“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 man who is fatally flawed. I’ve proved it many a time since you’ve known me.”
“You are a good man.”
“But why, Rowan? Why did you choose me?”
Rowan came over to Harry. He squatted in the native way. His somber gaze met Harry’s troubled one. “I killed a man.” He didn’t wait for Harry to comment but said, “The man deserved to die. He was evil. But I had to atone for my action. I asked goddess Maya for guidance.”
“Maya?” Harry repeated. There were thousands of Hindu gods. He’d not heard of this one.
“The Spider, the spinner of magic. She weaves the web of our lives. I asked her what I should do now because no one saw me kill this man. No one questioned me.”
“Do you regret killing him?” Harry asked.
Rowan shook his head. “He killed my father for our family’s land. He deserved his fate. His karma. He knew I would come, but he was a powerful man. I gave an offering to Maya and she told me to go with the next man I met. It was you, Colonel.”
“She told you?”
A knowing look came to Rowan’s brown eyes. “If you listen, the gods will speak to you.”
“I doubt that, Rowan. I’ve been beyond God’s hand for too long.”
“Listen. Ask Maya.”
The soft command hovered between them.
“I’m not a praying man,” Harry said carefully, “to my God let alone any others.”
Rowan shifted his weight. “Perhaps, sir, it is something you should do. Every man must have a belief. How else does he understand his karma?” He bowed, rose, and withdrew from the room, shutting the door behind him.
The silence in his wake was unsettling. The servant had been with Harry through two continents. He’d been quiet and unassuming, never asking anything, never challenging—until now.
Harry looked around the room, at the draperies and bed curtains, at the bare floor and the wardrobe. He was alone, and yet perhaps Rowan was right. Perhaps there was something more here. Something he didn’t understand.
But he did believe man controlled his own fate. His karma sprang from the decisions he made, the actions he took.
And Harry didn’t look to a Hindu deity for assistance.
No, he was a lone wolf. It was how he’d survived. How he wanted to be.
As for God? Harry and God had not been on good terms for a long time. The last time Harry put trust in the Unknown was on a battlefield at Vitoria when he’d charged French cannons. He’d gone alone, leaving orders that his men were not to follow him . . . but they did.
One man could have made it across the field. A troop of them were easy targets. Harry had survived. He and the mighty Ajax took the cannon—at a tremendous cost. His men had followed him. He’d prayed that day when he’d turned to see his men being mowed down by French guns, but there had been no God to answer his prayer. They had all died.
And strong spirits and laudanum had helped him face the disaster. He blamed himself. He’d been their commander. If he could have done it again, he would have been wiser. He would have understood the depth of their loyalty. Indeed, he was the one who had set the example of disobeying orders that they had used to follow him.
Harry rubbed his thigh where he had been wounded. He would have gladly given his leg if it would have saved the lives of those valiant men.
And Rowan spoke to him of karma . . .
Harry blew out the candle, slid beneath the sheets, and laid his head on the pillow.
Rowan had not come to him by chance. That was one thing Harry did believe.
Of course he dreamed of the battlefield. He couldn’t stop the dreams. They haunted him, except this time was different.
She was there.
Although he could not see her face, he knew it was she. She was a glorious creature, hovering above the field as he watched his men being slaughtered.
And Harry wanted her. He was hard and ready for her. He reached up, the French artillerymen he’d slain watching him with curious expressions, their faces white in death.
Just when Harry thought he could touch her she moved—no, floated—away from him, drifting to the plains beyond the battle.
She was swathed from head to toe in a great cloak that moved around her slender frame, the moon in her eyes. She had no hands, no feet, no face, and yet he knew her.
And there was fire now, all around them. The flames leaped to the heavens but he felt no heat or fear.
He heard her laugh, the sound seductive, inviting. This was not the sound of a witch. It was the song of an angel. Again he reached for her. His hands went right through her.
And then Harry wasn’t in the dream. He was in his bed and he sat up, puzzled. She pushed him back down upon the mattress. He could feel her, but could not see her.
She leaned forward. He sensed the movement as if his eyes were closed.
He knew he was still dreaming. This was not real.
Her head dipped toward his. He wanted to open his eyes, and yet he feared what he would see. She would have no face, only shadows—
And then her lips touched his. He felt the roughness of her tongue against his lower lip. The touch was real, wet, strange, abrasive—
Harry came awake with a start, realizing he was being kissed—but not by a woman.
A cold nose brushed his skin. Again the rough tongue stroked his lip. He reached up what was on top of him and flung it away from him.
