Ajax nickered as if understanding that something was afoot. Harry moved to the horse. He had trouble mounting. His head spun and he had started to shake.
A month ago, he had taken a cure, sweating out the need for drink and opium, fighting his demons alone. And there wasn’t a day that passed that he didn’t think of returning to them—that is, until he’d met Portia.
Her sweet body and her quick mind staved off evil desires. She’d kept him strong.
But she had run away from him, and he suddenly realized he didn’t know if she would come back. Never before had he given a care whether a woman stayed or whether she went. But Portia was different.
Harry threw himself over the horse. A black despair threatened to engulf him. Fenella knew his weaknesses. She was using every power at her disposal to stop him from breaking the curse—including taking Portia away from him.
“Walk on, boy,” he whispered to Ajax.
The horse began moving, and Harry felt his strength start to return.
He’d been right to come to Glenfinnan. Fenellawashere. He imagined her presence in the shadows. She was watching, waiting. He prayed he had the courage to battle her. He’d never met an enemy who knew him better than he knew himself.
As he regained his senses, he directed Ajax away from the road leading to Monty’s estate. Instead, he rode to Camber Hall. The house was dark. It appeared deserted. They’d probably all gone to bed.
Could Portia have dismissed him so easily?
Harry did not know the answer but he had an uneasy sense that all was not as it should be this night.
Portia had been an innocent in this venture. And because of him, she was now a part of it. He trusted his instincts. There was danger.
Fog drifted across Camber Hall’s drive, hovering in its woods. Clouds covered the light of the waning moon.
It was the winter solstice, he realized with a start. December 22, his sister Margaret’s birthday. She’d been pleased that it was to fall on such an auspicious day. Christmas was three days away ... and suddenly, Harryknewthat he was supposed to be here at this place and at this moment. He wasn’t certain what it all meant, but hewasto be here.
In that moment, he felt the presence of his ancestors, of all those good men who’d had their lives destroyed by a witch. The battle lines were drawn. He could feel it in the air.
He pulled Fenella’s book and his pistol from his saddlebags. He checked the weapon. It was loaded and ready.
He moved to the tree line bordering Camber Hall’s lawn and took his post in the shadows. The book in one arm and the pistol in his other hand, he stood guard over Portia.
Chapter Fourteen
The wind had kicked up a pace. It rattled Portia’s window and seemed to creep in from every nook and corner of her room.
She had returned to the house distraught and frightened, but if Minnie or Lady Maclean had noticed anything amiss, they didn’t say a word. They were both involved in their own affairs, both happy with life. There had been no questions about her ventures through the day. They’d sought their beds after a day full of plans and with anticipation for what the morrow would bring.
Portia had never felt such discontent.
She had walked away from Harry. No, she hadrunfrom him, and at a time when he might need her.
Lizzy’s prediction frightened her, and yet, the crone was a poor, mad soul. She wasn’t right inthe head, and Portia knew it. Since when had she given credence to the woman’s rantings? Why now?
There was no answer to those questions save for her sense that something was amiss.
Portia had no appetite for the dinner Glennis had left for her. She went to her room, curled up in a ball on her bed and wept, so miserable she’d not bothered to build a fire in the hearth or light a candle by her bed. She cried until the pillow was soaked and she didn’t have the strength to shed another tear.
She loved Harry and he would not, could not love her.
However, he had offered for her to be his mistress.
The pain of that proposal, the humiliation of it, still resided in her. It was easier to focus on that dishonor rather than how she could never have him for her own.
What if he had offered to make her his wife? Then what?
And of course that he had made the suggestion of his keeping her was her own fault. She had done nothing to make him believe she wouldn’t entertain such a position. She’d thrown herself into his arms and, in defiance of convention andpropriety, had sneaked away every afternoon to meet him like some shepherd’s daughter. And she hadn’t held back in her affections. She had not been decorous and proper but had initiated their lovemaking, had even been at the bothy waiting for him impatiently on many an afternoon.
