Lyon's Bride and The Scottish Witch with Bonus Material (Promo e-Books) (30 page)

Harry put down the knife, pulled on his breeches, and reached for the candle. He walked over to the dying fire to stir the embers, lit the candle off of them, and turned toward the bed.

The cat jumped up onto the bed, a cat with an unusual round head and ears folded over. Fenella’s cat.

Or was it Fenella? The cat’s eyes seemed to view him with a wisdom as old as the soul.

Cautious now, Harry took a step forward. “Here, kitty. How did you come in here?” His door was shut. The window was closed as well.

The cat came to its feet, arching its back and hissing at him. Harry stopped. “How did you make it in here, kitty, past all Monty’s dogs?”

The cat’s lips curved into what Harry would swear was a smile, and then it jumped down from the bed and ran under the wardrobe in the corner of the room.

Harry followed, falling to his knees and reaching under the furniture to drag the cat out, heedless of claws. And yet, as he stretched his arm in every direction, he felt nothing.

Harry brought the candle down as far as he could so that he could peer beneath the wardrobe. The cat was not there.

He came to his knees and searched the room. There was no sign of the cat. The window was still locked. Harry looked behind the drapes and under the bed.

No cat.

It had disappeared.

He even went so far as to open the door. The hall was empty and all was dark and quiet. Not one dog in the house stirred.

Just to be certain, he went to Monty’s door and pounded on it. It took several knocks and shaking of the knob to wake his friend.

Monty in his nightcap cracked open his door, squinting against the light. A few of the dogs came out to check Harry. They didn’t give him more sniffs than usual and didn’t seem to catch a whiff of something different in the hall.

“What is it?” Monty asked, his voice sleep hoarse.

“Do you have a cat?”

“A what?”

“A
cat
,” Harry repeated.

“Don’t like the damn things,” Monty said. “The dogs would tear it to shreds.”

“Your pups don’t seem on guard now,” Harry murmured.

“On guard for what?”

“A cat.”

Monty shook his head. “You’ve been dreaming. I have no cat here. May we discuss this in the morning?”

“Yes, of course.”

His friend shut the door.

Harry returned to his room and sank down on the bed. There was no cat here and yet he had touched it. The animal had been living and breathing and not a dream.

He crossed over to the bedroom’s desk, set down his candle, and pulled out pen and paper. Dipping the quill into the well, he began to write furiously everything he remembered from the dream.

His brother and his wife had dreams as well. They kept a record of them in a journal because they believed Fenella threatened them in their dreams. Harry had read what they’d written. There had been images of fire. He’d had fire.

However, his had been a dream of seduction.

And that strange little cat with its folded-over ears had not been a figment of his imagination. He wasn’t a fanciful man. He believed what he saw, and he’d seen that cat, had felt the roughness of its tongue and the weight of its body.

He was close to Fenella.

Suddenly, the overwhelming emotions he’d experienced with the witch the night at the Great Oak were no longer a trick of his mind. They had been real.

And then he had a flash of insight.
He hadn’t been able to see her face, but there had been the moon in her eyes. It had been a reflection—in person and in the dream.

“She wore spectacles,” Harry whispered, not believing he could have missed something so obvious. A witch with the need for eyeglasses.

A witch who wanted to seduce him.

Harry set aside the pen, knowing now that he didn’t need to search for Fenella. She was coming for him.

He jumped up from the chair at the writing table. He charged into the hall and began banging on Monty’s door with his fist.

“What is it now?” Monty demanded throwing open the door. “Are you being attacked by more cats?”

“The devil take the cat,” Harry answered. “I’m going with you to the dance tomorrow night.”

Chapter Five

“W
hatever you do, Portia, do
not
wear your spectacles,” Lady Maclean ordered in a furious whisper as they came into sight of Borrodale’s barn. She, Portia and Minnie rode in the pony cart all bundled up in their sensible woolen cloaks over their finery. Portia was driving.

