The Hostage Bride (8 page)

“So far, I haven’t made up my mind on the subject,” he said. “Your Granville blood is definitely against you, but I’ll not hold your loyalty against you, even if I consider it misplaced.” He took up his spoon. “Just beware of making groundless accusations. Now, sit down and use your breath to cool your soup.” He turned his attention to his own soup as if signaling a definitive end to the subject.

She would make no points by starving herself. Portia hitched out the stool with her foot and sat down. Nothing further was said until she was halfway through her bowl and Rufus had finished his.

Then he said, “And why are you journeying to Cato’s domain?”

“Jack died.”

He caught the quick shadow that crossed her eyes and said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

“He was all I had,” she responded, the matter-of-fact tone belying her emotions. She still wept for her father in the dark and dead of night.

“So, you’re throwing yourself upon Granville mercy?”

It was the same bitter, sardonic tone, the flash of sympathy vanished, and it brought Portia back to the reality of her situation. Half-kidnapped, while the devil only knew what Decatur’s men were doing to her Granville escort. She put down her spoon with a gesture of finality.

“Finish your soup,” Rufus said. “Annie will be upset if you leave any.”

She pushed the bowl from her.

Rufus raised an eyebrow. “Where have you come from?” he asked, his tone neutral.

“Edinburgh.” she said dully.

“Cato sent men to fetch you?”

“What business is it of yours?” she flashed, pushing back her stool. “What possible interest can that be to you?”

“Everything Cato does is of interest to me,” he responded calmly. “Sit down and finish your soup. What good will it do to starve yourself?”

“Oh, I’m perfectly accustomed to starvation,” she said bitterly, stalking to the door. “I’ll not sit here and meekly betray my uncle for a bowl of soup.” Icy air gusted into the cottage as she opened the door and then slammed it behind her.

Rufus wondered how long it would take before she realized she’d forgotten her cloak in her anger.

“What’s with the lass?” Annie set the pig’s cheek and a dish of turnips on the table. “She eatin’ or not?”

Rufus, to his surprise, found he was not inclined to leave the uncooperative Mistress Worth to the consequences of her stubbornness.

“Yes, she’s eating.” He got up and went to the door. Portia was standing at the garden gate. Freddy wouldn’t produce her horse without Rufus’s orders, and she was clearly contemplating her situation. He caught himself reflecting that Jack Worth’s daughter for all her youth had an old head on her shoulders.

There was something about her that disturbed him. Something he found moving in the way she held her frail body rigid against the renewed flurries of snow. Her bright hair was veiled in white, and when she turned her head at the sound of his step, the sharp angularity of her profile looked pinched and drawn.

“Portia.” He came down the path toward her, clapping his hands across his chest against the cold. “No more questions. Come inside now.”

“You’ve discovered all you need to know, I suppose.”

“No,” he said frankly. “I’ll never discover all I need to know about Cato Granville’s affairs. However, I want you to come inside and finish your dinner.”

“I’ll not come in while my uncle’s men are being used as sport.”

Rufus abruptly lost patience. He’d done what he could,
coaxed and cajoled enough to save a damned Granville from an empty belly and an ague.

“Please yourself then.” He turned and went back inside. He took her cloak from beside the door and tossed it along the path toward her. Then he stepped back into the warmth and closed the door.

Portia ran to pick up her cloak before it became soaked on the snow-covered ground. The flakes were now thick and growing heavier. She wrapped herself in the garment and walked purposefully around the side of the cottage, following the horses’ hoofprints. There would be a stable, and stables were a damn sight warmer than the open air.

She found a substantial wooden structure at the rear of the cottage. Four horses, two of them shires, filled the small space with steaming breath and the rich smell of horseflesh. Tack hung on the wall, and she found her own saddle slung over a crossbeam.

There was no sign of the boy. Nothing to stop her saddling up and riding out. She stood frowning. Would escape be this easy? She had nothing to lose by finding out.

“Come on then, Patches.” She backed the originally named piebald out of the stall. He turned his head and whickered at the smell of snow from the open door behind her. “Yes, I’m sorry, but we have to go out there.” She hoisted the saddle off the beam and flung it over his back. “Even if we can’t find the sergeant and his men, there’s got to be a town or hamlet friendly to the Granvilles somewhere close by in this godforsaken land.”

