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

by Maxwell, Cathy

  He called. He sat in the sitting room for hours waiting for her. She did not go down to meet him. Instead, she pushed herself into a corner of her room, sitting with her knees up and her head down, aching to run to him and knowing she couldn’t.

  Minnie came several times to her room, begging her to see him. “He’s remorseful,” she said. “I’ve never seen a man of his stature struck so low.”

  Portia would huddle deeper in her corner and refuse to go. No good could come of it.

  And then Minnie informed her that he had left the house. “He is gone. You are free.” Her words were etched in bitterness.

  Portia ran to a window overlooking the front drive then and watched him ride away. She pressed her hand against the glass as if she could pull him back.

  But she must not.

  Nor did she halt her quest to find some hope for both him and herself.

  It wasn’t until midnight that she finally gave up. That’s when she found herself on her knees praying. “Dear God, please help Harry. Please keep him safe. Know that I love him.”

  She studied her clasped hands a bit and then added, “I once wished for something more in my life without knowing for what I was asking. I now know what was missing was love, and I thank you for sending Harry if you are the one who brought him to me. Now protect him. Please. And please, give Rose peace. I understand now why she felt as if her world had come to an end. I shall not take my life, Lord, but please help me be brave enough to continue living without him.”

  As is too often the case, the response was Divine silence.

  Portia climbed into bed, exhausted, knowing she had done all she could.

  Christmas dawned on what promised to be an excellent day. It was also Sunday and services were definitely in order.

  “You don’t have to go, if you wish to stay home,” Lady Maclean offered.

  “Do you wish me to stay home?” Portia asked. She was wearing the dress she’d worn to the Christmas Assembly. She’d combed her hair out and wore it curling and loose.

  “I wish you to do what makes you comfortable,” her mother answered, taking a moment to straighten Portia’s spectacles on her nose.

  “I won’t be comfortable until I go out in society the first time. I must be done with it. At least in church, Reverend Ogilvy can remind the others that gossip is a sin.”

  “Is it?” her mother asked, and then reached for her hand. “You are very strong.”

  “I’m only doing what must be done,” Portia said. “Besides, I plan on being a guest at your dinner.”

  Her mother smiled, tucking her hand in her arm. “And so you shall.”

  Portia hooked up the pony cart and drove them to the chapel. She squared her shoulders as she caught sight of the crowd gathered there. Since it was Christmas morning, well, of course more people than usual would be in attendance.

  She noticed that her mother and Minnie squared their shoulders as well. The Maclean women were not short on pride and they held hands as they went forward.

  Their appearance created a bit of a stir, a sign that they were the topic of discussion. People tried not to stare and smiles grew forced.

  One person who avoided Portia’s eyes was Mr. Buchanan. He stood beside the Duke of Montcrieffe and Lady Emma, whose open hostility in her expression would undoubtedly fuel more gossip. The duke’s man would probably be paying them a visit sooner or later to evict them because Lady Emma would want Portia gone. Her pride would demand it.

  Of course, that no longer mattered, not now that her mother and her sister would be married women. Both General Montheath and Mr. Oliver Tolliver had been anticipating their arrival. The two gentlemen fell into step beside them, flanking them as if to gallantly ward off any attacks.

  And then Mrs. Macdonald and Robbie, the gardener, joined them. “Good Christmas to you,” Mrs. Macdonald said.

  Her words were echoed from all around the Maclean women, the greetings coming from even the Scots who had usually kept their distance. “Good Christmas,” they said in greeting. “Happy Christmas.”

  They gathered around the women to escort them to the chapel doors, and Portia realized they were protecting her. Was she still considered English? Yes, probably, but she was also one of them and they were letting her know it.

  Still, Portia was relieved when they’d taken their seats in the pews. General Montheath sat at the end of the pew, her mother beside him, then Portia, Minnie, and Mr. Tolliver.

  Portia bowed her head, letting the opening words of the service flow over her. She studied her hands folded in her lap and remembered her midnight prayer—

  “Stop this service.”

  Harry’s voice rang out over the congregation, interrupting Reverend Ogilvy’s reading from the Gospel.

  Harry. Portia closed her eyes. He could not be here. She was too fragile to resist him. Too emotionally drained.

  Heads turned to the back of the church. Minnie reached over and squeezed Portia’s gloved hand.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Reverend Ogilvy said, “but this is a place of worship. You are welcome to sit and join us but your outburst is not acceptable.”

  “Yes, I know,” Harry said. He’d been in the back of the church. He now marched forward. “And I apologize, but what I have to say can’t wait.”

  He stopped when he reached Portia’s pew. She could feel him, smell him, almost hear the wild beating of his heart.

  “Portia Maclean, I love you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Time seemed to stop.

  No one moved, made a sound, or even seemed to breathe in the close confines of the chapel. They were all waiting for Portia’s response.

  She released her hand from Minnie’s and crossed her arms as if she could protect herself from his words. Love was so wrong, so dangerous for them both.

