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

  Lyon’s Bride and The Scottish Witch with Bonus Material

  New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author

  Cathy Maxwell

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Lyon’s Bride: The Chattan Curse

  Dedication

  The Curse

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Harry

  About the Author

  By Cathy Maxwell

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  The Scottish Witch: The Chattan Curse

  Dedication

  The Curse

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Margaret

  An Excerpt from The Devil’s Heart

  Lyon’s Bride announcement page

  About the Author

  By Cathy Maxwell

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  Dear Reader Letter

  Field Notes from Loch Awe Research Trip

  Loch Awe in the Afternoon

  Loch Awe in the Morning

  The Shore of Loch Awe

  Innis Chonnell Ruins

  Brainstorming the Book

  Inspiration for the Forest

  St. Conan’s Kirk

  Vegetation

  Wooden Doorway

  Stone Steps

  Church Pews

  Red Door

  The Cloister

  Carved Roof

  Rosetta Window

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Dedication

  To my travel buddy—Judy Gomes Rogers

  I am wealthy in my friends.

  Contents

  Dedication

  The Curse

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Harry

  About the Author

  By Cathy Maxwell

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  The Curse

  Macnachtan Keep

  Scotland, 1632

  A mother knows. ’Tis the curse of giving birth.

  She feels life enter this world, a knife-sharp pain and one gladly borne for the outcome. She nurtures, protects and prays for her child’s safekeeping with every breath she draws . . . and so is it any wonder she would also sense, know, the moment that precious life is cut short?

  Fenella, the wife of the late Laird Macnachtan, was in the south gallery where the sun was best, plying her needle when terror seized her heart. She looked to her kinswomen, all gathered around for an afternoon chat as was their custom. These were her husband’s cousins, his sisters, and her daughters Ilona and Aislin—

  “Where’s Rose?”

  A mother should not have a favorite, but Fenella did.

  Her other daughters were merry and bright, but Rose was special. She shared her mother’s gift of healing. Fenella had delighted in the realization that the powers of her mother and her nain—her grandmother—now flowed through her to her youngest. Rose would be “the one” to receive the Book That Contained All Knowledge.

  Of course, Rose’s golden beauty was the stuff of legend, and that set her apart as well. The suitors for her hand had formed a line across the land, but there had only been one man for Rose—Charles Chattan of Glenfinnan.

  Rose’s love for Charles reminded Fenella so much of her younger self, that self who had challenged and won the heart of the handsome Macnachtan. That self who was willful and bold.

  But Chattan had proved a faithless lover. He’d handfasted himself to Rose and then accepted marriage to another—an Englishwoman from a family with power. Sassenach power.

  With a jolt, Fenella realized today was Charles and the Englishwoman’s wedding day. She should not have forgotten the fact. No wonder Rose had been so quiet this morning and was not here amongst the chatter of women this afternoon. Fenella’s worry eased a bit.

  Rose had loved Charles hard and well. Her heart hurt, but Fenella would see that Rose would recover. Thank the Lord, Macnachtan was not alive to witness the Chattans’ dishonoring of his daughter. It had been all Fenella could do to keep her sons from calling Charles out. She refused to spill her family’s blood over the traitor.

  She could not see Rose’s future—her gift failed her when she attempted to discern Fate—but there would be another love for Rose. There must be. The powerful gifts handed through accident of birth from one ancestress to another needed to take seed in Rose’s womb. . . .

  Suddenly a scream rose from the courtyard, an alarm of shock and grief.

  In that instant, Fenella’s foreboding gained life.

  The other women scrambled to their feet and ran to the window overlooking the stone courtyard. Fenella didn’t move. Her whole being centered on one whispered word. “Rose.”

  There were more shouts now. Fenella heard her son Michael call his sister’s name, heard weeping, wails of distress and mourning. Her kinswomen at the window threw themselves into shocked grief. They turned, looked at Fenella. Ilona, her face contorted, stumbled toward her mother. Aislin knelt, bowled over in pain.

  Fenella set aside her needlework.

  She did not want to go to that window.

  Tears burned her eyes. She held them back. She didn’t weep. Not ever. She’d not shed one tear for Macnachtan’s death. Death was part of life . . . that’s what Nain had said. One didn’t grieve for life.

