The Hostage Bride

Chapter 12

“We’ll not make Newcastle tonight,” Will observed, looking up into the dirty gray sky.

“No, you’ll have to bivouac along the road.” Rufus glanced behind him at the procession of horses. The animals were fresher than their riders, who were for the most part red eyed and hungover, clinging to the reins, swaying in their saddles, half asleep.

Portia was riding beside him. She was heavy eyed and languorous. She said very little, out of deference to Will, he thought. The young man hadn’t known where to look that morning when Rufus and his bedmate had emerged into the gray dawn. Since Will had found his own solace from among Fanny’s young women, his prudish discomfiture struck Rufus as somewhat comical, but then again Will had never come across anyone quite like Portia Worth before.

Portia’s silence, had Rufus known it, had very little to do with Will. In the cold light of morning, the question she had struggled to ignore in the riotous games of the night rose hard and cold as crystal. What was to happen now? Would she now be a happy prisoner? Cheerfully resigned to captivity in the bed of her captor? She didn’t feel either cheerful or resigned. She kept glancing covertly at Rufus and could read nothing in his expression. There’d been little opportunity for private speech since they woke. Rufus had been far too occupied getting his drunk and debauched troops back into military formation. He hadn’t been very kind about it either, she’d noticed. But no one seemed to have resented the vigorous curses heaped upon them by their irritated commander.

Colonel Neath rode up from the back. “Och, but I’ve a head on me to rival Thor’s hammer.” He cast a wan look skyward, as Will had done. “Looks like snow.”

“Aye,” Rufus agreed shortly. “You’ll find a sheltered spot to bivouac. You’ve tents?”

“Aye,” Neath said. “We’ve what’s necessary. But are you not coming with us, man?”

Rufus shook his head. “No, I’ll leave Will and half the men to escort you to Newcastle. The rest of us will peel off at Rothbury.”

Portia looked up at this. It was the first she’d heard of this plan. Not that it made much difference to her situation where they went next.

Penny was so accustomed to keeping her place in a troop of horses that she barely required riding, and Portia was almost asleep when the cavalcade suddenly halted. She jerked upright in the saddle, shaking herself awake, and saw that they’d reached a crossroads.

“This is where we part company, Colonel.” Rufus leaned forward to shake Neath’s hand. “I wish we could have met in other circumstances.”

“Aye, me too.” Neath grimaced, taking the hand. “I’ll wish you Godspeed, man, but not good fortune.”

Rufus laughed and raised a hand in salute. “God keep you, Neath. And may you live to fight another day… Will, I’ll expect you back within the week. If you’re going to dally in Newcastle, send word.”

“Why would I dally?” Will asked innocently.

“There’s bound to be many opportunities in headquarters,” Portia pointed out with blunt truth.

Will blushed and his horse shifted restlessly on the path, aware of his rider’s discomfort.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Portia said quickly. But the apology only made matters worse, and Will’s flush deepened.

Rufus took pity on him. “You’ll have enough to do, Will, and little time for dalliance,” he declared and turned his horse on the lefthand path. “Godspeed.”

“Godspeed, Will,” Portia echoed, as Penny without prompting followed Ajax onto the narrow path, together with the fifteen men returning with them.

They rode a short way, then Rufus stopped at the top of a small rise to watch the procession of prisoners and their escort wind its way along the narrow path and out of sight in a grove of saplings. Then he turned Ajax and set off again.

Portia was wide awake now, and she remembered what he’d said earlier. “This place is called Rothbury? Are we passing through your family land?”

Rufus didn’t answer for a minute, and when he did speak it was barely audible. “Was.”

The bitter tone silenced further questions. As they rode, Portia felt the darkness settling over him like a black mantle. She lost all desire to talk. Behind them, George’s familiar sturdy figure rode in the front line of the cavalcade snaking its way along the path. Nobody seemed inclined for speech, and the only sounds were the rhythmic clopping of hooves and the jingle of harness.

Rufus fought the dreadful compulsion. He had known what he risked by taking this route, but it was the quickest way back to Decatur village, and he had been feeling strong, buoyant after the success of his foray against Neath’s troop. He had thought he would be safe from the madness. But as they drew closer to the place, the black tendrils of obsession wreathed around him.

