Fear, Portia discovered, was a contrary emotion. She feared following; she feared not following.
But what if Owl was merely a cat wishing Portia to chase mice with her?
Or what if Harry’s suspicions were right and there was more to Owl than met the eye?
“Rose?” Portia asked. Again, Owl circled around her.
“Fenella,” she said, as if challenging the cat.
Owl came up on her hind legs, placing her paws on Portia’s arm and kneaded. Was that a sign that Portia had chosen the right name?
“Why can’t you speak?” Portia said, rubbing the cat’s head. “If you were reincarnated, why couldn’t you have chosen a talking parrot?”
A purr was the only answer she received. And perhaps she was being silly. She was placing human characteristics to an animal. If her mother or Minnie overheard her, they would think her ridiculous.
With a sigh, Portia rose, but before she could take a step away, the cat ran in front of her path. Owl looked up at her expectantly as if to say, I thought you were coming with me.
“I need to put on my shoes and my spectacles.”
The cat made a low, throaty trill and went to the door.
“This is too strange,” Portia said, and yet Owl was very clear in what she expected. Portia picked up her spectacles from the bedside table, adjusting them on her nose, before pulling on her walking boots. She followed Owl out the door.
All was quiet in the hallway save for the faintest sound of Lady Maclean’s snoring. Portia went down the steps, Owl right at her side. She took her cloak off the peg by the door and threw it around her shoulders.
The last time she had gone out into the night had been to pretend to be Fenella. Now, Portia might very well be letting Fenella herself in the guise of a cat lead her to who knew where.
On the front step, Owl looked back to see if Portia was behind her. The moon had come out behind the clouds and the cat’s coat had a ghostly hue.
“Yes, I’m coming,” Portia said, and closed the door.
From his post in the shelter of the tree line, Harry thought he saw movement on the front step—and then he did see Portia standing there. She pulled the hood of her cloak up around her head and took off with great purpose across the yard, disappearing behind the house.
Harry reached for Ajax’s reins. The horse had been sleeping. He’d actually been snoring, a sound that Harry found annoying since it made him tired.
“Come on, my friend,” Harry said, putting Fenella’s book in his saddlebags and tucking the pistol in his waistband. He lifted the reins over Ajax’s head and put a foot in the stirrup. “We are on the chase.”
Mounted, Harry trotted around the side of the house. Portia was just disappearing in the woods. To his surprise, he realized she was heading in the direction of the bothy.
Harry kicked the horse forward, giving Portia plenty of room to walk ahead of him.
Through the woods midnight-quiet, he could hear her voice. She was talking to someone—and then he realized she was talking to the cat. Was she following the cat to the bothy?
Nothing made sense in this day. Nothing.
When he was close to the clearing where the bothy was located, Harry hung back. He dismounted and tied Ajax to a tree. The horse knew he was close to the cottage where he’d spent agreeable hours grazing while Harry had been taking his pleasure with Portia. He rumbled his protest.
“I’m sorry, old friend, but you are best tied up right now.”
With a pat on his horse’s neck, Harry went out into the clearing. He didn’t see anything amiss. He also didn’t see Portia, and he grew afraid.
What was the matter with her? She should have more common sense than to traipse around the countryside in the dark.
By the light of the solstice moon, all appeared calm and serene, and yet Harry’s instincts warned him to be prepared for anything.
He walked toward the bothy, pushing aside his coat and reaching for his pistol. He moved slowly, stealthily. “Portia?” he said, daring to call her name.
A woman gasped her surprise, the sound coming from inside the bothy. Harry rushed forward, just as Portia started to run out of the cottage.
They collided in each other’s arms. He had cocked the hammer. He now pointed the pistol in the air as his other arm came around her.
“Harry,” Portia said, startled to find him right outside the cottage’s door. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you,” he said. He had a hold around her waist as strong as a vise. “Why are you going prowling around in the dark? Don’t you have more sense than to go out alone?”
The criticism stung. “I could ask the same of you.”
“I was watching over you,” he said.
“Watching?” She frowned. “Whatever for?”
“You were upset when you left that madwoman’s hut. I wanted to be certain you were safe.” He had not let go of her.
“I’m safe,” she said, not really wanting him to let go. An hour before, she’d been weeping over never feeling his arms around her and now she had him.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Owl wanted me to come here,” she confessed. “And I don’t know why I did. I suppose it was all that talk of reincarnation and the incident with Lizzy today . . . I, well, the cat acted as if I should follow and she led me here.”
“Where is she now?” Harry asked. He released his hold around her waist to go into the cottage, his hand reaching for and finding her hand. He laced her fingers with his. He held his pistol up and ready.
The moon through the open window cast a ray of light upon the floor. “I don’t know,” Portia said as he looked around the room. “She came in here and I followed and then I lost track of her. It was as if she disappeared into the corners. But it doesn’t mean anything, Harry. She’s a cat. Cats have the ability to vanish when they wish.”
