The Hostage Bride (35 page)

“Yes, please,” she said, hearing how dispirited she sounded. She swung her legs over the end of the bed and scrutinized her ankle. It was still swollen and it still throbbed.

Rufus handed her his robe. “Don’t let’s quarrel, gosling,” he said with clear effort. “It’s not necessary. We’ll find something for you to do.”

“I want to be a soldier,” Portia stated, pushing her arms into the robe. “I’ve always wanted to be. If you’re going to fight this war, then I’ll fight it with you.”

To her fury, Rufus burst out laughing, all his tension vanished under the supreme humor of such an idea. “There’s no place for a lass on a battlefield!” he exclaimed.

“I didn’t do too badly with Colonel Neath,” she said crossly, pulling the robe tight around her.

“No, a very creditable imitation of David and Goliath.” Rufus was still chuckling. “I don’t deny you’re very handy with a knife. But women do not make good warriors, lass.”

“Some have,” Portia said tightly. “Joan of Arc, for instance. Boadicea, for instance. The Amazons.”

“Enough!” He threw up his hands in mock despair. “You’ve windmills in your head, lass.”

Portia said no more and Rufus took her silence as agreement to let the ridiculous subject drop. He lifted her and carried her downstairs, set her on a stool at the table, kissed her,
ruffled her hair with careless affection, and left, letting Juno in on his way out.

The puppy bounded ecstatically to Portia, jumping up at her lap. Portia stroked her head absently, then, grasping the side of the table, stood up gingerly, wondering if she could make it through the fresh snow to the privy. She probably should have used the chamber pot upstairs, but she didn’t like the idea of not being able to empty it herself.

She hopped to the scullery and found a pair of wooden clogs and a stout blackthorn stick by the back door. She stuck her good foot into one of the wooden clogs and with the aid of the stick hobbled out into the backyard. The blizzard had dumped close to a foot of snow, it seemed. The sun on the snow was dazzling and the air could cut glass. Someone in the last hour had shoveled the path to the privy. Someone delegated to take care of the master’s comfort, she thought. There were definite advantages to rank.

The smell of bacon greeted her when she returned to the kitchen, blowing on her bare hands to warm them, shaking snow off the hem of the robe.

“I’ve brought your breakfast.” Will turned from the table where he was setting out dishes. He blushed a little as he took in her dishabille. Rufus’s robe swamped her, but there was still something sensuous and intimate about it.

Juno bounced around Portia’s legs in greeting, as if she hadn’t seen her in months, and Will with visible relief turned his gaze upon the puppy. “The devil! What an ugly thing! Where’d it come from?”

“She came with me. She’s called Juno.” Portia hopped to the table and sat down with a hungry sniff. “Can you keep me company for a few minutes, Will? There are some questions I want to ask you.”

“Can’t Rufus answer them?” Will looked rather as if he’d wandered into a witches’ coven.

Portia took a sip of ale and broke a chunk off the loaf of bread. “What do you have to do to be a soldier in the Decatur militia?”

This was a comfortable subject and Will looked immediately more at ease.

“First, you must be able to draw a longbow of ash and hit a target at twenty-five yards.” He counted off on his fingers. “Then you must be able to handle a cavalry sword. Third, you must be able to fire and reload a musket within two minutes … and hit a target at twenty paces. Fourth, you must be able to handle a pike.”

It was an impressive, not to say intimidating, list of requirements. Portia speared bacon on her fork. “Would it matter if one used a lighter sword than a cavalry sword, and a willow bow instead of ash? As long as one used them properly?”

Will considered this. “I don’t see why it should,” he said after a minute. “As long as your comrades can depend upon you, then …” He paused, looking at her curiously. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I intend to join your militia,” she said simply. “And I want you to teach me what I need to know.”

Wills jaw dropped. “I can’t—”

“You can if you’re willing,” Portia interrupted. “I’m a good fencer already. I’m an expert with a knife. And I’m quite a reasonable archer. Of course, I’ve never used weapons in a battle … except of course for the knife … but I’m ready to do so.”

“Does Rufus know?” Will still looked incredulous.

“Well, he does and he doesn’t,” Portia said judiciously. “It would be a secret though. I want to surprise him.” She regarded Will shrewdly. “I saved your life once. You could say that I’m calling in the favor.”

