Free The Scottish Witch by Cathy Maxwell Page A

found a way to break the curse, I shall return and we’ll sweep every woman in Glenfinnan off her feet.”
    “I don’t want every woman,” Monty responded. “I want just one, and I don’t know if I’ll ever have her.” He turned away from Harry. “Go on. You’ve been wanting to leave. You need to carry on. Don’t worry about me. We are both good soldiers and understand that there is always a calling higher than our own personal desires.”
    “I wish it was different, sir,” Harry said.
    Monty’s response was a wave of his hand. “Just don’t fall in love, Chattan. It’s worse than hell.”
    Harry could answer that he had already lived his own personal hell, one made up of a love of a different kind, but there was nothing more that could be said that would make the situation better. He turned and left the room. As he passed the dining room, the cut glass of Montheath’s wine and whiskey decanters gleamed in the room’s lamplight. Harry gripped the stair railing. His leg was tight with pain and tension from too many hours in the saddle. A dram would make life easier.
    Or make it tortured.
    He’d fought hard to overcome his vices. He would return to them someday, but not until he had saved his brother. With that promise, he forced himself to climb the stairs.
    His valet, Rowan, was waiting with hot compresses for his leg. The servant had been with Harry since his service in India. One day in Calcutta, he’d begun following Harry and had soon made himself indispensable. Over the years, the small man with the dusky skin, unflinching amber brown eyes and impeccable, accented English had proved himself trustworthy, and was greatly valued.
    “How did you know?” Harry murmured, so grateful for his valet’s foresight he could have wept. The moist heat immediately eased the cramping in his leg.
    “The cold damp is not good for your muscles, Colonel,” Rowan answered, sitting Harry on the edge of the bed and helping him remove his coat and boots. The manservant had also kept a steaming pot of water on the hearth and in short order had a cup of special “tea” made of dried lemon rinds, basil and honey.
    Harry took a good sip, feeling the lemon’s oil settle in his chest before saying, “I can’t find her, Rowan. I’ve searched every inch of this damned place. Fenella was probably a fraud. I can’t believe I was hoaxed.”
    “She is one of many who were not true, Colonel.”
    “Yes, but the first one who made me believe she was real.”
    Harry stared at the fire. Montheath liked a wood fire. Harry appreciated this choice.
    “What do you do now, Colonel?”
    What did he do now? “It’s not the money. I don’t care about throwing my money on the woman,” Harry answered. “But I can’t believe I was so wrong. I could feel her power, Rowan. She wasn’t like any of the others I’ve met. And her eyes, Rowan, they were like small moons. I know that sounds odd but it was the image I gathered.”
    Harry shook his head. He was starting to sound foolish. “We go to Edinburgh,” he informed Rowan. “There is a gentleman scholar there who is said to know a great deal about witches and the like. We’ll leave at first light.”
    “Are you certain, sir?”
    Harry gave a sharp glance to Rowan. The manservant had never questioned him. “Do you believe we should stay?”
    Rowan didn’t answer immediately, taking his time hanging Harry’s jacket in the wardrobe. Harry waited. He expected a response.
    The manservant turned and then said quietly, “There is something here.”
    “Something or someone?” Harry demanded. He had met mystics in the East. He’d often wondered if Rowan was one, if that was the reason the man had taken up with him, because Rowan had certainly chosen him, not the other way around. But he’d never asked. He did so now. “Rowan, why did you follow me that market day in Calcutta? Why did you choose me?”
    “You are a good man, Colonel.”
    “There are many good men. I’m also a