Lyon's Bride: The Chattan Curse

Dedication

To my travel buddy—Judy Gomes Rogers

I am wealthy in my friends.

Contents

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.

T
here 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.

S
ix 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

T
hea 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 protector. 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.

“Sir James wished to know if you could meet with him today at half past two,” the messenger said politely.

“Half past two?” Thea consulted the clock on the mantel over the hearth. It had been Boyd’s mother’s and was the nicest thing she owned. It was already one. “Yes, of course I can.” She reached for her reticule and pulled out a coin to tip the man.

The messenger smiled as he saw her open her purse, a smile that turned brittle at the small amount she placed in his palm. She knew what he was thinking, but she didn’t care. She must watch every penny.

“I shall return to him with your acceptance.” The messenger bowed and was on his way.

Thea shut the door. For a second, she allowed herself a moment’s relief over the letter not being from her brother—and then she danced a little jig. Christopher started dancing with her, his worry giving way to a huge smile.

“What was in the letter, Mother?” Jonathan asked, too dignified to join in their little party.

She knelt down to the level of her two handsome sons. “A chance to earn the money we need for your school fees.” She wrapped her arms around them and gave them both a big hug. “I was so worried, but God does provide.” Yes, yes, yes. She’d been living on what God provided ever since Boyd had abandoned them in Manchester right after Christopher was born.

“Do I still have the interview with the school next month?” Jonathan asked.

“Yes,” Thea said, “and you shall do very well. Westminster will be happy to have you. But first, I must see Sir James.” She was on her feet in a blink, her mind a flurry of activity.

She needed someone to watch her sons while she was out. She ran up the hallway stairs to Mrs. Hadley’s door. Mrs. Gray, Mrs. Hadley’s sister by marriage, answered. She’d only arrived last week, and Thea didn’t know very much about her except that her late husband had been a country vicar. She was a petite woman with a comfortable bosom and sad brown eyes.

“I am looking for Mrs. Hadley,” Thea said.

“Oh, she is off to care for my brother at the hospital,” Mrs. Gray replied. “You know how it is in those places. If your family doesn’t see to your care, you can rot.” Mr. Hadley suffered from consumption. Thea had been relieved when he’d been taken to the London Hospital, away from her boys, with his coughing and hacking.

“This is sad news,” Thea said. “I wanted to ask her to watch my sons while I ran an errand. Mrs. Hadley is usually home by now.”

“I don’t know what has been keeping her, but if it is help you need, I’ll watch your boys for you,” Mrs. Gray volunteered.

Thea’s first instinct was to refuse the kind offer. She hated leaving her sons alone at any time and was very particular about whom she asked for help.

However, this was a special circumstance.

“Are you certain it wouldn’t be a bother?” Thea asked. “I dislike imposing.”

“No trouble at all. I’ve seen your lads walking with you. They seem to be good boys.”

She had such a soft, melodic voice and grandmotherly way—and Thea really didn’t have another choice. Not on such short notice.

“Thank you,” Thea said, meaning the words. “I must change my dress, but if you could come down in ten minutes?”

“Of course I will.”

Thea didn’t waste another moment. She flew down the stairs, changed her into her best dress, a cambric gown in a brown with a reddish tint, then donned a very plain poke bonnet and dark green pelisse. Within ten minutes, convinced she looked every inch the part of a sensible matchmaker, Thea set off for Sir James’s offices on Beatty Street.

T
hea actually arrived a few minutes early for the interview.

The law offices of Sir James Smiley, Esq., consisted of two rooms. Sir James’s clerk sat at a desk in the first room. At her entrance, he jumped to his feet. He was all of seventeen, with a slender frame and straight blonde hair parted to one side. He pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Mrs. Martin? Sir James is waiting for you.”

Thea always used her married name. She never even thought of herself as Lady Thea, which had really been nothing more than a courtesy title, since she was the daughter of a duke. In truth, a true lady would never style herself above her husband, and at this point in her life, Thea was concerned about what was honest and real over “courtesy.” After all, her ducal father had disowned her, and, as Mrs. Martin, she was determined to stand on her own two feet . . . no matter how wobbly she felt doing so at times.

“I hope I’m not too late?” Thea said, nerves making her sound a bit breathless.

“You are right on time,” the clerk assured her. “One moment, please.” He crossed to the room’s other door, gave a knock and opened it. “Sir James, Mrs. Martin has arrived.”

“Send her in, send her in,” a hearty male voice ordered.

The secretary held open the door. “Mrs. Martin,” he announced, ushering her forward with a small sweep of his hand.

Her heart pounding in her ears, Thea crossed into the other room.

Sir James’s book-lined office was the typical sort one would expect from a solicitor. The desk was huge and covered with neatly stacked papers, the ink-and-quill stand was solid silver, and there was a side table for the wig stand that held the curled peruke of his profession. Two comfortable wooden chairs were arranged in front of the desk.