  “You can’t not hear me,” Harry said to her. “You know I love you as well as I know how deeply you care for me.”

  She did know his feelings. That was what she’d been hiding from. He had pretended a distance, but she’d known in her woman’s soul that he loved her. She could see all of that clearly now.

  “Say something,” he ordered. “Call me every vile name, deny me, refuse me—but say something.”

  Portia stood, faced him. She was taken aback at how reckless he appeared. A day’s growth of beard darkened his jaw. The intensity in his eyes almost broke her resolve.

  “We can’t,” she said. “We mustn’t.”

  “We already have,” he answered. “I love you. I thought never to say those words to anyone. And yet, from the moment we met, there was something about you that was different from anyone else I’d ever known.”

  “It’s the curse, Harry. The curse is doing this. The witch wants you.”

  Was everyone in the church listening? Did it matter?

  “She can have me,” Harry answered, “because my life is not worth living without you. I realized that from almost the moment you walked away from me.”

  His words filled her with both joy and fear. “Oh, Harry, don’t say that.”

  “I plan on shouting it from the rooftops. I tried to pretend you didn’t matter, that you were just another bed partner. That I didn’t need you in my life. I was wrong. When you refused to let me pretend I was doing what was noble, I was forced to question my motives. And I realized I could no longer hide from what I felt. I love you. Please, Portia, be my wife.”

  It was so tempting. And then she remembered Lizzy’s warning. “I can’t. I don’t want to watch you die.”

  His eyes took on sympathy. “I know, my love, but the truth is that not one of us will go on forever. And I want to make the days of my life meaningful. I’m a flawed man, Portia. I’ve made many mistakes and usually from my own hubris. You prod me to be better than what I am. You bring me peace. You’ve taught me to accept not o
nly myself, but my fate.”

  “I don’t want that fate for you,” Portia said, imploring him to understand. “I don’t want Fenella to win.”

  “She won’t win,” Harry said, “not as long as we love. I now understand my brother, Neal. I understand why he has embraced loving Thea. While those on the outside of our family feel we Chattans are being punished for love, we know in our hearts we are the victors. We choose to love, and that will always be more powerful than Fenella’s evil.” He held out his hand. “Come to me, my love.”

  Still, she didn’t move. “If you die, I die. I love you that much. The pain would kill me. I must protect you.”

  “It’s too late,” he said. He’d offered her his left hand. He now bent the fingers. “Do you think that marriage is necessary for love? I felt the first pain last week. Then the other night, it was stronger. The curse knew what was in my heart even as I was denying my feelings for you. I will deny them no longer, Portia. You can go your way, but I will not stop loving you. Come, be with me for the time we have together. Live in the moment.”

  Live in the moment. Fear left her. She reached for his hand, the fear left her. Yes, this was where she belonged.

  With a triumphant laugh of joy, Harry brought her out into the aisle and lifted her up as if she weighed nothing. He swung her round and kissed her, right there in the church in front of everyone.

  A burst of applause surrounded them.

  Even the Scots had been moved by Harry’s declaration to her.

  Portia kissed him back, realizing in his arms was where she was meant to be. She never wanted to spend another day as miserable as she had been without Harry.

  Their kiss was more than a kiss—this was a welcoming, a promise, a commitment.

  And when they were done, they could only stare in each other’s eyes, grinning like two happy fools.

  It was the Reverend Ogilvy who brought them back to the moment. “May we continue with the Christmas service now?”

  Harry bowed, directing Portia back into the pew and, squeezing his way into a seat beside her, almost dumping the general onto the floor. He held her hand as if he would never let it go—and he didn’t. Not through the service, or the Christmas dinner afterward hosted by General Montheath with her mother as hostess, or through the evening.

  For Portia, it was enough to be with him. Her fevered anguish of the past days had evaporated, replaced by more happiness than she had ever known.

  While the other guests and her family visited, she and Harry sat quiet and alone, just pleased to be in each other’s company.

  But there was one question Portia had to ask. “Did you really see my cat, Owl?”

  Harry appeared surprised. “The cat with the deformed ears? Yes, several times. I told you she came to me one night. Why are you asking?”

  For a second, Portia was tempted to tell him that they were the only ones who could see Owl, and then decided against it. Whether Owl existed or not no longer mattered.

  There was one piece of information she needed to share with him. Portia whispered in his ear that she believed she was with child. Perhaps she was being overanxious. It was too soon to tell, but she knew.

  Instead of being alarmed, Harry hugged her, and she could see she’d pleased him greatly.

  The curse would have to be brought to an end, but it would not be done so by them. They understood that now.

  They had made their decision.

  They would love and love well.

  They were married by special license the day after Christmas, St. Stephen’s Feast Day.

  Harry had not been certain Portia would marry him. After all, she was a headstrong bit of muslin. However, he’d hoped for the best and had sent his man Rowan off to make the arrangements. It had not taken much effort. Scotland was more lax in its marriage laws than England, and Harry had seen to it that the bishop was well compensated for his assistance.

