The Hostage Bride (16 page)

Portia thought that perhaps she would be a little more circumspect, at least until the fire had died out of his eyes. “You cannot blame me for thinking so,” she said, her tone milder.

“I can,” he asserted. “I can most certainly blame you for thinking that I would cause an innocent girl pain and suffering for something that is no fault of hers.”

“And just what are you doing to me? Am I not an innocent? And am I not suffering at your hands for no fault of my own?”

Rufus looked at her in silence, then suddenly he laughed ruefully and the tension in the room was shattered like crystal. “I suppose you have a point, lass. Sit down.” He put his hands on her shoulders and pressed her down onto a stool.

Portia resisted the pressure, looking up at him with clear challenge as he towered over her. The shoulders beneath his hands were so thin, he could feel every bone as if it were a twig that would break between his fingers.

“Sit down,” he repeated. “Surely you’ll allow me the opportunity to redress some of these ills you say I’ve inflicted upon you.” A red-gold eyebrow lifted in a challenge to match her own. “Are
you
afraid, Portia?”

“No.” She sat down on the stool beside the table. “Should I be?”

“No.” He shook his head. “But I have an uncertain temper, as I believe I once told you.”

He filled a basin with hot water from the kettle hanging on a hook over the fire, and brought the basin to the table. Dipping a towel into the water, he took Portia’s chin in one hand and began to dab at the scratches, wiping away the dried blood and dirt.

“I’m not much of a nurse,” he muttered, shaking his head. “How could you possibly have done this to yourself?”

“I didn’t know I’d run into a thicket of thornbushes until I got there,” Portia retorted, wondering why she felt so hot suddenly as his large, powerful hands turned her face around with a curious and incongruous gentleness.

“Just as a matter of interest, what were you going to do if you
had
escaped?” Rufus inquired as he satisfied himself that he’d cleansed all of the visible scratches. He perched on the end of the table, the damp, blood-streaked towel in his hands. “You were in strange territory, miles away from anywhere.”

“I didn’t think that far ahead.”

“Are you ordinarily so impulsive?”

“I am not ordinarily required to try to rescue myself from a kidnapper.” Her slanted eyes were narrowed as she looked up at him from beneath the tangled red halo of her hair.

She was such a scarecrow, so thin and seemingly so frail, her freckles standing out against the extreme pallor of her countenance, that Rufus found her plucky bravado peculiarly moving.

“This is a veritable bird’s nest,” he murmured with an unconscious smile, picking out a twig from her hair. He began to comb through the curls with his fingers, plucking out foreign bodies.

Portia’s eyes widened and a slight pink tinged her pale cheeks. He disentangled a clump of blanket lint from a particularly tight knot of orange curls and continued almost to himself, “Somewhere, I believe I have some salve.” He dropped the towel onto the table and made his way to the small stone-flagged pantry at the rear of the cottage.

“Ah, here it is. Smells dreadful but it works like a charm.” He reappeared, unscrewing the lid of a small alabaster pot. “Keep still now. It stings a little.” He dipped his fingertip in the strong-smelling ointment and painted Portia’s scratches with it.

She flinched. He wasn’t fooling about the sting. Her whole face felt on fire as if a swarm of bees had settled there.

“It’ll cool down in a minute,” he told her, turning her face from side to side with a hand under her chin as he looked for untreated hurts. “That’ll do, I think.” He screwed the lid back
on the pot. “Now, what else must we remedy … ah, yes, hunger. It’s a damnably long ride from Castle Granville; you must be starved.”

The calm, matter-of-fact way he moved about the kitchen and pantry, setting bread, cheese, and cold meat on the table, somehow belied the contained power of the soldier’s body. Everything about him shouted of battlefields, and yet he seemed perfectly at home in a kitchen. Portia found herself fascinated by his deft efficiency, by the sense that he was a man of so many contrasts.

“Try that first.” He poured thick creamy milk from a copper jug and set the beaker in front of her.

“I haven’t drunk milk since I was a little girl,” Portia protested, even as she realized to her astonishment how inviting it looked.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.” She took a deep gulp of the milk.

“Is that all?” It wasn’t that she looked so much older, it was just that her attitude bespoke a wealth of experience.

“The life of a vagabond bastard tends to be aging,” Portia observed sardonically.

