She’d been so vibrant, so beautiful, it was hard for him to imagine her not in this life.
“There’s more,” Drummond said, breaking the silence. “ ’Tis why my father sent me. Rose’s mother, Fenella, has cursed you.”
“Cursed me?” Charles raised a distracted hand to his head, combing his hair back with his fingers. “Yes, she should.” His voice almost broke. He could not cry, not here in front of Drummond.
Not in front of anyone.
He would have to mourn Rose with his silence. There was too much at stake. His English father-in-law would not want his daughter’s husband weeping for another woman.
Charles had loved Rose with all his being. He’d meant those handfasted vows they’d spoken between them. But there had been no formality, no witnesses. They’d been words shared between two lovers who had believed the world encompassed each other and nothing else.
He was wiser now. His parents had never liked Rose. They thought the Macnachtan a rebellious, coarse lot. They did not want their son and heir breeding with her.
When the very wealthy, very powerful English Earl of Lyon had approached Laird Chattan about matching Charles to his daughter, the answer had been yes.
These were uncertain times in the English court. Buckingham had been assassinated and the king was at odds with Parliament over the levying of taxes on the nobility. There was fear of a Catholic uprising.
Lyon had decided Scottish ties could protect his legacy by giving him an escape if England turned to civil war. He’d remembered Charles when he and his father had been presented at court. It was not vanity for Charles to admit he was a handsome young man. Lyon’s daughter Patience was not attractive. She had buck teeth and weak eyes but Charles was confident his line would breed strength, and looks, into her.
In return for the marriage, Lyon offered a generous dowry that would add greatly to the Chattan coffers and, more importantly, the opportunity of a title. Procured for a very large sum of money was a royal prerogative granting the rights of Lyon’s title to be passed down to Charles and Patience’s firstborn son, a son yet to be conceived. Charles’s parents urged him to waste no time in seeing that matter done. They liked England and enjoyed the delights of the city. They wished to remain there . . . something Charles knew his cousin Drummond and his clansmen would not admire.
He looked to Drummond now. “If I know Fenella, she’ll curse me every day of her life.”
“No, she’ll not be able to do that, Charlie. The witch died by her own hand as well.”
“What?”
“Rose couldn’t be buried on holy ground, so Fenella had a funeral pyre built along Loch Awe’s shore.”
“She burned her daughter?”
“ ’Tis the old way.”
“ ’Tis the devil’s way,” Charles shot back.
“Aye, well, you won’t like the rest of it then.”
Charles sat in his chair. “Tell me.”
“While her daughter’s body burned, Fenella placed a curse upon you, Charlie, and upon your line. She then threw herself upon the fire and left this world burning with her daughter. They say her scream still echoes in the air.”
The horror robbed Charles of breath. “How could she do that?”
“Rose was her favorite.”
“But it’s madness.”
Drummond faced him, his expression bleak. “No madness is the curse, Charlie. Fenella’s words damned you.”
“She would.” Charles reached for the wine bottle and drank from it.
“She had a power, one that seemed stronger than most.”
“I don’t know that I believe in witches,” Charles said. God, Rose dead. Why?
“Her curse was that if you fall in love, you will die.”
Drummond looked so concerned, Charles said, “You needn’t worry there. My marriage is one of advantage. I have no love for my wife although she receives my high regard.”
“The curse isn’t just on you, Charlie, but on your line as well. Be wary.”
Charles shook his head, suddenly overcome with grief. He could not stay here a moment longer lest he shame himself as a man. He needed to be alone. This was all too much to absorb. He didn’t know what to think, what to believe. He stood. “The night porter will see to your bed, Drummond. Thank you for coming.” It hurt his chest to speak. He didn’t wait for an answer but stumbled toward the door.
It took all his strength to hold himself together until he reached the sanctuary of his bedroom. All was quiet, the fire in the hearth the only light. He fell onto his knees on the patch of rug in front of it—and the tears came. Big, choking sobs. He could not control them. They racked his body, releasing his grief to the world.
His Rose, his beautiful Rose. How could he have betrayed her love?
He’d meant those vows he’d made when they handfasted to each other. She was the only one who held his heart and now she was gone from him forever.
’Twas his father’s doing that Charles hadn’t married her. He’d swayed Charles by telling him the oldest had responsibilities. And it had been Charles’s own vanity. He’d sold his soul for a title for his sons, and Rose had paid the price—
“Charles, what is it?”
Patience’s sweet voice made him realize he was not alone. She must have heard his grieving from her room that adjoined his.
Hurriedly, he tried to gather himself up. He swiped his shirtsleeve across his ravaged face. “Nothing.”