When he drew rein at the place, he knew that he could do nothing about his obsession but yield to it. In his father’s name… in honor of his father’s memory. He must not forget. And he would not forget.

He turned in his saddle and spoke to George, his tone flat. “I’m leaving you here. Carry on to Decatur and I’ll join up with you later.”

George’s sharp glance was both compassionate and troubled. He knew where they were. “Y’are sure, sir?”

Rufus nodded curtly.

“Where are we going?” Portia inquired.

“You’ll stay with George,” Rufus stated. Without a further word, he turned Ajax aside and set him up to jump a small stile onto a stubble field.

“Let’s keep movin‘, lass.” George came up beside Portia. “T’ master’ll be along later.”

Portia in frowning silence allowed Penny to trot on peacefully. After a few minutes she said, “I’m going to fall back for a minute.”

George nodded easily. Nature’s calls were answered simply enough in the countryside.

Portia drew aside and allowed the troop to pass her, then she galloped Penny back along the path to the stile.

The stubble field sloped upward and as Penny crested the summit, Portia saw Rufus a short way over the lip of the hill. He sat his horse, gazing down into the valley immediately below. He was utterly immobile and there was something so forbidding about his shape in the lowering afternoon, she began to wish she’d stayed with George.

She was about to turn back when he swung round suddenly in his saddle. His eyes, staring at her across the space that separated them, were like empty holes. The blackness of a terrible rage seemed to envelop him.

She knew nothing about him. He’d told her so only yesterday… was it only yesterday? And she hadn’t realized how true it was until now. The fragile intimacy of their night together was shattered like crystal.

“Come here, then, and see what you’ve come to see,” he called, his voice bitter and mocking.

Portia didn’t want to go and yet she had to. She was drawn toward him as if by some devil’s enchantment. She walked Penny down the slope until the mare stood alongside Ajax. The chestnut was trembling, his hide rippling along his neck and over his flanks.

“So, you’ve a mind to look upon Granville work,” Rufus said. “Well, look, then!” He pointed with his whip.

Portia looked down into the valley and saw a blackened ruin. What had once been soft red brick was charred; tumbled walls, their edges jagged, still showed the form of the mansion that had once stood there. Toppled chimney pots lay in the weed-covered grassy courtyards. Between scattered blue-gray slates of roof tiles, shards of window glass still glimmered in the grass. Parkland, once fenced and planted, was now an overgrown wilderness of ragged bushes, and the once neat gravel sweep that had led to the great Elizabethan front door was choked with weeds.

Portia gazed at this stark destruction in stunned silence.

“I was born in that house.” Rufus began to speak, his voice savage, his eyes pitiless as they rested on her white face. “I was eight years old when the Granvilles murdered my father as he stood in his own front door. Eight years old when they put a torch to a house whose foundations had been laid on that land before the Conquest. I was eight when the Granvilles drove the Decaturs into the hills like wild beasts.”

“Jack told me your father killed himself,” Portia said, her voice so parched she could barely form the words. “George Granville didn’t kill your father, he killed himself.”

“Yes, he killed himself to avoid the dishonor of a traitor’s death,” Rufus stated. “He killed himself so his son wouldn’t see his father beheaded on Tower Hill for a crime he did not commit. And the man whose hand he had shaken in friendship over twenty years as surely killed him as if he’d fired the pistol himself.”

Portia glanced once at his face and then looked away, staring down at the ruined house. It was impossible to look upon his countenance and not be terrified by its expression. He didn’t seem to know she was there anymore.

“George Granville, as reward for his betrayal, received the stewardship of all the revenues of the Rothbury estates.” He continued to speak into the air around her. “I had thought to force Granville to return those revenues in exchange for his daughter. Instead of which…”

He stopped and glanced over at Portia, his eyes unreadable, before continuing with a softness that belied the savagery of his words, “I swore to take my father’s vengeance, and so help me God I will do it. I will see that sewer rat crawl for his father’s treachery.”

In horror, Portia knew that he meant every word. But with aching empathy she understood what he had lost. From the age of eight, fatherless, thrust out from his birthright to grow in the harsh world beyond the law, beyond society. A young boy who had seen his father die a dreadful death.

“Your mother?” she said tentatively.

