The Hostage Bride

Chapter 17

Will was as embarrassed on the third day of lessons as he’d been on the first. He stood on the riverbank, watching critically as Portia drew back the slender willow bow, taking aim at the target set into the thick trunk of a leafless oak.

It was the britches, he thought. That was what made her seem so outlandish, so unlike any woman he’d ever met. But then he thought it wasn’t just that. Although that was a part of it. It was all part and parcel of her strangeness. And Will was a conventional soul, truly comfortable only with the routines and the people he knew. He liked the excitements of his outlaw life, certainly, but they were what he was used to. He knew what to expect, and what to expect of his comrades. And this Mistress Worth was as unexpected and as curious as if she’d descended from the moon.

At first Will hadn’t known whether Portia was serious or not about joining Rufus’s militia, but after its commander and his men had left Decatur, she’d made it crystal clear that she was in deadly earnest. And Will had found her impossible to resist. He still didn’t know why. Oh, it was one thing for her to remind him that she’d saved his life, to say she was calling in the favor, but he still could have refused on the grounds that his commander hadn’t authorized it and he couldn’t act without orders. But for some reason he hadn’t been able to say that.

He’d consulted George, who was Rufus’s oldest friend, the man who, on the death of Rufus’s uncles, had taken on the role of elder statesman among the outlaw clan. And George, instead of saying Portia’s idea was ridiculous, had merely twinkled at Will in his placid fashion and said, “Why not? Can’t do any ‘arm to gi’ the lass a few lessons. It’ll be between ‘er an’ the master in the end, anyway.” And he’d offered to teach Portia the more savage arts of pike and musket, leaving Will with the delicacies of archery and swordsmanship.

George seemed to have no difficulties with his task, but then the older man was not disturbed by his new pupil, unlike Will, who, in Portia’s presence, became tongue-tied, argumentative, although he didn’t want to be, and stumble-footed.

Will forced himself to concentrate on the task in hand. Having once agreed to take it on, pride would not let him fail. It wasn’t going to be his fault if Portia didn’t succeed in making the grade.

As he watched her closely now, she was testing her healing ankle gingerly before loosing the arrow, and he knew from three days of this all the telltale signs of nervousness that preceded the moment of firing. The set of her shoulders, the little adjustments of her feet. He waited for her to look up into the sky as she always did the instant before loosing the arrow.

And as always he was aware of reluctant admiration at her determination. If determination alone would get her through, she would succeed. The willow was strong, much stronger than any bow she would have used in sport archery, and it was an effort for her to bend it, but she managed it now with the appearance of ease.

An excited shout came from the lane leading to the river just as she released the string. The arrow flew mortifyingly wide of the mark, to land on the river, skidding across the ice.

“We’ll get it… we’ll get it!” Toby and Luke, still shrieking, materialized from the lane. “We saw you… we saw you,” they chanted, as they raced past and skidded across the ice to retrieve the arrow. There was a brief rough-and-tumble as they fought for possession, then Toby, triumphant, slid on his bottom back to the bank, waving his prize above his head. Luke, wailing, remained in the middle of the ice.

Will went to fetch him, carrying him back to shore. “You can’t be here while we’re practicing,” he said.

“We’ll stand behind,” Toby protested. “Way way behind. All the way over here.” He bounced back a few yards in demonstration.

“That’s not good enough,” Will said firmly.

“Apart from anything else, you ruined my shot,” Portia declared, taking another arrow from her quiver. “If you do that again, I could easily misfire and hit you. And then where would you be?”

“Dead?” questioned Toby thoughtfully.

“Hurt, anyway,” Portia said. “Go back to the village, and when Will and I have finished, I’ll come and fetch you and we’ll take Juno for a walk.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

They went reluctantly, looking over their shoulders as they did so.

“I think,” Will began diffidently, “that you’re not standing quite right. You need to open your legs more.” A deep flush spread up from his neck.

“Like this?” Portia braced herself, feet wide apart, as she fitted the arrow to the bow.