He felt Patience kneel on the floor behind him. He pressed his lips together, willing himself not to break.
She placed her arms around his shoulders, leaning her head next to his. “What is it, Charles?” she asked in her soft, gentle voice. “What grieves you so?”
He knew he shouldn’t tell her. It would not be wise. A man didn’t speak of past loves to his wife, and yet he could not help himself. He told her of Rose. He babbled of her, anguished tears breaking him down.
And Patience, dear, plain, sweet Patience, held him in her arms and listened.
She listened. Nothing more, nothing less.
But it was what Charles needed.
And when he was done, when his grief had its run, she told him it was all right. “She knows you love her, Charles. She knows that now.”
“Her soul cannot be in heaven—”
Patience shushed his fear. They lay beside each other on the rug before the hearth, her arms still around him. “I cannot believe God would not forgive her. Her heart was broken, Charles, and no woman can bear a broken heart.”
“I did that to her.”
“You did,” his wife agreed, “but you did it innocently. She was very lovely?”
He nodded.
“Then you may have assumed that someday she would find another to love. It would have been expected.”
“Yes, that is what I thought, what I hoped,” Charles whispered.
“Then it is not your fault she made a different choice,” his wife said, soothing him. “It is not your fault.” She kissed him then, a kiss that grew heated until they began making love right there on the floor.
His body responded. He grew hard and needy. He was young and strong and very male. A woman mourns a death, a man must replace. It was the way God made them.
As he entered his wife, it was as if Charles was coming home. Patience was kind. She was good. She was willing. She would never cause him the pain Rose had.
And in the moment when he watched his wife’s plain face grow beautiful in the ecstasy of desire, Charles felt in himself the first stirrings of love. It was that easy.
His father had been right to steer him toward the Lyon heiress. She was good for him. He would be good for her.
He would love her.
Six months to the date after his wedding, Charles Chattan died. His heart stopped. He was sitting at his table, ac
cepting congratulations from his dinner guests over the news his wife was breeding, when he fell facedown onto his plate.
The news of his death shocked many. He had been a vital, handsome man with much to live for. Had he not recently declared to many of his friends that he’d fallen in love with his new wife? How could God cut short his life, especially when he was so happy?
The only clue to his being unwell was that he had complained of a burning sensation in his left arm. It had been uncomfortable but his physician could find nothing wrong with him.
However, Chattan’s marriage was not in vain. Seven months after his death, his wife bore a son to carry on the Chattan name . . . a son who also bore a curse.
And so it continued. They tried to stop the curse. Generation after generation attempted to break the witch’s spell, and did not succeed.
Such was the power of Fenella.
The last days of December
1814
Margaret Chattan knew she was going to die.
She closed her eyes, pain searing through her body. Bones were broken. Her head hurt. Sleet fell down upon her but its coldness was no match for the numb certainty inside her that this was the end of her life.
The violence of the storm had caught them unawares. She’d been on her way to Loch Awe with coach, servants, and outriders. She’d felt completely safe in spite of undertaking this journey to battle a witch. Her brothers’ lives were at stake and she’d stop at nothing to save them.
The road had been a good one through the mountains. Her drivers had not been worried even when the storm’s winds had increased. The outriders, of course, traveled with the coach. They were all safer together.
And then, it was as if the storm had formed a huge hand and swept Margaret’s coach and all the horses and all the men off the road. They’d gone tumbling down a granite slope. Margaret could still hear the screams of the horses, the shouts of the others, the breaking of wood as her coach had fallen apart.
She and her abigail, Smith, had been trapped in the coach. They’d been tossed over and over with the crashing wood until there came a moment when Margaret felt as if she’d been flung into the air.
How long she’d been unconscious, she did not know. When she’d regained her senses, it was to see Smith’s face not far from her own, the maid’s lifeless eyes wide with terror.
Here and there was a moan, or was that the wind through the trees? There was no stirring, no movement of life.
Her coach had been pushed off the road in a manner that defied any explanation devised by men—and Margaret knew it was Fenella.
The witch meant to claim them all.
The curse would live on.
Margaret had done nothing to stop it. She’d been prevented before she could try. She began to cry, silent tears that felt hot against her cold cheeks. She didn’t cry for herself. No, she wept for her brothers’ wives and the sons they would bear who would be marked with the curse.
And she would die here at the base of this mountain, alone.
A purring caught her attention.
Owl, the little cat that had stowed away in her coach. The cat with the funny, deformed ears and large, sad eyes. She’d forgotten about the animal.
The cat nudged her cheek, and then gave it a lick as if to wipe away the tears. Margaret yearned to touch Owl’s soft fur and gather her up, but she could not move. Her arms were broken.
