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 hadcome 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’ddeclared 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 feltno 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?”
Instead of answering her question directly, he called to his wife, “Portia, please come here and meet my sister.”
Portia pushed self-consciously on the nose ofher spectacles, a gesture he knew she made when she was nervous. She did as bid.
“Margaret, this is my wife, Portia.”
“It is a pleasure to have you here, my lady,” Portia said.
Margaret made no move toward Portia at all. “You married?” There was a wealth of unspoken disappointment, anger, and fear in those two words.
“Yes, and happily so,” Harry answered, placing his hand on the small of Portia’s back. Margaret noticed the gesture. She also glanced around the room as if just realizing they had an audience. “Come and eat with us, Margaret, and then we shall talk.”
The lines of Margaret’s face tightened. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t smile and pretend I am happy with this. You sent a letter saying you had found information that could help our brother and then I don’t hear from you for weeks?” She’d lowered her voice as if not wanting the others in the room to hear.
“This is Glenfinnan, Margaret. They know about the curse.” He was tired of secrets. Done with them. “Now come, sit and eat. You must be tired after such a long journey.”
“Are you interested that our brother Neal isfailing rapidly? Or do you care? Perhaps neither of my brothers care whether they live or die,” she said, answering her own question. She frowned at Portia. “You will be the death of him.”
To her credit, Portia did not flinch. “I consider myself thelifeof him.”
If she had punched Margaret in the nose, his sister’s reaction could not have been any different. Margaret took a step back, her brows coming together. Her gloved hands doubled into fists. “I will not sit at the table for this celebration,” she said. “I won’t. Harry, please see me in the other room. I believe we must speak alone.”
“AfterI have celebrated,” Harry said.
