Chapter Two
Portia threw her hands up in the air to protect herself . . . but the accident did not happen. Hard hooves did not strike her.
The rider pulled back with all his might, heaving the giant horse away from her. The steed reared and twisted midair. The flailing of hooves was so close to Portia’s head she could feel their movement in the air and smell the sweat of the beast.
Then, out of sheer athleticism, the horse turned away. It started to slide, losing its balance on the muddy road, but regained his footing.
The man never lost his seat. Indeed, he barely moved. He rode as if he and the horse were one.
She lowered her arms, amazed she was safe.
The horse pranced in place, the white of its eyes rolling. The rider’s scowl was so deep and angry it was more frightening than the near accident.
“Don’t you have sense to stay out of the road?” he demanded in a harsh voice that could have belonged to the devil himself.
He didn’t wait for her defense but put heels to flank and went riding away in a flurry of hooves and dirt, the hem of his greatcoat flying behind him like a cape.
Portia watched him go . . . and then came as close as she ever had in her life to fainting.
“Miss Maclean,” she heard a man shout. “Are you all right?”
Dazed, Portia turned toward the sound to see Laird Macdonald’s gardener Robbie running toward her.
“I saw what happened,” Robbie said in his brogue. “I was thinking for certain you were going to be trampled.”
“I was as well,” Portia said. Her legs had begun to shake.
“Here, miss, take me arm.”
Gratefully, Portia did as suggested. He led her toward the stone manse that served as Laird Alexander Macdonald’s seat as well as an inn since the laird proudly honored the Highland custom of an open house.
Laird Macdonald was a young man and had great plans for Glenfinnan. These included the building of a proper inn and a monument to his ancestors who had served the Jacobite call. It appeared almost complete. The tower and building overlooked the loch and could be seen from the house.
Portia thought it rather silly of the laird to build such a tower. Yes, she had Scottish roots but held English loyalties—and the ’45 uprising was not something she thought a prudent man should commemorate. Of course, her opinion was not shared by most of the valley and she kept it to herself.
Then again, no one had ever accused Laird Alexander Macdonald of Glenalladale of being prudent.
He was a rake through and through, a man who owed everyone money, including the Bishop of Lismore.
Fortunately for Portia’s peace of mind, the laird had been spending the majority of his time in Edinburgh, or else, such was his reputation, they would have had to lock up Minnie.
Mrs. Margaret Macdonald, the laird’s housekeeper, held the door open for them.
She was a robust woman with a frizz of strawberry curls beneath her mob cap.
“I saw what happened. I was looking out the window and I saw that bounder almost bowl you over. Here, come in, Miss Maclean. A bit of whiskey will make you feel right,” she promised in her lilting accent.
Before Portia could blink, she’d been gently set in a chair before the fire in the sitting room, and a dram of amber whiskey had been pushed into her hand. “Drink,” Mrs. Macdonald ordered. She and Robbie had poured a dram for themselves as well.
Portia took a tentative sip. Whiskey drinking was not a habit she’d cultivated yet.
It seemed to her that everyone, man, woman and child across the countryside, indulged in whiskey a wee bit too much.
However, this time the whiskey was appreciated.
The smoky flavor of it did not put her off, and the warmth that spread to her limbs helped restore her frayed nerves.
Her legs stopped shaking and she found breathing easier.
“Who was that man?” she asked the servants.
“A Chattan,” Robbie answered, spitting the word out.
“A Chattan?” Portia repeated.
“Yes, he’s Colonel Harry Chattan. And they are not all bad, Robbie,” Mrs. Macdonald said. “There is a good line of them.”
“Aye, the Scottish ones. Fought alongside us in ’45. But he’s of English line. Traitors all,” Robbie said, spitting in actuality this time, aiming for the hearth. Portia was surprised Mrs. Macdonald didn’t want his hide for spitting in her clean house.
The rain threatening all morning finally came. The sound of it made this meeting in the sitting room more intimate, and slightly more sinister.
“What would an English Chattan be doing in Glenfinnan?” Portia asked.
“He’s witch hunting,” Mrs. Macdonald said.
For a second, Portia wasn’t certain she’d heard her correctly. She almost laughed until she realized the Scots were serious.
Robbie had taken a seat on a footstool close to Portia’s chair. He placed a knowing finger against the side of his nose. “And well he should.”
“Has he found any?” Portia had to ask, expecting the answer to be no. There was no such thing as a witch.
“We steered him to Crazy Lizzy, but he wasn’t satisfied,” Mrs. Macdonald answered.
