The Scottish Witch (14 page)

She put on her cloak and went outside. The bothy was about a mile walk from Camber Hall. The fresh air and exercise felt good. It cleared her mind and gave her a moment to prepare for her meeting with Colonel Chattan.

This would be their first and last meeting. She’d already decided that. She would hand him the book and march off as quickly as possible. There was no use in lingering, because he might have ideas that she would be as unrestrained as she had been the night before.

Consequently, Portia had taken great care in her appearance. She’d put one of her mother’s lace Spanish vests over her shoulders so that her chest was covered. She’d pulled her untamable hair back as tightly as she could and pinned it severely. Finally, she wore her spectacles. They hadn’t deterred him last night but they were one more barrier.

She tried not to think of the night before. She wanted to erase it from her mind and thought she had succeeded until she arrived at the bothy and saw his horse tethered and grazing there.

He had to be inside.

Portia gripped the handle of her basket with both hands. Her mouth had gone dry and her blood started pounding in her veins. She walked toward the stone cottage.

There was movement in the open doorway. Colonel Chattan had seen her arrive. He came out, ducking so that he didn’t hit his head on the top of the door.

He wore his greatcoat open. He looked dashing, a man at home in the world whether it was a battlefield or an isolated stone cottage.

Portia reached for the book. All she had to do was hand it to him and leave. She didn’t even need to speak.

And then they would be done.

He’d have what he wanted and she could return to her safe, predictable life.

A soft meow caught her attention. Owl had followed her. The cat now leaped up onto a large rock in the hillside.

If Colonel Chattan saw Owl, he gave no indication. His eyes were on her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin purse. He was going to pay what he’d promised.

Portia was both thankful and insulted. It was hard to look in his eyes as she approached. There was something about him that drew her to him, and it was best if she kept her attention on anything other than how handsome he was or how masculine.

She held out the book.

He held out the money.

Portia reached for it as he reached for the book—and then, she didn’t know how it happened, but she found herself in his arms.

And he was kissing her.

And she was kissing him back for everything she was worth.

Chapter Eleven

M
onty’s challenge for Harry to focus on one woman had not set well with him. After all, he’d spent most of his life avoiding the dangers of “one woman,” a danger his brother had happily embraced.

After strong reflection, Harry had decided his wisest course would be to keep a distance from Portia Maclean.

He told himself he wouldn’t be so strongly attracted to her if he’d been following his old ways of strong spirits and dozens of women. Back then, he’d not been picky about what woman he’d been taking to his bed. They had all been the same to him, or so he wanted to believe . . . because the realization that this pull, this attraction he felt for Portia Maclean, was something more than what he’d ever experienced before left him humble, vulnerable—emotions Harry didn’t like.

And yet, right now, with her in his arms, he could not stop kissing her.

Nor was he the only one who felt this way. Her kiss spoke louder than words that even though she could be prickly in public, she was a more than willing participant now.

He swept her up in his arms and carried her inside the bothy, their lips still locked together.

Inside, he began undressing her. Her hands were as eager as his. She pushed his coat down his arms so that it fell to the ground. She tugged at his shirt. Her fingers found the buttons to his breeches. She untwisted one, then another.

He untied the strings of her cloak and brought her into the circle of his arms. Their kiss deepened as his fingers searched, then found the laces of her dress.

Harry knew all the tricks and tucks to women’s clothing. It was not a difficult feat for him to unlace her dress. His reward was access to two of the sweetest breasts he had ever held.

Her skin was creamier and smoother than he could have imagined. The nipples were hard and pink. Perfect, really . . . just as she was. Perfect for him.

Portia ran her hands up his rib cage, pulling his shirt up as she made her journey. His neck cloth was still tied around his neck and he wore his woolen jacket.

Laughing, he said, “One moment, love. Not so fast.” He tried to untie the knot in his neck cloth.

She drummed her fingers on his chest and kissed the sensitive underside of his neck, and Harry could not take it much longer. His fingers became clumsy, and he didn’t want to fool with the knot when he had her to touch.

Portia was a wicked delight. She didn’t hold back, on both opinions and desires.

Putting his arms behind him, he yanked at the sleeves of his jacket. He was trapped that way as she lifted his shirt more fully, stepped closer and pressed those luscious breasts against his skin.

Harry groaned, reveling in the feel of her, delighted by her boldness and innocent sensuality.

Her hands smoothed down his sides, moving toward his waist. She was kissing him now, her hand against his erection. Her fingers stroked sensitive skin, discovering and measuring the length of him before she held him in her palm, and that was Harry’s undoing.

