeated softly. “You and I were meant to meet. That’s why the cat didn’t want me to leave Glenfinnan.”

  Now he sounded completely mad.

  “That’s nonsense,” she snapped, strangely annoyed. She reached for her clothes and began dressing.

  “Is it?” he asked, sitting on the stool and pulling on his boots. “Can you not imagine, just the smallest bit, that we were destined to meet?”

  Portia pulled her dress over her head and stood a moment, wanting to reject his theory . . . and wanting to accept it.

  Had they been destined to meet? It would seem that she was always in his path. He’d almost run over her that first day and then there was the connection of General Montheath and her mother. They could be coincidences, and she found she wanted to believe that they were.

  “I can’t accept that there are forces at work that we can’t touch or feel,” she confessed.

  “Do we not pray to God?” he challenged.

  “God is good. You are speaking of an evil.”

  “Or not. Rose wasn’t evil. What if Rose was the one who had reincarnated herself? What if your cat is her?”

  “What if you stopped speaking this insanity.” Portia reached back and pulled the laces of her dress, quickly tying them into a bow. She grabbed her stockings and shoes. Her feet were cold now and she was out of sorts because the afternoon spent making love to him that she had looked forward to with sweet anticipation was destroyed. “I need to take that basket to Lizzy,” she said, putting on her shoes.

  “Good, I’ll go with you,” he answered, picking up the basket.

  “No, put it down,” she ordered sharply. She began folding the blankets. They left them in the bothy. It was easier than one of them carting them around, except now she wasn’t so certain she should meet him on the morrow.

  He noticed her change of mood. “What is it, Portia?” he asked. He stood five feet away from her. “I’ve spoken of the curse before,” he said slowly. “I know it is hard for those who aren’t affected to grasp the reality of it.”

  She nodded. “I don’t think you are mad,” she said. “Not truly.” Or at least she didn’t want to think he was. She wanted to believe in him. “But this talk of the cat being Rose or Fenella—” She faced him, her doubts clear. “It is not rational. And Lizzy truly is nothing more than a sad soul who dotes on herbs and flowers.”

  “Then she’ll know about mugwort.”

  “But you want to know about reincarnation.” And every ounce of good sense Portia had resisted his speaking to Lizzy about that spell. Something bad would happen if he did. The warning was very clear in her mind.

  “I don’t believe it wise we are seen together,” she said, tying her cloak at her neck. “I thought we knew we must keep up an appearance.”

  “Why do you fear my going with you to Lizzy’s?” he asked.

  “I’m not afraid,” she lied. “And Lizzy isn’t the reason we shouldn’t be seen together. It is Lady Emma. She will not take kindly to you and me keeping company.” She took the basket from him.

  Harry made a dismissive sound. “I don’t care for her opinion.”

  “I do,” Portia said. “She is my landlord’s daughter, remember? I like Camber Hall. I like Glenfinnan. I want to keep my roof over my head. If she grows too jealous, she will make her father turn us out.”

  She went out the door. Harry followed, catching her arm and turning her to him. “I’m not worried about Lady Emma,” he restated. “And if you want Camber Hall, I shall buy it for you. It is the least I should do for you.”

  “You should do nothing for me, especially buying my house for me. What will people think?”

  “I don’t care what they think,” Harry answered. “I’m only concerned that you are free of the tyranny of Moncrieffe’s pampered daughter.”

  “And I worry about my reputation.” She looked around to assure herself they were alone. This sense of impending disaster was not comfortable. “I would be ruined completely if the valley knew.”

  “If the valley knew what? That you are my mistress?”

  Mistress. It was such an ugly word.

  It also was the truth. And this was not how her life was supposed to be. She’d prided herself on being circumspect and dutiful. She’d thought she would die a spinster, never knowing the touch of a man, and now, here he was. Harry had turned her life inside out. All he had to do was glance at her and she would toss aside all that she’d once held dear.

  “I’m not your mistress,” she said. “I come here of my own free will.”

  That didn’t sound good, either.

  “I didn’t mean an insult,” Harry said. “Please, Portia, I care for you. I only sought to help, not to insult you. But I’m a wealthy man. My brother saw to my investments, and I could make your life easier. I can buy whatever you want and would do so happily.”