“Lizzy is not a witch,” Portia said. “Granted she’s not all there, either.
” Crazy Lizzy was an old woman who lived in a hut in the woods.
She spent the day talking to herself but she was harmless.
Portia tried to take a food basket to her at least once a week, and she wasn’t the only one.
Mrs. Macdonald was known to send loaves of bread to the poor soul.
“I know that,” Mrs. Macdonald said, “but the man was offering three hundred pounds sterling. I thought it worth the effort.”
Portia almost fell from the chair. “Three hundred pounds.” With three hundred pounds, the rent would be paid and they wouldn’t have to worry about money for years. No more worries, no more debtors, no more struggle.
“Why is he looking for a witch?” Portia asked.
“Because he is cursed,” Robbie answered, sitting back on the stool and crossing both arms and legs.
“Cursed?” This time Portia did laugh. Neither Robbie nor Mrs. Macdonald joined her.
“You can make light of it, Miss Maclean, but be certain the English Chattans don’t. ’Tis all Charles Chattan’s fault. He handfasted himself to a Scottish lass but betrayed her love when he and his kin went running to England to marry him to an English heiress.”
“When did this happen?” Portia asked.
“Hundreds of years ago,” Robbie answered.
“Then why does it matter?”
Robbie stared at her as if she was a fool. “It has never stopped mattering,” he said. “The Scottish lass took her own life. Everyone knows the story.”
Mrs. Macdonald nodded agreement.
“I don’t know it,” Portia said.
A gleam came to Robbie’s eyes. He had the Highlanders’ love of a good tale. He uncrossed his legs and leaned toward her. “The Scottish lass’s love was true and when Chattan betrayed her, she threw herself from a tower.”
“Aye, sad thing it was, the poor little dear,” Mrs. Macdonald said.
“Did this happen here?” Portia asked.
“No one is certain,” Robbie answered. “The lass was known as Rose of the Macnachtan, and a bonny lass she was. They say she was the most lovely flower in Scotland and had a gift.”
Portia frowned. “A gift?”
“For the sight,” Robbie answered. “For things that we mere mortals cannot imagine. Her mother was a witch and a powerful one, they say. She had her daughter’s beautiful body burned on a shore of a loch and she stood on a rock overlooking the funeral pyre.
On that rock, she cursed the English Chattans before she leaped from that rock onto her daughter’s own burning body. ”
No image could be more horrifying to Portia’s always active imagination. The room had seemed to darken. The flames in the hearth leaped and danced as if saying, Yes, it is so.
“How are they cursed?” Portia asked Robbie.
“When a Chattan falls in love, he is struck dead. The witch wanted to curse them good. She wanted them to suffer for all time in the way she suffered.”
Logic scoffed at the story. This could not be true.
And yet, here, in this room, with Mrs. Macdonald’s head nodding to the particulars of Robbie’s story, Portia would not be human if she didn’t feel a shiver of foreboding.
“Did the faithless lover, this Charles, die?” Portia wanted to know.
“He did,” Robbie assured her.
“And are the Chattans still dying?” Portia wondered.
Robbie smiled with ghoulish delight. “Chattan is here looking for a witch, isn’t he?
” He sat back, reaching for his whiskey.
“We used to have many Chattans in these parts. We lost a good number of them in ’15 and in ’45.
Almost wiped out the clan. They were puny fighters.
A good number left with John Macdonald when he went to the colonies.
Of course, the English Chattans don’t care.
They’ve been living the good life in London and beyond, counting their money and the days they have left. ” He cackled his pleasure.
But Portia’s mind was no longer focused on the curse. Perhaps it was the whiskey, or maybe the rain and the telling of the story, or perhaps it was her own desperate circumstances . . . but an idea began to form, an idea so daring, it shocked her.
“And this Chattan almost ran me over because he couldn’t find a witch?” Portia heard herself asking.
“I don’t know, Miss Maclean,” Mrs. Macdonald said. “The post left a letter for him here. He read it, crumpled it in his hand, stormed out of the house, and went tearing away as if no one else in the world mattered. Oh, foul of mood he was, and that’s why he almost ran you down.”
“He must have received bad news,” Portia said.
Robbie dismissed the idea with a sharp wave of his hand. “Who cares what news Chattan has received? I say good riddance to him. He had clansmen die fighting in ’45, and not a member of his family lifted a finger to help them.”
Portia smiled agreement but she didn’t have a care about Chattan loyalties. He was a wealthy man looking for a witch—and she was a woman with a book of spells.