The Hostage Bride

Chapter 18

Portia wriggled forward on her belly until she had a clear view from the top of the hillock down onto Castle Granville. The drawbridge was down, and as she watched, a detachment of soldiers marched out from the castle, the standards of Granville and Parliament snapping in the wind above them.

She could see the ducks’ little island in the middle of the moat. It would take her fifteen minutes to climb down, five minutes to leave her message for Olivia, and maybe twenty minutes to get back uphill. How to explain such an absence to Paul, her present partner?

She edged backward and stood up. Paul was sitting on the ground, his back to a rock, placidly eating an apple. Their two horses, tethered to a sapling, were busy with the contents of their nosebags.

“How long d’you think it’ll take the others to get here?” Portia inquired casually.

“Will said to expect ‘em afore sunset,” Paul replied. “I don’t reckon ’e thought we’d get done quite so fast.” He grinned and tossed aside his apple core. “We wouldn’t ‘ave been either if you ’adn’t picked up them tracks.”

Portia unbuckled her saddlebag and withdrew a cloth-wrapped package. “Did you eat all the chicken, Paul?”

“I thought you said you didn’t like it.”

“I never said any such thing,” she protested. “Oh well, I suppose I can make do with cheese.” She perched casually on the rock with her bread and cheese.

“Yeah, I reckon if you ‘adn’t picked up them tracks, we’d prob’ly ’ave missed ‘em altogether,” Paul said, picking his teeth with a twig.

Portia’s smile was a little smug. “They were certainly surprised when we jumped out in front of them.” She and Paul had been given the task of following two men, traveling as well-to-do farmers, who Will had heard on his spy grapevine were actually rebel couriers, carrying information from General Fairfax in Hull to Lord Leven, who was camped outside Durham.

Paul chuckled. “Aye, the master’ll be pleased wi‘ what we got out of’em.”

They’d tracked the two men to a hamlet some five miles away from their present picnic spot and had managed to spring an unpleasant surprise on them. With the result that the two couriers were now lodged, bound and gagged, in a henhouse awaiting an uncertain rescue, and the papers they’d been carrying were tucked away in an inner pocket in Portia’s saddlebag. They were interesting papers, too, revealing information about troop movements that would be of vital importance to the royalist armies.

Will had sent Portia and Paul off on this errand while he and the rest of the patrol had gone after a small troop of Granville militia, hoping to engage them in a skirmish.

It had been a desultory war in the north border lands during these winter months. One of skirmishes and spies, of sieges and needling harassment. No decisive battles had been fought since Leven had brought his Scots army across the border. The royalist forces still held the north, except for Hull, but spring was in the air, armies would soon be able to move more freely, and the royalist forces under Lord Newcastle were new outnumbered. If the two wings of the rebel armies joined forces, the king’s cause would be destroyed in the north.

Rufus would certainly be very interested in the information Portia carried in her saddlebags.

“I’m going for a little stroll, Paul.” She slid off the rock.

Paul merely grunted and closed his eyes, arms folded over his chest beneath his cloak, preparing to take a nap.

Portia knew he assumed she was merely going to answer nature’s call and left him with that assumption. With any luck, he’d sleep most of the afternoon… she might even be back before he awoke.

She moved with all the speed and cunning she had learned in the last weeks, through the small grove of trees that covered the hillside leading down to the castle, darting from trunk to trunk, using the concealment of bushes and rocks. Her britches and jerkin were dark wool, blending with the landscape, and her bright hair was concealed beneath a cap that hugged her head. She had both rapier and knife in her belt… and if she had to use them it wouldn’t be the first time. She had learned many things in the last weeks, not least that scruples about shedding blood vanished into the wind when one’s own blood was threatened.

She inched her way around the moat until she faced the little island. There was a warmth in the March sun now; the vicious bite of the winter wind softened. In a week the ice on the moat would be too thin for Olivia to venture forth on skates. This was Portia’s last chance to leave the promised missive beneath the boulder.

She had been agonizing over how to get a message to Olivia, but there had been no opportunities until today. Even if it would have been possible to leave Decatur village without detection, she’d been kept far too busy to make such an expedition.