A small body landed on the floor.
His senses on alert, Harry reached under his pillow for his knife as he rolled out of bed and held it out, ready for the intruder.
No one attacked.
He knew he’d been dreaming. Damn, his body was still hard and the blood flowing through his veins hot. The embers in the fire in the hearth sent a warm glow through the room. He held his breath, listening. He was not alone.
And then he heard the small meow.
A cat?
“Oh God,” Harry said, raising the back of his free hand to his lips and wiping them clean.
What would a cat be doing here in this house that was a haven for every dog that came its way?
Harry put down the knife, pulled on his breeches, and reached for the candle. He
walked over to the dying fire to stir the embers, lit the candle off of them, and turned toward the bed.
The cat jumped up onto the bed, a cat with an unusual round head and ears folded over. Fenella’s cat.
Or was it Fenella? The cat’s eyes seemed to view him with a wisdom as old as the soul.
Cautious now, Harry took a step forward. “Here, kitty. How did you come in here?” His door was shut. The window was closed as well.
The cat came to its feet, arching its back and hissing at him. Harry stopped. “How did you make it in here, kitty, past all Monty’s dogs?”
The cat’s lips curved into what Harry would swear was a smile, and then it jumped down from the bed and ran under the wardrobe in the corner of the room.
Harry followed, falling to his knees and reaching under the furniture to drag the cat out, heedless of claws. And yet, as he stretched his arm in every direction, he felt nothing.
Harry brought the candle down as far as he could so that he could peer beneath the wardrobe. The cat was not there.
He came to his knees and searched the room. There was no sign of the cat. The window was still locked. Harry looked behind the drapes and under the bed.
No cat.
It had disappeared.
He even went so far as to open the door. The hall was empty and all was dark and quiet. Not one dog in the house stirred.
Just to be certain, he went to Monty’s door and pounded on it. It took several knocks and shaking of the knob to wake his friend.
Monty in his nightcap cracked open his door, squinting against the light. A few of the dogs came out to check Harry. They didn’t give him more sniffs than usual and didn’t seem to catch a whiff of something different in the hall.
“What is it?” Monty asked, his voice sleep hoarse.
“Do you have a cat?”
“A what?”
“A cat,” Harry repeated.
“Don’t like the damn things,” Monty said. “The dogs would tear it to shreds.”
“Your pups don’t seem on guard now,” Harry murmured.
“On guard for what?”
“A cat.”
Monty shook his head. “You’ve been dreaming. I have no cat here. May we discuss this in the morning?”
“Yes, of course.”
His friend shut the door.
Harry returned to his room and sank down on the bed. There was no cat here and yet he had touched it. The animal had been living and breathing and not a dream.
He crossed over to the bedroom’s desk, set down his candle, and pulled out pen and paper. Dipping the quill into the well, he began to write furiously everything he remembered from the dream.
His brother and his wife had dreams as well. They kept a record of them in a journal because they believed Fenella threatened them in their dreams. Harry had read what they’d written. There had been images of fire. He’d had fire.
However, his had been a dream of seduction.
And that strange little cat with its folded-over ears had not been a figment of his imagination. He wasn’t a fanciful man. He believed what he saw, and he’d seen that cat, had felt the roughness of its tongue and the weight of its body.
He was close to Fenella.
Suddenly, the overwhelming emotions he’d experienced with the witch the night at the Great Oak were no longer a trick of his mind. They had been real.
And then he had a flash of insight. He hadn’t been able to see her face, but there had been the moon in her eyes. It had been a reflection—in person and in the dream.
“She wore spectacles,” Harry whispered, not believing he could have missed something so obvious. A witch with the need for eyeglasses.
A witch who wanted to seduce him.
Harry set aside the pen, knowing now that he didn’t need to search for Fenella. She was coming for him.
He jumped up from the chair at the writing table. He charged into the hall and began banging on Monty’s door with his fist.
“What is it now?” Monty demanded throwing open the door. “Are you being attacked by more cats?”
“The devil take the cat,” Harry answered. “I’m going with you to the dance tomorrow night.”
Chapter Five
“Whatever you do, Portia, do not wear your spectacles,” Lady Maclean ordered in a furious whisper as they came into sight of Borrodale’s barn. She, Portia and Minnie rode in the pony cart all bundled up in their sensible woolen cloaks over their finery. Portia was driving.
The barn was a huge stone building and the site of numerous dances through the year, although this was the first the Macleans would attend. Tonight the building was lit with what seemed to be a hundred torches. A crowd was already gathered, and the sound of music and laughter could be heard all around.
