Chapter Thirteen #3
She would want an apology and Harry did not apologize. In his view of the world, a man didn’t have regrets. He couldn’t afford them. They would cripple him. He wouldn’t be able to go on. He hadn’t even apologized for that fateful day on the battlefield in Vitoria—
“Ye are wise to let her go,” Crazy Lizzy’s voice said from behind him.
She’d come out of her hut and sat on a stool by the door.
Harry faced her. “Because she will be my death?” he asked, repeating the accusation she’d flung at Portia before she’d collapsed.
The crone’s smile grew crafty. She raised a finger of warning. “I saved your life. Leave her be, Chattan. Leave her be.”
“What do you know of Fenella?” he demanded, walking toward her.
She stood up, her beady eyes alive with defiance. “I know there is nothing you can do. You are doomed, Englishman. Doomed.” With those words, she ran inside her hut and slammed the door.
Harry walked right up to it. He would tear down her home if she pushed him too far. He grabbed the door and attempted to open it. The door was barred against him from the inside.
“I’m not finished with you yet,” he said. “Open this door.”
There was no response.
Harry put his shoulder to the door. Using all his strength, he shoved it open, breaking the wooden bar she’d used. He entered the hut, and then stopped.
Lizzy sat on a stool before her fire. She was staring into the flames and mumbling to herself.
Her arms were full of the strangest dolls.
They were made of twigs and nuts, stuffed cotton and scraps of whatever she could find.
She was holding at least eight, her shoulders hunched protectively over them as if they were children.
“Leave me alone, leave me alone,” she said repeatedly without looking at him standing there.
He started for her, and then he smelled the air. In the smoky haze hung the pungent incense of opium. She’d thrown it on the fire. The scent of it was filling every crevice of the hut.
He backed toward the door.
Crazy Lizzy turned to him, still holding her dolls, rocking on her stool. The pupils of her eyes were black pools.
And he longed to stay there with her.
Instead, he turned on his heel and threw himself out the door. Outside, he grabbed huge gasps of air, trying to clear his lungs. His nerves were stretched thin. He wanted to return to that hut. He wanted to disappear in it.
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. Fenella was here. 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, Harry knew that he was supposed to be here at this place and at this moment.
He wasn’t certain what it all meant, but he was to 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.