  The Duke of Moncrieffe, in defiance of his daughter’s pouting, had offered the chapel. The wedding breakfast would be hosted by General Montheath and Lady Maclean. Lady Maclean had come alive at the prospect of another dinner to plan. Poor Monty was going to have a future of entertaining, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  Once Portia had told him he was to be a father, Harry had been happy he’d made the arrangements he had. He did not want to delay the marriage any longer than necessary.

  He’d even spoken a word with the duke over Christmas dinner, and a tentative agreement had been reached between them for the purchase of Camber Hall. Harry knew how much the house meant to Portia. He also wanted to see his son raised in a place that would support his child. The people of Glenfinnan, while not having been particularly welcoming to him, had demonstrated their care and concern for Portia. They would see her well after Harry was gone. He also liked the idea of his son being in touch with his Scottish roots. It seemed a good thing.

  The morning of their wedding was one of clear skies and a cold wind. Winter was arriving in the Highlands.

  Harry and Monty made their way early to church, and Harry was not surprised that Portia and her family were already there.

  She was wearing her best dress, the one she’d worn to the dance, the one she’d worn when he’d declared himself to her. Her hair had been carefully styled high on top of her head, but the Scottish wind had already freed her curls from pins and put roses in her cheeks.

  He thought she had never looked more beautiful.

  The service was short and to the point. For that, Harry was grateful to Reverend Ogilvy. The best moment for him was when he put his signet ring on his wife’s hand.

  His wife.

  Harry had thought never to have one. Now, he was so proud of Portia, he could not imagine his life without her. He’d been a shell of a man until he’d met her.

  And no woman could have been as perfect for him. He adored everything about her, including her stubbornness. He liked her spectacles, her curls that defied any taming, her nose, her mouth, and her delicious body.

  But what he loved the most was her mind. His Portia had courage. She had wisdom. She would see his son safe. His generations might not destroy the curse, but he believed a future one would. He had no fear for his son.

  They adjourned to Monty’s house, and the whisky poured freely. For the first time, Harry felt no pangs of desire for spirits. No yearnings. Instead, he felt whole and complete as a sober man.

  They were just sitting down to the wedding breakfast when a new visitor arrived, one Harry had not anticipated—his sister, Margaret.

  The company had been so involved in the celebration they had not noticed the arrival of her coach. Margaret entered the dining room unannounced, moving as if the wind had blown her in.

  She was a tall woman with curling black hair and the Chattan’s shrewd blue eyes. She had been a celebrated beauty when she’d made her come-out. Everyone had expected a brilliant match, everyone, that is, save her brothers. They knew the burden of the curse and were not surprised when Margaret had withdrawn from social circles.

  Margaret was dressed in the height of fashion. She wore an apple green velvet coat, and a velvet cap of the same stuff upon her head. Lady Emma would have been jealous, Harry thought as he stood and rushed over to welcome his sister. She held him at arm’s length, fire in her eyes. “What is going on here?”

  Instead of answering her question directly, he called to his wife, “Portia, please come here and meet my sister.”

  Portia pushed self-consciously on the nose of her spectacles, a gesture he knew she made when she was nervous. She did as bid.

  “Margaret, this is my wife, Portia.”

  “It is a pleasure to have you here, my lady,” Portia said.

  Margaret made no move toward Portia at all. “You married?” There was a wealth of unspoken disappointment, anger, and fear in those two words.

 
“Yes, and happily so,” Harry answered, placing his hand on the small of Portia’s back. Margaret noticed the gesture. She also glanced around the room as if just realizing they had an audience. “Come and eat with us, Margaret, and then we shall talk.”

  The lines of Margaret’s face tightened. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t smile and pretend I am happy with this. You sent a letter saying you had found information that could help our brother and then I don’t hear from you for weeks?” She’d lowered her voice as if not wanting the others in the room to hear.

  “This is Glenfinnan, Margaret. They know about the curse.” He was tired of secrets. Done with them. “Now come, sit and eat. You must be tired after such a long journey.”

  “Are you interested that our brother Neal is failing rapidly? Or do you care? Perhaps neither of my brothers care whether they live or die,” she said, answering her own question. She frowned at Portia. “You will be the death of him.”

  To her credit, Portia did not flinch. “I consider myself the life of him.”

  If she had punched Margaret in the nose, his sister’s reaction could not have been any different. Margaret took a step back, her brows coming together. Her gloved hands doubled into fists. “I will not sit at the table for this celebration,” she said. “I won’t. Harry, please see me in the other room. I believe we must speak alone.”

  “After I have celebrated,” Harry said.

  Margaret’s reaction was to flounce out of the room.

  Harry gave his wife’s waist a reassuring squeeze and turned to the guests. “You can see I’ve had great experience with strong-willed women.”

  The comment relieved the tension in the room, as he’d hoped it would. But he was conscious all the while through the meal that Margaret waited.

  And wait she must . . . because the Scots were not going anywhere quickly when there was celebrating to do. The afternoon was late before Harry could finally turn his attention to his sister.