“Yes, Mother,” Portia murmured with a hint of annoyance.
“Then take them off now,” her mother said.
“Wouldn’t you rather I see where I’m going this last bit of the way?” Portia demanded. “Or shall we just trot over people?”
“Oh, what nonsense,” Lady Maclean said, plucking the lenses right off Portia’s nose. “You see perfectly well without them.” She tucked Portia’s precious glasses into her reticule.
Portia didn’t see “perfectly well” . . . but she did see well enough. Unfortunately, she found she could develop a headache if she went without them for too long.
Minnie didn’t say one word and hadn’t most of the day. She seemed caught up in her own sad world. As Portia drove the cart to where the other vehicles were lined up, Minnie stirred and looked to the barn.
Their mother smiled. “He will be sorry,” she promised Minnie in a soft voice.
Minnie nodded, her expression grim.
Portia assumed they were speaking of Mr. Tolliver and found herself sympathizing with him. It wasn’t as if he’d abandoned Minnie. Their mother had warned him away, it wasn’t as if he’d run. He was not the sort of man who had time to fight over a woman. He was a doctor. But she knew better than to express her opinion at this point—and if Minnie didn’t care so much, then she wouldn’t be believing the worst in the man. Women always fretted over whether a man liked them when they cared. Of course, Portia had never fallen in love, and wasn’t likely to at this late date, so she couldn’t speak from experience.
Local boys came running to help them with their pony, Honey, and watch the cart for them. Portia gave them a coin and then followed her mother and sister inside. She was several steps behind them, so she had a good vantage point to see everyone’s reactions to Minnie’s arrival.
The spirit was merry in the barn, which was like no barn Portia had ever seen before. The interior was enormous, with patterned stone floors and high ceiling beams. There was room for vehicles and equipment. Of course, everything, including the animals, had been moved out.
The rafters rang with music, laughter and greetings, and the place, especially by the door, was an absolute crush. Everyone of importance in the valley seemed to be there.
The guests were all in their finest. There was a kilt here and there, and most of the men and women proudly sported a bit of plaid in this once hotbed of Jacobite sympathies.
Lighting was provided by oil lamps hanging from the barn’s beams. The musicians were two gentlemen with pianoforte and violin. One wouldn’t think that such a small group could create enough sound to be heard above the conversations, but they did. The dancing was already going strong. Long tables decorated with evergreens and holly leaves, and holding punch bowls and platters of food, lined the wall farthest from the entrance. Portia feared what the dancing would be like after all the punch in those bowls had been consumed, although it appeared a good number of the guests had been tippling before they’d arrived.
Expectation and excitement were in the air. There was no class structure here. Everyone
in the countryside was all decked out in their finest and had gathered in this barn to celebrate the season.
Lady Maclean led their way into the barn. Such was her presence, people created a path for her. Or perhaps they were taken aback by the three large, green ostrich plumes she wore in her hair. The hair decoration was common in London, but not so much here in the Highlands, and the Scots acted as if her mother was some grand peacock who had arrived to strut in their midst.
However, what started people whispering, what made them step back and really take notice, was not their mother. It was Minnie.
It started with the younger men—clearly still in their teens—who stood at the door to assist guests with their cloaks. Portia watched in fascination as a red-faced lad offered to help Minnie with her cloak, his voice cracking with nervousness as he spoke to her. Minnie, oblivious to the trueness of her beauty, smiled, and the poor lad almost swooned from being the focus of her attention. His hands shook as he helped remove the garment from her shoulders.
And then a hush seemed to fall over all the males within a ten-foot radius around Minnie as they took in how incredibly beautiful she was.
The dress was perfect for Minnie’s figure and probably worth the goodly amount of money paid for it. It was a snowy white muslin decorated with layers of lace and trimmed with white ribbon. The cut emphasized the fullness of Minnie’s breasts and the gentle curve of her hip. She wore a white ribbon at her neck and had styled her blonde hair in loose curls high upon her head.
The crowd, which at first had reminded Portia of nothing more than a group of happy puppies climbing all over one another, took on form as men caught sight of her sister and stepped forward.
They were blocked in their pursuit by Lady Maclean, who, with a rap of her fan upon her gloved hand and a shake of her ostrich feathers, let it be known that this beauty was chaperoned. So of course the men queued up to make their introductions and pay their respects to Her Ladyship before receiving a nod to speak to her daughter.
At first, Minnie appeared startled by the fuss she’d created. Her nature was such that she didn’t see herself as others did. She didn’t realize how truly stunning her looks were.
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