The master of Decatur had been true to his word, and the new recruit to the ranks had been absorbed without reference to her sex or her relationship with the master. Her position was lowly, and she was regularly assigned to the boring and tedious tasks that went into keeping a full-scale armory in pristine condition. She took sentry duty according to the roster, and if it meant she was absent from Rufus’s bed, the commander accepted it without a murmur. And when Rufus went out on expeditions, he didn’t always include her among those he chose to accompany him. She’d challenged her exclusion on one occasion, only to be told that he’d checked the roster and seen she was assigned to culverin drill. And Portia had reluctantly come to the conclusion that Rufus genuinely had not considered the possibility of changing her duty to accommodate such conflicts.

Today’s little excursion had begun as routine. Will was checking up on the network of spies he had around the countryside and had taken a detachment of ten with him, including Portia and Paul. Ordinarily he would have been content just to pursue the rebel couriers, but the news that a small troop of Granville men was approaching from York had fired his blood. He wanted to conduct an engagement, without either Rufus or George. It would be the first time ever, and it was too good an opportunity to prove his skills as a battlefield commander.

Sending Portia and Paul after the couriers, not a particularly dangerous task since they’d be better armed than their quarry and would have the advantage of surprise, had seemed to Will to be the perfect solution. They had arranged to rendezvous for the ride back to Decatur village at sunset. Which gave Portia two hours to complete her business on the moat. Plenty of time.

She looked up at the castle, the standards flying from its battlements and keeps. On the ice, hidden by the island, she would be out of sight of the drawbridge and the watchtowers, and once on the island she’d be quite safe from detection. Nevertheless, it took a deep breath of courage to force herself to emerge from the safety of the bushes and step down onto the ice. It looked greenish and transparent, and there was a single ominous crack as she walked forward.

“Hell and the devil!” she muttered, and, crouching low, raced across the ice. She had no idea how deep the moat was, but even if it was shallow, she’d be in a pretty pickle if she went through the ice. She scuttled onto the island amid a quacking flurry of ducks and dived into the screen of bushes.

The boulder was there as she remembered. She took the letter out of the inside pocket of her jerkin and slid it beneath the boulder, then prepared to make the dash back across the ice.

She heard the voices the instant before she stepped out from concealment. They were a little way away and it took her a minute to realize that one of them was Olivia’s. But who the hell was the other one? It was one thing for Olivia to see her here, but she couldn’t afford anyone else to catch her.

There was nowhere to go. The island was little bigger than a large rock, and she was taking advantage of its only concealment. Perhaps Olivia was skating on the moat and would bypass the island. The voices came closer. They were high and intense, both female. Portia frowned, searching errant memory. There was something familiar about the second… ah, she got it. It belonged to Phoebe. Diana’s little sister. Not dangerous unless she’d changed dramatically. She perched on the boulder and waited.

The girls came onto the island. “The boulder is behind the bushes,” Olivia said, her voice somewhat breathless. “She p-promised to leave a message, but she hasn’t yet. I’m worried that maybe she didn’t get to Decatur.”

“I got there all right, duckie,” Portia said, relishing her moment of surprise.

Olivia squeaked with shock and delight. She flung up her hands. “Oh, Portia!”

Portia hugged her. “I left you a note, but it’s a bit superfluous now.” She regarded Olivia’s companion with a smile. Phoebe hadn’t changed at all. Her round face was pink with surprise, her candid gray eyes full of good nature.

“Good heavens, how you startled us,” she declared rather obviously. “Olivia was sure you were dead. What extraordinary clothes you’re wearing.”

“They’re very practical for the life I’m leading these days,” Portia said with a cheerful grin.

“Olivia thought you were going to be Lord Rothbury’s mistress. Does he like you in britches?” The question expressed simple curiosity.

“Not in bed,” Portia said wickedly.

“You’re wearing a sword!” Olivia gasped. “Why?”

“Because I’m a soldier,” Portia said patiently. “I always wanted to be.”

“Yes, that’s what you said in London,” Phoebe put in. “I remember. When we all swore to be true to our ambitions, and not to be ordinary.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ve broken the pact,” Portia said. “There’s nothing ordinary about being a soldier.”

“I haven’t got very far with my ambition,” Phoebe said a touch gloomily. “I’m trying to write poetry, but I’m not very satisfied with my efforts. There’s always something missing, it seems to me. And I can’t do good works when we’re not permitted to leave the castle because of the war.”

Olivia wasn’t listening to this exchange. “You c-can use the sword?” she demanded of Portia, eyes incredulous.

“Of course.”

“Show us, then.”