“Come in, come in,” Sir James said in greeting as he walked around the desk to welcome her.

He was a robust man with flinty blue eyes, a hawkish nose and an air that proclaimed him no one’s fool. “I’ve heard much about you, Mrs. Martin, and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Please, have a chair.”

Thea sat on the edge of the offered chair, holding her reticule in her lap with both gloved hands. Sir James took his seat behind his desk.

He smiled at her.

She smiled back, very nervous.

“I suppose you are wondering why I requested this interview?” he asked.

“You mentioned my assistance to Mr. Goodfellow,” she murmured.

“I’m his uncle, and only one as familiar as I was with the situation can truly appreciate the miracle you wrought. All of us in the family adore his wife, Emma. How you managed to convince her to marry him is beyond our understanding, but we are thankful you did. In fact, his mother, my sister, has suggested I should think about seeking your services. She claims I’m too old to continue bachelor ways, but I am not ready to hand over my freedom yet. By the way, did you hear that Peter and his wife are expecting their first child?” Sir James asked. “One can hope the child looks more like Emma than Peter.” He paused before adding thoughtfully, “You know, Emma seems to love him. She sees the better qualities in him.”

And finding a suitable husband without the aid of even a modest dowry meant Emma had little choice in husbands
Thea could have added, but didn’t. “How wonderful for them.”

“Yes, and when one of my clients mentioned he wished to find a wife to meet his most unusual specifications, I thought of you.”

“Thank you,” Thea said. She prayed this wasn’t going to be a task as difficult as Peter Goodfellow had been. “But exactly what is the gentleman looking for in a wife?”

Instead of answering, the lawyer straightened in his chair, listening.

Male voices came from the other room, one the clerk’s and the other a deep, well-modulated tone. Sir James smiled. “I’ll let him tell you himself. I believe you will be pleased. He won’t be as challenging a case as my nephew.” He rose and crossed the room, throwing open the door. “My lord,” he said in greeting. “Good of you to join us.”

“She’s here?” his lordship said.

Thea came to her feet. She caught a glimpse of the gentleman but could not see his face from this angle. She had the impression he was taller than Sir James, and that was good. Women liked tall men.

“Yes, she is, and very interested in meeting you,” Sir James said.

“I don’t know,” the gentleman said, doubt filling his voice.

“Speak to her. See what you think,” Sir James said. He stepped aside to let the gentleman enter the room first.

Thea caught her breath in anticipation, silently praying this man was not an unfortunate-looking soul like Peter Goodfellow. After all, there was
usually
something wrong with all of her charges, else they wouldn’t need her guidance—

Her breath left her with a small exclamation of surprise.

He wasn’t her
usual
charge.

This man was everything a young lord should be. He was tall, taller than most, with square shoulders and no sign of belly bulge or flabby calves. Strong legs were encased in buff-colored breeches and shining, tall black boots. He was handsome. Slashing black brows, a resolute jaw, blue eyes that seemed to look right into a person. The material of his bottle green jacket was of the finest wool and molded to his shoulders in such a way that she knew he did not need padding.

Indeed, there was so much masculine energy about him that most women would find it hard to breathe, let alone think, in his presence. Thea was no exception. Her mind had come to an abrupt halt. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but stare, and not out of admiration . . . but from the shock of recognition.

Before her stood the wealthy, reclusive Neal Chattan, Lord Lyon—the most eligible bachelor in society, and a man who had once been her closest confidant until he’d rudely rejected her friendship.

“Mrs. Martin,” Sir James said with the eagerness of someone very pleased with himself, “this is Lord Lyon.” He shut the door behind him and came into the room. “My lord, may I present to you Mrs. Martin, the matchmaker I’ve suggested you enlist.”

Neal appeared to be having his own bout of mind-numbing recollection. He didn’t react to Sir James’s introduction but stared at Thea with an unnerving intensity.

Or, perhaps, age had made his expression intense. She wouldn’t know. Their paths hadn’t crossed in close to fourteen years.

But he was here before her now.

She straightened her back and lifted her chin, keeping both hands on her reticule for balance, for support. “My lord.” She almost choked on the words. She’d heard his father had died several years ago, knew that he’d ascended to the title.

“
Mrs.
Martin?” He moved a step away, as if uncertain.

His movement allowed her to take two paces opposite his. “I married,” she said.

“Apparently.”

Sir James looked at Thea, looked at Lord Lyon, and then back at her. The welcoming smile left his face, replaced by uncertainty. “Do you two know each other?”

“Barely,” Thea replied crisply even as Lord Lyon barked, “Hardly.”

The twin words lingered in the air, followed by a beat of heavy silence, and Thea couldn’t help but remember their childhood days together, back when her father had always banished his children to the countryside, where the favored sons had been encouraged to hunt and fish, and the girls had been left to sew samplers. Thea had escaped the house back then and come across Neal, who’d been just as lonely as herself.