Who needed to be naked? Clothes served a purpose, didn’t they?

Harry shrugged the jacket he’d not yet been able to remove back up his shoulder and used both arms to lift her up to him for a kiss that would devour her if he had his way. He would swallow her whole . . . and he could not wait one moment longer.

He spread her legs around his waist and entered her with one smooth, strong stroke.

She was tight, hot, ready, and Harry rogered her for all he was worth. She drove him to madness. She had only to touch him for him to feel an overwhelming need.

Even that morning in church, he’d wanted her. He’d stared at the back of her head, the feeling, the smell, the heat of her controlling his mind.

Now he had her and he wanted his fill.

P
ortia didn’t want reason, or rules, or strictures.

She wanted
him
.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she reveled in the sensation of her bare chest against his as he thrust deeper and deeper into his body.

He made her feel alive. She was on fire. The heat of their coupling threatened to consume her.

She moved with him, and yet found she had her own wants, her own desires, and only he could satisfy them—

A pinnacle of sensation started building inside her. She’d felt it the night before but this was more powerful, keener.

Portia held tight, almost afraid of what was happening to her. This was so good,
too
good—

And then she found what she had been searching for. She hit
it
.

One moment, her body was of this earth and in the next she was part of the heavens. She was a shooting star. She was the
sun
. She was all that was perfect and wonderful.

Had she thought last night was what the poets praised? She’d been wrong.

This
was what they celebrated.

He flew with her as well. He rocked her in his arms as her body exploded into a hundred different shards of sensation. He was buried deep within her and she felt the power of life flow from him to her.

Life.
Yes
, that was what this was. Portia was finally a part of life. Sweet, valuable, always-to-be-cherished life.

Of course, reality, the part of life she truly belonged to, returned with the cooling of her body’s sweat, and a realization that once again she’d compromised her virtue.

What virtue?

She’d tossed that aside last night.

What she needed to do now was arrange her clothing into some semblance of normal and run from this place and this man as fast as her legs could take her—

“You had better not be having recriminations,” his deep voice said above her.

Portia closed her eyes. She wished she could blame him for her shameful behavior, but she couldn’t. She’d wanted him, and she’d had him.

“I need to go,” she whispered.

“No, you don’t,” he said, his arms hugging her closer. Her legs were still around his waist. “I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

“Please,” she said, her throat starting to close on tears.

He stopped any other pleas she could have made with a kiss.

This kiss was different from the devouring ones of only moments ago. This was gentle, caring, understanding.

Slowly, her resistance vanished. He let her down to the ground and she stood in front of him, almost afraid of what would happen next.

He cupped her face with his hands. His palm was rough. He was no dandy but a man who used his hands, who almost took pleasure in it. He traced her lips with the tip of his thumb.

“You must believe me,” he said, his voice low. “What is between us is different. It’s not how things normally are.”

Was he saying she was different to him from all the women he was reputed to have bedded?

She wanted to believe him.

He picked up her cloak. With caring reverence he placed it around her. It was then she realized her dress hung down to her waist. Her breasts were completely exposed to him. She started to pull her bodice up. He caught her hands.

“No, not yet.”

Portia looked askance. She didn’t understand.

“You are so beautiful,” he answered.

Beautiful
. No one had ever called her beautiful before. Minnie was the beauty. Portia was the less-than-attractive older sister, the one who would never marry without a dowry . . . and yet, in this moment, she felt beautiful.

He smiled as he touched the bridge of her spectacles, pushing them up her nose. “I like your glasses. I like you.”

A warmth filled her that was more potent than even his lovemaking.

“I like you as well,” she said.

He smiled, the expression transforming his face. He looked relaxed, younger, carefree. But then he turned serious. “The book?”

Of course, the book.

She had been a momentary diversion. One he enjoyed before he focused on what he truly wanted.

He looked past her to where the book had dropped to the ground when they had embraced. The money bag was there as well, and Portia was stunned to realize that she’d been so embroiled with him she could have forgotten something as important as money.

The colonel left her, tucking in his shirt as he went outside, and picked up both the book and her money. He left the basket where it lay.

Portia began straightening her wardrobe. Her hair was a mess. Her curls sprang every which way. Her body was still full of him. She tried not to think on it as she started searching the ground for stray pins.

He leaned against the door and opened the book, blocking her way to escape.

Portia waited a few moments, watching him turning the pages, a frown marring his forehead.

All was silent save for the sounds of his horse grazing outside and the fragile brittleness of the pages as he flipped them.

