Portia Maclean had turned her back to the room, protecting her cat from Jasper, who continued to howl and struggle against Monty’s hold although he was now outside. She couldn’t see Harry’s expression so she didn’t know that he was aware his quarry was in sight.
But the cat knew. Her curiously shaped head popped up over her shoulder. She didn’t look in the direction of the dog. She couldn’t give a care.
Instead, the cat looked right at Harry. Her huge amber eyes seemed to gleam with a fiendish delight, almost daring him to speak out.
Fenella. She was here.
She was Portia Maclean.
Harry turned and left the house, but he would be back.
Chapter Eight
After the disaster of the afternoon, it took hours for Portia to calm her mother, who had demanded smelling salts, her dinner on a tray and a soothing hot bath.
“We’ve been humiliated,” Lady Maclean had declared. “That boor Montheath and his dog have destroyed our social standing.”
“I doubt that, Mother,” Portia had answered.
“Did you not see Lady Emma? She practically ran from the house.”
Portia could have told her mother that Lady Emma had left because Colonel Chattan had taken his leave and she was not, and never would be, interested in befriending the Macleans. But then, that comment would have set her mother off into new hysterics about losing her chance to wed Minnie to Colonel Chattan.
For her part, Minnie confessed she was delighted that their mother had something to rail against other than her intentions to marry Mr. Tolliver.
“I’m more worried over what Lady Emma will do,” Portia answered. She’d managed to free her spectacles from her mother’s grasp and now pushed them up her nose. It felt good to be able to see clearly again. A headache had been forming, but Portia didn’t know if it was from going so long without her spectacles or from the stress of the afternoon.
“She can’t blame us for what happened today,” Minnie said. “We don’t own the dog.”
“Yes, but we hurt her pride,” Portia answered. “Mother is also upset that we laughed over all the damage. She feels we are not sensitive to our social position.”
“Oh posh,” Minnie said with good humor. “The furniture was rickety to begin with. That table would have broken sooner or later. Of course, having the dregs of the teapot dumped into Lady Emma’s lap would have upset anyone. Her riding habit truly was an exquisite outfit. I don’t know that the stain can be repaired.”
They were in the kitchen, tidying up. The sisters had sent Glennis home, telling her they could take care of themselves for dinner.
Portia had to suppress her laughter at the memory. “It truly was a good moment when she stood up and put her foot right into the bread and butter plate and almost fell on her face. I know I shouldn’t make sport, but the girl is like a medieval princess in this valley. What she says goes, and if she doesn’t like someone, well, then ‘Off with her head.’ I am very tired of her petty jealousies and threats.”
“Threats? She doesn’t like one of us?” Minnie asked, looking up from where she was taking a boiling pot of water from the fire. “She has nothing to fear from me now,” she said, a smile coming to her lips. “She may claim all the men in the valley for herself. Oliver is the only man I want. Oh, Portia, I can’t believe I’m going to marry him.”
“Does it not bother you how upset Mother is?” Portia had to ask. Minnie seemed almost carefree, something that was a bit out of character.
“Of course it bothers me, but she’ll have you here and, well . . .” Her voice drifted off. She looked up at Portia. “I must live my own life. I love him, Portia. I can’t not be with him. I don’t expect you to understand. You are far too rational. You can’t imagine how I feel.”
“I was the one arguing for you and Oliver,” Portia pointed out.
“I know,” her sister said. “And I appreciate everything you’ve done. Truly, I do.”
Portia wasn’t so certain Minnie did. She focused on wiping the table with a linen cloth.
But she’ll have you here. Minnie’s words echoed in Portia’s head. Once again, she felt trapped. Forgotten. Set aside.
Portia took the conversation back to its original thoughts and away from her own disturbing feelings. “Well, now Lady Emma may see us evicted from Camber Hall because of the scene this afternoon,” she murmured.
“Oh, Portia, is the duke truly that petty that he would listen to her?”
Portia rubbed the top of the table with her hand thoughtfully a moment before deciding to take her sister into her confidence. “Her jealousies extend beyond you,” she said. “Lady Emma made the trip over here today to warn me to stay away from Colonel Chattan. She believes he is interested in me.”
Minnie laughed. “She doesn’t know you at all, does she?”
“What do you mean by that?”
Her sister shrugged as if realizing she might be treading on tender ground. She started ladling hot water into pitchers to be carried upstairs for the bedrooms as she said, “He’s a rake. And a womanizer. He may be dashing but he’s too much.”
“Too much what?” Portia pressed.
“Well, too much for you. You are not his sort of woman.”
Portia didn’t know if she liked the description. “What sort of woman is his sort?”
Again, Minnie shrugged as if realizing she might be on tender ground. She picked up two pitchers, preparing to leave the room and avoid the question.
“Is Lady Emma his sort of woman?” Portia asked.
A cautious look came to Minnie’s eye. “I don’t know. She has a dowry.” She’d tossed that last off as if to explain away her comment.
But Portia was in the mood to take offense.