Portia realized how very far she had moved from Olivia’s life “It’s not a toy,” she said quietly, and changed the subject. “So, Phoebe, what brings you up north?”

“Oh, my father! He’s declared for Parliament and so he brought his own militia up here to join with General Fairfax, and he thought I’d be safest in Castle Granville with Diana,” Phoebe said in disgust.

“Yes, Portia. And D-Diana hates her more than she hates me.”

“Lord, that must be hard,” Portia said.

“It’s dreadful,” Phoebe stated. “She is such a horrible person. I thought maybe being married and having babies would make her kinder, but it hasn’t… oh, look, how did I get stains there?” She brushed dismally at a collection of spots on her cloak.

“And your petticoat flounce is torn,” Olivia pointed out helpfully.

“Oh God!” Phoebe wailed. “How?”

“When you fell on the ice.”

“I can’t skate properly,” Phoebe said with a glum sigh. “I trip over my feet just walking, so how could I possibly expect to remain upright with these on my boots?” She raised one foot with the bone blade attached.

“You won’t be able to skate much longer anyway. The ice is thinning,” Portia said, thinking to offer comfort.

“Yes, and it would be just my luck to go right through it,” Phoebe said “I’m so fat. Diana says I’m like an elephant.”

Portia regarded Phoebe critically. “You’re not fat. You’re round.”

“I couldn’t wear britches,” Phoebe stated. “Can you imagine what I’d look like?”

Olivia gave a little choke of laughter and Portia said, “Why would you want to?”

“I don’t,” Phoebe said. “Fortunately.” Then she went into a peal of merry laughter that transformed her countenance, chasing away the self-deprecatory frown in her eyes.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here to keep Olivia company,” Portia said. “I’ve been worried about her.”

“I told Phoebe about what you did to Brian,” Olivia confided on another choke of laughter.

Portia grinned. “What we both did, duckie.” Then she sobered. “What did your father say when I disappeared?”

Olivia shook her head. “He was very angry. But I said I didn’t know where you’d gone, or why. He seemed to believe me. And then something really bad happened. I don’t know what. But I know he blames you for it.”

Portia nodded. It was what she’d expected. “I have to go,” she said abruptly. “I’m glad you’ve got Phoebe here, Olivia. Goodbye.” She slid past them before they had fully grasped that she was leaving so suddenly. Then with a quick wave, she plunged onto the ice, racing across the moat to disappear into the bushes on the far side.

Portia clambered up the hill. She heard the jingle of bridles, the low murmur of voices, just before she broke from the grove of trees onto the open hillside where she’d left Paul sleeping. She slowed her step and crept forward, her heart banging against her ribs. She must have been away for at least an hour. Had Paul been ambushed?

What she saw, however, made her curse under her breath. Will and his group had arrived earlier than expected. They were all still mounted except for Will, who was deep in conversation with Paul-an agitated conversation judging by the waving arms.

She braced herself for questions and sauntered out of the trees. “It wants an hour to sunset,” she observed. “You made good time. Did you have good fortune?”

Will spun round. “Where’ve you been? Paul said you’ve been gone for hours.”

“Paul was asleep,” Portia said, taking a calculated risk. “I’ve been and gone several times.” A quick glance at Paul reassured her. He was now looking uncertain.

“Where did you go?” Will was frowning.

“I must have eaten something that upset me,” Portia said. “Surely you don’t wish me to go into details.”

A couple of weeks ago, Will would have blushed to his ears, but no longer. He was as comfortable with Portia now as he was with any of his comrades and found it perfectly possible to ignore her relationship with Rufus. His rank within the militia gave him authority over her, and since Portia didn’t question it and Rufus clearly upheld it, matters between them had become easy and friendly. He merely retorted, “Well, I hope we don’t have to keep stopping for you on the way back. The countryside is crawling with Roundheads.”

Portia swung herself into Penny’s saddle, bringing the mare up beside Will’s mount. She could tell that Will was upset about something other than her disappearance. “Did you find more than you bargained for with the Granville men?”

Will was silent for a minute, then he said reluctantly, “We had them on the run, but a battalion of bastard rebels came over the ridge. We were hopelessly outnumbered, so we had to abandon the chase.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Portia leaned over and touched his gloved hand in a fleeting gesture of sympathy. She had guessed how much this expedition had meant to him. “But you did have the first lot on the run.”