“Died giving birth to my sister, five months after we were driven out.” His tone was bleak, distant. “She died because no one would come to the aid of a hunted outcast, the widow of a condemned traitor. The child died within hours.”

“Oh God.” Portia tried to push away the images of the boy watching his mother, listening to her screams in the agonies of childbirth, helplessly watching her suffering and the death that left him a homeless orphan.

But it was wrong. There would never be an end to it while Rufus remained enslaved to vengeance. It diminished them all.

“Cato did not kill your father,” she said. “He was a boy like you. You cannot hold him responsible for his father’s actions.”

“So speaks a Granville,” Rufus said softly. “How curious that once or twice I’ve managed to forget what you are.”

“I cannot help it,” she said. “I cannot help my blood, Rufus.”

He made no response, just continued to sit Ajax, staring down again now at the ruins of his home. Portia gathered Penny’s reins and spoke the only truth there was. “I cannot help it and you cannot forget it, Rufus. There’s no place for me in Decatur village. I’m no good to you as a hostage, and I cannot be anything else to you. I will always be the enemy.”

He looked across at her, his eyes now bleak. “You’re an hour’s ride due south to Castle Granville. Go back home, back to the Granville hearth where you belong.”

Portia set Penny down the hill, back to the lane, then turned due south. She didn’t look back, but she could still see in her mind’s eye the man sitting his horse at the top of the rise, alone with his vengeance.

While she was simply alone. Returning to an uncertain welcome, to be tormented always by the memory of those moments when she had, however briefly, belonged.

The journey from Decatur village passed in a daze. Portia had to ask the way several times, but found herself very quickly on Granville land. It was not much more than a hour after leaving Rufus that she saw the great gray bulk of Castle Granville on the hill across the valley. She didn’t know how to describe to herself how she felt. Her wretchedness had increased with each mile she put between herself and Rufus Decatur. It was as if she’d been thrust out into the cold, like a baby bird thrown from its nest. It didn’t matter that she told herself she had forced the issue herself… that she had left of her own accord. It didn’t help at all. None of the many and varied miseries of her girlhood had prepared her for this sense of desolation.

She rode up to the wicket gate and the sentry peered at her suspiciously. She identified herself and it had a galvanizing effect. The gate swung open and the sentry grabbed Penny’s reins, yelling over his shoulder, “Fetch Sergeant Crampton. The girl’s back.”

Portia wearily dismounted and stood in the gatehouse, waiting for Giles. It seemed a less than ceremonious welcome for a miraculously returned hostage.

Giles bustled in. He’d been in the middle of his dinner and still carried a checkered napkin. He stared at her, his jaw dropping, and it was a minute before he demanded, “Where’d you spring from?”

“I escaped,” she said. “Why am I being kept here, Sergeant?” It was an attempt at hauteur and it had some effect on the sergeant.

“Lord Granville’s at dinner,” he said huffily. “But we’d best get along. Come wi‘ me.”

Portia refrained from telling him that she knew her way to the dining parlor perfectly well, and submitted to being escorted like an escaped prisoner.

Within the dining parlor, Cato was wearily trying to entertain Brian Morse. Diana had been transformed from the first moment of their visitor’s arrival. Brian had brought with him the sanctified odor of the court. His dress was fashionable, his manner elaborately courteous, with more than a hint of flirtation to lend it spice. Diana was in her element, radiant and glowing. Cato was not.

“If you care to go hawking, Brian, I could – ” Cato broke off at the sound of voices outside the oak door. He recognized Giles Crampton’s vigorous tones and was on his feet with an unabashed eagerness as the door opened.

The sergeant filled the doorway. “Beggin‘ yer pardon for disturbin’ yer dinner, m’lord, but-”

“No matter, Giles.” Cato cast down his napkin. He couldn’t see Portia’s cloaked figure behind the sergeant’s bulk. “Come, let’s go to my chamber. If you’ll excuse me, my dear.” He offered his wife a hasty bow and strode to the door. Then he stopped in astonishment.

“Portia! Good God, girl! How did you get here?”

“She just turned up, m’lord,” Giles said, before Portia could speak. “Just turned up at the wicket gate wi’out a word of warnin‘.”

“I would imagine a warning might have been difficult,” Cato said slowly, trying to take in this extraordinary reappearance, and what it could possibly mean. “Are you well, child? Not hurt?”