Her fingers were numb even within her gloves, and buckling bridle and girth took longer than it should have done. However, finally she was ready. She vaulted onto the piebald’s back and rode him out of the stable.

The small backyard was fenced and contained a well, a henhouse, and a group of rabbit hutches. She rode toward a gate opening onto a field, reasoning that she could then ride parallel to the lane. Her heart was hammering. It all seemed too easy. Why would Rufus Decatur go to all that trouble to abduct her and then stand aside as she escaped?

It
was
too easy. As she leaned down to open the gate, the
back door of the cottage opened. The earl of Rothbury stood in the doorway, his tankard in one hand, a hunk of bread and cheese in the other. He had an air of careless relaxation, his gaze disconcertingly mild as if he had no particular interest in her present movements.

“Leaving so soon?” He raised the tankard to his lips.

Portia’s numb fingers slipped on the latch of the gate and she swore.

“My apologies if the hospitality was not up to Granville standards,” he said. “A lack for which your father’s brother must bear responsibility.”

He hadn’t taken a step toward her. Perhaps he wasn’t going to stop her. Portia didn’t say anything. She finally had a grip on the latch and nudged open the gate with one knee.

“When you reach Castle Granville, inform Cato that Rufus Decatur sends his regards,” the earl of Rothbury said pleasantly. “And you may tell him too that I’ll see him in hell.” The door closed behind him, and Portia was left alone in the yard.

She urged Patches through the narrow gate and closed it behind her, too well trained in country law to leave it open even in emergency.

She reached the road but it was hard to see the lane in front of her in the now driving snowstorm. Patches was not happy as he picked his way through the thick white stuff and was very reluctant to increase his speed. With a tremor of fear, Portia realized that she’d made a mistake leaving the sanctuary of the cottage. She should have swallowed her damned pride and ignored Decatur’s prating. It would have done her less harm than finding herself lost in a blizzard.

There was no sign of life around her, and she seemed enclosed in a white swirling cloud. And then she heard the hooves behind her and the great chestnut stallion loomed up, a grayish shadow amid the white, his rider cloaked in snow. Only the vivid blue eyes pierced the uniform dullness with life and color.

“God’s grace! You don’t have the sense to know when you’re well off!” Rufus declared, leaning forward to grab her bridle. “And neither, it seems, do I.” He swore vigorously, as much at his own misguided urge to rescue her from her obstinacy as at
Portia herself. He hauled her mount up alongside the chestnut. “I’ll lead your horse; he’ll follow Ajax more easily than make tracks on his own.”

“But what of Sergeant Crampton?” Portia demanded, her fear forgotten, her original grievance taking its place. She swallowed snow as it drove into her momentarily opened mouth. “You can’t leave them—”

“They’re not out in this,” he said curtly. “Don’t talk, and keep your head down.”

Portia did as she was told, since it was the only thing that made any sense. She’d expected him to turn their horses back to the cottage, but instead they kept going toward the place where the ambush had occurred. In the featureless gray-whiteness, she could recognize nothing, and the blanketing silence was eerie, even their own hoofprints muffled.

The stand of bare trees rose up suddenly, taking her by surprise. Rufus swung his horse off the track, and Patches followed perforce. They rode into the trees, and after a few yards, Rufus drew rein.

He pointed with his whip. “Go straight ahead until you reach a rock face. There’s a cave inside. You’ll find the Granville men in there.” Before Portia could speak, he brought his whip down on the flanks of her horse and the animal started forward.

“Don’t forget my message to Cato!” The words came clearly for an instant and then were lost. Portia wrenched her head around against the wind. For a second she could make out a gray shape in the trees, and then it was gone too, and she was alone, and now very frightened.

Her horse plunged through the trees and she gave him his head. There was a chance he knew where he was going. Portia certainly didn’t. The rock face sprang up out of the white-shaded gloom, but she couldn’t discern an opening. “Whoa!” She pulled back on the reins, forcing the trembling horse to a standstill as she stared fixedly at the blank wall in front of her. Then she heard it. The faint whicker of a horse. It was coming from inside the rock.