“Yes, but your shoulders…” Will adjusted her shoulders, his face aflame, silently wishing his cousin to the devil. He stepped back. “Now try.”

The arrow this time hit the target respectably close to the center. Will retrieved it. “That was good.”

“Not good enough,” Portia stated flatly. “I’m damned if I’ll leave this bank today before I get a bull’s-eye, Will.” She took the arrow back and fitted it to her bow. “Tell me what else I’m doing wrong. You must know.”

“I think it’s the way your fingers are controlling the arrow,” he said diffidently. “You’re holding it too tightly.” Standing behind her he reached around to demonstrate. His arms brushed her breasts and he jumped back as if he’d been burned.

Portia turned to him. “Look, Will, can’t you forget that I’m female?”

“Not very easily,” he said. “And particularly when you’re Rufus’s bedmate.”

“Oh.” She scratched her head in thought. “Can’t you think of me like one of the other women who come into the village?”

Will merely stared at her as if she’d lost her wits. She sighed. “I suppose not. Well, let’s look at it this way. As far as I’m concerned, you’re Rufus’s cousin and therefore almost like a brother to me. Can’t you see me like a sister?”

“I suppose I could try,” Will said a touch glumly. “But it’s not easy. I’ve never had a sister… and I don’t think even if I had she would be anything like you.”

Portia gave up. Will would get used to her in the end.

Her lessons with George were altogether easier. The old soldier saw only his task, and once he’d decided for himself that his pupil was absolutely serious, he went about teaching her with the prosaic efficiency he employed with any new recruit. It took Portia a while to get used to lunging at a sack of straw with a pike, imagining that the wickedly sharp point was ripping through human flesh and sinew. She wasn’t bloodthirsty by nature, and George’s lessons in anatomy, while pointing out the most efficacious points of contact, were remarkably graphic.

However, she told herself that this was only an exercise. She had to prove to Rufus and his men that she could do it. That she could be depended on in any situation. It didn’t have to mean that she would find herself actually trying to skewer someone’s guts.

The musket was better. There was some distance involved in firing a bullet, although she was under no illusions as to the damage it would cause. Her long, thin fingers were deft and quick, and she had little difficulty mastering the art of reloading in the time allotted. The weapon was heavy on her shoulder, though, and the recoil jolted her arm badly. Within a few hours she’d acquired a massive bruise, and it took all her powers of endurance to continue practicing without letting George see how painful it was.

The rapier work was the best. Jack had taught her to fence when she was twelve. It was a sport at which he had excelled until brandy had ruined his eye and the tremors prevented him holding anything heavier than a brandy flagon. Will was much more relaxed when they were fencing in Tod’s barn. Portia’s skill left him little to teach her, and quickly their bouts became enjoyable for both of them.

As the days passed with no news, Portia quelled her anxiety. She told herself that the longer Rufus was away, the better.

She wanted to be absolutely proficient when he returned. She wanted George and Will to be able to say without a qualm that she was skilled enough to stand beside them in the line of battle. Her lessons drew observers. They were amused, skeptical, at first. But then there were subtle changes in their attitude. Their comments became encouraging rather than slightly mocking, and soon they were offering their own advice. Portia began to feel with each day that she was somehow-all on her own without Rufus-forging a place for herself among these men.

Not once did she feel threatened by her position as a lone woman among an infamous band of savage brigands. Experience had taught her to expect the worst of men, particularly in groups, and at first she assumed their restraint was because she was the master’s woman and no one would dare to muscle in on their commander’s territory. But that wouldn’t preclude lascivious looks, insulting sexual innuendos, asides, and degrading jokes. But there were none of those either. It was a pleasant surprise, one that put a few dents in her preconceived notions of the male sex in general.

She was engaged with Will in a fierce fencing match in Tod’s barn when Rufus returned. He had ridden into the village a little ahead of his men and arrived without fanfare, wanting to surprise Portia. He was disappointed to find the cottage empty, and went in search of her in the mess.