Will’s expression cleared. “Oh, you should have seen them go, Portia! They turned tail like so many rabbits before the reaper. We could have taken ‘em all prisoner.”

“There’ll be another time,” Portia comforted. “And a good commander knows when to pull back from battle. Rufus is always saying so.”

“Aye, he is, isn’t he?” Will looked much happier. “Paul told me you took dispatches from those couriers.”

“Did he tell you what was in them?”

“No… we were too busy wondering what had happened to you.”

“As I said…” Portia raised a speaking eyebrow, then leaned sideways to unfasten her saddlebag. She fumbled inside for a second, then withdrew the rolled parchment. “See for yourself.”

Will eagerly scanned the parchment, then he let out a low whistle. “Troop movements. This has to go to York immediately.”

“That’s rather what I thought,” Portia said. She could tell by the gleam of excitement in his eye that he’d forgotten his earlier disappointment in the prospect of bringing such a vital document back to his commander.

It was full dark when they passed the sentry fires and came to a weary halt in the stable yard. Will dismounted and Portia, handing Penny to one of the lads on stable duty, said, “Are you coming to the cottage, Will? I expect Rufus will be there.”

Will hesitated. Portia had been responsible for acquiring the priceless piece of information, but he, as leader of the expedition, had the right to take the credit for it. “You take it if you like.” He reached inside his jerkin.

“No, you go. I’ll go and find the boys. I expect they have Juno with them. It’s past their suppertime and I’m sure they’re not at home yet.” It was an educated assumption. Luke and Toby were only ever to be found at home when they were asleep, and not always then. Rufus didn’t seem to feel the need to instill routine in their lives, and Portia couldn’t see that it was any business of hers.

Will watched her go, feeling ungenerous and almost childishly petty in the face of Portia’s considerate restraint. He knew how anxious she would be to greet Rufus. She always became fidgety as they approached the village after an absence, and he sensed how she was longing to gallop ahead instead of trotting in decorously as part of the troop. And now for his sake she’d postponed the moment she’d been anticipating for the last hour.

But his own excitement soon overcame conscience, and he found himself running toward Rufus’s cottage. Rufus was standing in the open doorway, looking down the street, when Will came racing up.

“Where’s Portia?”

Will heard the sharp edge to the question and understood that Rufus had been anticipating her return as eagerly as had Portia. He flushed and said, “She went to find the boys and Juno. She said she’ll be along in a few minutes.”

Rufus frowned, then stepped back into the lit cottage. “You had a successful day?”

“We intercepted couriers.” Will handed over the parchment, trying to conceal his bursting excitement. “Details of troop movements!”

Rufus ran his eyes over the message. “How did you get this?”

Will’s hesitation was barely perceptible, before he said, “Portia and Paul did.” He explained the events of the day and the decisions he’d taken in meticulous detail and with total honesty.

Rufus listened gravely. Once or twice a quick frown flashed across the calm blue gaze, but at the end, he smiled and said, “A thoroughly successful expedition, Will. I congratulate you.”

Will beamed with pleasure. “We’ll be sending the information to the command in York, then?”

“Yes, it needs to go tonight.” Rufus turned to the table to pour ale for them both.

“I’ll take it.”

Rufus shook his head. “Nay, lad, you’ve been riding hard all day. George can carry it.”

Will looked disappointed but resigned. He drank his ale and set the tankard on the table. “I’ll be off, then.”

Rufus nodded. “Before you go off duty, take the dispatch to George and give him your instructions.”

Will looked gratified. He’d expected Rufus to take over this matter of such vital importance. “He’s to leave immediately?”

“Immediately,” Rufus affirmed. He leaned over and clapped him on the shoulder. “You did well, Will.”

“Yes, didn’t he?” Portia’s voice chimed in from the doorway. She stood regarding the two men with a slight smile that did nothing to hide the sensual glow in her eyes as they rested on Rufus. “The boys have gone downriver with Silas… to visit some friend of his, apparently. And they’ve taken Juno with them. There’s no knowing when they’ll be back. I can’t help feeling it’s late for them to be out.”

“Oh, Silas will look after them,” Will said airily. He brushed past Portia with a word of farewell.

Portia continued to stand in the doorway, motionless, her eyes still fixed upon Rufus. “Don’t you think it’s very late for them to be out?” she said.