Portia shook her head but said in perfect truth, “No, but I own I’m weary, sir. It’s a long story.”

“Yes, of course. Come, we’ll discuss it in private.”

“What is it, my lord?” Diana’s curious tones came from the table behind him.

“Portia has returned,” Cato said. “A most extraordinary thing… but until she can tell me what happened, I can tell you nothing, my dear.” He closed the door firmly at his back. In almost the same movement, he swept Portia ahead of him down the corridor toward the bastion room, Giles marching a step behind.

Inside, with the door firmly closed, Cato surveyed Portia with the same puzzled astonishment. “What happened?”

“I wasn’t the right hostage,” she said. “But I expect you knew that.”

“Yes, I gathered the bastard Decatur was after Olivia.” His eyes narrowed. “You were not molested in any way?”

Portia shook her head. “The abduction itself was rough, but I had nothing to complain of in my treatment once we reached Decatur village.” She met his gaze steadily.

“She said she escaped, m’lord.” Giles was regarding her sharply.

Portia hesitated and Cato’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right,” she said. How could she possibly have explained the truth?

“She was ridin‘ a blood mare, m’lord,” Giles commented. He was still looking at Portia, and it was with clear suspicion.

“A Decatur horse?”

“Yes.” It was Portia who answered.

“Did you steal it?”

“I suppose you could say that.” She swayed slightly and grabbed the back of a chair. She wasn’t up to this interrogation. Not tonight. “I thought of it as merely borrowing.”

“Escapin‘ from Decatur village ain’t easy,” Giles put in. “Mebbe they was lookin’ the other way.”

Portia looked at him in confusion. What was he implying?

“The horse must go back,” Cato declared. “I’ll not give Decatur the opportunity to accuse me of theft.”

“We could lead ‘er most o’ the way there, then let ‘er find ’er own way back, sir.”

“Yes, together with a message for friend Decatur,” Cato said grimly. He turned back to Portia. “What happened to your clothes?”

Portia glanced down at her unorthodox attire. “My own were ruined during the abduction,” she explained. “These were all that were available in Decatur village. There aren’t any women there,” she added.

Cato nodded. “I had heard that.” He regarded her closely. “Did you learn anything useful while you were there?”

“I don’t know what you would consider useful, my lord.”

“Did you have the sense of a military encampment?”

“A very efficient one, sir. And they’re flying the king’s standard.”

Cato stood frowning at Portia in her indecorous garb, her hair a wind-whipped tangle. Was she telling him the truth about her escape? There had been that telltale hesitation. Could this surprising return be part of some deeper plan of Decatur’s? How could a slip of a girl manage to escape the Decatur stronghold? And steal a Decatur blood mare. He couldn’t fathom the girl. She was his brother’s child, and she looked at him now with his brother’s eyes. Could he trust her? He didn’t know.

He noticed her white knuckles as she gripped the back of the chair, and the great dark rings beneath her eyes. Whatever had brought her back, she was utterly exhausted.

“We’ll talk at length later,” he said, waving her to the door. “Olivia will be glad to see you. She’s been worried about you, and I understand from Lady Granville that she’s been ailing and is keeping to her bed. Why don’t you go to her now.”

“Certainly, sir.” Portia, unable to curtsy in her britches, offered a slightly awkward bow.

The minute she opened Olivia’s door, she forgot her own unhappiness.

Olivia lay with her eyes closed, her face whiter than the pillow, the sheet pulled neatly up to her chin. She was as still as if she were laid out in her coffin, and Portia’s heart missed a beat. Cato had said she was ailing. But she looked at death’s door.

“Olivia?”

“Portia!” Olivia shot up in bed and Portia’s anxiety receded. Olivia was clearly not at death’s door.

“Is it you? Is it really you?” Olivia’s eyes widened as she took in Portia’s unconventional costume. “You’re wearing britches!”

“Yes, it’s me… and yes, I’m wearing britches.” Portia closed the door and came over to the bed. “Why are you in bed? Your father said you were ailing.”

“I am.” Olivia reached for Portia’s hands and clutched them painfully. “Oh, I am so g-glad to see you. What happened to you? Why are you in those clothes?” Her black eyes were now bright with interest, and her cheeks had pinkened.