Before Will could respond, excited squeals preceded an energetic thumping on the door. “It’s the boys,” Will said distractedly. “They were following me.” He rose from the table and went to open the door. Two small bundled figures tumbled in, caught off balance as they’d been jumping to reach the latch.

“Papa’s comin’,” Luke shrieked, righting himself.

“He wants to talk to Will,” Toby explained with rather more solemnity. “You’ve hurt your foot,” he stated, pointing to Portia.

“How d’you do it?” Luke inquired, scuttling on his knees to where Portia still sat at the table. He peered intently at her bandaged ankle.

“I tripped in a rabbit hole,” she informed him placidly. Neither child seemed inclined to question her presence in their fathers house.

“Oh, what’s that?” Toby caught sight of Juno, who had retreated behind the log basket and was regarding these strange beings with a somewhat nervous air. “It’s a puppy!” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet and rushing forward. “Look, Luke, it’s a puppy!”

Juno growled, her hackles up, and backed up until she was almost in the fire as both boys reached for her with their eager dimpled hands, their voices shrill with excitement.

“Don’t scare her,” Portia said. “She’s very little and you seem very big to her.”

The boys nodded and dropped their voices to whispers as they waggled their hands, trying to coax Juno out from sanctuary. “Why won’t she come?” demanded Luke.

“Because you’ve frightened her,” Will said. “Come away from her and if you take no notice of her for a few minutes maybe she’ll feel brave enough to come out.”

The boys backed away on their knees and sat on their ankles a few feet from Juno, fixing her with intent bright blue stares.

“We come to c’llect our swords,” Toby said without taking his eyes off the puppy.

“They’re hanging on the hook next to Papa’s.” Luke pointed. Portia’s gaze flew to the hook where Rufus kept his swordbelt and for the first time saw the two little wooden swords sheathed in felt hanging beside their father’s great curved weapon. She grinned, it was such an absurd sight.

“God’s grace! You are a pair of Lucifer’s imps! You have wings on your feet!” Rufus appeared in the still-open doorway. His face was ruddy with cold and he clapped his gloved hands together vigorously. He gave Portia a quick smile but he was clearly distracted.

“Ah, Will, I’m glad you’re here. Granville is sending his treasure out on Friday. They’re going by the Durham road.” He bent to the fire, rubbing his hands together.

“And we’re going to stop them,” Will stated with a grin.

“Some of us are.” Rufus straightened, his voice crisp. “I’ll be leading the expedition. You’ll stay here as commander, with George as your second.”

Will couldn’t hide his disappointment but he didn’t attempt to argue. Orders were orders.

“How convenient,” Portia murmured so that only Will heard. He cast her a quick glance and she winked at him. He blushed and turned back to Rufus, who was continuing to speak, issuing rapid-fire orders as he paced the kitchen.

“Right, put that in motion, Will, and order a general muster in fifteen minutes,” he finished. “Oh, and take the boys with you.”

“We want our swords!” Toby announced, jumping up at the hook.

“Here.” Rufus took them down. “Now go with Will.”

The three of them left and Rufus turned back to Portia. He came over to her, catching her chin on the palm of his hand. “The day seems to have gone off course,” he murmured. “Forgive me if I seemed too abrupt, gosling. It’s a failing of mine, I know.”

“Oh, I quite understand,” she responded with a demure smile. “You’re such a busy commander. So many lives depend upon you … why, even a king’s throne and—”

The sweet little diatribe was silenced by his mouth. And this time Portia yielded to the wave of pleasure, her lips parting, her tongue flickering against his mouth, dipping into the corners in insistent little darts like a butterfly on buddleia. She had her plan and she was going to demolish Rufus Decatur’s prissy ideas about what a woman could and could not do in his world. Until she was ready to spring her surprise, she could afford to pretend submission.

Rufus held her chin on the palm of his hand as he kissed her, moving his mouth from hers to touch the tip of her nose, her eyelids, the high, angular cheekbones, painting her features with the tip of his tongue and the pliant brush of his lips.

A trumpet blast calling for the general muster brought him reluctantly upright. “Let me put you back to bed, gosling. You still look exhausted.”

Portia offered no objection and within minutes she was back in bed, Juno, after another visit outside, curled breathily into the small of her back.