“Oh, the lassie’s usually wi‘ Will in Tod’s barn at this time o’ day,” Josiah informed him casually from among the cooking pots.

Rufus was intrigued. What possible daily business could take Will and Portia to the barn? He made his way there and paused at the unmistakable sound of steel on steel. Frowning now, he slipped through the half-open door to the barn and stood in the shadowy dimness watching the two lithe figures.

Portia was good, he realized immediately. She was quicker than Will, and maybe a little less accurate in her lunges because of her speed, but she parried his attacks with impeccable precision and her opponent could rarely get under her guard.

God, how he’d missed her! Even in the absorption of planning, in the heat of danger and the excitement of victory, he had thought of her constantly. He couldn’t wait to get back to her… couldn’t wait to hear that she had missed him as he had missed her.

She’d not been sitting moping in his absence, though, he thought wryly. He watched her for a moment, unseen, enjoying this private moment of appreciation. Her grace and enthusiasm on the piste reminded him of her wonderful uninhibited dancing, and of the lithe, sinuous way she used her body in lovemaking. She was laughing with exhilaration as she caught Will’s blade with a parry in tierce and Will, looking grimly determined in contrast, dropped his point.

“Bravo, gosling.” Rufus stepped out of the shadows, clapping his gloved hands in approval.

“Rufus!” Portia tossed her rapier onto a bale of straw, bounded across the barn, and leaped straight into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, kissing him with unashamed passion.

“You’re safe,” she declared against his mouth. “I was so worried, although I tried not to be.”

“Of course I’m safe,” he scoffed, his hands cupping her buttocks.

“But did you get the treasure?”

“It’s been transported to Newcastle.”

“Any casualties?” Will asked, trying not to sound as awkward as he felt. He didn’t know where to look. His cousin’s hands seemed so large and Portia’s bottom so small.

“Some,” Rufus said. “But no deaths on our side.”

There was a moment of silence. Portia couldn’t bear the suspense. Even if it jeopardized this moment of reunion, she had to find out. Had she betrayed Cato to his death? “Cato?” The one-word question seemed to crash through the silence.

Rufus set her on her feet. “Granville did not take part in his ambush,” he stated. “Left it to his minions… fortunately for him,” he added with a harsh laugh. “We routed them so thoroughly, had he been there we would have had our reckoning, he and I.” Then, with almost visible effort, he wiped the darkness from his eyes and said briskly, “So what are you doing fencing with Will?”

Will looked at Portia, who looked at Will. Then Portia took a deep breath and said, “Will and George have been teaching me all the necessary skills to fight in the militia.”

“What?” Rufus demanded.

“I told you I wish to join your men,” Portia said steadily. “And I can prove to you now that I’m quite capable of doing so. I’m good enough, aren’t I, Will?” She fixed him with a gimlet gaze, willing him to speak up.

Will felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Rufus was looking as if he couldn’t believe his ears. But Will was no coward. He said, “Her swordplay’s better than mine, and she’s decent enough with a bow.”

“Thank you, Will,” Portia said softly.

He glanced at her quickly, then shrugged. “ ‘Tis the truth. You saved my life once, and I’d not fear if you were beside me again.”

High praise indeed! Portia flushed with pleasure. She had the impulse to kiss him, but soldiers did not go around embracing their comrades in arms.

“Are you telling me you dragged George into this ridiculous business?” Rufus demanded.

“Aye, m’lord. I’ve been teachin‘ ’er pike and musket.” George spoke from behind him. He’d heard of the master’s return and had come immediately to hear news of the expedition. Judging from the master’s fulminating countenance, it seemed Portia’s plan was in danger of foundering. “The lass’ll do well enough, sir. The men’ve been watchin‘ ’er practice. They’re all of the same opinion.”

