Chapter Eleven
Monty’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.
Portia 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.