  Fenella stood.

  It was hard to breathe.

  She walked to the window. Ilona held out her arms and then dropped them, as if knowing she could not stop her mother.

  Leaning forward, Fenella looked out upon the courtyard below.

  Rose’s body was sprawled there, her golden hair mingled with a stream of blood flowing from her head.

  Her dear daughter. Her darling, darling daughter.

  She’d thrown herself from the tower wall.

  She’d taken her own life.

  Michael looked up and saw his mother. Tears flowed freely down his face.

  He was so like his father—

  In that moment, Fenella’s legs gave out
beneath her. She fell to the cold stone floor.

  Nain was wrong. Grief could not be contained. It started as a small flame that grew larger and stronger until it consumed her.

  There was no doubt Rose of Loch Awe had taken her life because of Charles Chattan’s perfidy, no saving her memory from the disgrace of suicide.

  Fenella longed for the magic to reverse time and bring her daughter back to life.

  For the next three days she poured over her nain’s book. Certainly in all these receipts and spells for healing, for fortune, for doubts and fears, there must be one to cast off Death.

  The handwriting on those yellowed pages was cramped and in many places faded. Fenella had signed the front of the book but not referred to it often, at least not once she’d memorized the cures for fevers and agues that plagued children and concerned mothers.

  She’d been surprised to discover Rose had also been reading the book. She’d found where Rose had written the name Charles beside a spell to find true love. It called for a rose thorn to be embedded in the wax of a candle and burned on the night of a full moon.

  They found a piece of the burned candle, the thorn still intact, its tip charred, beneath Rose’s pillow.

  Fenella held the wax in the palm of her hand. Slowly, she closed her fingers around it into a fist and set aside mourning.

  In its place rose anger.

  ’Twas said the Chattan kin had run for England. The rest had scattered to other clans. They feared Fenella of the Macnachtan, and well they should. Grief made her mad.

  They thought themselves safe. They were not.

  There was no sacred ground for a suicide, but Fenella had no need of the church. She ordered a funeral pyre to be built for her daughter along the green banks of Loch Awe directly beneath a stony crag that looked down upon the shore.

  On the day of Rose’s burial, Fenella stood upon that crag, waiting for the sun to set. She wore the Macnachtan tartan around her shoulders. The evening wind toyed her gray hair held in place by a circlet of gold, gray hair that had once been as fair as Rose’s.

  At Fenella’s signal, her sons set ablaze a ring of bonfires she’d ordered constructed around Rose’s pyre. The flames leaped to life.

  “Rose.” Her name was sweet upon her mother’s lips.

  Did Chattan think he could hide in London? Did his father believe his son could jilt Rose without penalty? That her life had no meaning?

  That Macnachtan honor was a small thing?

  “I want him to feel my pain,” Fenella whispered.

  Ilona and Aislin stood by her side. They nodded.

  “He will not escape me,” Fenella vowed.

  “But he is gone,” Ilona said. “He has become a fine lord while we are left to weep.”

  Feeling the heat of the bonfires. She knew better.

  At last the moon was high in the sky. The time was right. Nain had said a witch knows when the hour is nigh. Tonight would be a night no one would forget. Ever.

  Especially Charles Chattan.

  The fires had drawn the curious from all over the kirk. They stood on the shore watching her. Fenella raised her hand. Her clansmen and her kin on the shore below fell silent. Michael picked up the torch and held it ready.

  She brought her hand down and her oldest lit his sister’s funeral pyre as instructed.

  ’Twas the ancient ways. There was no priest here, no clergy to call her out—and even if there was, Fenella’s power in this moment was too strong to be swayed. It coursed through her. It was the beating of her heart, the pulsing in the blood in her veins, the very fiber of her being.

  She stepped to the edge of the rock and stared down over the burning pyre. The flames licked the skirt of Rose’s white burial gown.

  “My Rose died of love,” she said. She whispered the words but then repeated them with a commanding strength. They carried on the wind and seemed to linger over Loch Awe’s moonlit waters. “A woman’s lot is hard,” she said. “ ’Tis love that gives us courage, gives us strength. My Rose gave the precious gift of her love to a man unworthy of it.”

