Lyon's Bride: The Chattan Curse (22 page)

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Authors: Cathy Maxwell

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They would defeat Fenella. She knew they would.

As her sons climbed into chairs around the table for their breakfast, she leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder.

The heart
was
a shield, and the love she felt in this moment was enough to protect them all.

Fenella had best beware.

Harry

I
t takes hard courage for a man to defeat his demons.

His brother needed him. His family needed him.

And Harry was not ready.

In all his years in the military, he had always been ready . . . but not any longer. His hands shook, his head ached and his body yearned for more drink even after the copious amounts he’d consumed over the preceding day and night.

He’d been trying to ease his dose of laudanum. He’d never really taken it for his leg. Yes, his leg pained him but not beyond something a good soldier could accept.

A good soldier. How long had it been since he’d thought of himself that way?

But now he had another chance to be a hero.

His siblings suspected he’d been attempting to kill himself with heroics that day he’d charged the French cannon position. Perhaps they were right. He certainly was not afraid of death. However, he was not a suicide.

He’d attacked that post because doing so had been needed to win the day. He’d felt invincible at the moment of his decision. War depends upon bold acts, foolhardy acts . . . and men willing to pay the ultimate sacrifice.

Harry had seen the weakness in the French position and had believed that one armed man with daring could take it. Unfortunately, his strong, valiant men had thought otherwise.

Out of loyalty or foolishness, they had disobeyed his orders to stay in rank and had followed him into the attack.

One man could have made it through.

A large number of troops had been easy targets for French sharpshooters.

And the horrific thing was that Harry had been right. He and Ajax had succeeded in their attack. He’d quickly secured the cannon. The French had run from his sword. Wellington could then march forward. However, when he’d turned to give the signal all was well, he’d had to watch his beloved men being mowed down.

Wellington had not faulted him for what he’d done. His actions had enabled British forces to win the day and had saved many lives. There were witnesses who had heard Harry tell Lieutenant Fleshman to stay in position.

Being right didn’t make Harry feel less guilty.

These had been men with wives and families along with feckless bachelors such as himself. He’d drunk with these men, laughed with them, fought beside them. That they would march after him to their own deaths out of nothing more than misguided loyalty humbled him.

It had also become an unbearable burden to carry.

Opium had helped ease it. Drink had always offered solace, and he had embraced it with a willingness beyond what he’d shown before.

And now he was in danger of never being the man he’d once hoped to be. There had been a time, and not too long ago, when he’d thought
he
controlled his vices. But now they controlled him, and he wasn’t certain when the change had come about . . . perhaps around the time of Thea’s arrival?

Stumbling up to his room, he opened his door and practically fell through it.

Rowan was tidying the bed. He looked up in surprise at Harry. “Colonel, you are not well. Here, let me help you to bed.”

Harry shook him off. “No, not here.” He knew this would not be pleasant. He walked over to the desk by the window, pulled open a drawer and took out a purse. “There is a man, an Alexander Rimmer on Fife Lane, who says he has a cure. Tell him I am coming to his house. Have him prepare a room.”

Rowan took the money, bowed and left, meeting Margaret at the door. She didn’t ask permission but walked in.

Harry sat at the desk, clasping his head in his hands. Just the thought of leaving the crutches he’d used these past two years more than filled him with anxiety.

“What are you going to do?” his sister asked.

“I want to save Neal,” Harry said. “He’s always been here for me. Yes, sometimes he’s been a pain in my backside, but what brother isn’t?”

“I want to help,” Margaret said.

Harry shook his head. “No.”

“
Yes
.” She walked over to stand before him. “You weren’t here when Father died. He went quickly, Harry. Faster than I could imagine. You will need my help.”

Visions of his men following him into combat formed in Harry’s mind, only this time it was his sister at risk.

“I go alone.”

She didn’t like his command. Margaret was the headstrong one in the family.

He reached over to pick up one of Christopher’s marbles resting on his desk. It was the shooter. Harry had won it from the boy in a challenge. Christopher had enthusiastically vowed to win it back.

“Life has to mean more than what we have here,” Harry said half to himself, rolling the marble in the palm of his hand. “It must.”

“Neal seems happy,” Margaret answered. “Even knowing what is happening to him, he seems at peace.”

Harry looked up at her. “Are you at peace?”