Rufus contented himself with a raised eyebrow and a shrug. He reached for the stone jar of whisky on the shelf above the fireplace.

“So, what are you going to do now?” Portia demanded through a mouthful of bread and beef.

Rufus seemed to consider the question. “Laughing like a madman is a possibility. Screaming like a banshee is another.”

Portia was about to ask exactly what Olivia’s ransom was to have been when there was a loud bang at the door. Will burst into the cottage as if Lucifer’s hounds were on his tail. “Hell and the devil, Rufus. George says it’s the wrong one!” He stared at Portia. “Is it?”

“So it would seem, Will,” Rufus agreed, spearing a piece of cheese on the point of a knife and carrying it to his mouth.

Will stepped farther into the room, his eyes still on Portia. “What happened to her face?”

“Scratches and salve.” Rufus drank from the stone jar. “Sit you down, lad, and have a mug of ale.”

Portia clapped both hands to her still-burning cheeks. Her
face felt swollen as well as sore, and she couldn’t imagine what she looked like, but judging by the newcomer’s expression it must be pretty dreadful. Maybe the salve had been some horrible trick to disfigure her even further.

“It’s all right. The burning will die down soon,” Rufus said, correctly reading her expression. “You’ll be right as rain in an hour.” He sliced more sirloin and forked it onto her platter. “More milk, or would you prefer ale now?”

“Ale, please.” There seemed no point responding to this hospitality with sulkiness, although the entire situation felt so unreal that Portia was beginning to wonder if she was going to wake up soon.

Will was still looking at her in disbelief. He’d barely moved from the door. “But who’s this one?”

“Portia Worth,” Portia snapped, no longer willing to be referred to by this idiotic man as if she were a stuffed dummy. “And if you have questions concerning me, why don’t you address me directly?”

Will blushed to the roots of his sandy hair, and his eyes, a paler blue than his cousin’s, were filled with dismay. “My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

“Disrespect?” Portia exclaimed. “After I’ve been abducted, and carried off wrapped up tight as a sausage in its skin, and bumped and tossed about for hours … you talk of disrespect!”

Will looked helplessly at Rufus, who stood with his broad shoulders against the thick oak mantelpiece, holding the stone jar easily with a finger hooked into the handle.

“But … but will Granville pay—”

“I very much doubt it,” Rufus interrupted. “But it might be interesting to see how he responds. The ransom message was delivered after the girl was picked up. He’ll need some time to deliberate.”

“And if he doesn’t respond?”

The lingering amusement vanished from the bright blue eyes, and the earl’s expression hardened. “Then we’ll have to find another way, Will.”

“But … but I still don’t understand who she … I mean who you are.” Will tried to direct his questions at Portia, who, her hunger appeased, was listening intently, hoping to learn
at last exactly what the earl of Rothbury wanted of the marquis of Granville.

“Jack Worth was Cato’s half brother. The lass is his daughter.”

“Oh.” Will continued to stare at Portia, who stared back.

“Bastard daughter,” she said deliberately. “Not worth a farthing to anyone … now that Jack’s dead.”

Silence stretched between them, then Will said, unconsciously following the train of thought, “Oh, that reminds me. The boys, Rufus. They were following me but they must have been sidetracked.” He wrenched open the door and shouted into the night. “Luke … Toby … where are you, you little devils?”

Portia shivered as the wind gusted through the open door. Then two bundles rolled past Will’s legs and entered the kitchen like a pair of dervishes. They were so well wrapped in coats and jerkins that they were as round as they were tall. Two pairs of blue eyes raced around the kitchen.

“We’re back,” Toby announced.

“So I see,” Rufus observed gravely.

“Who’s that?” Luke pointed at Portia.

“My guest,” his father replied in the same tone.

“Like Maggie?” Toby inquired with intelligent interest.

Will choked and Rufus said, “Not exactly. Mistress Worth will be staying here for a few days.”

“Oh, will I
?” Portia muttered sotto voce. Who were these two lads, and just who was Maggie when she was at home?

“Shall I put them to bed, then?” Will gestured to the boys, who had quite suddenly collapsed in front of the fire, where they sat rubbing their eyes and swaying slightly.

