Cathy Maxwell

by Lyon's Bride: The Chattan Curse

  “What of Margaret? She’s been your hostess. Perhaps she would have a say?” Thea suggested.

  “Yes, she might,” he agreed, touched by Thea’s thoughtful consideration of his sister. Margaret would not have been that generous, and that was why he loved—

  Neal stopped his train of thought, backing away from the word love. He couldn’t dwell on it. He mustn’t.

  He nodded. “Yes, discuss it with Margaret. As for Margaret, I wonder where she is. I wonder where anyone is. Dawson usually has someone minding the door.”

  Neal went out into the hallway and looked up the stairs. He checked the dining room. “Mrs. Tanner,” he called, referring to the housekeeper. “Dawson?”

  And then he heard a sound from upstairs and footsteps on the stair treads. He returned to the stairs. Margaret stood on the staircase landing. Her hair was loose around her shoulders. There were dark circles under her eyes and her dress was wrinkled, as if she’d slept in it. “Neal?” she said. She sounded overwhelmed.

  He came up the stairs, two at a time, alarmed.

  “It is Harry,” she said. “He’s in a bad way.” She turned and dashed back up the stairs.

  A bad way. It could mean only one thing, and that was not good. Damn his brother for choosing his homecoming to be an ass.

  Neal looked to Thea, who had come to the side room door, her sons beside her. “Stay in the side room. Please make yourselves comfortable. I don’t know where the servants are, but I’ll be right back.”

  He then hurried after Margaret up the stairs. She waited for him. “He came home around noon today. They carried him here.”

  “Who did?”

  “Two big burly men, like sailors. They didn’t tell me where they found him,” Margaret said. “Said I most likely would not like to know. They were right.”

  “Wasn’t Rowan with him?” Rowan was Harry’s manservant. He was a short Indian with close-cropped hair and solemn, golden-brown eyes. Harry claimed that one day, while he’d been posted in India, Rowan had started following him around the market in Calcutta and had never left. He was devoted to Neal’s brother and rarely spoke, but when he did, his accented English was excellent.

  “No, Harry had escaped him. Rowan alerted me last night that Harry was out on the prowl. We both waited for him, hoping he would come home at a reasonable hour.” She stopped in front of Harry’s bedroom door and said almost defiantly, “I had him tied down, Neal. He can’t go on this way, and I won’t let him.”

  “Tied him down?”

  “Yes,” Margaret said. “He has to stop. He can’t go on using that horrible laudanum. I told Dawson to keep the servants below stairs. You should have seen him when they brought him home. He looked dead, and then he came to his senses and started drinking again. We must stop him from destroying himself. And now he is awake and crazed and mad. We had no choice but to tie him down. You didn’t look in the dining room, or you would have noticed that he turned over the buffet and has chairs against the way.”

  As if to punctuate her words, there came a huge crash from the bedroom. Margaret shook her head, tears forming in her eyes. She never cried. Not ever. “You and Harry are all I have,” she said. “We’re losing him. He’s taking his own life and I can’t bear it, Neal. I can’t stand to watch this.”

  “Then go,” he said. From the other side of the door, Harry yelled Margaret’s name, a shout followed by a string of rude curses.

  “I’ll handle this,” Neal said. “You need a moment to yourself.”

  “He’s going to hate me,” Margaret whispered.

  “It’s not him right now, Margaret. He has the devil in him. Now, go, you’ve done enough. Let me keep watch.”

  “He’s never been this bad,” she said before running for the haven of her room.

  Neal turned the door handle, uncertain of what he’d find.

  The room was chaos. A chair had been thrown against the door and a side table overturned. Rowan and a footman had their bodies on top of Harry, who was tied to the four corners of the bed with what looked to be Margaret’s scarves. He was doing his best to pull free.

  Usually meticulous, unless he was on the prowl for opium, Harry had a day’s growth of beard, and his hair spiked every which way on his head. His face was pale, and his deep-circled eyes seemed to glow with the fire of a thousand demons. The room, its curtains pulled closed and lit by a single bedside candle, smelled of sweat and overindulged drinking.

