The Hostage Bride

Chapter 8

Portia heard the front door close about half an hour after she’d been left in the apple loft. She was still wrapped in her bedraggled cloak, sitting on the end of the bed, vaguely aware that the heated soreness of her face had abated, but somehow unable to make the necessary moves to put herself to bed. It was as if the shocks and events of the day had paralyzed her and she could do nothing but sit numbly, unable even to order her thoughts.

But the sound of the closing door below galvanized her. She jumped up and went to the chamber door, opening it gingerly. There was complete silence. Rufus Decatur had gone out and left her alone.

He must think her safely tucked up and fast asleep after the excitements and hurts of the day, she thought. Unless, of course, he assumed that she would be far too intimidated to take advantage of the unlocked door. In which case he was much mistaken.

She tiptoed across the large bedchamber and descended the narrow wooden stairs. The remains of her supper had been cleared away, the fire had been banked, and a fresh candle lit on the mantelpiece. Perhaps he didn’t intend to be gone long.

She glanced toward the curtain across the corner of the room and then, unable to smother her curiosity, tiptoed over, drawing it aside. The children were sleeping like puppies, curled around each other under a mountain of covers. They still had their coats and jerkins on, she noticed with a flash of disapproval. Janet Beckton would have forty fits. The idea, despite her predicament, made her grin. This tumbled cot in Rufus Decatur’s brigand cottage was a far cry from the neat nursery at Castle Granville.

She peered down at the sleeping faces beneath their identical thatches of fair hair. She remembered the bright blue eyes and thought they bore a strong resemblance to their father. There must be a mother somewhere-a woman not granted the dignity of a wedding ring.

Her lip curled as she stepped away, letting the curtain fall back. Women were apparently accorded little honor in this place.

But where did that leave her? An unwanted hostage… a lone woman in this isolated brigand encampment? She had her knife, but it would be a puny defense against a determined attack. A flicker of fear crawled up her spine, contracted her scalp. She’d said to Decatur that she wasn’t afraid, but bravado was an inadequate shield, Portia now realized.

Her heart was fluttering as if a flock of butterflies had taken up residence in her chest. She ran to the door and opened it a crack, peering out into the deserted lane. The sky was as cloudless as it had been all day, brilliant starshine and moonlight flooding the village, glittering on the icy surface of the river. She could hear voices, laughter, music, coming from the building with the ale bench, the place she had decided was the mess. If they were all drinking themselves into a merry stupor, she might have a chance at escape.

She slipped into the deserted lane, hugging the wall at her back. She would need a horse. There was no way she could escape on foot, not over the harsh and desolate landscape she’d seen on the journey here.

It was bitterly cold, and the thick, comforting smell of wood smoke hung in the air. She glimpsed golden light behind shuttered windows and occasionally the fragrant aroma of cooking as she hurried along the lane, keeping to the shadows. In those warm and cozy cottages, there were people sitting by fires, eating supper, sharing jokes, secure in their own place, in the camaraderie of their own kind.

Portia had grown up knowing herself to be an outsider, with no place of her own, no family to define her in the world. There was Jack, of course, but Jack wasn’t family in the way it was generally understood. He was simply the cause of her existence. She had tagged along behind him in exchange for a haphazard affection and a vague means of support… until she was old enough to support both herself and Jacks addiction. Now, as she flitted alone down the darkened lane, imagining the scenes behind the shuttered windows, her usual sense of isolation rose with renewed force. She was trying to escape from a place where she didn’t belong, to return to a place where she didn’t belong. The irony of the various situations in which she found herself usually amused her. It was a good defense against unhappiness. Tonight it failed her.

She was listening for a horse’s whicker, her nose twitching for the smell of a stable. And she found it soon enough.

Not one stable but an entire block of them in the center of the village, a neat, swept, cobbled yard in front of the building. But she saw immediately that her chances of taking a horse without detection were nonexistent. Light showed from both ends of the block, and the tack room door stood open. She could hear voices, the rattle of dice, and as she clung to the shadows, she saw a man emerge into the yard, unbuttoning his britches. He relieved himself against the wall and returned to the tack room.

Portia slipped back into the lane and disconsolately turned her step toward the river. She didn’t know why, except that it was a destination and she was not yet ready to accept defeat and creep back to her prison.