  I care for you.

  After all the passion they had expended on each other, all the energy, “I care for you” sounded like the milk toast one would feed a child. The words sounded trivial.

  “I know you care for me, Harry,” she responded in a surprisingly strong voice. “I just don’t want you to ruin me.”

  “I already have,” he replied, the words heavier than any physical blow. Immediately, he heard what he’d said and apologized. “I didn’t mean that the way they sounded.” He held out his hands as if begging her to understand. “I meant no offense. I want to be here with you. I think you want to be with me as well.”

  She did. But she also realized they couldn’t go on forever like this. Something would change. It was inevitable.

  He spoke, his jaw tightening with resolution. “I’m going with you to see Lizzy.” He began saddling his horse.

  Portia’s response was to turn and start walking, her stomach feeling as if it was full of stones. She was being unwise. She should stop meeting him—

  “Portia.” He said her name before taking her arm and turning her around. His lips came down on hers. He held her, kissing her and saying with his touch what they were both afraid to speak aloud. In his kiss was an apology, a wish that all could be different, a promise that his feelings were honest.

  She closed her eyes, giving herself over to him, not embracing him, but standing in his hold, Lizzy’s basket still on one arm.

  He broke the kiss, his eyes serious as he said, “You may not want to let me be your protector, but know I shall protect you all the same.”

  Their time together was passing—and she was afraid.

  Could she return to the loneliness of her spinsterhood after knowing the joy of being in his arms? Or would life be even more unbearable than it had been before him?

  She understood why Rose had jumped from her tower.

  “You will go with me to Lizzy’s no matter what I want, won’t you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “I must.”

  Portia stepped back. His decision was made and her concerns were unimportant. “Let me visit her first. You can come later.” She walked off without waiting for his response.

  She’d gone no more than ten steps when she saw Owl. The cat was on the ground close to the tree line. Portia stopped, watching as the cat pounced on something only she could see, hustling with her paws to catch it.

  “Portia?” Harry said behind her.

  Owl looked up. Her large eyes met Portia’s, and for a second, the animal appeared human. Then, with a flick of her tail, Owl bounded off into the woods in the direction of Lizzy’s house.

  Harry was coming up behind her. Portia could hear his booted steps. She turned, almost afraid he’d seen Owl.

  And if he did
, what would he do to the cat?

  Instead, he was focused on her, his expression concerned. “Is something the matter?”

  “Don’t follow me,” Portia heard herself say. “Don’t follow me.” She was backing away from him, watching him until she reached the tree line.

  She plunged into the forest, but Owl was nowhere to be seen. Even when she called Owl’s name, the cat did not answer.

  Portia hurried to deliver her basket to Lizzy.

  Harry would follow. He wasn’t the sort of man to wait patiently.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Crazy Lizzy’s hut was made of rock, mud, twigs, and straw. It was a strange, round, windowless building with only the doorway for light. The old lady kept a fire in her hearth at all times. Some days it would be of peat, the smoky scent of it filling the air; other days, her fire would be of wood, acrid and hot.

  Lizzy claimed that her different fires served a purpose. Portia had assumed the choice had more to do with what was at hand and Lizzy’s eccentricities. However, after Harry’s talk of spells and reincarnations and curses, Portia feared she was ready to give anything Lizzy said more credit than what it deserved.

  Portia knew from having been there that the walls inside the house were stacked with shelves and shelves of herbs. There was a humble table in the middle of the room and Lizzy’s pallet on the floor to the side of the hearth.

  As she entered the clearing surrounding the hut, she saw Lizzy sitting on a chair outside the door, eating a meal of cooked turnips. The crone’s face split into a toothless smile of greeting. She was as round as she was high and wore a mob cap over her frizzy gray hair. Her cheeks were chubby and her eyes reminded Portia of two brown buttons. But she was also old and wrinkled, with a huge mole close to her left eye that gave her a sinister look.

  She wore the castoffs given to her by members of the kirk. Most times, considering her size, the skirts were too long, but she wouldn’t hem them. She’d wear them as they were, even if she continually tripped over them.

  “I was hoping to see ye today, lass,” Lizzy said in her thick brogue. She’d stood. “Would ye like a cup of mint tea?” She started for the door.