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

by Maxwell, Cathy

  “I shall let the two of you have a moment alone,” Portia said.

  “No, I’d like for you to be there,” he answered.

  She frowned, and he understood why. She’d already recognized that Margaret was going to blame her for this marriage, and to his thinking, that was all the more reason she must be there. Harry wanted Portia to hear him defend her. He did not want his wife to have any doubts as to where his allegiance lay.

  He fetched Fenella’s book and entered the drawing room where Margaret had been sitting stiff and unyielding most of the day. She’d refused several of Monty’s offers of hospitality although she had accepted it for her drivers and her abigail. Margaret had wished to make her displeasure with Harry known, and she had.

  “Are you in the mood to talk, sister?” he asked, directing Portia to a chair. He remained standing.

  Margaret’s hard gaze flicked over Portia and dismissed her. “How could you, Harry? How could you give in to the curse?” She had taken off her coat to reveal a lovely dress of the whitest gauze muslin. Harry thought she had to be chilled wearing it in Scotland’s damp weather

  “Because I fell in love,” he answered.

  His sister practically shouted her frustration. She came to her feet. “You and I had a pact. It was to stop with us. With our generation. You’ve broken my trust.”

  Harry knew she was right. He also knew she would not understand. Someone who had never known the power of love could not comprehend the courage he had gained from it.

  He offered Fenella’s book to her.

  “What is this?” she asked, looking down at the leather-bound tome, its cover cracked with age.

  “A book of spells that Fenella used. Portia found it in the house where she was living.”

  Margaret moved toward the book as if it was the Holy Grail.

  “Fenella wrote her name on the inside,” Harry said as she took it from him. “There is a spell to reclaim a lost love with the name ‘Charles’ written in the margin.”

  “Can it help us break the curse?” Margaret asked.

  Portia answered. “We don’t know, but Harry and I are aware that we do not have the power to do so.”

  “The power?” Margaret echoed. At last she looked at Portia with something other than contempt. His wife was being very patient.

  “We suspect we have taken this matter as far as it can go,” Harry said. “Portia and I sense we have discovered the root of Fenella’s curse. I believe she is on the run.”

  “What makes you say so?” Margaret asked.

  “Because she’s attacking me so virulently.” He held up his left arm. “The curse is reacting in me even quicker than it has with Neal. I believe she is afraid.”

  “You sound as if she is in the next room,” Margaret said.

  “She could be,” Harry answered. “One of those spells is for reincarnation. I have a theory, and it is more of a guess, that Fenella has reincarnated herself over the centuries so that she can keep the curse alive.”

  Margaret went pale. “This is madness.”

  “Aye,” Harry agreed. He placed his hand on Portia’s shoulder. “I don’t want to go further with this, Margaret. I don’t know how much time I have left, and I want to spend it with my wife.”

  “But what of defeating it?” Margaret demanded. “If you know so much, why stop now?”

  “I can’t go on,” he answered. “She knows my weaknesses. I’m not strong enough,” he said, and told her of his meeting with Lizzy.

  “I can’t give up,” Margaret said. “I won’t. You and Neal are all I have.”

  “Then pursue,” Harry said. “But a soldier knows when he is facing an overwhelming force.”

  “Then I am fortunate to not be a soldier,” his sister responded.

  “We also know more about Rose,” Portia said. “She was originally from Loch Awe.”

  “Where is that?” Margaret asked.

  “South and east of here,” Harry said. “I give you the book, Margaret, because you may be the one to see us free. The curse was placed upon us by a woman and done so to honor the spirit of a woman. Perhaps the reason we Chattan males have not been able to break it is that we are the wrong sex. We may be the weaker sex in this case.”

  Margaret considered the book in her hand. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’ve never done anything like this. I’m not strong like you and Neal.”

  “If anything, Margaret, you are the strongest of the three of us. Do not be afraid of your destiny.”

  The moment he spoke those words, it seemed as if the very air in the room changed.

  Margaret held the book to the window’s fading light. Tears welled in her eyes, but his sister was not one to cry. True to character, she angrily wiped them away.

  “I accept the challenge, she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I shall leave now—”

  “No,” Harry said. “You must rest. You must let your servants rest. Tomorrow will be time enough to begin the journey.”

  Margaret hesitated as if ready to argue. She was willful. But then her shoulders slumped and Harry recognized that he had been right, his sister was exhausted.

  “I fear for you and Neal. What if I fail?” she whispered.

  “You won’t fail.”

  His sister seemed to draw courage from his conviction. She straightened. “I will not. I will travel to Loch Awe on the morrow, and Fenella of the Macnachtan had best beware.”

  For the briefest moment, the book seemed to glow in her hands. Uncertainty unsettled him.

  “Perhaps I will go with you,” he said.

  “No, you are correct. I must go alone,” she answered, staring at the book.

  “Margaret,” he said in protest, but she shook her head.

  “We are both safer with you here, Harry. Think, the curse is having its effect on you quicker than it has on Neal. Why? Is it because you are close to Loch Awe and the Macnachtans? Right now, Neal is far too weak to travel. If the same happens to you, Harry, you will become a disadvantage to me because I will worry about you.”

