Chapter Four #2
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.”