The barn was a huge stone building and the site of numerous dances through the year, although this was the first the Macleans would attend. Tonight the building was lit with what seemed to be a hundred torches. A crowd was already gathered, and the sound of music and laughter could be heard all around.

“Yes, Mother,” Portia murmured with a hint of annoyance.

“Then take them off now,” her mother said.

“Wouldn’t you rather I see where I’m going this last bit of the way?” Portia demanded. “Or shall we just trot over people?”

“Oh, what nonsense,” Lady Maclean said, plucking the lenses right off Portia’s nose. “You see perfectly well without them.” She tucked Portia’s precious glasses into her reticule.

Portia didn’t see “perfectly well” . . . but she did see well enough. Unfortunately, she found she could develop a headache if she went without them for too long.

Minnie didn’t say one word and hadn’t most of the day. She seemed caught up in her own sad world. As Portia drove the cart to where the other vehicles were lined up, Minnie stirred and looked to the barn.

Their mother smiled. “He will be sorry,” she promised Minnie in a soft voice.

Minnie nodded, her expression grim.

Portia assumed they were speaking of Mr. Tolliver and found herself sympathizing with him. It wasn’t as if he’d abandoned Minnie. Their mother had warned him away, it wasn’t as if he’d run. He was not the sort of man who had time to fight over a woman. He was a
doctor
. But she knew better than to express her opinion at this point—and if Minnie didn’t care so much, then she wouldn’t be believing the worst in the man. Women always fretted over whether a man liked them when they cared. Of course, Portia had never fallen in love, and wasn’t likely to at this late date, so she couldn’t speak from experience.

Local boys came running to help them with their pony, Honey, and watch the cart for them. Portia gave them a coin and then followed her mother and sister inside. She was several steps behind them, so she had a good vantage point to see everyone’s reactions to Minnie’s arrival.

The spirit was merry in the barn, which was like no barn Portia had ever seen before. The interior was enormous, with patterned stone floors and high ceiling beams. There was room for vehicles and equipment. Of course, everything, including the animals, had been moved out.

The rafters rang with music, laughter and greetings, and the place, especially by the door, was an absolute crush. Everyone of importance in the valley seemed to be there.

The guests were all in their finest. There was a kilt here and there, and most of the men and women proudly sported a bit of plaid in this once hotbed of Jacobite sympathies.

Lighting was provided by oil lamps hanging from the barn’s beams. The musicians were two gentlemen with pianoforte and violin. One wouldn’t think that such a small group could create enough sound to be heard above the conversations, but they did. The dancing was already going strong. Long tables decorated with evergreens and holly leaves, and holding punch bowls and platters of food, lined the wall farthest from the entrance. Portia feared what the dancing would be like after all the punch in those bowls had been consumed, although it appeared a good number of the guests had been tippling before they’d arrived.

Expectation and excitement were in the air. There was no class structure here. Everyone in the countryside was all decked out in their finest and had gathered in this barn to celebrate the season.

Lady Maclean led their way into the barn. Such was her presence, people created a path for her. Or perhaps they were taken aback by the three large, green ostrich plumes she wore in her hair. The hair decoration was common in London, but not so much here in the Highlands, and the Scots acted as if her mother was some grand peacock who had arrived to strut in their midst.

However, what started people whispering, what made them step back and really take notice, was not their mother. It was Minnie.

It started with the younger men—clearly still in their teens—who stood at the door to assist guests with their cloaks. Portia watched in fascination as a red-faced lad offered to help Minnie with her cloak, his voice cracking with nervousness as he spoke to her. Minnie, oblivious to the trueness of her beauty, smiled, and the poor lad almost swooned from being the focus of her attention. His hands shook as he helped remove the garment from her shoulders.

And then a hush seemed to fall over all the males within a ten-foot radius around Minnie as they took in how incredibly beautiful she was.