She felt Owl’s breath upon her skin. The cat nestled itself into the space between Margaret’s chin and shoulder. The purring grew louder and Margaret found herself thanking God she would not die alone.
Warmth replaced coldness. The purring vibrated through Margaret’s being as she blissfully slipped from consciousness, her last thought being that she did not want to die . . .
Don’t miss the next
romantic adventure in
Cathy Maxwell’s
Chattan Curse series
The Devil’s Heart
Coming 2013
from Avon Books
You also won't want to miss
Lyon's Bride,
the first installment in
Cathy Maxwell's
Chattan Curse series.
Available now from Avon Books!
About the Author
CATHY MAXWELL spends hours in front of her computer pondering the question, “Why do people fall in love?” It remains for her the great mystery of life and the secret to happiness. She lives in beautiful Virginia with children, horses, dogs, and cats.
Fans can contact Cathy at www.cathymaxwell.com or PO Box 1135, Powhatan, VA 23139.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
By Cathy Maxwell
The Chattan Curse
The Scottish Witch
Lyon’s Bride
Coming Soon
The Devil’s Heart
The Seduction of Scandal
His Christmas Pleasure
The Marriage Ring
The Earl Claims His Wife
A Seduction at Christmas
In the Highlander’s Bed
Bedding the Heiress
In the Bed of a Duke
The Price of Indiscretion
Temptation of a Proper Governess
The Seduction of an English Lady
Adventures of a Scottish Heiress
The Lady Is Tempted
The Wedding Wager
The Marriage Contract
A Scandalous Marriag
Married in Haste
Because of You
When Dreams Come True
Falling in Love Again
You and No Other
Treasured Vows
All Things Beautiful
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from The Devil’s Heart copyright © 2013 by Catherine Maxwell, Inc.
THE SCOTTISH WITCH. Copyright © 2012 by Catherine Maxwell, Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition NOVEMBER 2012 ISBN: 9780062070265
Version 12072102
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062070234
FIRST EDITION
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Dear Reader---
What is life without love? And even if you could accept living without this emotion the poets praise, would you choose to exist that way?
Those two questions are behind the Chattan Curse series. As a writer, I play with themes, tossing them around in my mind. People ask me where I get my ideas and the truth is they are everywhere. They flow into my life. It took me a long time to realize that not everyone’s brain is wired like mine. Something catches my imagination and—whoosh—a story starts spinning in my head. (We call that characteristic the “writer’s imagination” and if you have it, welcome to my world.)
But I know I’ve stumbled onto something meaningful when the inkling of a story idea becomes unshakable. It begins to build and reveal itself. I’ll
overhear a snippet of conversation or an article will come my way that will add a new layer of understanding to the theme. Or in early morning hours, scenes begin playing in my still sleepy mind with such vibrancy, I wake and must work.
LYON’S BRIDE, THE SCOTTISH WITCH, and THE DEVIL’S HEART took hold in just such a way. They were borne out of a very personal story. I lost my husband when my youngest was in the beginning of her teenagedom, you know, the period of time when everything is confusing. In the intervening years, I’ve watched all three of my children go through the trials of finding meaningful love-and succeed—but there were many periods of doubt and time spent wondering if what everyone claims about this powerful emotion is true. You know what I mean. I’m talking about searching for life’s purpose and realizing that love is in some way tied up in it. And then imagine how you would feel if you had a mother who believes love is the only true measure to a well-lived life.
It is a challenge to be one of my kids!
So, here is what I tell them: I’ve come to realize love is a word of action. It is not a noun. You can say, “here is my love,” but it smacks of a material possessiveness that is a bit terrifying. After all, if you are trying to keep love, what do you feed it? How do you sustain it through all that life tosses at you? What happens if it starts to die? Does something inside you die with it?
I urge my children to go out into the world and love in the fullest sense of the word: Embrace your lives. Indulge in your passions. Build your community. Satisfy your senses with art and experiences and people and pets and things that make you laugh and even challenges that make you cry. Then you are loving and it is a grand place to be.
But all of us long to be important to one special person, no matter what age we are. I find myself back in the dating world and this was not how I’d seen my future. Life does have a way of delivering surprises. I began wondering if, having had one incredible love in my life, if I would ever love and be loved again?
I now must remind myself of the advice I’d offered my kids. I have to remember love is not easy. It can’t be found just anywhere. It takes time to find someone who is a good mate, and it also demands a great deal from the person searching for love. After all, what am I bringing to the table in a relationship? And, I want to be accepted, but how accepting am I?
Lyon's Bride and The Scottish Witch with Bonus Material (Promo e-Books) Page 47