But when she stood on the bank, backed against the dark trunk of a leafless oak tree, excitement stabbed her. The frozen expanse meandered through the village, snaking away beyond the village boundaries, starlight glittering on its surface way into the distance. Way beyond the Decatur stronghold.

Rivers went places. Rivers were thoroughfares. There would be habitation, other villages even, along the banks of this one. If only she still had her skates…

Then she saw it. A sledge beached on the bank, its wooden runners curved and smooth as silk. Portia darted across, bending low to the ground although there was no sign of human activity here, no lit windows pouring sound and illumination. The riverbank was utterly deserted.

The sledge was piled with skins. It couldn’t have been better. If she couldn’t find other shelter, she could curl up in them until daylight, once she’d left the Decatur boundary far behind. Her heart surged. She knew now that she was going to succeed. This sledge and its perfect cargo had been put there by fate. She was destined to escape.

But how to propel it? Did they use dogs or ponies? Or did they pull it themselves? They’d need skates to do that.

Then she saw the pole, propped against the rear of the sledge. It was like a barge pole and presumably operated in the same way. One pushed oneself along the ice with thrusts of the pole. So simple… so wonderfully convenient.

Portia glanced nervously behind her, suddenly thinking this was all too good to be true. Maybe it was a trap, some devilish trap of Decatur’s to catch her trying to escape. She had no reason to trust him… to believe him when he said he wouldn’t hurt her. Prisoners of war were treated well enough unless they tried to escape. Then all the rules of safe conduct went by the board. If she was caught, what would they do to her? She would be fair game… if not for Decatur, then for his lawless band of savages. Sweat pricked on her forehead despite the cold. She had to escape; it was as simple as that. She would not be caught.

The sledge was heavier than it looked, and Portia was breathless by the time she’d managed to heave it down the bank and onto the ice. She was continually looking over her shoulder, expecting at any minute to see someone racing out of the darkness to challenge her. But the riverbank remained deserted and quiet, although strains of music and voices drifted through the still and icy moonlit night.

Once on the ice, the sledge became as light and maneuverable as a child’s boat. Slipping and sliding, Portia pushed it into the middle of the frozen stream, then climbed in and took up a position at the rear, the pole clasped firmly between her hands. She pushed off and the sledge with astonishing power shot away, gathering momentum across the ice. It was miraculous. She barely needed to push at all once it was moving. It occurred to her that of course she was going downstream, out of the high hills, so there was an advantage in the slope of the riverbed. Pure jubilation made her heart sing as the craft sped beneath her and the houses and lights of Decatur village whistled past. It was going to work.

The watchman at the first bend of the river saw the sledge when it was fifty yards away, a darkly moving shape on the bright white surface of ice. He gave a little grunt of satisfaction. He needed something to enliven the long, cold hours of his watch in the blind built into the topmost branches of a copper beech tree. His watch point was one of six that covered the river over a ten-mile distance from Decatur village. He lit a flare that would be picked up both by the watchmen in the hilltop sentry posts and his comrades along the river, and huddled closer into his fur-lined cloak as he kept watch on the approaching craft.

The sledge slid beneath his tree and he observed that the figure who drove it had acquired the knack of the pole. The sledge was fairly skimming along, singing over the ice. He recognized the vehicle as belonging to Bertram, the trapper, who sold his skins in Ewefell, some twenty miles downriver. Bertram wouldn’t be best pleased at losing both his sledge and a week’s worth of work.

Not that the sledge and its driver would get very far. The hilltop sentry’s torch had already flared in acknowledgment of the signal, and the master would be alerted within ten minutes.

It took less than ten minutes for Rufus to be informed of the illegitimate traffic on the river. And it took no time at all for him to guess who had given his sentries a little excitement in their customarily dull night watches.

He was in the middle of his supper, good food, wine, and company going some way to assuage the irritations of the day, and this piece of news did nothing for his temper. “God’s grace! How far does she think she’s going to get?” he demanded of the company in general. “Surely she can’t imagine she can dance out of here on a stolen sledge without anyone being any the wiser?”

“Seems that she does,” Will commented. “Shall I fetch her back?”

“No, dammit, I’ll go.” Rufus swung his leg over the bench at the long table and cast his napkin aside. “I was enjoying that lamprey pie,” he remarked with another surge of irritation. “The devil take the girl! I’m damned if I’m going to ruin my supper.” He swung back to face the table and took up his fork again.