“As effectively as this cat seems to do so?” Harry asked, his skepticism clear.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he agreed, turning to her, and she was aware of how close they stood to each other.
She didn’t dare look up at his face. He was her weakness. She should step away now, but she didn’t.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
He uncocked the pistol. “I was worried about you. This afternoon you were upset.”
“I see.”
“I stood guard.”
“Over what?” she asked.
“Over you.”
She stood silent, suddenly aware of the racing beat of her own heart, feeling his pulse as well, even through his gloved hand. He didn’t speak, either. She knew she should leave. She didn’t want to.
“Portia,” he said, her name barely a whisper, and that was all it took. With a shuddering breath, she looked up at him, and she was lost.
There was so much concern in his expression, it was the excuse she needed to rise on her tiptoes and plant a kiss on his lips.
Foolish, foolish Portia, she thought, a sentiment that was wiped from her mind when he set his pistol on the window ledge, put his arms around her, and kissed her back.
They knew what each other liked. Their lips always fit together perfectly and this moment was no exception.
His hand smoothed the curve of her hip. He held her tight, possessively against him. He was ready to make love. He wanted her, and that she could evoke such strong passion in her lover filled Portia with joy.
He might never be hers completely. He would leave. But for tonight, she could pretend that all was how she wanted it in the world. His arms were around her and that was all that mattered.
Their kiss deepened. Their tongues met and teased each other. Their hands began pulling at laces and buttons.
Why
was it that whenever she was with him, she was so needy for his touch? He had set his brand upon her.
Harry spread out the fur blankets. The patch of moonlight from the window fell upon them as he brought her down to lie beside him. Their fingers intertwined; he covered her with his body. His weight felt good upon her. She cradled him with her legs. He positioned himself, kissed her cheeks, her nose, her ears, her mouth . . . and slid into her.
The first moments of their joining were always overpowering to Portia. She adored the feel of him, the connection. It was as if their souls were mating and not just their bodies.
Harry began moving in her. He whispered in her ear, telling her how lovely she was, how desirable, how perfect.
Didn’t he understand? Her love for him transformed her from plain, sensible Portia to a creature of light and being. She offered herself wholly and without reservation.
She took from him in the same manner. She circled his waist with her legs, bringing him deeper.
They were moving harder, faster. He held himself up over her. Sweat formed on their bodies. He held nothing back. Portia would not have it any other way. She strove with him, a spiral sensation beginning to form within her. It began where they were joined, growing tighter and tighter until she could take it no more.
Portia cried out his name, pulling him even closer to her. The sense of completeness overwhelmed her. She felt as if she’d reached the highest heights in the heavens and had then shattered into a shower of stars; glorious, bold, sparkling stars.
She was not alone. Harry came with her. She felt him stiffen, felt his release. They’d been so careful, but they were not this night. This night, they were both caught up, and to have cut any of this short would have been unthinkable.
His seed was a wondrous thing. And Portia knew in this moment that they truly had become one. She would bear his child, but she was not afraid. Suddenly, her life made sense. Creation made sense. She’d found her destiny.
Harry held her fast. He rolled over onto his back, carrying her with him. His whiskered jaw felt good against her fevered cheek.
The air smelled of the fragrant night and their bodies.
She kissed his lips, the underside of his chin, his neck. His lips curved into a smile. “You are magic,” he whispered.
No hosanna could ring louder than this praise from her lover.
He brought the blankets up around them. The air might be cold, but snuggled close to him, she was warmer than she would have been in her own bed. “I swear, if I had the finest sheets, they would never feel as good as your skin against mine,” she whispered.
Harry kissed the top of her head. His arms held her as if he would not let her go and that was completely fine with Portia. She couldn’t have gone anywhere. She was spent, pleasurably exhausted.
His hand stroked and played with her curls.
No matter what would come their way, she knew she was his. It was her choice . . . or perhaps not. Perhaps they had been destined to be together.
“Harry, have you ever been afraid?” she asked.
“Many times,” he answered.
“Are you afraid now?”
The movement of his hand paused. “No. This feels right. It is right.”
She smiled and held him tighter. She knew she should move. She needed to return home before she was discovered missing.
But being with him like this, being in the moonlight and the night air, felt too good for her to move.
And then he was making love to her again. He lifted her up, placing her astride him. He knew she liked this. Watching the changing expression on his face as he lost himself in her made her feel bold, pagan, all-powerful.
He was her man, and she loved him.
When they were done, Portia fell upon his chest, her spent body as languid as a cat. His arms around her, she fell asleep, but not before she murmured the words upon her heart, “I love you.”
He did not respond. She had assumed he was asleep and would not know. But she had to speak them aloud. Their truth could not be denied.
At first, Portia thought it was the sunlight that woke her. She thought she was in her bedroom at Camber Hall and was so disoriented, she thought she was falling out of her bed—and then she realized it wasn’t the bed moving, but Harry.