“I should be leaving,” she said.

He raised his gaze, his eyes saying he hadn’t comprehended her words.

“I should leave,” she repeated. She did need to go now, while she had the good common sense to do so—and she would never cross his path again. Never, never,
never
.

The colonel might act as if this sort of explosive mating was normal for him, but it wasn’t for her. She was developing a habit around him that was quite disturbing.

He held the book out. “I don’t understand this,” he said as if she hadn’t spoken. “What is it? And where did you see the name Fenella?”

“It’s a book of recipes,” she explained. Seeing he didn’t understand, she said, “Women write down recipes for curing bacon and remedies for healing a fever or setting a bone. They pass these books down from one generation to the next. This one is a bit unusual because it has chants and spells. Magic, you could say, although I doubt if any of the spells work.” She took the book from him and turned the pages to show him what she meant. “I found Fenella’s name in the front. In this book, I’m assuming that when it was passed from one woman to the next, the woman wrote her name in it. That’s a common practice for such books, much the same as what you see in family Bibles.”

The colonel stared at the list of faded names ending with Fenella’s. “It’s an unusual name. It must be her. Why else would the cat be here? Tell me how you found the book.”

Again, with the cat
.

He could make a woman question his sanity. “I need to be going,” Portia said, and would have slipped past him out the door except he placed an arm up to block her way.

“Please,” he said. “This is important.”

“My family will wonder where I am.” She shouldn’t stay here. Not alone with him.

“Where did you tell them you were going?”

Portia made an impatient sound at his commonsense response.

“Well?” he prompted.

“I told them I was taking a basket to Lizzy.”

“Crazy Lizzy?”

“You’ve met her?”

“I have met every woman people thought could be possessed in some way or the other,” he answered, and then took her arm, leading her over to a three-legged stool by the bothy’s cold hearth. “Sit here and trust me when I say I will see you home, and well before dark.”

Portia tried to turn back to the door. “That will not work. If Lady Emma catches wind of this, there will be an uproar.”

He held fast to her arm, not letting her escape. “No one will see me return you home. And as for the duke’s spoiled daughter, I won’t let her harm you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Please, just a moment more of your time.”

“There is no such thing as a witch,” she said, the words bursting out of her. “And Fenella, who created your curse, is dead. Gone. She isn’t a cat and she doesn’t exist now.”

“I understand your doubt,” he said. “I would be the same way if I was not involved in this. But if I don’t find a way to break this curse, my brother will die and his son will bear the mark as well and it will continue on. Please, stay a moment and hear the story. I’ll see you home without anyone being the wiser. I promise.”

She should leave . . . but curiosity led her to sink down to the stool.

“Thank you,” he said, and he sounded as if he truly meant the words. He sat on the ground in front of her, crossing his booted legs so he could cradle the book in his lap.

“Fenella had a daughter named Rose who loved Charles Chattan of Glenfinnan. She claimed they were handfasted, which at the time, to Rose, was the same as being married.”

“I’ve heard the story. It’s common knowledge amongst the locals. They think Charles was a traitorous scoundrel.”

“I believe he probably cared for Rose but he didn’t consider them betrothed. Or perhaps he did. We Chattan men are capable of being scoundrels.”

He gave a self-deprecating smile as he said this, but Portia wasn’t so certain he wasn’t giving her a warning as well.

The colonel continued. “Charles’s parents managed to contract a marriage to an English heiress for him. He chose to do as his parents asked, which was reasonable, especially for the day and age—”

“Protesting too much?” she suggested.

“Perhaps. I wasn’t there, and I was teasing about Chattan men being scoundrels.”

“I’m not so certain,” she murmured. He frowned. “I was told she jumped from a tower.” He nodded. “She had to have been heartbroken . . .” She paused.

“What is it?”

“Let me see the book.” He handed it to her and she turned to the page with the spell and the word “Charles” written in the tearstained margin. “Could this be from her?” She handed the book back.

His reaction would have been the same if she had given him the crown jewels. “Yes, Rose could have written this.” He traced the writing as if he could divine something of that woman from centuries ago.

Portia felt her eyes fill with tears. “Hers is a terrible story.”

“It happened a long time ago,” the colonel said.

“I know, but I can imagine how she must have felt.” And Portia could, especially with him sitting so close. She barely knew him, and yet all he had to do was touch her and she threw aside convention and priorities. Of course, she didn’t love Colonel Chattan. She hadn’t known him long enough to love him . . . and she would not be so foolish as to do so.