“Jed, fetch my horse. I believe I’ll let her get to the third watch before we stop her. Let her think she’s getting away with it,” he said, adding with a degree of savagery, “the shock’ll be all the greater.”

Jed, who’d brought the message, saluted and left the mess for the stables to saddle Ajax.

Rufus finished his lamprey pie, but Will could see that his cousin was no longer enjoying his supper and he could find it in his heart to feel a little sorry for Mistress Portia Worth.

“Right.” Rufus pushed aside his empty platter and stood up. “I’d best get this over with.” He strode to the door, swinging his cloak around him, his expression grim. For two pins he would have let the girl go. She was no use to him. But something wouldn’t allow him to let her get the better of him. When he was ready to let her go, he would do so. But he wasn’t ready yet. And besides, she had stolen a sledge, not to mention what was on it. Theft was one of the deadly sins among Decatur men.

Jed was holding Ajax at the door. He held the master’s stirrup as Rufus vaulted into the saddle. “I sent a runner to the watchmen, m’lord. They’ll not stop ‘er till ye gives the order.”

“Good.” The great chestnut plunged forward under the nudge of his rider’s heels.

The third watch was three miles from where Portia would have started from. Rufus rode away from the bank, parallel to the river. He had plenty of time. It would take a strong-muscled man the best part of an hour to accomplish that distance poling the sledge. Against all inclination, he caught himself almost admiring the dauntless spirit of the girl. She must have had no idea how far she’d have to go before she was safely out of Decatur territory.

He rode up to the third watch and drew rein beneath the hide. He called softly upward. “How far away is she?”

“About two hundred yards, sir.”

Rufus rode Ajax to the riverbank and sat there, motionless in the moonlight, watching the approach of the sledge.

Portia didn’t see him immediately. The effort of poling was consuming all her attention. What had seemed easy at the beginning was now arduous, her arm muscles and shoulders aching, her hands sore, even through her gloves, as they gripped and pushed the pole. She raised her head wearily, wondering whether she was far enough from Decatur village to risk stopping and resting. The great horse, his immobile rider, filled her exhausted vision. They stood there on the bank a few yards ahead of her like accusers from the Day of Judgment.

She felt sick. Her palms were suddenly clammy. She could think only of how unfair it was. She had been so sure she would succeed, and now there he sat, waiting for her. Triumphant. She could almost have screamed with frustration, but she was also dreadfully afraid.

Could she pole past him, gather enough speed to skim away? But she knew she couldn’t outrun the stallion. It would be futile to try. Futile and undignified… if there was any dignity to be salvaged from this hideous situation. Paradoxically, her fear gave her some kind of courage. She would not show him she was afraid.

Portia raised her pole from the ice, and the sledge came to a gentle stop in the middle of the river. She sat down on the pile of hides and waited.

Rufus dismounted and stepped onto the ice. He walked carefully, deliberately across to the sledge and stood looking down at her. “Just what do you think you’re doing, Mistress Worth?”

“Running away,” Portia replied with a snap. “What did you think?”

“I had rather come to that conclusion myself,” he agreed with a deceptively amiable smile. “Once again, I’m forced to note that you don’t seem very good at it.”

Portia folded her hands in her lap and shivered, aware of the sweat of effort drying on her skin beneath her torn cloak and bedraggled gown. Now that she was still, the cold air knifed her and she wished he wouldn’t just stand there looking at her with that shark’s smile on his mouth and the speculative consideration in his eyes. He was angry; she could feel it as she could feel the stabbing gusts of icy wind. He’d told her he was a man of uncertain temper… she’d seen the shadow of that temper several times already. And now he was just torturing her with this ghastly suspense. His eyes glinted at her, chips of blue like the moonlight sparking off the icy surface of the river.

“What are you going to do?” she demanded.

“Do?” Rufus raised an eyebrow. “What do you think might be appropriate action, Mistress Worth?”

Portia compressed her lips. “Just get it over with,” she muttered, wishing now that she’d chosen to remain on her feet. Sitting here with him towering above her wasn’t helping matters in the least.

“The sledge and the hides belong to Bertram.” Rufus tapped the back of one gloved hand into the palm of the other, making a rhythmic slapping sound in the quiet night. “He’ll expect to see everything back where he left it in the morning, so you’d better get moving.”

“Get moving?” Portia regarded him with dawning horror as she began to have an inkling of what he meant.

