The Scottish Witch by Cathy Maxwell Page B

surroundings. Now she realized everyone else had gone inside, save for a lone man sitting at a table close at hand.
    Colonel Chattan.
    He had her isolated. She could shout for help if she needed it, but would she be heard over the music?
    Portia feared the time for a reckoning over her pretending to be a witch was at hand.
    But when he rose from the chair, it was not to hurl an accusation. Instead, he said, “Well spoken, Miss Maclean. And now, I shall ask you, what else will you do for love?”

Chapter Six
    M iss Maclean’s eyes widened at his question and Harry smiled, pleased with himself. He liked the banter of innuendo, and he liked Miss Maclean.
    Loyalty, especially to one’s sibling, was a quality he admired.
    He’d noticed her when she had first arrived, without realizing that here was the daughter of Monty’s infatuation. She wasn’t Harry’s usual style. She was of medium height and pleasant enough looking, but not as buxom and not as knowledgeable as he usually preferred. She could have easily been dismissed as a woman on her way to spinsterhood, if she hadn’t relegated herself to that role already. She was not comfortable in the dress she wore. She’d pulled on the neckline and had stood alone for a touch too long to show ease in large gatherings.
    But what had first caught his attention had been the graceful movement of her cloaked figure. It had reminded him of Fenella, the witch. For a second, he’d thought he’d found his quarry.
    And then she’d removed her hood, and he had been disappointed that she didn’t wear spectacles.
    When Monty had noticed Harry eyeing her, he had beamed with pleasure.
    “See? Isn’t she a paragon?” Monty had whispered.
    Well, Harry wouldn’t have gone that far. Any man with a red-blooded nature would have noticed Miss Maclean’s sister first. She was truly a rare pearl. Blonde hair, huge doe-shaped eyes, full, full lips . . .
    And then Harry had realized Monty wasn’t speaking about either sister, but their mother , the woman sporting the impossibly tall ostrich feathers. He’d thought the fashion silly in London and ridiculous here in the country.
    For her part, Lady Maclean had noticed Monty. She had looked right at him and then she had done the cruelest thing she could, she had turned her back to his friend. It was a nasty cut direct, and Monty had not taken it well. He’d walked away to drown his sorrows in a very potent punch. Such rudeness had not been necessary, especially from a woman as old as Lady Maclean.
    And then she had compounded the insult by sending word through different friends that she was most anxious to meet Harry since she was certain he would like an introduction to her younger daughter.
    Harry was determined to speak for his friend this night. He’d promised Monty he would, and he would deliver. But he would not speak to Lady Maclean. Grasping, manipulating stiff-rumped people always made him lose his temper. And he knew better than to approach the younger daughter. That would free wild speculation, fueled, no doubt, by Lady Maclean herself.
    Instead, he’d decided to speak to the older daughter, the woman who had piqued his interest.
    The woman who had practically run from him on the dance floor.
    She was no happier to see him here, but this moment of privacy gave him the opportunity he needed to speak for Monty.
    Miss Maclean glanced toward the barn as if ready to bolt, and Harry was puzzled. Her reaction was more than that of a woman with a dislike of him, although he’d never known a woman who disliked him. She was almost frightened. He could sense it.
    “I’ve startled you,” he said. “ ’Twas not my intention. Please, may I have a moment of your time?”
    “I don’t see what I can do for you,” she replied, and would have left, except she paused to add crossly, “It was rude for you to eavesdrop.”
    “Perhaps it was a lapse of good manners, but it was not rudeness.”
    “Says a man who was eavesdropping,” she