  “True,” he admitted. A warrior had to have focus to go into battle and right now, he realized, his sister was a warrior.

  She looked to Portia. “Keep him with you.”

  “I will.”

  “At least take my man Rowan,” Harry protested. “He is as close as I can come to being with you myself.”

  She nodded and then took her first step toward Harry since she’d arrived. He put his arms around her and hugged her close. “God be with you, Margaret,” he whispered.

  “I will succeed,” she promised. “And I’m not about to fall in love. I’m sorry to say such on your wedding day, but, for me, it is a foolish emotion. Look at what it has cost so many who are close to me.” With that declaration, Margaret left the room.

  Portia leaned against Harry. “Do you believe her safe?”

  “I hope so,” he said. “I pray so.” He brushed his lips across her hair and held her close. “The one thing I know is that I do love you. And no witch may take that away from me.”

  Margaret

  Of course Margaret could not sleep.

  She spent a good portion of the night going over Fenella’s book, trying to read the faded handwriting and make sense of words in the old Gaelic she didn’t understand. She wanted answers, solutions, and she wanted them now. That she could lose both her brothers was a horrific thought. They were all the family she had left—save for Neal’s unborn baby. And, if the curse went true to form, her new sister-in-marriage, Portia, was probably breeding as well.

  Margaret could not stand aside and let those children be tainted with this curse.

  The next morning, she was up early and ready to travel, anxious to be on her way to Loch Awe. She thanked General Montheath for the hospitality.

  Harry and Portia managed
to see her off. They both looked as if they hadn’t slept a wink the night before and were none the worse for wear. Margaret could only sigh. Love had made her brothers addle-brained. Here she was so worried . . . and they were contentedly in love.

  She did notice that Harry favored his left arm even more this day than he had the day before. He handed her his pistol and his ammunition bag.

  “You know how to use this,” he said. “I taught you. Guard yourself well.”

  “I shall,” she answered.

  Margaret then hugged her brother, gave a perfunctory kiss on the cheek to her new sister-in-marriage, and climbed into her coach.

  She traveled with a retinue. Her abigail Smith accompanied her inside the coach. Smith was new to the staff. Margaret’s longtime abigail, Rogers, had married one of the Lyon household footmen and had begged to stay in London. Margaret debated whether or not Smith would be with her long. The maid had very little personality and would never become the close confidant Rogers had been.

  Four armed outriders, insisted upon by Neal, provided for Margaret’s protection. There were also her driver, Thomas, a coachman, Balfour, and now Rowan, Harry’s quiet Indian valet.

  She wasn’t overly fond of Rowan. His loyalty to Harry was unquestionable, and yet there was something Margaret didn’t trust about him.

  Thomas estimated they would reach Loch Awe in three, maybe six days’ time, depending on the weather. “There is no direct line from here to there,” he had informed Margaret. “Let us hope the weather is in our favor.”

  No matter how long the trip took, it would be too long for Margaret. She sat on the tufted velvet coach seat with her fists clenched, anxious to arrive at their destination—and uncertain of what to expect. Fenella’s book was on the seat beside her. Her brother’s gun was in a traveling bag at her feet.

  A gentle mist had started outside. They’d had to close the windows against it. Margaret hoped it didn’t turn into a rain or, worse, sleet. She’d heard traveling in the highlands in winter could be treacherous.

  “You should relax, my lady,” Smith advised. She was in the seat across from Margaret and was doing a bit of needlework to while away the time. Margaret didn’t know how she concentrated on the stitches without feeling slightly ill, especially in such poor light. Margaret couldn’t even read when she traveled.

  “I’ll relax when we arrive at Loch Awe,” Margaret said. She’d not told the servants why they were making this trip. Balfour and Thomas, longtime retainers, were probably aware of the curse, but not the others. Well, save for Rowan.

  And then she heard the meowing.

  She frowned. “Smith, do you hear something?”

  The maid scrunched her face and cocked an ear. “I don’t hear anything out of the ordinary, my lady.” She returned to her embroidery.

  They traveled on and Margaret heard the sound again, loud and distinct this time. She scooted around on her seat. “I hear a cat. The sound is coming from the boot. No, it is coming from beneath the coach.”

  “I’ve not heard a sound other than the coach wheels and the horses,” Smith replied. “Well, except for the arguing of the men in the box.”

  “Then something is wrong with your ears,” Margaret answered. She knocked on the roof. There was a panel there that could be slid back and forth to allow her to speak to the coachman.

  “Yes, my lady?” Balfour said. The misty rain splashed in through the door.

  “There is a cat beneath the coach somewhere. Let us stop and rescue it.”

  “Now, my lady?”

  “Of course,” Margaret said, suddenly anxious for the diversion. It helped to have another concern other than the curse. “I would feel sad if something happened to the cat and we had done nothing to help.”

  “A cat,” Balfour repeated as if mystified.

  “Yes, a cat,” Margaret insisted.

  The door was slid shut and within minutes the coach stopped.

  The vehicle leaned as Balfour climbed down from the box. Margaret opened the door slightly. “Do you see the cat?”

