Chapter Seventeen
Time seemed to stop.
No one moved, made a sound, or even seemed to breathe in the close confines of the chapel. They were all waiting for Portia’s response.
She released her hand from Minnie’s and crossed her arms as if she could protect herself from his words. Love was so wrong, so dangerous for them both.
“You can’t not hear me,” Harry said to her. “You know I love you as well as I know how deeply you care for me.”
She did know his feelings. That was what she’d been hiding from. He had pretended a distance, but she’d known in her woman’s soul that he loved her. She could see all of that clearly now.
“Say something,” he ordered. “Call me every vile name, deny me, refuse me—but say something.”
Portia stood, faced him. She was taken aback at how reckless he appeared. A day’s growth of beard darkened his jaw. The intensity in his eyes almost broke her resolve.
“We can’t,” she said. “We mustn’t.”
“We already have,” he answered. “I love you. I thought never to say those words to anyone. And yet, from the moment we met, there was something about you that was different from anyone else I’d ever known.”
“It’s the curse, Harry. The curse is doing this. The witch wants you.”
Was everyone in the church listening? Did it matter?
“She can have me,” Harry answered, “because my life is not worth living without you. I realized that from almost the moment you walked away from me.”
His words filled her with both joy and fear. “Oh, Harry, don’t say that.”
“I plan on shouting it from the rooftops. I tried to pretend you didn’t matter, that you were just another bed partner.
That I didn’t need you in my life. I was wrong.
When you refused to let me pretend I was doing what was noble, I was forced to question my motives.
And I realized I could no longer hide from what I felt.
I love you. Please, Portia, be my wife.”
It was so tempting. And then she remembered Lizzy’s warning. “I can’t. I don’t want to watch you die.”
His eyes took on sympathy. “I know, my love, but the truth is that not one of us will go on forever. And I want to make the days of my life meaningful. I’m a flawed man, Portia.
I’ve made many mistakes and usually from my own hubris.
You prod me to be better than what I am.
You bring me peace. You’ve taught me to accept not only myself, but my fate. ”
“I don’t want that fate for you,” Portia said, imploring him to understand. “I don’t want Fenella to win.”
“She won’t win,” Harry said, “not as long as we love. I now understand my brother, Neal. I understand why he has embraced loving Thea. While those on the outside of our family feel we Chattans are being punished for love, we know in our hearts we are the victors. We choose to love, and that will always be more powerful than Fenella’s evil.
” He held out his hand. “Come to me, my love.”
Still, she didn’t move. “If you die, I die. I love you that much. The pain would kill me. I must protect you.”
“It’s too late,” he said. He’d offered her his left hand.
He now bent the fingers. “Do you think that marriage is necessary for love? I felt the first pain last week. Then the other night, it was stronger. The curse knew what was in my heart even as I was denying my feelings for you. I will deny them no longer, Portia. You can go your way, but I will not stop loving you. Come, be with me for the time we have together. Live in the moment.”
Live in the moment. Fear left her. She reached for his hand, the fear left her. Yes, this was where she belonged.
With a triumphant laugh of joy, Harry brought her out into the aisle and lifted her up as if she weighed nothing. He swung her round and kissed her, right there in the church in front of everyone.
A burst of applause surrounded them.
Even the Scots had been moved by Harry’s declaration to her.
Portia kissed him back, realizing in his arms was where she was meant to be. She never wanted to spend another day as miserable as she had been without Harry.
Their kiss was more than a kiss—this was a welcoming, a promise, a commitment.
And when they were done, they could only stare in each other’s eyes, grinning like two happy fools.
It was the Reverend Ogilvy who brought them back to the moment. “May we continue with the Christmas service now?”
Harry bowed, directing Portia back into the pew and, squeezing his way into a seat beside her, almost dumping the general onto the floor.
He held her hand as if he would never let it go—and he didn’t.
Not through the service, or the Christmas dinner afterward hosted by General Montheath with her mother as hostess, or through the evening.
For Portia, it was enough to be with him. Her fevered anguish of the past days had evaporated, replaced by more happiness than she had ever known.