He nodded. “Take it back, Mistress Worth. We don’t tolerate theft in Decatur village.”

“But it’s upstream!”

“Yes, I believe it is.” He stepped away from the sledge. “I’ll ride along the bank beside you… just in case you get any other foolish ideas.” His teeth flashed white within the shadow of his beard, but it was still a far from friendly smile.

Portia glanced down at her hands. The leather in the palms of her gloves was splitting, and her palms stung. Grimly she stood up, took the pole to the back of the sledge, and pushed off. The craft moved barely a foot. It was as if the runners had been blunted or wrapped in rags. She bit her lip and pushed again.

From the bank, Rufus stood watching her efforts for a minute, then he swung astride Ajax and set the horse to a slow walk, keeping pace with the sledge’s laborious progress. Slowly his punitive anger died. The girl had been exhausted before she’d begun this mad enterprise, and what she was enduring now must be unadulterated torture. Once again, he was stirred to reluctant admiration by her indomitable spirit. He remembered telling her in Castle Granville that they were alike, he and she. That recognition now vanquished his anger. He would have done just what Portia Worth had done in a similar situation.

It was still damnably irritating, though, to have to spend the shank of his evening chasing after her. His irritation rang in his voice as he called out to her, “Portia, leave the sledge and come over here.”

Portia ignored him, setting her teeth, thrusting the pole against the ice. If she stopped, she would lose what little momentum she had. She could see no lights ahead of her now and guessed that the village had retired for the night. Thoughts of the little bed in the apple loft, of fire and candlelight, danced in her head. She closed her mind to everything but the need to drive the sledge across the ice.

Rufus’s irritation grew closer to anger again. “God’s grace, girl! Will you do as you’re bid?” His voice roared across the river.

This time she looked up and saw that he’d drawn rein and was standing in the stirrups, hands cupped around his mouth to amplify his words.

“Why?” she demanded, still pushing.

Of all the obstinate creatures! “Because I say so,” Rufus bellowed. “Now come over here at once!”

Portia flung aside the pole and stepped out of the sledge. She no longer cared what further torments the master of Decatur had in mind. She was half dead with cold and exhaustion and decided that the other half would be a welcome relief. She slipped and slithered to the bank and stood there, hands on her hips, glaring up at him. “Now what?”

Rufus leaned down from the saddle. “Give me your hand and put your foot on mine.”

Still Portia hesitated, warily examining his countenance. It was not particularly reassuring. Could he really have relented and be offering her a ride back to the village?

“If I have to dismount, Mistress Worth, one of us is going to regret it,” Rufus declared. He clicked his fingers impatiently.

It seemed she was damned if she went and damned if she stayed. Portia scrambled up the bank and took the large hand, her fingers curling painfully around his. With her last vestige of strength, she managed to lift her foot high enough to gain purchase on his boot in the stirrup, then she was sailing upward without much help from her own muscles to land on the saddle in front of him.

“Are you just going to leave the sledge there?” she demanded. “I thought you said Bertram, or whatever his name is, will expect to find it where he left it.”

Rufus was astounded. Did nothing squash her? Then he felt her shiver, felt the rigidity of her thin frame. She had half turned to look up at him as she threw her challenge, and the moonlight caught her white face, and he saw the strain in the slanted green eyes, and the fear beneath the defiance. Without thinking, he raised his hand and lightly cupped the curve of her cheek in his gloved palm. Her eyes widened. The fear receded and something took its place. Puzzlement that yet contained a flicker of anticipation. And he knew she was remembering as was he that teasing kiss in the court of Castle Granville. It hadn’t meant anything. Of course he hadn’t meant anything by it.

His hand dropped from her cheek, and with a brisk gesture, he wrapped his cloak around her thin, shivering frame and urged Ajax into a canter.

Portia tried to hold herself upright, to deny her fatigue. Her cheek was still warmed by that strange little caress, but every instinct told her it had been as much an aberration as the stroking paw of the tiger. He had teased her and manipulated her in the castle ward, and he was just doing the same now. It obviously pleased him to taunt her, and she couldn’t understand why she had for a minute allowed herself to believe that it was a genuine gesture. He must have seen her gullibility in her eyes.

“Sit back, for pity’s sake!” Rufus pulled her backward against him with an impatient movement. “I’m not a porcupine.” He held her so tightly she had no choice but to slump against his broad chest. She could feel his heart beating strongly against her ear and her own seemed to slip into the same rhythm, sending her into a strange daze.

