The Hostage Bride (13 page)

T
he men, wavery shadows in the flickering light thrown
by horn lanterns, just seemed to melt into the wall of Castle Granville. The whicker of a mule rose from the flickering darkness far below Portia’s spy hole. She couldn’t see the animal or animals, who were standing somewhere beyond the circle of lantern light waiting to have their panniers unloaded, but she could see the men, bent double beneath their loads, emerging from the darkness, heading for the secret door, visible in the thick stone only to those who knew what to look for.

The secret entrance was approached from the moat beneath the drawbridge and, as she’d discovered on one of her daylight reconnaissances, was too low to admit a man standing upright.

There was no other sound, not a whisper or a rustle from the silent workers. She could make out the brawny figure of Giles Crampton supervising the operation, but as usual could identify none of the others.

No one knew she was here, not even Olivia, who was presumably tucked up in bed. But Portia had always had the habit of familiarizing herself intimately with her surroundings. Such familiarization was best done at night, and unobserved. And it was amazing what one discovered—the scene on the moat below her being a case in a point.

“We have something in common, you and
I.” Damn the man! Why did he keep intruding on her thoughts? Portia swore vigorously to herself. The problem was that it was true. She was spying, just as Rufus Decatur had been doing. She was creeping around at night trying to learn things about an environment where she didn’t really fit. She was an outcast looking out for herself in exactly the same fashion as the infuriating Rufus Decatur. And he’d seen this and she hadn’t.

With another vigorous oath, she forced her attention back to her present observation.

She was looking down on the scene from one of the ancient privies set into the battlements. This one overlooked the drawbridge. Installed when the castle was first built some three hundred years earlier, the garderobe had not been used in a generation, but the chute still gave a clear straight shot down into the moat. Lying on her belly, she had a bird’s-eye view of the activity below. And it was most intriguing.

It was the third night in a week that she’d witnessed the same scene. The mules arrived just after midnight, to be met by waiting men from the castle. The unloading was swift and silent, and even as she watched now, the last man disappeared into the castle wall with his lantern and the night was returned to absolute darkness and silence.

Portia pushed herself backward until she was sitting on her haunches. The tiny space was damply malodorous, moss growing on the walls and between the flagstones. But it was an excellent spy hole and there was a series of them set into the battlements hanging over the moat, so one could have a bird’s-eye view of any number of spots encircling the castle.

What was she seeing?
Some cargo was arriving regularly at dead of night, and judging by the haste and secrecy with which it was brought in, not even the castle’s inhabitants must know of its arrival. And most certainly not the earl of Rothbury! Although, judging by his past activities, very little of Granville affairs remained unknown to Rufus Decatur.

Portia yawned and unfolded her skinny angularity until she was standing upright. Did he have spies in the castle? Maybe he was watching this scene just as she was. She found herself constantly expecting to see him. Catching a shadowy glimpse of someone vaguely familiar from the corner of her eye, watching newcomers to the castle, trying to penetrate a possible disguise that would reveal Decatur. It was a ridiculous preoccupation, and it irritated her enormously, but she couldn’t seem to get rid of it. And the worst of it was that she didn’t know whether she was afraid to think of him exposing himself to such danger, or whether she gained some thrill of vicarious excitement at the thought of his reckless bravado.

It was a question without answers and one better not asked. She slipped from the garderobe and made her way around the battlements, hugging the parapet, hoping to be invisible to the sentries in the watchtowers.

However, she reached without incident the narrow flight of stone stairs that would take her down to the bridge that connected the family floor of the donjon with the external castle walls. It was rarely used, although Olivia had told her that in the summertime she would sometimes walk on the battlements when she could get away from Diana. But in general, the family used the gardens and orchard attached to the donjon for their outdoor recreation within the castle precinct.

She gained her own chamber without meeting anyone and, now yawning prodigiously, stripped off her outer garments and jumped into bed. The room was a lot warmer now that she’d ensured herself a plentiful supply of seasoned wood, but it still took a while before she stopped shivering.

She lay in bed, her head resting on her linked hands, contemplating this mystery of Castle Granville. Presumably what she’d been witnessing was connected to Lord Granville’s part in the war effort. It might be worth investigating what lay behind the door that opened onto the moat.

She awoke early the next morning, aware to her delight that the sun was shining. A faint diffused yellow light showed through the oiled parchment over the recessed window. A chilly light, but still much more invigorating than the uniform grayness of previous days.

She sprang out of bed, flinging on her clothes even as she poked the dying fire back to life, then went to the nursery to perform her morning tasks at Janet’s beck and call.

It wasn’t long, however, before Olivia stuck her head around the door. “Father wants to know why you aren’t at b-breakfast, Portia.”

Portia looked up from the breechclout she was changing and said in surprise, “But I always break my fast in the kitchen.”

“Father doesn’t know that.”

Portia pulled a face. “And her ladyship, I suppose, didn’t tell him it was her idea.” She had barely seen Lord Granville
since the morning after her arrival. He had been absent from the castle for days at a time, and even when he was in residence had rarely put in an appearance in the family quarters, so Diana’s rule had been absolute.

Olivia shook her head. “Will you come?”

“Of course.” Portia readily handed the baby to Janet and linked arms with Olivia as they made their way down the passage to the dining parlor.

