Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (25 page)

Why would there be a light so many hours after Portia should have gone to bed?

He tried the door.

He expected to find it locked, but it opened, increasing his concern. He entered the dark, narrow hallway, all senses alert for trouble. Finding none, he gave Zeno a quiet command to stay by the door and moved further into the chilly house. This reminded him of his visit to Maidenhead. He hadn't sensed trouble then, and had found a great deal—Nerissa's letter, and a dangerous Amazon.

If he'd not met Portia there, his life would still be orderly. But if he'd not met Portia there, tonight she would have been raped by Steenholt or D'Ebercall in front of twenty salivating voyeurs.

He climbed the stairs as quietly as his boots allowed. He could not hear even a trace of conversation from the upper floor, which was strange for this house was not sturdily built. He could hear the scrabbling of mice, and the ticking of a clock in a downstairs room.

He came to the door that must lead into the lighted room and hesitated. It was more than likely that opening this door would change his life forever.

He shrugged and tried the knob. The door was latched from the inside. That was as it should be, but his nerves told him all was not well. He took out a pen-knife and inserted it through the crack where the door met the jamb. The latch flipped up easily. 'Struth, but she should have more security than this.

He pushed the door carefully in case of squeaks, but it opened silently and a guttering candle showed him Portia slumped in a chair. For a heart-stopping moment he thought she was dead. Then he saw that she was asleep there in her clothes.

Where was her damned brother?

He closed the door gently and walked over to her.

Small, light, and with a face relaxed by exhaustion, she looked like the child Mirabelle had claimed her to be, but his body was not responding to a child. Her full-skirted dress and stiff bodice disguised her figure, but he was burningly aware of the reality he had known earlier.

He moved his eyes, and found himself studying one slender hand where it lay relaxed in her lap. Delicate but strong, it matched the vision in his head of her writhing under him, tiny but ferocious.

With a shake of his head, he repelled the memory. Was he a raw youth to invade a woman with such thoughts?

But why was she alone? He doubted Cuthbertson would have harmed her brother, or that she would be quietly here if he had. The poltroon must have run off and abandoned her.

Bryght trimmed the smoky candle, then sat in a nearby chair to think. He'd like to apply his usual cool logic to the situation, but it seemed beyond him. What he really wanted was to gather Portia into his arms and carry her through the rain-swept streets to the safety of Malloren House. It was a foolish plan, but appealing all the same.

He shook his head. Presumably his brain still existed somewhere within the mass of sensation and emotion which ruled him. It was his brain that was needed if he were to help Portia.

She could not live here alone until her brother returned. It was neither proper nor safe and there was no guarantee that Upcott would return.

Especially if Bryght found him first.

She had money now, but she still needed protection. In case there was any trace of suspicion about last night, she needed a solid aura of respectability....

With relief, Bryght felt his brain click into operation like a fine chronometer, following many calculations at once—her family, her brother's estate, Walgrave, Nerissa, Mirabelle, Cuthbertson....

He began to see the way.

The first thing, though, was to get his weary Amazon to bed.

Soft-footed, he explored the lodgings and found her bedroom. He turned back the sheets and wished he had a warming pan for them, for the air and the bed were chilly. She would be warmer, though, beneath the covers.

Then he went back to the parlor and gathered her into his arms smiling at how little she weighed. He half hoped she would wake, for that could prove interesting, but though she stirred, she slept on. In fact, she turned her head slightly against his coat and laid her hand on his chest in a trusting movement.

He halted to savor the moment.

He wished it were a greater distance to her bed, a longer time before he must put her down. With a wry smile at his own foolishness he moved on, but halted beside the bed. His agile brain came up with a number of plausible reasons why he should lie down with her—to warm her, to protect her....

He shook his head. He wanted, with alarming intensity, to make love to her—completely, fully—and it wasn't the lust that could sometimes take a man, but something deeper. He wanted to explore her even more than he had done, and in much better circumstances. He wanted to enter her. He wanted to be the first, the only. He wanted to mark her as his for all time.

This was madness. There was no practical or material advantage in marrying this woman.

So be it.

He laid her carefully in the center of the sheet and eased off her shoes. He placed them neatly beside the bed then drew up the covers and tucked them around her. Unable to resist, he leaned down and kissed her brow. She stirred and he froze, half-hoping, half-fearing that she would wake.

After a moment, however, she turned and snuggled under the blankets.

Her hair was gathered up in a tight knot and he wanted to loosen it so it spilled long around her, but he had been foolish enough for one night.

But the vision returned, the vision of Portia running across the lawns of Castleford, red hair flying, laughing as she chased a laughing, mad-cap child.

He had never seen her laugh.

He had never seen her run in the sun.

But the vision was true.

Bridgewater's needs would have to take second place to Portia's. In fact, Bryght might not be able to help the duke much in future, for Portia had such a deep aversion to gaming that she would nag him to death.

He could understand that, after the ruin such matters had made of her life.

If Bridgewater failed, however, as a shareholder Bryght would fail too. Even if that didn't occur, he'd sunk so much money into the canal that his income now was the modest one from the estate plus a little from other investments. It would be adequate, but would not cover the purchase of an estate like Candleford.