In less than ten minutes they were riding into the darkened village, and Portia from within her numbed trance thought with a shudder of how long it would have taken her to propel the sledge, in the unlikely event that she’d been able to do it.

Rufus drew rein outside his cottage and lifted Portia from the saddle, lowering her to the ground. “Go inside and get ready for bed. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve taken Ajax to the stables.”

A man clearly accustomed to the habit of command, Portia thought with a twinge of derision that heartened her. It meant she hadn’t quiet lost her backbone. She let herself into the cottage. The warmth was blissful. She huddled over the banked fire, stretching her white numbed hands to the glow, wracked by convulsive shivers. A snuffling mumble came from behind the curtain. She froze, listening, but all was quiet again. One of the boys must be dreaming.

Rufus quietly let himself into the cottage five minutes later. He frowned at her. “I thought I told you to get ready for bed.”

“I was too cold to go upstairs.”

“It’s warm enough. Come.” He gestured to the stairs. “I hope you’ve learned a few things tonight about the nature of a military compound, but just in case you’re still not completely clear, we’ll take certain measures to ensure we both spend what’s left of the night in relative peace.” He put a hand in the small of her back and pushed her firmly ahead of him.

In the big bedchamber, Rufus said brusquely, “All in all, this has been a very tiresome day, and I find myself very short of patience. You, I know, are exhausted, so let’s do each other a favor and get to bed without any more tedious discussion.”

He drew off his gloves and unfastened his cloak, tossing them over the chest at the foot of the bed. His buff jerkin followed, then he sat on the chest to pull off his boots and stockings. Portia watched him with a sort of horrified fascination as he unbuckled his belt and kicked off his britches.

“For God’s sake, girl, don’t just stand there like a moon calf!” In his white linen shirt and drawers, he regarded her impatiently. “Do you wish to sleep in your clothes? If not, I suggest you put on that nightrobe in the other chamber.” Turning away, he bent over the washstand, splashing water on his face, running his wet hands through his beard and hair.

Portia turned and went into the apple loft, firmly closing the door. She hadn’t the faintest idea what he’d meant about taking certain measures, but it seemed as if she was finally going to be able to get out of her torn and filthy clothes and sink into bed, and the prospect was far too enticing to waste time probing riddles.

The bang at the door so shocked her as she was fastening the ribbons of the nightrobe that she jumped half out of her skin. “Come out, Portia. I’m ready for you.”

“What?” She stared at the closed door, her fingers quivering.

The door opened and Rufus Decatur’s blue gaze surveyed her through the gap. He crooked a finger in an unmistakable gesture of command. “I am really very tired,” he repeated wearily. “Come out!” His tone was one that brooked no argument, and Portia found herself moving forward as if drawn by a magnet.

“What are you going to do?” All her previous fears rose to the surface. She was alone with this half-naked man in his bedchamber. There was no one to hear her, and even if there were, no one would interfere with the master of Decatur taking his pleasure.

“Sleep,” he said succinctly. “As are you. But since I’ve had enough running around for one night, I’m going to ensure you stay in one place until morning.” He reached for her wrist, drawing her inexorably into the other chamber.

Portia felt as if she had lost all will of her own. She stared, shocked into stunned silence, as he looped his belt around her waist, running the leather through the buckle without fastening it, continuing to hold the free end loosely in his hand. What kind of perversion did he have in mind?

“Fortunately you’re skinny enough to leave enough slack in the belt to move around comfortably,” he muttered, bending to fling aside the covers. “You may sleep under the quilt, and I’ll sleep on top under a rug. That way we shall preserve the proprieties.” Suddenly he laughed with such genuine amusement that Portia wondered if the master of Decatur was of sound mind.

“Conventional proprieties don’t exist in the Decatur village,” he explained. “But we tend to be considerate of the foibles of others. Would you get under the quilt, please?”

Portia was rendered speechless.

“In!” He lifted her and deposited her willy-nilly in the middle of the bed. “Lie down.” He tossed the quilts over her, then lay down beside her, pulling up a thick fur-lined rug over himself. Taking the free end of the belt, he tied it one-handed around his own wrist in a complex knot that looked completely undoable to Portia’s horrified gaze.