That was something Portia had not heard. Her flush deepened. She said with swift determination, before Rufus could react, “I’ll prove it to you, Rufus. You saw me fence just now, but I’ll fence with you.” She darted to pick up her rapier, drawing it in a swift salute through the air. “And then I’ll hit three bull’s-eyes on the target out of six arrows, and I’ll show you how I can fire and reload a musket in just over a minute… and then I’ll show you how I can disembowel a hay bale.” Her eyes shone with the overpowering need to convince him; the words tumbled from her mouth in an exuberant cascade. “If you’ll just let me-”

Rufus held up a hand. “I don’t need to see you do these things,” he said, his voice clipped. “If Will and George say you can do them, then that’s good enough for me. But it doesn’t make any difference, lass. D’you really think I’m going to let you expose yourself to the dangers of a battlefield?”

Portia squared her shoulders and faced him, her chin tilted, her mouth set. “If I wish to expose myself to those dangers, that’s my business, not yours, Rufus. I’m good enough to fight under your standard, and it’s insulting for you to say that just because I’m a woman you won’t permit it. If your own men are willing to have me join them, why should you prevent it?”

At the end of this impassioned speech, the silence in the barn was so thick it would have smothered a conflagration. No one noticed that George had beaten a quiet retreat.

Rufus’s expression was unreadable, then he said brusquely, “Will, in an hour, I’ll give a briefing on the expedition. General muster in the drill hall.”

Will gave a half salute and left the barn with clear relief in his step.

Rufus turned back to Portia, who was still regarding him with an air of fierce challenge. “Must you glare at me like that?” he asked with a slightly quizzical smile. “I’ve had warmer welcomes from a stone.”

Portia hesitated. She saw now how tired he was. He was gray with fatigue, his eyes dark ringed, his fine mouth drawn within his beard. And she felt a surge of guilt at having launched her attack before he’d had time to recover from the journey. The issue was not so vital that it couldn’t wait until they’d greeted each other properly.

“I’m sorry,” she said with instant remorse. “You look so tired, love.”

“An understatement,” he said, passing a hand over his chin. “I’m in sore need of a bath and a change of clothes, and a cup of mead wouldn’t come amiss.”

“I can provide all of those things,” Portia said with a smile, taking his hand and leading him out into the lane. She swung on his hand as they walked to the cottage in a silence that was now both contented and anticipatory.

Rufus pushed open the cottage door. “Yes… yes, I’m delighted to see you too, Juno… I think.” He addressed the puppy, who was prancing on her hind legs and yapping in a shrill ecstasy of greeting.

Portia reached up and lightly touched Rufus’s face, running the tip of her finger‘ over his mouth. “I’ll bring you the mead.” She filled a tankard from the pantry. “Shall I get the bath for you?”

“Please.” Rufus groaned as he sat down at the table, stretching out his long legs. “God, I’m awearied. We’ve been riding for twelve hours straight.”

Portia dragged the tub before the fire and hefted the copper kettle from its hook, staggering slightly under its weight, but when Rufus moved to help her she shook her head. “I can draw a willow bow, Rufus, and massacre a bag of straw with a pike. And I can certainly carry a kettle of hot water.”

Rufus raised an eyebrow but he said nothing. However, he left her to pour the steaming water into the tub herself while he began to unbutton his buff leather jerkin. He kicked off his boots and rolled down his stockings, before standing to unbuckle his swordbelt and divest himself of his britches and drawers.

Maybe she was being selfish, but without the slightest nudge of guilt Portia threw self-restraint to the four winds. “Are you so tired because you didn’t sleep in Newcastle?” she inquired innocently, as he stepped into the tub and eased himself down, his long legs dangling over the end. “Or were you too busy with town amusements for something as dull as sleep?”

Rufus regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Are you perchance trying to pick another fight?”

“This one’s as an alternative to loving,” she said, kneeling beside the tub. “I feel the need for some excitement.” She leaned over and kissed him, running her fingers through his beard, her tongue, sinuous and importunate, demanding entrance to his mouth. Her hand moved down over the strong column of his throat, over his chest, lingering at his nipples, her fingers lifting the red pelt that sprang in energetic curls across his upper body.