  “Neal,” Harry barked out, seeing him at the door. “Come here. Rowan won’t listen to me. Tell them to get off me and untie my hands.”

  A stone’s worth of weight formed in Neal’s chest. Margaret was right. They had to do something to stop Harry from destroying himself. Perhaps if Neal had been sterner when Harry had first come home from war, things might not have gotten to this point. This was not what he wanted for his brother.

  “I can’t help you, Harry.” Neal had to force the words out.

  “You must.” Bucking and rolling his body, Harry twisted against the knots holding him down. Rowan and the footman were almost thrown off the bed with the force of his surge. He was wild and seemed to have the brute strength of three men. “I have to have something, Neal. I must have it.”

  Neal took a step forward. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t? You won’t.”

  “I won’t help you kill yourself,” Neal said. “Please, Harry, I’ll stay beside you, but I can’t let you continue to do this.”

  “You fear death?” Harry answered. “Then why did you marry, Neal? Why did you give in to the curse? Why do you want me to watch you die?”

  “Is that what this is?” Neal demanded, moving to the foot of the bed. “You are doing this because of my marriage? Then stop it. I don’t want your death on my conscience.”

  Harry burst out into a delirious laugh. “We are all dying, brother. You, me, Margaret. We’re doomed. But I need help,” he went on, his voice suddenly taking that pleading note again. “I can’t stand being in my own skin. I feel like I’m being eaten alive—” His voice broke off in a shuddering gasp before he tried heaving his body to and fro and pulling once again on the bonds that held him.

  From behind Neal came a voice of strength. “Untie him.”

  Neal turned to see Thea in the doorway. She still wore her bonnet and gloves. Her gaze on Harry, she walked into the room.

  Harry honed in on her with the sharpness of a hawk spotting its prey. “It’s you that will kill Neal,” he said, his hoarse voice sounding possessed. He tried to lunge at her, to kick out. “You will kill him.”

  The words rang around the room, but Thea showed no fear. She pulled off her gloves and looked to Neal. “What is his weakness?”

  He answered, almost unnerved by the force of his brother’s anger. “Laudanum. An old war injury. His leg, it pains him.”

  She nodded, but he sensed she knew he wasn’t speaking the complete truth, so he added, “And spirits. He likes the bottle. Gin, port, wine, even Madeira if there is nothing else.”

  “We need more of all of it,” she replied. “Will you have someone fetch bottles for me now?”

  “Thea, I can’t give him more. I won’t. Margaret is right. This must stop,” Neal said, his voice shaking with emotion.

  “It can’t stop until he wants it to, Neal,” Thea said. “You can’t make the decision for him or protect him from the world.”

  “Margaret and I want him to be sane enough that he realizes he must change,” Neal argued. “If he doesn’t, he will die.”

  “You are right,” Thea answered. “He will die. But having all of it taken away from him before he is ready can also kill him. The man is ill. I know this is difficult to understand, Neal, but we must give him a bit of the laudanum.”

  “She’s right,” Harry said before he started coughing. A beat later, his body was heaving. Quick as a blink, Rowan was off him and picking up a bucket by the bed.

  Neal watched his brother be sick. He looked to Thea. “He’s
a good man. A strong soldier.”

  “I know,” Thea said. She reached out and placed her hand on Neal’s arm. “This is hard. I went through this with Boyd. He liked the opium as well. But you must believe me, Neal, your brother is the only one who can stop this. If you force him, he will never change, not truly. He’ll just hide it better.”

  Neal looked at his brother, who rolled back on the bed, his eyes closed, his breathing heavy, as if he was exhausted, his body slick with sweat.

  “This is my fault,” Neal said.

  Thea gave his arm a squeeze, a gentle reminder that he was not alone. “He makes his own choices.”

  She was right. Neal had done everything in his power to stop Harry, even having servants serve as guards to keep him at home and spies to follow him when he was out. He evaded them. He always managed to have his own way.

  Neal looked at his wife. “You can help him?”