This afternoon, for a moment, she’d thought there was a connection between her and Colonel Chattan. She’d let herself consider that he might be attracted to her. Certainly, she had found herself attracted to him. That spark had been lit when she’d made the statement about her father, a strong one, to be sure, and had noticed a bit of admiration in the colonel’s eye when she’d not apologized for her opinion of Black Jack.
And although Minnie was speaking aloud thoughts Portia had had about herself, the verdict stung. Her sister was usually more loyal. Perhaps the prospect of becoming Mrs. Oliver Tolliver made her believe herself better than Portia?
The bitterness, the hurt behind this sort of thinking was dangerous. Now might be a good time to put distance between herself and her sister.
“I must see to Honey and bring in the goats,” she said, crossing over to where her cloak hung on a peg. She reached for the oil lamp and went over to the fire to light it.
“Portia, I didn’t mean all what I said quite the way it sounded. It’s just that Colonel Chattan is known for the lovers he has taken. They are the cream of the cream. Lusty women. Women who aren’t good enough to polish your shoes. I hope I haven’t upset you.”
“You haven’t,” Portia said, carrying her lamp and moving toward the door.
“I know that tone of voice. You’ve taken offense. Please, Portia, I’m just saying someone like Colonel Chattan is not the sort of man for you.”
Portia paused by the door, one hand on the latch. “What sort of man would be for me, Minnie?”
Her sister raised her brows and seemed to mentally scramble for words.
“Never mind,” Portia answered. “I know that I’m long of tooth. I’m done. I was done before I ever started. But there was a moment this afternoon when I thought—” She stopped. She’d not told Minnie of meeting Colonel Chattan alone at the dance. Her sister had been too busy accepting Mr. Tolliver’s proposal of marriage to worry about Portia’s whereabouts at the time.
“Thought what?” Minnie asked.
“Thought I didn’t know why the ladies were all so giddy around him,
” Portia finished.
“I understand why,” Minnie said with a laugh. “He is handsome. I might be giddy around himself, except now I have my Ollie.”
Portia smiled, but didn’t feel any mirth. In her happiness, her sister was throwing darts at every insecurity Portia had and hitting them.
“I need to see Honey.” Portia turned the handle and slipped outside.
The moon was rising and the night air felt good on her skin. She did not like fighting with Minnie. But she also didn’t like her life very much right now.
Minnie would leave the house and someday have children with Oliver Tolliver, and Portia would have nothing.
Of course, she would be the doting aunt, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want something more out of life. Something of her own.
And just because she was older didn’t mean that she didn’t yearn in the way other, younger women did. Her head could be turned by Colonel Chattan, and it was. She wasn’t as sensible as everyone gave her credit for.
She stopped and looked up at the moon, remembering how the colonel had appeared that night by the Great Oak, remembering him on his knees in front of her, begging her to take his life for his brother’s. She’d never thought that a man, especially one such as he, for whom everything came his way, could be so noble. He’d meant those words. He would sacrifice himself for another.
And if there was anyone who understood sacrifice for a family, it was Portia.
Tears burned her eyes, born out of a longing for what she could not have.
Portia lifted her spectacles and swiped at her tears. She was being a goose. She’d come to terms with her fate a long time ago. She lived for Minnie and for their mother. That was it. Her purpose . . . and there was no wishing it away.
Resolution, that was what she needed. She must not yearn for what she could not have.
Setting her glasses back on her nose, Portia marched into the barn, and almost said something ugly when she realized she had not finished with her chores that morning. Lady Emma had interrupted her and then the events of the day had taken over. Well, work healed the troubled soul.
She hung the lamp on a peg in a supporting beam and set to work.
Quickly, Portia brought in the pony and the goats. She picked up the pitchfork and, to the sound of the animals munching, she started jabbing at the straw with all her might. Work relieved frustration. Work put at bay desires a woman such as she should not have. Work was what life was about, wasn’t it?
“So at last I see the spectacles,” Colonel Chattan’s deep voice said from behind her.
Portia whirled around.
As if she had conjured him, Colonel Chattan stood in the door leading to Honey’s paddock. He wore his greatcoat. He was hatless and his face was devilishly pale in the shadows. His eyes were two hard shards of light. He was angry.
And for a second, her heart quit beating.
He walked toward her. “Hello, Fenella.”
Portia wanted to take a step back. To run.
She couldn’t move.
He moved into the circle of lamplight surrounding her, stopping when they were almost toe to toe. He placed his hands on her upper arms, squeezing, lifting her up until she stood on the tips of her toes. He stared into her eyes as if he could read her very soul.
She started shaking. He was too close, too powerful, too strong, too driven.
“Why?” he asked.
One word for which there was no easy answer.
“I’m not Fenella,” she whispered.
He shook his head in disbelief.
“I’m not her,” she insisted. “I wish I could help you but I can’t.”
“The cat,” he said. “The cat is yours.”
Portia shook her head. She didn’t understand his meaning. “The cat? Owl?”