She’d fallen asleep in his arms and the day, judging by the brightness in the bothy, was well into the morning.
He brought the covers around her to hide their nakedness, and that was when she realized they were not alone.
They were surrounded by a pack of dogs, their tails wagging even as they began barking and baying to signal they had found their quarry.
Chapter Fifteen
A cold nose had nudged Harry’s neck. Annoyed, he’d pushed the nose away only to discover it was attached to a hairy muzzle with bad breath.
Jasper.
Years in the military had taught Harry to always be on guard. He was a light sleeper and he had anticipated that he would wake before dawn and see Portia safely home. He should have escorted her home after they’d made love the fourth time that night. But she had felt so good in his arms, he’d wanted to hold her a little longer, which was unusual for him. He did not sleep with the women he bedded. He preferred to keep a distance. Sex was uncomplicated, easy. Sleeping was intimate.
Last night, all barriers had come down.
Portia had been magic in his arms. For the first time, he’d understood what it truly meant to “make love.” Nor was it just her innocence that touched him. Portia always gave the best of herself, but he had held back. He knew what women wanted. He knew how to please them, but he’d never pleased himself . . . not until Portia.
He’d worshipped her, adored her. His body, even now, wanted more of her.
Harry would not see her hurt in any fashion. And he knew if Jasper and the pack were here, then Monty was not far behind.
Sitting up, holding Portia with one arm, Harry reached for the dog, but he was too late. The hound lifted its snout and began baying, a signal they had found their quarry. His fellows joined him.
“Shut up,” he growled at the dogs, striking out at the one nearest him.
The beast’s response was to grin happily, his tongue hanging out. They knew Harry and apparently liked him, even though he wasn’t overfond of the whole pack of them.
And then Harry heard Monty’s voice. “The hounds are over here,” Monty called. The voice was not far from the bothy. “They’ve found something. I think they’ve found her! Tally-ho!”
“We must dress,” Harry said, reaching for Portia’s gown. The clothes were all over the bothy’s hard dirt floor. He tossed the dress at her and went to grab her shoes and stockings. The dogs, seeing what he was about, decided to play. Jasper snatched the end of the stocking and pulled. Tug-of-war was one of his favorite games.
The other dogs joined in. The din of barking, growling, and howling reverberated around the bothy’s stone walls.
“Don’t worry about the stockings,” Portia whispered frantically, putting her arms in her dress and then realizing she had it backward.
Harry knew good advice when he heard it. He let go, and Jasper went running off through the door, several of his pack chasing him, each wanting its chance to play. Harry jumped up and scrambled for his breeches on the floor by the stool.
He had just snatched them up, bending over to pull them on, when he heard a horse’s hooves and Monty’s voice. “Here now, here now, Jasper? Where is she—?” There was a beat of silence. “Ajax? What are you doing here?”
Harry knew he would not be dressed before Monty appeared in the doorway. He was right. A shadow blocked the doorway light. Harry turned to face his friend, holding his breeches in a strategic place in front of him.
Monty stuck his head inside the bothy. “Oh God, Chattan.”
“Hello, Monty,” Harry said as
if they had just met on the street. “Brisk morning.”
Harry had never seen Monty stunned speechless. He looked Harry up and down from his naked feet to his unshaven growth of beard and his mussed hair, and then slowly turned his head toward the mound of fur-lined blankets. Portia was hidden beneath them. Considering the amount of movement, she was apparently still trying to dress. The dogs thought it a sport to root around with their noses and climb on top of her. After all, it was her scent they had been ordered to follow.
In the distance, Harry heard Lady Maclean shouting, “That’s her shoe. That dog has my Portia’s shoe. Oh where is she? Where is she?”
“Over here, ma’am,” a male voice called.
“You have a party of people coming,” Harry said to Monty, but more as a warning for Portia. “Here, let my pull on my breeches and I’ll join you outside.”
“That would be fine, Chattan,” Monty said stiffly. He turned, blocking the door with his back.
Harry hurriedly put on his breeches. He’d just started buttoning them when the bothy was surrounded by people. Monty had organized a huge search party.
“Where is she? You said the dogs have found her,” Lady Maclean demanded anxiously. “Is she all right?”
Her voice sounded as if she was hurrying as fast as she could toward the bothy’s door. The heads of two of Monty’s stable lads appeared in the windows along with the curious faces of others whom Harry recognized from the village. They craned their necks, anxious to see all—and immediately, given the scattered clothing and Harry’s state of undress, jumped to conclusions.
Poor Portia. This was not going to be good.
The dogs were overjoyed with so much attention and very proud of themselves. They kept leaping at the windows or nudging Monty.
“Stay here,” Harry warned Portia, hoping she would listen. After all, she rarely did as he suggested.
Outside, Lady Maclean was asking more questions, this time directly of Monty. “Is she in there? Why can’t I see her? Portia? Are you there?”
His friend stood stoic in the face of his lady’s concerns, and Harry knew he was asking a great deal of his former general.
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