  “Boyd taught me a thing or two. I do not want your brother to be like this either, Neal.”

  Neal looked to Rowan. “Fetch some laudanum.”

  The valet walked over to Harry’s clothes press and took out a bottle from a secret compartment.

  Neal gave a bitter smile. He’d ordered all of Harry’s vices from the house too many times to count, yet here was a stash. Poor Rowan was torn between loyalty to Harry and loyalty to Neal.

  Rowan brought the bottle over to Neal, but Thea intercepted it. Taking the bottle, she said, “Now I want all of you men to leave the room. Go on.”

  “No,” Neal said, suddenly fearing for Thea. “You don’t know what Harry is capable of when he is like this.”

  “Oh, I know all too well,” Thea answered, steely eyed. “I also know that if you are here, he will play on every sympathy you have. Go, Neal. You don’t need a hand in it.”

  She was right. Still, it was hard for him to walk away. He had to help his brother see reason.

  Harry lifted his head and stared at the bottle in Thea’s hand. “Give it to me,” he begged. “Give it to me.”

  Neal felt his heart break for his brother. His strong, carefree, noble brother. Harry was too good a man to end this way. If Thea could help him . . .

  He left the room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thea had no illusions about Harry’s feelings toward her. He wanted what she held in her hand and nothing more.

  His breathing was shallow as he watched her pour the drug into a glass.

  “He’ll need more, my lady,” his manservant said.

  “Here,” Thea replied, offering the bottle to him. “Give him what he usually takes, less a bit.”

  A tear slid down the manservant’s leathery cheek as he poured the liquid into a glass.

  Touched by his emotion, Thea said, “What is your name?”

  “Rowan, my lady.”

  She reached for the glass, taking Rowan’s hand and holding it a moment. “This is hard. It is hard for Lord Lyon, for his sister, for yourself and everyone who cares for the colonel. But I meant what I said. The only one who can free himself of this is Colonel Chattan.”

  “He’s a good man,” Rowan said.

  “The best,” she agreed. “We shall pray he has the strength to conquer this weakness. Do you know how much he’s had of both spirits and opium over the last day?”

  “He escaped me. I don’t know,” Rowan confessed. “It’s my job to keep him sane. He was very angry about your marriage.” He did not look at Thea as he said the latter.

  Harry started pulling at his bonds again, a reminder he was there and of what he wanted.

  Thea turned to the footman. “Please prepare some steaming hot water and the largest stack of towels you can gather. Oh, yes, and bring a bottle of—” She stopped, uncertain about what Harry chose to drink. Then she remembered the copious amounts of port he’d guzzled during the dinner they’d had together. “Port. Bring a bottle of port.” Heavy spirits to be sure. She was certain the laudanum had been mixed with gin. Port and gin would be a potent punch.

  The footman nodded and left to do her bidding.

  “Rowan, please lift the colonel’s head.”

  She poured the dosage down Harry’s throat. Harry lapped at it as if he’d been a dog, his eyes closed. She eased up a bit. He literally growled, “More.”

  “Let this settle first before I give you the rest.”

  Harry tensed as if to argue but then sank down onto the mattress, reminding her of her sons when they were out of sorts. The colonel hadn’t always been like this. She needed to keep that in mind, especially in the face of his drunken demands.

  Rowan squatted on the floor next to the bed in the Indian style. He crossed his arms and began chanting in a low voice.

  Harry made a sharp gesture with his fingers, indicating he wished for the rest of the contents in the glass. Thea feared giving Harry too much. The dosage had been a strong one. The colonel opened his eyes, nodded with his chin to the glass she held. He was not about to ease his demands.

  This time when she administered the draft, he lifted his head on his own. He lay back down and closed his eyes with a deep sigh.

  Thea retreated to a chair by the table. She crossed her arms, hugging her body close. She remembered times like this with Boyd. He’d disappear for days and then drag himself home. She’d sit and watch and pray as his body battled the ravages of his indulgences.

  And then one day he’d not come home . . . and she hadn’t known if she’d been sad or relieved. Months later, she’d learned of his death. They said he’d fallen off a bridge and drowned in the river Thames. It had taken time before someone had found her and delivered the news.