Olivia couldn’t remember when she’d last been as happy as she was now. Portia was like sunshine, she often thought. A yellow glow that spread over the dreary pattern of life at Castle Granville, penetrating the shadows, throwing a blanket of warmth over the damp, dank chill of this castle stronghold. Even the servants were different. They seemed to smile automatically when Portia appeared among them, and fell easily into a friendly and often ribald banter with her. Olivia, who had been taught to view the servants only in the light of their duties, found being with Portia a series of revelations. Now she saw the person behind the composed and dutiful expressions of each of those who waited upon her. She learned about their families, about their ailments and their daily pleasures.

As they entered the parlor, Cato was surprised to see an expression on his daughter’s face that reminded him of the open, happy child she had once been. He frowned, wondering why it should be so unusual to see her smile, to hear her laugh.

Olivia curtsied and took her seat at the table. Portia in her turn curtsied, murmured a “Good morning,” and sat down.

Diana regarded her with covert distaste. The girl was so scrawny, so unappealing with her white face and unfashionable freckles and those sharp green eyes. Yet she vibrated with an energy, a purpose, that Diana found somehow threatening. She knew it was ridiculous to imagine that this ill-favored bastard could pose a threat to her own peace, but life at Castle Granville, while never exactly stimulating, had taken a serious turn for the worse since Portia Worth’s arrival. Not that Portia could be blamed for the marquis’s unthinkable change of allegiance, but Diana in her present jaundiced frame of mind needed to blame someone.

“Maybe you’d care to share your amusement, Olivia,” she said spitefully. “It’s the height of ill manners to enjoy a private jest in public. Portia may not know this, but you most certainly do.”

The merry glint died out of Olivia’s eyes. She murmured, “There’s no jest, m-madam.”

“Well, something seems to be pleasing you,” Diana pressed. “Pray do tell us.”

“The baby, madam, produced her first smile this morning,” Portia said, buttering a slice of barley bread. “I believe we both found it infectious.”

Olivia glanced up from under her eyelashes and caught Portia’s mischievous wink from across the table. She had the urge to giggle, and Diana’s malice lost its bite. She helped herself to the compote of mushrooms and kidneys, took a sip of her ale, and composedly continued her breakfast.

Cato was fond of his infant daughters, but they barely impinged on his present preoccupations. However, he could see how a baby’s first smile might interest women. He smiled with vague benignity around his warlike table and remarked, helping himself to sirloin, “I trust you’re finding life in Castle Granville to your liking, Portia.”

“I am most grateful for your kindness, my lord,” Portia responded.

“You are managing to occupy yourself pleasantly, I trust.”

Portia’s green gaze flickered toward Diana before she said, “Delightfully, Lord Granville.”

“Good … good …” he said briskly. He hadn’t expected anything else, after all. He drew a packet of letters out of his coat pocket. “A letter from your father, my dear,” he said to Diana. “And one from your sister, Phoebe, addressed to Olivia, I believe.” Here he smiled at his daughter as he handed her the wafer-sealed sheet of paper. Olivia always brightened at correspondence from Diana’s sister.

Portia saw Olivia’s eagerness as she broke the wafer, and waited curiously to hear the contents of the letter. She remembered Phoebe as being rather round and refreshingly blunt. A soft pretty face with light blue eyes and hair the color
of summer wheat. It would be interesting to see how much she’d changed in the three years since their encounter in the boathouse.

Cato broke the seal of his own letter and immediately frowned. It was from his stepson, Brian Morse, the son of Cato’s first wife, who had been a widow, nine years older than Cato. Theirs had been an alliance of convenience, and Elizabeth had come with a ten-year-old child in tow.

The marriage had lasted barely six months before Elizabeth had succumbed to typhoid fever. On the death of his mother, the boy had been claimed by his father’s family, and Cato had seen nothing of him until a few years ago when the young man had descended upon Granville Castle, claiming his stepfather’s hospitality after he’d been sent down from Oxford for unpaid gambling debts and his father’s family had refused to take him in.

Cato did not like Brian Morse. The young man appeared to be personable, friendly, amusing, a good sportsman, altogether well versed in all the arts of a noble gentleman with a sizable inheritance awaiting him. But Cato felt there was something shifty about him, something not quite true.

And now Brian was writing to tell his stepfather that he had business with the Cavalier army in the north and would visit Castle Granville at the earliest opportunity. He had obviously not heard that his stepfather had turned against the king’s cause.

Cato folded the parchment again and looked up. Diana was rather pale and her long fingers were trembling slightly as she held her father’s letter.

“Is something the matter, madam? Is your father well?”

“I don’t know,” Diana replied.

“May I see the letter?” He extended his hand, the request a mere polite form. A man had every right to read his wife’s correspondence. Diana handed it to him and he read it in comprehending silence. His father-in-law, it seemed, was beginning to have his own doubts about the divine rightness of the king’s cause. He had not yet declared himself for Parliament, but he was withdrawing from the court at Oxford for a spell to think matters over. Poor Diana, a passionate devotee of
the court, and of King Charles and Queen Henrietta Maria, had barely recovered from the shock of her husband’s defection, and now she had to contend with her father’s.

He handed the letter back to Diana without comment and said matter-of-factly, “And how is Phoebe, Olivia?”

Olivia immediately passed her letter across to her father, who cast a brief eye over it before handing it back. “Not exactly easy to read, but Phoebe at least is delighted to be leaving Oxford and the court,” he observed.

“My sister has never possessed the least social grace,” Diana declared. “She has no sense, no conduct, no idea of when she’s well off … of how
very
lucky she is.”

Diana rose from the table. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I have matters to attend to.”

He nodded affably, refusing to notice her angry flush or the fiery darts in her eye, and Diana left the parlor, closing the door behind her with something remarkably approaching a slam.