The dress was perfect for Minnie’s figure and probably worth the goodly amount of money paid for it. It was a snowy white muslin decorated with layers of lace and trimmed with white ribbon. The cut emphasized the fullness of Minnie’s breasts and the gentle curve of her hip. She wore a white ribbon at her neck and had styled her blonde hair in loose curls high upon her head.

The crowd, which at first had reminded Portia of nothing more than a group of happy puppies climbing all over one another, took on form as men caught sight of her sister and stepped forward.

They were blocked in their pursuit by Lady Maclean, who, with a rap of her fan upon her gloved hand and a shake of her ostrich feathers, let it be known that this beauty was chaperoned. So of course the men queued up to make their introductions and pay their respects to Her Ladyship before receiving a nod to speak to her daughter.

At first, Minnie appeared startled by the fuss she’d created. Her nature was such that she didn’t see herself as others did. She didn’t realize how truly stunning her looks were.

Minnie started to turn to Portia as if searching for support, but then her gaze riveted on a sight beyond Portia’s shoulder.

Portia turned to look directly where her sister stared. Mr. Tolliver stood off by a punch table, speaking to two not-uncomely women. He acted very interested in what they were saying and seemed not to have noticed Minnie’s arrival.

So then Minnie did what every woman in the room would have done, she began flirting with a vengeance and in short order was being led toward the dance floor where the dancers were taking positions for the next set.

“May I help you with your cloak, Miss Maclean?” Portia heard a man ask. “Seems a pity you haven’t joined us yet.” She turned to see it was a smiling Mr. Buchanan.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. She’d been so concerned for her sister, she’d not seen to her own needs. As for her mother, Lady Maclean was holding court with the young men left behind. She was obviously keeping a tally. There would be much reliving of this evening for months to come.

The duke’s man removed her cloak, saying, “We don’t stand on much ceremony here, not for the Christmas Assembly. As you can see, it is open to one and all. What’s important is that we enjoy a bit of merriment.”

“I’m looking forward to the evening,” Portia answered.

“Even introductions are easy,” he advised her. “As the punch bowls empty, we become very friendly. Beware. The lads will dance your feet off.”

“I thank you for the warning, sir.” Of course, Portia rarely danced. Not any longer. She was too old.

Certainly, she didn’t expect to cause a stir in any form close to her sister. Her dress was a creamy muslin she’d worn to a family gathering years ago during better times. It was trimmed in green ribbon so she thought it festive . . . although she did feel a bit too aged for the gown. The dress had been fashioned for her younger self. Her hopeful self.

And because she hadn’t any expectations for the evening, she hadn’t done anything with her hair other than what she normally did. She’d just pulled it back with a matching ribbon from her dress. She wished she had her glasses. She could see, but they had also come to offer protection over the years. They made it easier for her to be the plainer sister.

“I have the money we owe for rent. We don’t want to upset the duke’s daughter any more than we already have, but I warn you, sir, Minnie is going to be an uncommon success tonight.”

“You are right, however, I’m not certain Lady Emma cares about the competition your sister may give her for being the belle of the countryside. As you can see, her attentions are firmly fixed, which is one of the reasons so many of our bucks came running to claim your sister’s attention.” He nodded toward the other side of the barn as he spoke.

Portia had been introduced to Lady Emma at church. The girl was all of eighteen with creamy skin, black-as-a-raven’s-wing hair and blue eyes—just the sort of Scottish lass troubadours would have lauded in songs.

She was also willful and condescending. Portia usually steered clear of her, as did Minnie.

But right now, all of Lady Emma’s attention was claimed by a man, a tall man, one who was familiar to Portia—the English Chattan.

For a second, all Portia could do was stare. Mr. Buchanan was introducing his wife to her, a pretty woman with merry eyes, but Portia listened with only half an ear.