  And sometimes she wondered if Boyd hadn’t jumped off that bridge, if he hadn’t taken his own life.

  Harry’s breathing continued at a labored rate. A shudder went through his body and he began snoring.

  It was a terrible sound. Certainly nothing the dashing military man would take pride in when he was sober.

  “Is everything all right now, my lady?”

  “You tell me, Rowan,” Thea said. “He’s been like this before, hasn’t he?”

  Somber golden-brown eyes considered her, and then he nodded.

  “Well, we shall see how he does when he wakes,” she said.

  At that moment, the footman returned with warm water and linen towels. “All right, gentlemen,” Thea said, rising to her feet. “We have work to do. Rowan, untie and undress him.” She looked to the footman. “Your name?”

  “Edward, my lady.”

  “Well, Edward, the three of us are going to lay these cloths over his body to sweat out what we can of any poisons in him.”

  It wasn’t the choicest of assignments. Edward did not appear pleased. He moved grudgingly toward the door. Rowan set upon the task of undressing his master.

  Soon more servants were involved in bringing hot water. For three hours they worked at steaming out Harry’s body. Thea had learned of this treatment from another woman whose husband had suffered from his weaknesses. She’d thought of attempting it on Boyd, but she’d never had the opportunity.

  At one point, when Harry turned restless, Thea gave him a bit of port and he seemed to settle down. His breathing slowly grew more rhythmic and relaxed.

  “We’re done,” Thea announced at last. “Rowan, your master should sleep through the night.”

  “Should I tie him up like Lady Margaret wishes?” Rowan asked.

  Thea shook her head. “We can’t keep him tied up forever. We shall have to wish for the best.” She thought of her sons. Neal would have seen to them, she knew he would have, but still, she was their mother. “I must leave.”

  “I will keep watch, my lady,” Rowan said.

  “Good. Come for me if there is a problem.”

  Rowan answered with a deep bow.

  Thea opened the bedroom door, realizing she didn’t know where anything was in the house—and then stopped in her tracks at the sight of Margaret sitting in a chair across the hall from the bedroo
m door.

  Margaret’s thick, dark hair was down around her shoulders. Her face was tight and very pale. She rose from the chair. “How is he?”

  “As good as can be expected,” Thea said.

  “He frightened me this time. He looked dead when they brought him, and then he came to life and just went wild.” The woman’s nerves were stretched thin. Thea knew how she felt.

  “The colonel is made of stern stuff,” Thea said. “He will survive this.”

  “But will he survive the next time he does it?”

  Thea shut the door, not wanting the servants to overhear their conversation. “He needs to give it up,” she said gently.

  “I’ve told him that. He won’t. He says he has nothing else in life—” Her voice broke off and she looked away, crossing her arms as if holding in all of her emotion—and Thea saw the curse’s legacy.

  The Chattans were not living; they were existing. They had put love, desires, dreams, wants, everything that made life worthwhile on hold because of superstition.

  “He misses war, doesn’t he?” Thea said.

  “Perhaps. Maybe.” There was a beat of silence and then Margaret said bitterly, “I believe sometimes he is disappointed he didn’t die a glorious hero’s death. He rode into cannon fire. He pointed his horse at where the French were the strongest, and they say he charged them like a madman. And his men followed.” Her voice broke. She tightened her hold around herself. “I know Harry would have willingly died. But apparently he didn’t anticipate that his men would go where he went, bravely. I believe Harry had thought to go it alone. They took out the cannons but at a great loss of life. And now Harry has their deaths on his conscience. He didn’t want to leave Spain, but Wellington’s staff forced him. Some think Harry is a war hero, but there are those many amongst his comrades who fault him for the deaths that day.”

  “What does Harry believe?” Thea asked, already knowing the answer.

  “He doesn’t speak of it,” Margaret said. “But I believe he is unprincipled and drunk because he wishes he were dead. He doesn’t care about his life, therefore he doesn’t value it as much as his family does.”