Portia made an impatient sound at his commonsense response.
“Well?” he prompted.
“I told them I was taking a basket to Lizzy.”
“Crazy Lizzy?”
“You’ve met her?”
“I have met every woman people thought could be possessed in some way or the other,” he answered, and then took her arm, leading her over to a three-legged stool by the bothy’s cold hearth. “Sit here and trust me when I say I will see you home, and well before dark.”
Portia tried to turn back to the door. “That will not work. If Lady Emma catches wind of this, there will be an uproar.”
He held fast to her arm, not letting her escape. “No one will see me return you home. And as for the duke’s spoiled daughter, I won’t let her harm you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Please, just a moment more of your time.”
“There is no such thing as a witch,” she said, the words bursting out of her. “And Fenella, who created your curse, is dead. Gone. She isn’t a cat and she doesn’t exist now.”
“I understand your doubt,” he said. “I would be the same way if I was not involved in this. But if I don’t find a way to break this curse, my brother will die and his son will bear the mark as well and it will continue on. Please, stay a moment and hear the story. I’ll see you home without anyone being the wiser. I promise.”
She should leave ... but curiosity led her to sink down to the stool.
“Thank you,” he said, and he sounded as if he truly meant the words. He sat on the ground in front of her, crossing his booted legs so he could cradle the book in his lap.
“Fenella had a daughter named Rose who loved Charles Chattan of Glenfinnan. She claimed they were handfasted, which at the time, to Rose, was the same as being married.”
“I’ve heard the story. It’s common knowledgeamongst the locals. They think Charles was a traitorous scoundrel.”
“I believe he probably cared for Rose but he didn’t consider them betrothed. Or perhaps he did. We Chattan men are capable of being scoundrels.”
He gave a self-deprecating smile as he said this, but Portia wasn’t so certain he wasn’t giving her a warning as well.
The colonel continued. “Charles’s parents managed to contract a marriage to an English heiress for him. He chose to do as his parents asked, which was reasonable, especially for the day and age—”
“Protesting too much?” she suggested.
“Perhaps. I wasn’t there, and I was teasing about Chattan men being scoundrels.”
“I’m not so certain,” she murmured. He frowned. “I was told she jumped from a tower.” He nodded. “She had to have been heartbroken...” She paused.
“What is it?”
“Let me see the book.” He handed it to her and she turned to the page with the spell and the word “Charles” written in the tearstained margin. “Could this be from her?” She handed the book back.
His reaction would have been the same if she had given him the crown jewels. “Yes, Rose could have written this.” He traced the writing as if he could divine something of that woman from centuries ago.
Portia felt her eyes fill with tears. “Hers is a terrible story.”
“It happened a long time ago,” the colonel said.
“I know, but I can imagine how she must have felt.” And Portia could, especially with him sitting so close. She barely knew him, and yet all he had to do was touch her and she threw aside convention and priorities. Of course, she didn’t love Colonel Chattan. She hadn’t known him long enough to love him ... and she would not be so foolish as to do so.
However, she did understand how powerful Charles Chattan’s betrayal must have been, given Rose’s love for him.
“Tell me about the curse,” she said. She’d remembered the story from Mrs. Macdonald’s telling but she wished to hear what he had to say.
“Fenella was angry,” he said, “and she wanted revenge. She ordered a funeral pyre built for her daughter’s body. As a suicide Rose couldn’t be buried on church ground, so Fenella honored the old ways. They say she cursed Charles Chattan asher daughter’s body burned and then she leaped onto the fire itself and died with her daughter.”
“That’s terrible.”