“I think the absence of both dog and boys is very fortuitous.” He came toward her slowly, investing each step of his advance with silent promise. Portia shivered in anticipation, wondering how it was he could do this to her. How just being in the same room with him could cause such a melting in her loins, such a weakness in her thighs, such a jolting current of lust in her belly.

Rufus stood in front of her without touching her. He leaned around and pulled the door closed, the latch clicking like a statement in the fire-warmed, candlelit silence. He was so close to her he could almost feel her heart beating, and the scent of her skin filled his nostrils-it was a rich earthy scent where sweat and horseflesh and fresh air mingled with her own particular fragrance, a fragrance he didn’t think he could ever tire of. It was youthful, delicate, and yet abundantly healthy, and it went with the exquisite softness of her skin and the wild, unruly strength of her hair and the living light in her eyes.

He raised a hand and pulled off her cap. The bright orange mass of curls sprang free with a life of their own, and the pale face was surrounded by a flaming halo. She had a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

Negligently almost, he traced the line of her cheek with his forefinger, lightly pressed the jutting tip of her chin, ran the pad of his thumb over her mouth. All the while she stood still, her eyes never leaving his face, her lips slightly parted as if she had been about to speak but something had prevented the words from issuing forth.

He unclasped her cloak, tossing it aside, then pulled off her gloves, one at a time. They joined the cloak. He unfastened her swordbelt, hanging the rapier up beside his own heavy cavalry sword. Then he lifted her, and sat her on the edge of the table to pull off her boots and stockings.

Portia fell back on the hard flat surface of the table. She raised her hips so that he could pull off her britches and drawers, lifting her hands way over her head to grasp the far edge of the table. Rufus, without taking his eyes from hers, unfastened his britches.

Guessing what he wanted of her, Portia wrapped her legs around his waist. The jutting spike of flesh slid into her body with the ease of temptation. She gripped the table edge even tighter, lifting her hips, moving against him as he stood, holding her ankles at his back, watching her with that deep smile in his eyes. Portia laughed with pure exultation and the sound was almost shocking, breaking as it did the powerful intensity of their silence.

Rufus chuckled, transferred his grip on her ankles to one hand and brought the other hand around. He ran his thumb in a long, leisurely rubbing caress over the moist and heated opened core of her body, and the hot fire of pleasure made her cry out. Her hips arced on the hard surface beneath her, her eyes closed as the wave of pleasure curled ever closer, and her breath was swift and ragged.

Rufus held her on the edge, feeling the little ripples of her muscles around his flesh buried so deep within her. He watched her face, loving the wonderful translucence of her skin as her climax approached. Her eyes shot open, meeting his intent gaze, and then she was lost. She reached up, pulling him tight against her, feeling the throbbing pulse of his flesh against her womb. Her fingers tugged urgently at the dusting of red curls on his back, as his soft groans of delight were muffled against her shoulder.

“Welcome home, gosling,” Rufus murmured, slowly bringing himself upright again. “I give you good evening.”

“And I you, Lord Rothbury,” she returned with an impish grin, sitting up on the table. “I wasn’t expecting such a vigorous welcome, I must say.”

“Learning from experience is a sign of intelligence,” he observed, refastening his britches.

“Ah, but when I’m with you I forget everything I’ve ever learned,” she said, sliding to the floor. “I’m sure I’m not very nice to know at the moment… I must reek of horseflesh and sweat.”

In just her shirt, she went to the pantry to fetch a basin. She filled it with hot water from the kettle and, discarding the shirt, set to washing herself with matter-of-fact efficiency.

Rufus leaned against the mantelpiece and watched her. She was as thin as ever, despite a regular and more than ample diet, but he loved the angularities of her body, the sharp bones of her hips, the narrowness of her clearly delineated rib cage, the hollow of her throat within the necklace of her collarbone, the shape of her shoulder blades moving beneath the white skin.

“You had quite an adventure today, I gather,” he observed.

Portia paused in her ablutions, the washcloth suspended beneath one raised arm. “What did Will say?”

“Oh, that you and Paul had pursued the couriers alone and had succeeded in lifting their documents… vital documents, as I’m sure you realized.”

“Of course I did,” she said, resuming her washing. “Paul and I set up a neat little ambush for them. Paul pretended that his horse had thrown a shoe in the middle of the lane, and he was positioned across it so they had to stop…” She handed him a washcloth and turned her back.

