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

by Maxwell, Cathy

  “No, not even from the beginning, although we pretended.” She reached for the edge of the door handle and rubbed it with a gloved hand before saying, “Of course, I didn’t realize this at the time. I was infatuated with Boyd because he was so different from the other men I’d known and, yes, that was some love—or at least as much as I had in me for a person who knew nothing of the world beyond London’s protected society. For his part, he played a gallant suitor, and I thought he did care.”

  “But he didn’t?”

  “Perhaps.” She shrugged. “He was greatly offended when my father sent the letter disowning me. He was even less pleased when Father died three years later and he discovered I had been left out of the will. I knew that my father meant what he said, but Boyd felt that since he felt I had been the favorite daughter, my father couldn’t possibly deny me. He did not know my father well.”

  Neal was not surprised. Thea and her father had always clashed and, yes, the duke of Duruset had been proud of his daughter and had expected her to marry very well.

  Now she had. He took her hand, lacing his fingers in hers.

  “I didn’t know this at the time,” Thea continued, “but after my father’s death, Boyd went to my brother, Horace, the current duke. I believe he expected my brother to recognize me. Horace wouldn’t.”

  “So money was the reason your marriage was unhappy?” Neal asked.

  “That . . . and other reasons.”

  Something in her voice told him she did not wish to speak further on the topic, but Neal had one more question. “Do your sons miss him?” he asked, pulling her closer. She smelled of the lily-scented soap Lady Palmer had offered her guests.

  “Christopher was still only a baby when he died,” she said. “He barely remembers him, and Jonathan does not speak of him.” She pulled his hand up and around her head so that his arm was around her shoulder. “And perhaps that is good.”

  She turned into him. Her breasts flattened against his chest as she kissed him, and any other questions Neal might have had fled his mind. For the rest of the way to London, he learned the many ways one could make love in a coach. That they had to keep quiet so that Bonner and the footman wouldn’t hear only heightened the pleasure.

  For that reason, Neal was in very good spirits when they rolled into London. Their first stop was Lady Palmer’s house.

  Mirabel had left early that morning, so she’d arrived well ahead of them. If she noticed that Neal and Thea appeared slightly mussed, she didn’t make a comment, but there was a secret smile hovering around her lips.

  Thea’s sons were overjoyed to have her return. Neal held back as they rushed into their mother’s arms. In the privacy of the room overlooking the back garden, Thea sat her boys down and explained to them that she and Lord Lyon had married.

  Jonathan, bright lad that he was, immediately understood that Neal was now related to him by marriage. Both boys turned to Neal, who accepted that as an invitation to join the small family group. He sat next to Thea.

  With a great deal of consideration, Jonathan said, “What are we to call you, my lord?”

  Neal had not thought of this. “I shall be your stepfather. I promise I will treat you as my own. What would you like to call me?”

  “I want to call you Lyon,” Christopher declared. “Mrs. Clemmons was reading a story to us about a lion. He was a big cat, and he roars.” He showed what he meant by giving a loud roar.

  Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Ever since Mrs. Clemmons read that story, that is all he does.”

  His brother’s response was to laugh and roar again. Neal found himself laughing as well. He couldn’t help himself. Christopher looked so proud of his new talent, and Jonathan was so aggrieved by it, that Neal was reminded of himself and Harry when they were younger. Neal had forgotten about those days. That was before their father had burdened them with the curse and before the busyness of their lives had caught up with them.

  “Roar once more,” Neal urged Christopher.

  The boy shot a triumphant look at Jonathan and roared the loudest and best roar yet.

  “Call me Lyon,” Neal said and held his hand out to each of the boys. They would be his sons. They would also be free of the curse. The realization was revolutionary. They had a future.

  Jonathan solemnly placed his hand in Neal’s. Christopher copied him, an impish grin on his face. Jonathan would always see the serious side of life, and Christopher, well, he would be Jonathan’s Harry, and Neal couldn’t stop from pulling them both into his arms. He had sons.

  Glory of all glories, they hugged him in return, while Thea stood to the side with the dreamiest glow of pride Neal had ever seen on anyone’s face. Of course, the only thing left to do was to include her in the hug.

  “Shouldn’t your mother be in the hug?” Neal wondered.

  “Join us, Mother,” Jonathan ordered, losing his earlier reserve and starting to show boyish eagerness. Neal understood. The oldest always had to be the most cautious. He’d have to make the first move with Jonathan. Christopher, of course, acted according to however he felt at the moment. So like Harry.

  Thea did as commanded, and Neal found his arms full of family. A pleasure he’d not ever known before settled around him, and Neal could have stayed embraced in their hugs forever.

  His wife was more practical. “We must not be a burden to Lady Palmer any longer,” she said, breaking up the hug.

  “Oh, poo,” Mirabel said. “I adore having company. Stay for dinner.”

  Her offer was tempting. Neal had deliberately put off thinking of his sister and brother’s reaction to his marriage. He’d sent a messenger the day before to inform them of his intentions, including whom he was marrying. He anticipated a howl of protest from Harry.

  However, sooner or later he had to face them, and it might as well be sooner. Mirabel gave them each a kiss as they parted company—even Neal.

  The boys were excited to ride in the coach.

  “Where are we going to live?” Jonathan asked.

  “In my house,” Neal said.

  Christopher’s eyes rounded with delight, and even Jonathan sat up straighter and looked out the window with anticipation.

  Thea’s hand found Neal’s. She gave him a squeeze that said thank you. She was happy, and since making her happy made him happy, he raised her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her fingertips.

  The Chattan town home was one of the largest in London. The step boasted a huge, carved stone portico and double doors of varnished oak.

  This time Jonathan did not hold back his emotions as he climbed out of the coach onto the walk. “We’re living here?”

  “Yes,” Neal said. “Welcome home.”

  Both boys stood on the front step, their heads leaning back as they looked up at the portico, exclaiming over the size of the wrought-iron lamp hanging there.

  Neal turned his attention to the front door. Usually a servant opened the door the moment a coach pulled up. However, it was still closed. Bonner was as surprised as Neal, although Neal didn’t want to say anything in front of Thea and her sons.

  The thought crossed his mind that Margaret might attempt to lock them out. She could be that stubborn and protective, but it wouldn’t make sense. His sister wouldn’t openly defy him. No, she’d give him a tongue lashing in private. He decided he’d best keep the boys close to him. Not even Margaret could be immune to their enthusiasm, and they might offer him a spot of protection.

  Lifting Christopher up in his arms, Neal tried the handle. The front door was unlocked. He opened it. The front hall was empty. “Hello?” he called. “Dawson?”

  No one answered.

  He smiled at Thea. “Dawson, our butler, is usually at the front door. I don’t know where he is up and about.” Bonner and the coachman were making arrangements to bring in what luggage they had to the servants’ entrance.
/>   “Come into the side room,” Neal said, indicating a well-furnished sitting room in tasteful blue and green. He wasn’t particularly fond of the colors, but his mother had done the decorating. As Thea and the boys walked into the room, he realized how out of place they looked with so much formality.

  “You have carte blanche with the house,” he said. “Choose the colors you like, the furniture. It makes no difference to me. I think I would like a change.”

  “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.”