As if summoned, Owl padded into the barn with a low sound of feline satisfaction in seeing them there.
Heedless of the tension between them, Owl purred and rubbed her back against his leg.
“Yes, the cat,” Colonel Chattan ground out. “I was almost fooled. I was going to leave Glenfinnan until you sent your cat to me. You wanted me to stay and so I did. Well, here I am, Fenella. What do you want to lift the curse?”
“I’m not her,” Portia said, her voice faint. “I have no powers.”
Owl now wove herself around and through their legs, brushing against Portia’s skirts and his boots, purring as she did so, the sound growing louder.
The air about them seemed to change, to grow warmer.
He was so close to her she could see every line in his face and the color deep in his eyes. “I didn’t send a cat,” Portia whispered.
A rush of heat, of desire rose between her legs. If she leaned forward, her breasts would graze his chest and they wanted to do so. They tingled in a way she’d not experienced before.
His grip on her arms tightened. His eyes had darkened. The anger turned to something she could not name. It was he who moved closer until their bodies fit together. She could feel his heat, his hardness.
She had never been this close to a man before.
Still Owl purred, the sound growing until it drowned out everything save the racing beat of her pulse.
He was handsome. Noble. A man unlike any other.
A man every woman wished to kiss.
A man who had captured her imagination in a way she’d not believed possible.
A man who brought his lips down upon hers.
Chapter Nine
This was madness.
Harry hadn’t come here to kiss Portia Maclean.
He’d come here to throttle the truth out of her. He wanted Fenella. If she was not the witch, then he knew there was a link between them.
The lust of battle sang in his blood. He was a warrior. Here was his enemy—and yet, he could not take himself away from her.
Dear God, her kiss was sweet. Intoxicating in a way that no spirit or drug had ever been.
The moment his lips met hers, reason flew from his mind.
She smelled of fresh air, moonlight and the earth. It was a scent more potent than any perfume.
He’d been holding her arms. Slowly, he let her down to the ground so he could gather her up and kiss her more completely.
Her response was everything a man could ask. She was eager for his embrace. Her arms slid up around his neck to pull him closer to her. Her breasts flattened against his chest, and Harry found himself impatient with the barrier of his heavy greatcoat between them. He slid it off, letting it fall to the ground at his feet.
Was the cat still there, winding around them, purring?
Harry didn’t care. A force as old as man drove him now. The roof of the barn could cave in on them and he would not break this kiss. He could not.
He slid his hand inside her cloak, circling her waist and pulling her closer to him. He was hard and anxious. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this excited.
Her waist was trim. He soothed his hand over the gentle curve of her thigh. She was lean and strong, a different sort of woman from the overly pampered ones he’d grown bored with in London. Her legs were longer than he had first imagined. His mind focused on those legs and on wanting them wrapped around his waist.
The kiss broke. They had been inhaling each other. He now kissed her cheek, her eye, her ear. His hand found her breast. The weight of it felt good in his hands. He circled the tight, hard bud of her nipple pressed needily against her clothing. Her breath caught in her throat. He was surprised again with how good she felt, and suddenly, Harry was done with seduction. He wanted her. Now. He’d go to pieces if he didn’t have her.
He unbuttoned his breeches while burying his face in her neck and her hair. His erection practically sprang free from the confines of his breeches like a spring that had been compressed too long. H
e was hard and ready. Desire gave him the strength of ten men, and he was done with waiting. He’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted this one. His blood sang with need.
She was pulling at his clothing now, wanting the restrictions between them gone as eagerly as he did.
But he could not wait for genteel seduction. With an almost animal savagery, Harry lifted her up so she fit against him, pushing aside her skirts as he did so. She still wore her cloak. They were both still fully dressed. But none of that mattered. The moist heat of her body put him over the edge of sanity, especially when he realized she wasn’t wearing drawers, any silly bits of muslin that annoyed a man when he knew what he wanted.
Harry entered her with one long, smooth thrust and buried himself deep.
She startled, stiffened, then struggled as if to push him away.
He couldn’t stop. Not now. He wanted her too much. He’d never felt this strong of a bond with any other woman. She held him with a force he could not understand, but that he intended to thoroughly enjoy.
He began moving, cradling her in his arms as he had his way with her.
Portia Maclean ceased her struggles. Her body adjusted to his. She was tight, perfect.
Harry had to have more leverage. He leaned her against the wall of the barn, bracing her with his arms and thrusting, each drive taking him beyond where he’d ever gone before. He was whispering her name and telling her she was beautiful.
She made soft gasps that excited him more than any other sound.
Dear God, he would never let her go.
Her legs were around his waist now. She wore woolen stockings. Someday, he’d see her legs covered in silk. He was not ever going to let such a woman go. She was a magic creature in his arms and he was bewitched—
She cried out. Deep muscles tightened around him. The force of her release almost brought him to his knees.
It seemed as if it would never end.
Like rings of water after a stone is thrown, the power, the intensity of this moment radiated from her and through him, until he could hold back no more. He let himself go.
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