“Take Toby and I’ll take Luke.” Rufus bent to pick up one of the children. He carried him behind a curtain in the corner of the room, followed by Will with the other child. Portia listened, now completely astounded. Was there no end to the surprises with this man? Mumbled childish protests came from behind the curtain, but they seemed to receive no encouragement and within a couple of minutes Will and Rufus reappeared.

“Did you put them to bed in their clothes?” Portia couldn’t help the question.

“They were too tired to undress,” Rufus said casually. “You’ll meet them properly in the morning.”

“They’re yours?”

“My natural sons,” he said deliberately. “And they’re beyond price.”

Portia felt her cheeks warm. She picked up her tankard and drained the contents.

“Anything else you want me to to do, then?” Will fiddled with the clasp of his cloak.

“No. Just stop George from drinking himself into a stupor of recrimination. It wasn’t his fault, but he’ll take some convincing.”

Will nodded and made his way to the door. He paused, glancing over his shoulder at Portia, who was staring into her empty tankard. Rufus made a brusque dismissing gesture with one hand, and Will left without a further word.

Portia looked up. “Where were you intending to keep poor little Olivia? But I suppose you have prison cells in a thieves’ den.”

“We have a prison,” Rufus agreed with a deliberately amiable smile. “But I believe you’ll be more comfortable abovestairs. There’s an apple loft that’s been prepared.”

“I’m sure Olivia would have appreciated your consideration, sir.”

“I would hope so,” he responded, the smile not faltering. “And I hope you’ll be as appreciative, Mistress Worth.”

Portia stood up, suddenly too tired to fence any longer with such a deft opponent. “Much as I enjoy your company, Lord Rothbury, I think I prefer my own at the moment.”

“That is your prerogative,” he said gravely. “Come, I’ll show you to your bed.”

Portia followed him up the narrow wooden staircase and into a large, well-appointed chamber. She looked around at the big bed, the sturdy oak furniture, the fire in the hearth, the rush mats on the clean-swept floor. There was nothing luxurious about the furnishings, but the atmosphere was one of solid farmhouse comfort. “Who sleeps in here?”

“I do.” He opened the door onto a small, neat chamber. “And this has been prepared for you.”

Portia hesitated.

“You’re quite safe from me” Rufus said.

“In my experience, men who say you’re safe from them usually mean the opposite,” Portia retorted.

Rufus shook his head. “If I want a woman in my bed, lass, I have no difficulty finding a willing one. And I do assure you that unwilling women have never appealed.” He stepped aside and gestured that she should enter the small chamber.

Portia could see no reason to disbelieve him, and she could lock the door for good measure anyway. She entered the room.

“I think you’ll find everything you need. A nightrobe, towel, soap, water in the ewer, chamber pot beneath the bed.” Rufus ran a checking eye over the contents of the room, rather in the manner of an experienced housekeeper. “If you need anything, just call.”

“Quite a pleasant little prison,” Portia observed, her eye immediately taking in the very small window that was securely barred.

Rufus ignored the remark. He said only, “I give you good night, Portia,” and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Portia darted to the door. There was neither lock nor bolt. She couldn’t lock herself in, but by the same token neither could she be locked in from the outside. She turned to examine the chamber. It was small but adequate and one wall backed onto the fireplace in the bigger room so that some heat was reflected in the bricks from the blaze on the other side.

She sat on the bed and contemplated her situation. The wrong hostage, worth nothing to either side in the ransom negotiations. Rufus Decatur could cut her throat and bury her on the hillside and no one would be any the wiser. Somehow she couldn’t see Cato sending out armed troops prepared to do battle for his niece’s return. He had far too many important things to concern him in this war than the well-being of his brother’s ill-favored and penniless bastard.

And what of Olivia? What must she have made of that violence on the moat? It must have terrified her. So sudden, so meaningless, so savage. It would have terrified anyone, and
Portia knew that Olivia would be wondering what she could have done to help … she’d be castigating herself for standing dumbly aside, watching the entire brutal episode. And there was no one in the castle to reassure her. Her father was too preoccupied, and as for her stepmother …!

Portia twisted an orange curl around her forefinger. There was nothing she could do for Olivia at this point either. It seemed more than likely that the Decatur’s hatred of anything remotely connected with Granville would prevent his tamely sending her back and thus admitting defeat. All in all, her position looked distinctly unpromising.