Yet that vision had the power of truth.

He shrugged, returned to the parlor where he extinguished the candle. Then he left, closing doors softly behind him. He had no way to re-latch Portia's door, or to lock the door onto the street. He could only pray that his beloved would stay safe for the remainder of the night.

On his return to Malloren House, Bryght found no sign of his brother and was glad of it. He ignored tiredness and settled to constructing meticulous plans for his Amazon's welfare. Mirabelle would not talk, nor would Cuthbertson once Bryght dealt with him.

That left two entwined problems—Portia's scurvy brother, and her home. He would find out who had won the estate. With luck it would be a gentleman willing to extend the period of grace; more likely it was another such as Cuthbertson. In either case, Bryght would need plump pigeons in order to gather the money to pay the debt.

Before redeeming the estate, however, something had to be done to prevent Oliver Upcott from losing it again.

Bryght formulated a plan and considered how many people were needed to carry it out. The Malloren properties—particularly the London mansion and the Abbey—were heavily staffed with footmen, maids, grounds-staff, and grooms. This was not just because the Mallorens insisted upon good service, but because the service required could sometimes be out-of-the-ordinary.

As soon as the sun was up, Bryght summoned some of these excess servants and sent them out, eyes and ears open, to attend to certain tasks. Most were to operate in London, but two went to Dorset to act in the matter of Sir Oliver Upcott.

Next, Bryght sent a note to his brother-in-law, the Earl of Walgrave.

In the matter of business recently discussed between us, it would appear that the property is not well-secured. It would oblige me if you could find new storage until the full acquisition can be arranged.

Bryght knew that using Fort carried risks, for he'd rather harm a Malloren than help one, but if Portia was under the aegis of the Earl of Walgrave the gossips would hesitate to speculate. Bryght suspected Fort would play along, pushing his plan to force Bryght to marry a woman without status or fortune to recommend her. It would be amusing to watch Fort striving to bring about the match, thinking he was tying a millstone around a Malloren's neck.

It occurred to Bryght that another source of protection for Portia was the Trelyns. It was not one Bryght favored. He'd introduced Portia to Nerissa in an attempt to get her out of his life. Now he was committed to her, he had no desire for his beloved to be entangled with people who wished him ill.

"Behold, thou art fair my beloved, yea pleasant. As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters..."

With a laugh, Bryght sank his head in his hands. He was a wretched case indeed when he was driven to quoting the Bible.

Chapter 12

Portia awoke in her bed, fully dressed and with no clear notion of how she arrived there. She struggled from under the covers feeling rumpled and poorly rested, aware of strange dreams flickering at the edge of her mind.

After such an experience she would have expected nightmares. All she could remember, however, were dreams of heated passion, and a strange one of a man carrying her gently and pressing a kiss to her brow.

She rather thought she had dreamed of Fort. She smiled. It was a sweet dream, but no more than a dream. She was no wife for the Earl of Walgrave especially after her adventure in the brothel. Damn Bryght Malloren for telling Fort who she was. Why would he do such a thing?

With a sigh, Portia went out in search of Oliver, hoping he had good news. There was no sign of him, but then she noticed a letter propped on the table.

Dearest Portia,

You are deep asleep so I will not wake you.

Things are well on the way to being solved. Fort ripped me apart as I deserved, but he has agreed to the mortgage. He has insisted, however, that I take a commission in the army.

Portia stared at the letter in disbelief. After all the work she and her mother had done to dissuade...! How could Fort do such a thing?

And that is not entirely true,
Oliver continued.
Fort has long known I want the life, and now says it would be best. That boredom would lead me back into trouble. I think he may be right. I'm not needed at Overstead, for you take care of the place better than I. Perhaps I'll make my fortune through war and return home covered in loot and glory.

Anyway, I'm off to Overstead to reassure Mama and Pru and talk to the colonel of the 5th. By the time I'm back, Fort says the mortgage will be arranged. He seemed to want you to stay here to discuss this business with him. I didn't argue since I want to make speed and you know more of the estate's affairs than I. He's promised to keep an eye on your welfare.

Your loving, contrite brother, Oliver.

Stay here? Portia stared at the scribbled letter in disbelief. How on earth could Oliver think she could stay here?

Then she realized she had said little about the events at Mirabelle's. Certainly she had given her brother no inkling of the effect Bryght Malloren had on her, or of a dangerous wager. Oliver thought Bryght had merely bought her out of there and sent her home, and clearly Fort had not enlightened him.

In fact, Portia recognized Fort's hand in this. Fort could persuade Oliver of almost anything, and knowing Portia would not approve of Oliver buying a commission, he'd neatly made sure she couldn't interfere.

Devil take the wretch. She paced the room angrily. He had no right to send Oliver into such danger.

She halted, recalling all the recent disasters and dangers. What other solution was there? Oliver
was
bored, and showed little interest in the land. He'd been mad to join the army since boyhood.

She sighed. Perhaps it was for the best, though it would cast their mother into the vapors.