Portia perched on the end of the bed. “It’s a long story, duckie.”

“Tell me!” Olivia demanded, squeezing her hands even tighter.

Portia was silent for a minute. The urge to pour out her heart and her misery was suddenly overwhelming. Then Olivia repeated, “Tell me,” and Portia found herself speaking.

She tried to make light of it, but Olivia heard the unhappiness beneath the self-mockery and the ironic tone. And she realized that Portia, whom she’d always thought of as so strong, so funny, so fiercely independent, was wounded. The girl who had been such a steadfast friend to Olivia now needed a friend of her own.

Olivia felt a rush of warmth, of purpose. “D-do you love him?” she asked as Portia fell silent.

Portia’s laugh was mirthless. “Love? I don’t know what that is, Olivia. I suppose I loved Jack… but maybe I just depended upon him because he was all I had. No, I don’t think love came into my brief encounter with Rufus Decatur.”

“Then what was it?” Olivia persisted, still holding Portia’s hands tightly.

Portia gazed into the middle distance, aware of the warmth and strength of Olivia’s grip and wordlessly comforted by it. What had it been? Passion, excitement, curiosity? All of those things. And if there had been something else, if she had felt the beginnings of something deeper-the possibility of something deeper-it was clear that Rufus had not. She would always be the enemy. Always tainted by her blood.

“It certainly wasn’t love, duckie,” she said with a little shrug. “I don’t think love of any kind has a place in my life.”

“I love you,” Olivia said fiercely, leaning forward to hug Portia’s thin frame. “I love you.”

“Oh, Olivia!” Portia swiped at her eyes as tears began to spill down her cheeks. “Now look what you’ve done!”

“It’s good to c-cry sometimes,” Olivia said through her own tears.

Portia yielded for a minute and then drew out of Olivia’s embrace. “I’m just tired and hungry,” she said with a pallid smile. “I don’t cry.”

“You just d-did,” Olivia pointed out with her own wan smile.

“What a pair we are.” Portia laughed, this time with a hint of her old self. She examined the contents of the tray that lay neglected on a side table. “Is this your dinner? Can we share it?”

“I’m not hungry,” Olivia said, pushing the tray toward Portia.

“Are you sure?” Portia broke a drumstick off a roasted pigeon. She cast a shrewd glance at Olivia. “I’ve told you my tale of woe; now you have to tell me why you’re hiding in here, pretending to be ill.”

“B-Brian,” Olivia said, falling back against the pillows. “He’s here.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Portia stripped the flesh from the drumstick with her teeth, discarded the bone, and selected a wing, waiting patiently as Olivia stared sightlessly into the middle distance.

Olivia struggled to find something concrete with which to answer Portia’s question. But it was the same as always. There was only this disgust and terror at the mere thought of him. And as always when she tried to penetrate the confusion, she shrank away from it. It wasn’t something she wanted to know.

She shook her head. “I can’t tell you. I d-don’t know. All I know is that I’d like to kill him.” She looked helplessly at Portia, who did not seem at all shocked by her sentiments. There was something so solid about Portia. Nothing seemed to surprise her.

Without noticing what she was doing, Olivia reached out and took a piece of manchet bread from the tray.

Portia merely offered her the crock of butter and took a fork to a dish of pickled beetroot. They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Portia said, “I won’t kill him for you, but I know a trick or two to make life quite uncomfortable for him if you like.”

Olivia’s eyes lit up. “What t-tricks?”

Portia grinned. Her own eyes were still a little red, but the old glint was back. “I’ll tell you. But first you have to get up and be sociable. We can’t do much to this Brian person if you’re skulking in here.”

Olivia ate a mushroom tart. Could Portia possibly be a match for Brian Morse? She herself felt so helpless in his company, an already wounded mouse with the cat. But perhaps, with Portia there, she could be strong, could somehow keep herself from his vileness. “All right,” she said. “I’ll get up in the morning.”

“Bravo!” Portia applauded.

Portia had long learned the valuable lesson that in action lay relief from misery, particularly the soul-deep misery of the spirit. She could do nothing to alter her present situation, at least not for the moment, but she could throw herself into Olivia’s problems, and if a little mischief was involved in the distraction, then so much the better.