She urged Patches forward and gradually through the blinding snow a dark shadow in the rock face appeared. She
rode straight for it, kicking Patches urgently when he shied. It was like riding through porridge, but the shadow gave way before them and they found themselves out of the snow, in a small, dark space.

Portia wiped snow from her eyes and face. Her eyes took a minute to accustom themselves to the change in light. But while she was still blinking, a voice she recognized declared from the gloom, “Why, it’s the maid.”

“Aye, so ’tis.” Giles Crampton appeared out of the dimness. “Lord be thanked! The filthy bastard let you go.” He reached up to help her from her horse. “Are ye all right, lass? Did he ’urt ye?” The anxiety rasped in his voice. “If he put his filthy ’ands—”

“No, no, nothing happened!” Portia interrupted. “And he brought me back to you. But what happened?” She could make out all five men now and wondered stupidly what it was that was so different about them. Their coats were undone … had no buttons, she saw. It looked as if the buttons had been sliced off. And then she realized what was different. They had all sported some form of facial hair—beards, sideburns, mustaches. But they were now all clean shaven, faces shining pink and bare as a baby’s bottom.

She was about to exclaim and then some deep female instinct kept her silent. Such humiliation left them naked, exposed, a prey to their own self-disgust.

“I suppose the Decatur men robbed you?” she asked, clapping her hands together, shivering in the icy cave.

“Aye, thieving, murderin’ swine! Took every last coin we had. Everything worth more than a groat … includin’ our weapons.” Giles turned away from her, unable to hide his mortification. “We’re lucky they left us the horses.”

“Aye, they left ’em, but wi’out saddles or bridles,” one of the others said bitterly. “Come into the back, mistress. We’ve lit a bit o’ fire. Not much like, but better’n nothing.”

Portia went eagerly toward the small red glow at the far back of the cave. They’d found a few sticks of kindling, and the fire, though small, was as welcome as a yule log in a Christmas inglenook.

“How long will the storm last, do you think?” She bent to warm her frozen hands.

Giles came back from the cave entrance. “’Tis a nor’easter. They usually blow ’emselves out in a couple of hours.”

“And it’s four hours’ ride to Granville Castle?”

“Four hours
fast
riding. But we’ll be lucky to do more ’an two miles an hour through the drifts.”

It was a bleak prospect. Portia shivered, hugging herself convulsively.

“What did the bastard Decatur want wi’ you, mistress?”

“He wanted to know who I was,” she replied to Giles’s question.

Giles frowned. “And ye told ’im and ’e brought ye back ere?”

“Basically,” she said, realizing that she didn’t wish to talk of Annie’s cottage and soup and pig’s cheek and fire in front of these men, who, on Rufus Decatur’s orders, had been tormented and humiliated and robbed.

Giles grunted, but he seemed to know she’d left much unsaid. He left her and returned to the mouth of the cave.

Portia felt the eyes of the men on her. They were clearly speculating, and they were now rather less friendly than before. Obviously, to receive anything other than ill treatment from a Decatur gave rise to suspicion, although she couldn’t imagine what they were suspecting. Consorting with the enemy … fraternizing with an outlaw brigand?

It was all very uncomfortable and she was overwhelmingly glad when Giles announced that the blizzard had let up enough to enable them to leave. The men rode their horses bareback, drawing their cloaks tightly across their opened jackets in a vain effort to keep out the piercing stabs of cold.

They rode in the same formation as before, Portia with Giles sandwiched between the other four. It provided Portia with a windbreak, but the morose silence of her companions was little comfort. They rode through silent shuttered hamlets like ghosts in the night. Not even the taverns showed a welcoming light.

“Is this still Decatur land?” Portia ventured after they’d been riding for an hour.

“Half an’ ’alf,” Giles replied. “But we’ll not risk askin’ fer succor until we’re well into Granville territory.”

“It’s wretched weather for armies on the move.” she said.
trying to make conversation, to turn their minds to broader issues.

“Like as not, they’ll be ’oled up someplace.”

“I hope so for their sakes. King or Parliament, you wouldn’t want to be fighting more than the weather,” Portia observed, steadying Patches as he stumbled into a drift up to his hocks. Giles merely grunted in response, reaching over to grab her bit to haul her horse forward through the snowbank.