The Chattan was more handsome in the lamplight than he had been in the moonlight. He was dressed as all the other men were here. Some wore evening dress but a good number more wore breeches and tall boots. Of course, the boots were shined and their best clothes pressed, however, the Chattan wore his with the unmistakable air of a Corinthian through and through.

Many of the young men this evening were already aping his manner. They lacked the money to purchase buff-colored breeches of material woven so tightly they hugged his form perfectly or leather boots that fit so well they seemed a part of his legs.

His jacket was a deep, dark blue so that the neck cloth at his neck, tied in the most current fashion, appeared an even more brilliant white. His waistcoat was red, as if to bring a cheery note to the festivities.

Of course the one thing the Scottish lads could not copy no matter how hard they tried was the Chattan’s military bearing, developed, no doubt, over years of discipline. There was a touch of gray at his temples, something she could not have seen during their meeting beneath the Great Oak.

But it was his eyes that claimed all her attention. He was a keen-eyed man—and he was looking right at her.

Portia’s breath caught in her throat. Her first instinct was panic. He must not recognize her. He couldn’t.

And yet, what if he did?

She murmured some words to excuse herself to Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan. She feared she cut Mrs. Buchanan off in mid-sentence but what else could she do?

She had to gather Minnie and her mother and tell them they must leave immediately.

It would be a challenge, but their very lives—no,
Portia’s
very life—might depend upon it.

Blending in the best she could with the crowd and keeping her head down, Portia worked toward where her mother was gaily chatting away. She dared to glance over her shoulder, hoping that she had been mistaken and the Chattan had not been staring at her.

Oh. No. He was
still
watching her.

Lady Emma had noticed he was not completely attentive to her and turned to see why.

Portia ducked her head lower. She had reached the dance floor. Her purpose was to catch Minnie’s notice. However, as Minnie’s young man preened at having such a lovely partner, she was looking over at the punch table where Mr. Tolliver stood alone studying the contents of his drink glass. He appeared as heart bereft as Minnie.

If he would look up, he would see Minnie’s longing . . . and Portia decided what he needed was a good talking to, something to counter her mother’s insensitivity, but it wasn’t going to happen tonight. They needed to go home with all possible haste—

Portia almost walked into him before she saw him.

The Chattan stood right in front of her.

She looked up, frightened. He bowed, a short, courteous movement. “Miss Maclean, I beg the opportunity to introduce myself to you. I’m Colonel Harry Chattan. I knew your father.”

Portia didn’t dare speak. She didn’t know if she trusted her voice. In any second, she expected him to denounce her, to accuse her of stealing, of lying, of pretending to be
a witch
.

He was going to expose her, right there in front of everyone—

Another man’s voice interrupted them. “Miss Maclean, would you dance with me?”

Portia whirled around to face the speaker. Mr. Longacre was the caretaker at church. He was some thirty years her senior with an earnest expression on his face. She flashed him a brilliant smile. “Of course I would,” she said, delighted to be whisked away from the Englishman, but then Colonel Chattan proved he had other plans.

I’m sorry, I’ve spoken for this dance,” the colonel said—and then
he
took her arm.

Portia’s temper flared. “I did not hear you ask to dance,” she said.

Colonel Chattan directed her to their place on the dance floor. “That was my intent,” he said. “And you should be honored. I don’t dance.”

She latched onto his statement as her escape. “Oh, well, then we don’t need to,” she said, and would have turned and walked away but he captured her hand.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, his voice low as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear.

Her blood rang in her ears in fear. “About what?” She’d squeaked the words out, actually squeaked.

Before he could answer, the music started, and the caller of the dance announced, “A kiss to the ladies.” Portia barely registered this unusual command when Colonel Chattan leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

Startled, Portia drew back. The touch of his lips had been like a small jolt of electricity.

If he felt the same, he didn’t show it. Instead, he said almost apologetically, “It’s the rule of the Christmas Assembly. To start the dance, the lads must give the lasses a peck. I believe it is a capital idea.”