Rufus obliged while she continued. “And he engaged them in the most wonderfully inane discussion, in the broadest Yorkshire you could imagine, so they could hardly understand a word, and while they were distracted, I came at ‘em!”

“Part your legs.”

She did so and he drew the cloth down between the cleft of her buttocks, along the inner reaches of her thigh. Her voice faltered.

“You were saying?” Rufus prompted, draping the washcloth over her shoulder and returning to his indolent position against the mantelpiece.

“I fired a shot from my musket which spooked both their horses. And as they reared, Paul jumped up and grabbed both bridles. They were still trying to get their swords out when I rode down on them, took one of them with my rapier and the other with my knife.”

“Did you kill them?”

“No… it would have been in cold blood. We couldn’t have done that,” she said flatly. She shrugged on her shirt again, buttoning it swiftly. “We disarmed them and tied them up in a henhouse, which we’d found earlier, and set their horses loose.”

“Sounds very neat.” Rufus bent and picked up her drawers and britches, tossing them across to her. “And was that your only adventure?”

Portia had her head lowered as she climbed into her britches. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Paul and I waited for Will and the others, and we all rode home together.” She fastened her waistband, aware that her fingers were suddenly all thumbs.

“I’m starving. Paul ate all the chicken and I’ve had nothing but bread and cheese.”

“We’ll go to the mess presently. Will said you weren’t at the rendezvous when he arrived.” He was watching her very closely, watching the clumsy fumble of her fingers, although his voice was casual, his posture still indolent, as he leaned against the mantelpiece, one arm stretched along its length, fingers curled loosely around the handle of his tankard.

“And did he also tell you that my stomach was upset and while Paul slept the sleep of the just, I spent most of the afternoon behind a bush?” she demanded, combing her fingers through her hair, her face slightly averted.

“No, he didn’t mention that.” He took a sip of ale, but his eyes never left her face. Pink tinged the pallor of her high cheekbones, and her mouth was unusually taut. “The rendezvous was very close to Castle Granville,” he continued casually. “Did you manage to see anything of interest while you were waiting?”

Portia shook her head, still keeping her face averted. “Nothing out of the ordinary. The drawbridge was down and there were detachments of troops coming and going. It all looked very busy, as usual.”

Rufus knew with absolute clarity that she was not telling him the truth. He had been perplexed when Will had told him of Portia’s unexplained absence so close to Castle Granville. He had thought to press her a little for an explanation, but immediately his puzzlement gave way to unease. Something was not true in her responses. And he was not interested in confronting the issue with finesse. “You’re lying,” he stated baldly.

The pink flooded her cheeks. “I don’t know why you would say that.”

“Do not lie to me, Portia.” His voice was clipped, dismay yielding to the anger lurking just below the surface calm. “What did you do when you left Paul?”

Portia looked directly at him then. She saw how his fists were clenched, how lightning forked in his eyes. She had the sense that the man who had loved her with such passion only a short time ago was about to be taken over by his demons again, and fear quivered along her spine. She couldn’t bear it again.

She swallowed hard, then said with all the courage she could muster, “I wanted to leave a message for Olivia. I’d promised to let her know that I was safe, but I haven’t had the chance before.”

“You are in contact with Granville?” His voice was now very quiet, but his expression was as terrible as ever.

“With Olivia,” she said, hearing the desperation in her voice. “Only Olivia. She’s my friend, Rufus. She worried about me. I promised to leave her a note. I went to do that, but she and Phoebe came by chance while I was there and we talked. That’s all.”

“Phoebe?”

“Cato’s sister-in-law. She’s my friend too.” Portia lifted her chin, finding renewed courage and strength in her own words. No one, not even Rufus Decatur, was going to dictate to her whom she could have as friends.

“Granville women,” he said flatly.

“Oh, devil take it, Rufus,” Portia exploded. “Olivia doesn’t give a damn about this feud you have with her father, and neither does Phoebe. I spent five minutes with them, and we didn’t talk of it once! That may surprise you, but-”

“Be quiet and come here!” he interrupted, moving suddenly away from the mantelpiece, his eyes glittering. He jerked a hand imperatively.

Portia instead moved back. “I’d rather step between a rutting boar and a sow in heat,” she stated, putting the table between herself and Rufus.

“Come here!”

Portia shook her head and when he came toward her, his step measured, his eyes filled with purpose, she reached behind her, her fingers closing over the handle of the copper pitcher of ale. “Don’t touch me, Rufus!”