“There. Now I shall be sure to wake up if you get any further fugitive ideas before the morning. Pleasant dreams, Mistress Worth.”

And to Portia’s indescribable amazement, Rufus Decatur yawned and fell instantly asleep.

She lay rigid for a minute, barely daring to breathe. A minute ago she’d been expecting a rape, and now she was tucked up in bed as cozily and safely as if it were Jack sleeping soundly beside her. She’d shared chambers and beds, blankets and quilts with Jack over the years, listening to his stertorous breathing, sometimes holding her own breath, waiting in terror when she was very little for him to take a breath when it seemed as if he’d ceased to breathe altogether. She could remember vividly the incredible relief of the moment when the shuddering rattle had started up again, and how his drunken snores had provided the only certain lullaby that would send her to sleep.

Tears pricked behind her eyes and tentatively she brushed them away, anxious not to awake her companion. The warmth of the bed began to creep along her cold, tired limbs and the deep featherbed nestled around her. She was vaguely aware of the constriction at her waist, but it was not uncomfortable and when experimentally she turned on her side the maneuver was easily accomplished.

A small snore rumbled from her companion, and now her own eyes were so heavy Portia didn’t think she could have stayed awake another minute even if she were still on her feet instead of curled in this nesting warmth…

Rufus awoke a few hours later, just before the first cock crow. He was always an early riser, regardless of how short the night or how convivial the preceding evening. His companion was curled on her side away from him, her breathing deep and regular. He hitched himself on one elbow and examined her sleeping countenance. It felt a little like voyeurism, watching an unconscious sleeper, but their dealings had been so tempestuous so far he hadn’t the chance for a leisurely assessment. And for all her exasperating facets, Portia Worth inspired his curiosity.

Fate had dealt the cards from the bottom of the pack when it came to allocating fortune and favor to this section of the Granville family, he reflected. Not even the most partisan description could apply russet or auburn or copper to the orange flame of hair springing forth from her pale, angular countenance. Her eyes, presently closed, were her best feature, but as counterweights in the scale of negatives they were lamentably light. But then, her physical attributes were probably the least interesting aspects of Mistress Worth. A man face-to-face with that indomitable, challenging spirit was unlikely to give her features a passing thought. She’d grown up in a hard school, he reflected, but it hadn’t crushed her. Self-pity was definitely not one of Mistress Worth’s failings, although Lord knew she had sufficient reason to indulge in it once in a while.

He caught himself smiling and thought somewhat acidly that it was an addled response to the temperament of his accidental hostage. Not only had he acquired a completely useless bargaining counter, but instead of a docile, meek child, he found himself saddled with a creature who didn’t know how to surrender to the inevitable. It definitely added insult to injury.

He unfastened the belt at his wrist with one quick tug on the knot, then slipped a hand beneath the quilts to free the buckle at Portia’s waist. His hand immediately encountered skin, the softest, smoothest skin he had ever touched. So amazingly delicate was it that his hand lingered, even as he realized that her nightrobe must have become entangled around her waist and he was presently tracing the bare curve of her bottom. Wisdom told him to abandon both belt and bed without further ado, but his fingers seemed deaf to such sage dictates.

They slid in a delicate voyage of exploration, the exquisite softness of her skin sending little tremors of arousal through his loins. It was a delightful sensation, one he was loath to bring to an end, but Portia stirred suddenly and muttered, pushing at his hand as if it were a buzzing insect. Reluctantly e let his hand fall away and forced himself back to the reality of the cold morning.

He slid out of bed, prepared to abandon the belt, then, without conscious intention, found himself very gently inching back the covers, listening almost guiltily to the continued rhythm of her breathing. The long, pale legs were curled, her arms were crossed over her breast, and Rufus caught himself thinking that there was something remarkably endearing about the slender, vulnerable line of her backside.

What the hell was he doing? He almost jumped back from the bed, feeling like a rapist. Needing a reason now for his actions, with grim concentration and extreme caution, he eased the belt through the buckle and slid it out from under her.

Miraculously, Portia slept on. Rufus pulled the covers over her again, dressed swiftly, and tiptoed downstairs. There was no sound from his sons’ bed, and he let himself out of the cottage into the gray dawn, making his way through the village and up to the sentry points to check on the night’s reports. The cold air cleared his brain and cooled his recalcitrant loins, and by the time he reached the sentry post, he was almost able to believe the whole episode had been the tail of an erotic dream.