Rufus rested his head on the back of the tub and closed his eyes, yielding to the wicked little caresses, the tantalizing darts of her busy fingers as her hand slid beneath the water, played a tune on the muscle-taut skin of his belly. And then lower, between his thighs, lifting his soft organ, cradling it in her palm, squeezing gently, pulling back the little hood of flesh to find the sensitive tip.

He leaped into life against her palm and she laughed softly, nibbling the corner of his mouth, dipping her tongue into the cleft of his chin.

“God’s grace, but you’d tempt a man from the grave,” Rufus murmured. “Just what have you been up to while I’ve been away?”

Portia leaned over and kissed him with her eyelashes, fluttering the golden fans across his lips. “Let me see… archery, swordsmanship, murdering sacks of straw, loading muskets… oh, and dreaming. I had plenty of time to dream alone in that great bed. And I believe I dreamed to good purpose,” she added with a triumphant little crow of laughter, sitting back on her heels. “What say you, Lord Rothbury?”

“I say that it’s time I gave you something to dream about,” he declared. “Take your clothes off.”

Excitement flared in her eyes. “Here… now?”

“Yes. Hurry.”

Portia stood up to throw off her clothes, and then, naked, she looked down at him, uncertain what happened now.

“Come here.” He reached for her hands and pulled her down. “Kneel astride me… That’s it. Now guide me within.”

Portia followed instructions, her tongue caught between her teeth, a little frown of concentration between her brows. She lifted herself slightly to take him within her body, then lowered herself gently so that she was sitting astride his hips.

“Now you play the tune,” Rufus said, his hands clasping her waist. “You move as you wish. Whatever feels right. You’re in control.”

Portia’s eyes widened, but it didn’t take her long to realize that he spoke only the truth. And not only was she in control of her own pleasure, she was also controlling her lover’s. She laughed delightedly, reading his responses in the bright gaze below her own, feeling every ripple of his body as if it were her own. She wanted to keep them both suspended in this glorious sensate realm and experienced a flash of disappointment when she realized she could do nothing in the end to hold back the tide of passion as it swept aside the dikes of control. But it was a mere flash lost forever in the glorious cascade of pleasure.

A long note of a trumpet, sustained in a thrill of sound, brought Rufus out of his postcoital trance with a jerk. “Hell and the devil! Is it an hour already?” He patted Portia’s hip. “Up, love. I have to go.”

Portia reluctantly got to her feet and Rufus stood up in a shower of drops. “Mother of God!” he exclaimed. “What the hell happened to your shoulder?” He touched the yellowing contusion spreading from her neck across her shoulder.

“It’s the recoil from the musket,” Portia explained. “But now I use a pad of rolled cloth to support it, and it’s a lot less painful.”

Rufus stood frowning as if about to say something, then he shook his head in brusque dismissal of his thoughts and stepped out of the tub. The consequences of her decision were her own, and if she had to learn them the hard way, so be it. She’d made it clear she didn’t want to be babied, didn’t want any concessions.

“Get dressed,” he said, rubbing himself vigorously with a towel. “It’s a general muster and you’re not exempt.”

Portia wasn’t sure whether she understood aright. She regarded him almost warily. “Are you… am I… may I…?”

“Yes, I am… yes, you are… yes, you may join the militia,” Rufus said, in a tone that didn’t sound exactly thrilled to bits about his capitulation. “It’s against my better judgment, but don’t expect any concessions. From me or from anyone, is that clear?”

He glowered at her, but Portia only grinned in delight. She was perfectly happy in this instance to have the commander replacing the lover. “I wouldn’t wish it otherwise, my lord.” She whipped the towel from his relaxed grip and used it to dry herself before scrambling into her clothes. “How much d’you think Cato’s treasure is worth?”

Rufus buckled his belt. He had his back half turned from her and she couldn’t see his expression. “Enough,” he said.

Enough for a king’s pardon. Enough for the restitution of the house of Rothbury. Enough to wrest his birthright from the control of Cato Granville.