His sister shrugged. “Love is not for me. I’m better alone. Happier.”

She didn’t sound happy, and the thought went through his mind that she was hiding something. Margaret was a beautiful woman, yet she kept herself apart from the rest of the world.

Of course, he’d chosen to be alone as well, but that was because of the curse . . . and besides, what woman with any sense would want him? He was a shambles of a man, a fool. Then again, he had a legion of senseless ladies who vied for his attention, but they weren’t the sort a man loved.

Harry stood, putting the marble in his coat pocket. “I’m going to Glenfinnan, Margaret, but first, I must take a cure.”

“What sort of cure?”

“I don’t know. They say it is successful, but we shall see.”

“Let me help you, brother. I don’t want you to feel alone against this.”

Harry walked to her, leaned forward and pressed a kiss upon her forehead. “You cannot come with me. I do not want you to see me the way I will be.”

“I’ve seen you at your worst.”

He shook his head. “I wish I could erase the memory of those times from your mind. But you need to be here. We don’t know what will be happening to Neal. Thea will need help.”

“Thea sounds as if she can take care of herself,” Margaret argued.

“Does she? I don’t know. Certainly she wants us to do battle in a way no one seems to have tried before. We’ve all been afraid of it. But I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of being who I am.”

“Well, who you are is important to us. Please, Harry, be gentle with yourself, and be careful of the world or of searching out this witch.”

He smiled, felt the weight of the marble in his pocket. “I’ve never lost in battle, Margaret. I shall not lose now.”

With those confident words, he walked out the door, feeling less confident than he ever had before in his life. He didn’t stop to say good-bye to Neal and Thea. He could hear them in the breakfast room, laughing and talking with the boys. His brother sounded as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

How he envied Neal.

And Neal dreamed. Harry had noticed his brother’s comments in the journal Neal and Thea had been keeping. Harry didn’t dream. He had nightmares of the men who’d given their lives for him. A dream of a witch would be a welcome relief.

Harry walked out of the house, heading for Fife Lane and Rimmer’s cure.

“A
determined man can do anything,” Mr. Rimmer said. “However, I must warn you, my cure may kill you.”

“But will I be done with drink, with laudanum if I live?” Harry demanded. Up and down the hall of the tidy house, moans and shouts could be heard coming from beyond the bedroom doors. It sounded like bedlam or a brothel with unhappy clients.

“We shall see,” was the cryptic answer.

For the next two weeks of his life, Harry found himself in a special kind of hell. Rimmer’s cure was really little more than what Margaret had attempted when she’d ordered him tied and held down to his bed. It had been painful, nauseating, frightening then, and it was worse now.

Rowan stayed faithfully by his side.

Harry cried, swore and begged, but his servant would not release him from the bounds holding him in place. The visions tore at his soul. If he thought his dreams before had been troubled, the visions, the hallucinations he had now were more horrific, and all too real.

And then one day, the pain wasn’t as bad. The anxiety, the delusions lessened.

Rimmer started the next phase of his cure. Harry was treated to scalding hot baths designed to rid his body of poisons. Thea’s cure! Who knew his sister and sister-in-marriage were so wise?

Harry kept Christopher’s marble shooter on the table beside the bed. During his worst moments, he clutched the marble, using it to remind him of all that was at stake.

At the end of two weeks, he was pronounced “cured.” His eye was clear, his hand steady, and, for now, his demons were at bay. He had lost weight, most of it the bloat of his vices, and his hair had gone prematurely gray at his temples.

“Fetch Ajax,” he ordered Rowan, “and bring me my pistols and my sword. I’m ready to hunt for a Scottish witch.”

Harry plucked the marble off the bedside table and placed it in his pocket.

He was prepared to do battle.

And if she would not fight, then he would beg her to take his life instead of his brother’s.

About the Author

CATHY MAXWELL
spends hours in front of her computer pondering the question, “Why do people fall in love?” It remains for her the great mystery of life and the secret to happiness.

She lives in beautiful Virginia with children, horses, dogs, and cats.

Fans can contact Cathy at www.cathymaxwell.com or PO Box 1135, Powhatan, VA 23139.

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By Cathy Maxwell

Lyon’s Bride: The Chattan Curse

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His Christmas Pleasure

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The Earl Claims His Wife

A Seduction at Christmas

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