While the other guests and her family visited, she and Harry sat quiet and alone, just pleased to be in each other’s company.
But there was one question Portia had to ask. “Did you really see my cat, Owl?”
Harry appeared surprised. “The cat with the deformed ears? Yes, several times. I told you she came to me one night. Why are you asking?”
For a second, Portia was tempted to tell him that they were the only ones who could see Owl, and then decided against it. Whether Owl existed or not no longer mattered.
There was one piece of information she needed to share with him. Portia whispered in his ear that she believed she was with child. Perhaps she was being overanxious. It was too soon to tell, but she knew.
Instead of being alarmed, Harry hugged her, and she could see she’d pleased him greatly.
The curse would have to be brought to an end, but it would not be done so by them. They understood that now.
They had made their decision.
They would love and love well.
They were married by special license the day after Christmas, St. Stephen’s Feast Day.
Harry had not been certain Portia would marry him.
After all, she was a headstrong bit of muslin.
However, he’d hoped for the best and had sent his man Rowan off to make the arrangements.
It had not taken much effort. Scotland was more lax in its marriage laws than England, and Harry had seen to it that the bishop was well compensated for his assistance.
The Duke of Moncrieffe, in defiance of his daughter’s pouting, had offered the chapel.
The wedding breakfast would be hosted by General Montheath and Lady Maclean.
Lady Maclean had come alive at the prospect of another dinner to plan.
Poor Monty was going to have a future of entertaining, but he didn’t seem to mind.
Once Portia had told him he was to be a father, Harry had been happy he’d made the arrangements he had. He did not want to delay the marriage any longer than necessary.
He’d even spoken a word with the duke over Christmas dinner, and a tentative agreement had been reached between them for the purchase of Camber Hall.
Harry knew how much the house meant to Portia.
He also wanted to see his son raised in a place that would support his child.
The people of Glenfinnan, while not having been particularly welcoming to him, had demonstrated their care and concern for Portia.
They would see her well after Harry was gone.
He also liked the idea of his son being in touch with his Scottish roots. It seemed a good thing.
The morning of their wedding was one of clear skies and a cold wind. Winter was arriving in the Highlands.
Harry and Monty made their way early to church, and Harry was not surprised that Portia and her family were already there.
She was wearing her best dress, the one she’d worn to the dance, the one she’d worn when he’d declared himself to her. Her hair had been carefully styled high on top of her head, but the Scottish wind had already freed her curls from pins and put roses in her cheeks.
He thought she had never looked more beautiful.
The service was short and to the point. For that, Harry was grateful to Reverend Ogilvy. The best moment for him was when he put his signet ring on his wife’s hand.
His wife.
Harry had thought never to have one. Now, he was so proud of Portia, he could not imagine his life without her. He’d been a shell of a man until he’d met her.
And no woman could have been as perfect for him. He adored everything about her, including her stubbornness. He liked her spectacles, her curls that defied any taming, her nose, her mouth, and her delicious body.
But what he loved the most was her mind. His Portia had courage. She had wisdom. She would see his son safe. His generations might not destroy the curse, but he believed a future one would. He had no fear for his son.
They adjourned to Monty’s house, and the whisky poured freely. For the first time, Harry felt no pangs of desire for spirits. No yearnings. Instead, he felt whole and complete as a sober man.
They were just sitting down to the wedding breakfast when a new visitor arrived, one Harry had not anticipated—his sister, Margaret.
The company had been so involved in the celebration they had not noticed the arrival of her coach. Margaret entered the dining room unannounced, moving as if the wind had blown her in.
She was a tall woman with curling black hair and the Chattan’s shrewd blue eyes.
She had been a celebrated beauty when she’d made her come-out.
Everyone had expected a brilliant match, everyone, that is, save her brothers.
They knew the burden of the curse and were not surprised when Margaret had withdrawn from social circles.
Margaret was dressed in the height of fashion.
She wore an apple green velvet coat, and a velvet cap of the same stuff upon her head.
Lady Emma would have been jealous, Harry thought as he stood and rushed over to welcome his sister.
She held him at arm’s length, fire in her eyes. “What is going on here?”