  Heads nodded agreement. There was not a soul around who had not been touched by Rose. They all knew her gift of laughter, her kindness, her willingness to offer what help she could to others.

  Fenella reached a hand back. Ilona placed the staff that Fenella had ordered hewn from a yew tree and banded with copper. “I curse Charles Chattan.”

  Raising the staff, Fenella said, “I curse not just Chattan but his line. He betrayed her for a title. He tossed aside handfasted promises for greed. Now let him learn what his duplicity has wrought.”

  The moon seemed to brighten. The flames on the fires danced higher, and Fenella knew she was being summoned. Danse macabre. All were equal in death.

  She spoke, her voice ringing in the night.

  “Watchers of the threshold, Watchers of the gate,

  open hell and seal Chattan’s Fate.

  When a Chattan male falls in love,

  strike his heart with fire from Above.

  Crush his heart, destroy his line;

  Only then will justice be mine.”

  Fenella threw her staff down upon her daughter’s funeral pyre. The flames now consumed Rose. Fenella could feel their heat, smell her daughter’s scent—and she threw herself off the rock, following her staff to where it lay upon Rose’s breast. She grabbed her daughter’s burning body and clung fast.

  Together they left this world.

  Six months to the date after his wedding, Charles Chattan died. His heart stopped. He was sitting at his table, accepting 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 was so young. A vital, handsome man with so 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?

  But his 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 the curse.

  Chapter One

  London

  April 1814

  Thea Martin’s first thought upon receiving a letter from Sir James Smiley, Esq., renowned solicitor for Persons of Great Importance, was that her brother had hatched a new scheme to chase her out of London.

  Her hands shook as she broke the sealing wax. So far, her brother Horace had attempted to bar all doors to her, an effort that had not succeeded, since London loved nothing more than a scandal—and the feud between the mighty duke of Duruset and his disinherited sister was great fodder for gossip.

  Horace’s next action had been to block all reasonable landlords from letting to her. His machinations came to naught, because Thea was determined. London offered opportunities for her to make a living, something difficult for a penniless widow with children to do on her own elsewhere. This had been her home before she’d run away to marry Boyd Martin, and it offered the only hope for her small family’s future.

  Thea had found a tiny set of rooms for let in a shabby building in a less-than-respectable neighborhood. It meant she would keep her boys in all day instead of giving them a garden for play, but it was a start, and that had been what Thea had needed—a new beginning.

  Using the connections she’d made during her debutante years, she’d set about using the only skill she knew, matchmaking. She knew the ways of the ton, she knew marriage, and she understood the desperation of parents. She also knew how to be discreet.

  And if her brother was not pleased? Well, she was already disowned. What more could he do?

  Thea feared she’d discover the answer to that last question in Sir James’s letter.

  “What is it, Mother?” Jonathan asked. He was a bright, towheaded seven-year-old who wanted to be her protect
or. His brother, five-year-old Christopher, stood by his side, his little forehead wrinkled in concern. Their small family didn’t receive letters often.

  “I will tell you in a moment,” Thea murmured. “Are you waiting for my reply?” she asked the messenger, who still lingered in the hall with a distasteful sniff at his surroundings.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been ordered to return with your reply.”

  Thea forced herself to focus on Sir James’s slanting handwriting. He wanted to see her on “a matter of Some Importance.” He mentioned he was the uncle of Peter Goodfellow, for whom she had “performed a service that was nothing short of a Miracle” and that he hoped she’d be willing to “assist Someone again facing the same Situation.”

  Peter Goodfellow had been one of Thea’s matchmaking challenges. He was as tall as he was wide, had a squint, liked to pick at his face, and had a distressing tendency to burp. She’d found a wife for him, but it had not been an easy task. His family’s handsome commission had compensated for the difficulty. Thea wondered if this request could mean another large commission.

  Oh, were it to be so. She’d hidden most of the Goodfellow commission in her “Future Box,” the small, wooden money chest kept under the floorboard beneath her bed. Her goal was to see that both her sons received a gentleman’s education. Jonathan had an interview in a month’s time with the headmaster of Westminster School, a prestigious day school that would offer him the opportunity to meet boys from the right sort of families, families far different from those living in their present neighborhood.