“There now,” Rufus said, with a mischievous twinkle. “All tucked up and waiting for me. Just as I like.” The clatter of his
booted feet on the stairs had faded before Portia could come up with a suitably tart response.

T
he sensation that awoke her was so delicate, so tantalizing
, that for a moment she thought she dreamed it. Then she became aware of the air on her skin. Her robe was opened, the sides spread wide, baring her body. And something was moving over her skin, something exquisitely insubstantial, arousing little flickers of dreamy pleasure in its wake.

Her eyes opened and met the intent gaze of Rufus Decatur. He was naked, propped on one elbow beside her, and he was smiling with pure mischievous delight. “Don’t speak,” he said softly, and as if to enforce the command, he touched her lips with the soft plume of a quill pen.

Then she understood what had been causing that strange and wonderful sensation. She lay still, gazing up at him in wonderment and surprise. The quill pen whispered on her ear, tracing the shell-like curve, dipping inside so that she squirmed with a sensation so exquisite that it was almost painful and she would have spoken if he hadn’t placed a finger on her lips. The plume painted the curve of her cheekbones and then the line of her collarbone.

Portia quivered, a curious tightness building in her belly. Her nipples cried out for the brushing caress even before it came. Before he traced the small mound of her breast and then delicately … oh, so delicately … flicked at the nipple until it tightened and the spiral of tension coiled ever tighter in her belly. The fluttering touch moved over her stomach, flicked into her navel, and then gently he parted her thighs, spreading them wide on the bed.

The air, cool and yet not cold, laved her heated center, making her feel truly opened, exquisitely vulnerable, and yet not afraid, only filled with a deep and inarticulate longing. The plume whispered over her inner thighs, so that her opened body throbbed, and then the sensation changed. The tip, sharper than the feathers and yet surprisingly soft, pricked her skin as he drew it up her thigh in a long steady line, drawing ever closer to her center. His gaze held hers. She was drowning in the bright blue pools that were so intent and yet
so filled with that mischievous delight. She wanted to speak, to urge, to cry out with the anticipation that filled her so completely her mind no longer held sway over her body. Her loins throbbed, were filled with an unendurable longing—and yet she must endure.

With her eyes she begged for release and yet in this sensate world of utter confusion she begged too that this would never stop. He opened her center, the moist and swollen lips that guarded the secrets of pleasure. His touch was so delicate and yet it rendered her utterly exposed, utterly at the mercy of the pleasure only he could bring her. For an eternity, nothing happened. She lay untouched, suspended on the very outermost brink of bliss, and then he wielded the dainty instrument of delight. Her body jumped as the current of unimaginable joy jolted her again and again. She was lost to the world. Mindless. Aware of nothing but the great crimson waves of bliss breaking over her.

And before she came to shore, Rufus smiled and took her mouth with his as he gathered her against him. He slid into her tender opened body, his own flesh now a pulsing throb of need. Her eyes were wide open as she gazed up at him, still caught in the rolling peaks of a climax that had changed shape, had begun to sharpen, to build anew. Rufus knelt up between her thighs and drew her legs onto his shoulders. He drove deep into her, to the very edge of her womb, and he held himself there, sliding his hands down her thighs to cup her raised buttocks. She arched her back with a little sob, trying to draw him even further within her as her inner muscles tightened around him. With a wicked little smile, he withdrew slowly inch by inch until the very tip of his flesh stroked the nerve-stretched entrance to her body. Then, with one swift movement, he sheathed himself within her again.

Portia cried out, again and again. It was unbearable, it was astounding, it was unimaginable. Her fingernails raked his back and she clung desperately to him, clasping him tight in her arms, clinging to him as if he were driftwood in a raging sea.

But at last her hands fell limply from his back. “Sweet Jesus, what was that?” She could barely speak, her mouth pressed into his shoulder, tasting the salt sweat of his skin.

Rufus rolled sideways and lay still, his chest heaving, his
belly glistening with sweat. One heavy hand moved blindly to cover her pubic mound, the fingers tangling in the damp curls, possessing her.

“La petite mort,”
he murmured. “For those lucky enough to experience it.”

“The little death.” Portia turned her head sideways to look at him, the wonderment still lingering in her eyes. “I could become accustomed to such a dying.”