“When a Chattan falls in love, he is struck dead. The witch wanted to curse them good. She wanted them to suffer foralltime 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 thedaysthey 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.
She really hadn’t had a chance to read the book all the way through. She and Minnie had studied it one night and had a grand time. There were all sorts of recipes in it. The most amusing were the potions and poultices that promised to heal everything from a wart on the sole of one’s foot to a broken heart, each using the same three ingredients—moss, something called “dittany ofcrete,” and sage. The sisters had surmised it was the words one chanted that mattered, and the feelings when they were said.
Then, there were the more “witchy” recipes that were for those who dabbled in spells a good Christian would not touch, unless she was desperate for money.
It had been those spells that had made both her and Minnie uncomfortable. The book had been tucked away beneath Portia’s bed and had not been pulled out since.
Portia thought of the letter to her uncle and knew it would not be answered, just as her previous pleas to him had been ignored. If her family was to survive, she needed to be bold.
“Is the Englishman staying here?” she asked Mrs. Macdonald.
“No, he’s with that English general that moved to the valley, say what? The early part of the summer?”
Portia’s heart sank. General Montheath.
The general had been a childhood acquaintance of her mother’s and had nursed an unrequited love for her all these decades and had sought her out on the flimsiest of excuses. When they moved to Scotland, he had not been far behind. However, he never called upon her. Instead, he hovered around her every chance he could, such asat church, moving with a stealth that made Portia and Minnie believe he feared pressing his attentions in any manner lest their mother banish him completely.
In truth, their mother was oblivious to such slavish devotion. She ignored him. Portia and Minnie felt a bit sorry for him—Minnie more so than Portia. If the man would call or take some sort of action, Portia could have been more sympathetic to his suit. As it was, she thought him a touch pathetic.
Of course, that didn’t mean she couldn’t act on the plan hatching in her mind.
It was so clear to her. So simple.
She could become the witch.
And the results might save them all.
Portia rose from the chair. “I must be going. Thank you for your assistance,” she said to Robbie and Mrs. Macdonald. “I’m feeling much better now.” She started for the door, pulling her cloak hood up over her head.
“But it is still raining,” Mrs. Macdonald protested.
“Merely a mist,” Portia answered, and then she remembered the letter to Uncle Ned. She pulled it from her pocket along with the coin. It wouldn’t hurt to send it. “I brought this for the post.”
Mrs. Macdonald, who had risen along withRobbie to see her to the door, took the letter from her. “I’ll see to it.”