He didn’t seem to hear her. He came on, shoving the table aside with alarming ease. Portia hurled the contents of the pitcher. Ale flew in a foaming jet and fell in a cascade over his head, pouring down his shoulders. It worked, stopping him in his tracks.

His expression was so incredulous, he looked so utterly dumbfounded with ale trickling into his boots, that Portia had a hysterical urge to laugh.

And then he lunged for her with something remarkably like a roar. Portia leaped to one side, realizing too late that she’d jumped away from the door, her only possible escape route. There was nowhere to go in the cottage. She ran for the stairs, but he’d darted sideways, reaching them the same instant she did. One arm flew out, blocking her passage upward. Instinctively she ducked beneath the arm and leaped for the first step, knowing that it was futile. There was no safety above.

Fingers closed around her ankle. A determined jerk had her tumbling backward, to be caught against him, his body iron hard and distinctly damp at her back. The reek of ale was overpowering.

“Damn you, Rufus! What are you going to do? Don’t you dare touch me.” She fought desperately but his grip merely tightened, lifting her off her feet so that she was struggling and kicking like a fly caught in a web, her death throes watched by an interested and hungry spider.

Then he was carrying her upstairs, still struggling. He dropped her face down on the bed and as she wriggled to the edge, he placed a knee in the small of her back pinning her like a butterfly in a display case. “Let me go, you great bully!”

Instead, he swung himself onto the bed and straddled her, sitting firmly on her bottom. Catching her wrists, he clipped them in the small of her back and held them there with one hand. She heaved against him, kicking her legs, even though she knew she was as helpless as a baby.

Rufus waited patiently, until she’d exhausted herself against his strength, then he shifted his position and rolled her over onto her back, still straddling her hips.

“Dear God,” he said. “If I’d known you enjoyed a little caveman play, I’d have indulged you sooner.”

Portia realized with a shock that not only was he no longer angry, he was actually laughing at her. “Whoreson!” she said. “You are an unmitigated bastard… a dung beetle… a shiteater… a… a…” Her inventiveness faded. “And you smell like a brewery!”

“Then drink deep,” he said, bending over her, lifting her head on his linked hands as he brought his mouth to hers. She was not comfortable and it was not a gentle kiss… or even particularly loving. But it had its place in the rough-and-tumble of the last minutes, in the edge of anger that had driven them both.

When he released her, allowing her head to fall back on the bed, Portia’s lips felt swollen as if stung by a colony of bees. Her heart was pounding and she could barely catch her breath. She felt as if she’d run a marathon, or as if she’d lost a wrestling match. Which, of course, she had.

“That was what I intended doing all along,” Rufus declared. “As you would have discovered if you’d come to me when I asked, instead of behaving as if you’d found yourself in a den of lions.” He swung himself off her and began to throw off his reeking garments.

“You were always going to kiss me?” She couldn’t help her disbelief.

“I was going to kiss the righteous indignation from your expression,” he said. “It was such a wonderfully brave attempt to put me in my place.” He shook his head with a rueful grimace. “Just what did you think I was going to do?”

“I didn’t know,” she said simply. “After the last time.”

Rufus turned back to the bed, his expression once more grim. “I suppose I deserved that. I will try very hard not to deserve it again.”

“And you don’t mind that Olivia is my friend?” It felt like probing a still raw and open wound, but Portia knew this couldn’t be put to rest until it was said. She knew her Granville blood still mattered to him, even though she’d given him her unconditional loyalty. Until he could accept her truly for everything she was, she would always be torn in this way between friendship and kinship and love.

Rufus stood silent for a minute, his ale-sodden shirt hanging unnoticed from his hand. Then he said, “Yes, I mind. But I also realize that I cannot remake you. However much I might wish to, I can’t rewrite your history, and while I must have your loyalty, I realize that you have other claims upon it, too.”

He sounded so sad, so achingly vulnerable, so very much alone. Portia realized that however much love she could give him, however much glorious lust they shared, Rufus’s life essentially was still desperately lonely. How could a life driven from his earliest memories purely by vengeance be anything else? A life with no room in it for other emotions, for the gray areas of friendship outside the Decatur stronghold.

She reached for his hand, lifting it to her cheek. “You have my loyalty, Rufus.”

He said nothing, only caressed her cheek with the back of his hand.