  “I beg your pardon, but I do not, my lady,” Balfour said.

  Margaret heard the meow again. “Oh for pity’s sake,” she said, pulling the hood of her cloak over her head and opening the door wider so she could step out of the coach.

  Rowan and the driver had climbed down from the box as well. Thomas took this opportunity to check on the horses. The outriders also gave their horses a rest.

  The road was muddy. Margaret lifted her skirts to protect the hem. She wore her walking boots, good, sensible shoes for the weather.

  Balfour looked very aggrieved. “There is no cat, my lady.”

  Margaret had to see for herself. She bent down to look at the undercarriage and there, clinging for her life, was a small, mud-covered cat.

  “Poor kitty,” she said, offering a hand.

  The cat let go of her precarious perch and raced to Margaret’s arms. Picking up the cat without a care to her gloves, Margaret said to Balfour, “See, there was a cat.” She didn’t wait for his response but cooed, “You poor muddy thing. Smith, hand me that shawl in the corner of the seat.”

  Silently, her face puckered with suspicion, Smith did as ordered.

  Balfour said nothing, other than raising his eyebrows.

  Margaret dismissed the servants’ reactions. She was quite pleased with herself for saving the cat. Here was a project to help her pass the time.

  She climbed back into the coach.

  “Are we free to leave, my lady?” Thomas asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Margaret responded. She was busy using her shawl to wipe away the mud. Kitty did not like these ministrations but tolerated them.

  Balfour shut the door.

  “Oh, look, Smith, this cat is white beneath all this mud. And she has a funny head.” Margaret held up the cat for her abigail to see. “Her ears are folded over. Poor thing to have deformed ears and yet how precious you look.”

  The cat purred and rubbed her cheek against Margaret’s thumb, and Margaret was charmed.

  Smith did not answer. Instead, she huddled into her corner of the coach with a look of grave concern on her face. Margaret tired of her sullenness. Some people just didn’t like cats.

  Obviously, Balfour and Smith were two of them.

  The cat meowed.

  Margaret smiled. “You are the sweetest thing. And what big eyes you have for a kitty. What is your name?”

  Of course the cat didn’t answer other than to continue its contented purring.

  “Owl,” Margaret said, the name coming to her, and it seemed to fit. “I shall call you Owl because you remind me of one with your funny ears and large eyes. Are you as wise as an owl?” she asked.

  The cat meowed an answer and Margaret laughed. “We have a new travel companion, Smith. One that will keep us entertained on the way to Loch Awe. Owl. Such a precious little cat.”

  With a snap of the whip, the coach continued on its way.

  Margaret Chattan knows that in 1814 no one should believe in curses, but she’s convinced that her family is . . . and that it all began in 1632 . . .

  London, 1632

  “Rose can’t have died. Not at her own hand,” Charles Chattan said, repeating the words his clansman had just spoken to him.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie, but she has,” his cousin Drummond said in his clipped Highland brogue while reaching for another piece of beefsteak from a plate on the table before them. They sat in the kitchen before the fire. Drummond appeared worn to fatigue. It was a hard ride from Scotland to London and he had apparently not wasted any time in making it.

  They were alone. Drummond had arrived only an hour earlier with “important news.” The servants had woken Charles. He’d told them not to disturb his father and mother-in-law, Lord and Lady Lyon or his wife, Patience. He wanted to speak t
o Drummond freely. He had assumed a messenger from Scotland would not be carrying good news, but he was unprepared for what Drummond had to say.

  Charles’s hands began to shake. He reached for the goblet in front of him. He downed the wine, wishing it was something stronger . . . and still his mind could not accept that his willful, vibrant Rose was no more.

  “That’s why the clan sent me here,” Drummond said, hacking at his meat with his knife and shoving it in his mouth like a wolf. “The mood is ugly. Most blame you for her death.”

  “I blame myself.” Charles pushed his chair away from the heavy table. He stood. “She should not have taken her own life.”

  “Aye.”

  “How did it happen?” Charles had to ask. He feared the answer.

  “She jumped from the tower wall of her family’s keep.”

  Apprehension hollowed Charles’s stomach. “On what day?”

  Drummond reached for his wine goblet and drank it down before answering, “Your wedding day.”

  A knife to the heart could not inflict more pain. Charles wanted to double over, to scream in horror, to rant and rave.

  But he would not do that, not here in front of his clansman. Not here in the home of his English wife.

  “I did not mean to harm her.” Charles had to force the words past the tightness in his throat.

  Drummond met his eye and then looked away, a muscle working in his jaw. For a second, Charles thought his cousin would not speak, but then he said, his voice low, “You handfasted her. Did you believe the lass had no pride?”

  Guilt threatened to overwhelm Charles. It was staved off by the worm of resentment. “Handfasting is not marriage. The church frowns upon it. You know that. So did Rose. She understood I had to marry in the church.”

  Drummond pushed his plate aside as if he’d lost his appetite. He stared at some point at the far wall, his censure clear.

  “I—” Charles started, wanting to defend himself, and realizing he couldn’t. A long silence between them. Charles stared at the pattern of the kitchen’s stone floor. Rose. Dead.