“And it was very effective,” he agreed somberly. “She said that when a Chattan falls in love, he will die ... just as, I suppose, her Rose died.” He looked down at the page of the book again.
“And the curse always comes true?”
“Yes. Charles Chattan of Glenfinnan fell in love with his English heiress and dropped dead within a year of his marriage. His wife was carrying his son, a son that fell in love, and he, too, died, and so on. The pattern has been the same. A Chattan marries, his wife is with child, and then he dies. The pattern has been almost the same for nearly two centuries. My forebears have done everything they could think possible to break it.”
“You say almost two hundred years? When has it been different?”
“With my father. Before his time, the Chattans had sought the advice of priests, cardinals, bishops, the pope, self-proclaimed witches, Gypsies and fortune-tellers. They tried not to fall in love, and have always failed. Each time they have left behind a son who bears the weight of the curse. My grandfather and his father married women they could not abide. It was a hateful life and onethat led to their early deaths. My father followed in their steps, but he had a better temperament for keeping his distance from his wife. He’d been bred for that. Perhaps all of us have. You see, if death is the penalty for love, one learns not to love. One learns to guard his heart.”
“I can imagine,” she agreed.
“My father was the first of his line to have more than one son. There are three of us. My brother, Neal, myself, and my sister, Margaret. She is the first daughter to be born of our line in two hundred years. Then, after my mother died several years ago, my father did a very foolish thing.”
“He fell in love,” she surmised.
“Head tumbling over heels,” he confirmed, nodding. “With an opera dancer far younger than even myself.”
“And then did he die?”
“Within six months.” He closed the book, leaning toward her. “He wrote a letter to us to be opened upon his death. He said loving his wife, Cass, was worth death. He said life had been empty before her, that he’d done more living in the months he was with her than all the fifty-some years before his marriage.”
Portia sat a moment, studying him as she digested all that he’d said. His story was contraryto reason and nature. She could have dismissed it for a grand tale save his sincerity.
“My brother is in love,” he said. “He’s a good man, a noble one. I’m a wastrel and certainly of loose morals. I’ve cost men lives, drunk too much, had a taste for opium; I’m a sinner through and through and have deserved to die many times over. But Neal is one of the finest men in England. He doesn’t deserve this fate,” he said, tapping the cover of the book. “Especially for loving his wife, Thea. He should have a chance to see his son grow to manhood. If I don’t find a way to break this curse, his death will be on my head. I don’t know if I can live with that knowledge.”
“What of yourself? Do you carry the curse?”
“We don’t know,” he replied, his expression bleak. “Possibly. I am male; I am a Chattan. As for my sister, Margaret fears that even if she isn’t a part of the curse, she could carry the legacy of it. She fears for any children she could have.”
“She is married?”
“No, and she won’t. She and I both agree that none of us should have married and certainly we should not fall in love. We want the curse to end here, with us. But Neal didn’t agree. He wanted a son.” The colonel sounded as if he was amazed by the thought. “Thea is a widow and has two sonsby her previous marriage. Neal had told me they were enough for him, but Thea got with child almost immediately.”
His brows came together. He looked up at her, and then away. “I am usually careful when I’m with a lover.”
Portia felt heat flood her face. She clasped her hands in her lap, trying to be sensible about what they’d done.
“I don’t want bastards,” he said, “and I don’t have any.”
Well, there was comfort there ... she thought.
“I haven’t been so careful with you.” Now he was the one with a bit of color to his face. It made him appear more masculine, if that was possible. “We shall hope for the best,” he said. “However, I will meet my obligations.”
Obligations . . . a baby.
For a second, Portia knew fear.
“Well, this isn’t going to happen again,” she said quickly. “I don’t understand what comes over us, but it is out of my system.”
“Mine as well,” he assured her, then paused before adding, “but if it does happen again, I shall be more careful.”
Portia wished the floor of the room would open up and swallow her whole. She didn’t haveconversations with many men, let alone conversations like this. She wasn’t some sophisticated Londoner who dallied with lovers. She wasn’t even certain how he could avoid getting her with child, and her naivete embarrassed her all the more.
He shut the book and glanced toward the door. “We’d best leave if I’m to have you home before dark.” He stood and offered her his hand. “Thank you for this book and for hearing my story.”
Rising, Portia said, “I hope it may help.”
“I pray it does. My sister wrote and said that Neal is taking more and more to his bed. He grows weak quickly and so is trying to pace himself.”
