“You do surprise me,” Rufus Decatur said with amusement. “I’d have thought such a milk-fed, silken-clothed maid would have caused no more difficulty than a mouse.”
The ties were undone and Portia, forgetting her urgent need for a minute, wriggled free of the blanket with an almighty heave. She jumped to her feet, fingers fighting to unloosen the strings of her hood that was still tied so securely under her chin. “Why have you done this
“Good Christ, George!” Rufus exclaimed. “What the
George said uncertainly, “Why, ‘tis the Granville lass, sir.”
“Oh, Blessed Mother,” Portia muttered. “You were after Olivia.” She crossed her legs with sudden urgency. “I have to use the privy.”
Rufus gestured wordlessly to the door behind him, his expression that of a man who has found something nasty in his birthday cake.
Portia raced for the outhouse.
“Is it the wrong one, then?” George asked hesitantly.
“Yes, it’s the wrong one!” Rufus tried to contain his incredulous anger. “How could you get the wrong one, man?”
“You said the lassie we wanted was wearin‘ a blue cloak, sir. T’other one ’ad on a brown one.” George looked stricken.
“Oh, God in heaven!” Rufus stared at George, the whole ridiculous situation slowly beginning to make sense.
Hearing a step behind him, he whirled to face the unwanted hostage on her return from the privy. “The blue cloak?”
Portia frowned, wondering what he meant. Then her face cleared. “It’s Olivia’s,” she responded matter-of-factly. “She lent it to me.”
“I see,” Rufus said flatly. “All right, George, you may go.”
“I’m right sorry, m’lord.”
Rufus waved him away with a gesture of resignation. “How were you supposed to know?”
George hesitated. Decatur men didn’t make mistakes. And if they did, they paid for them themselves in guilt and self-reproach.
“Go,” Rufus said a little more gently. “You are not to blame, George.”
“It’s a right nuisance though, innit, m’lord?”
“You have a talent for understatement, my friend,” Rufus declared with a short and utterly mirthless crack of laughter. He turned his searching gaze upon Portia, and demanded suddenly into the moment of awkward silence that followed his acid laugh, “Just how did she get so scratched?”
“Lassie took off when me ‘orse stumbled,” George offered, still standing uncertainly by the door. “Straight into a thorn thicket.”
“Running away seems to be a habit of yours,” Rufus observed tartly.
“Yes, I developed it when people developed the habit of abducting me,” Portia snapped. She felt horribly like weeping and it took all her determination to keep the threatening weakness at bay.
“It would have been better for all of us if you were rather better at it,” Rufus declared without a vestige of humor. He turned back to the disconsolate man by the door. “That’s all for now, George. Go and get some food and ale inside you. If you see Will, send him to me.”
George bobbed his head and slid out of the door. Rufus turned back to Portia, who was standing grimly by the table, clutching its edge with a white-knuckled hand.
“Now what the hell am I going to do with you?” he demanded of the air in general and in a tone of stinging exasperation. “I can’t imagine his brother’s by-blow is worth much to Cato Granville.”
The tears she had been fighting sprang into Portia’s eyes and broke loose, trickling maddeningly down her cheeks. She dashed a hand furiously across her eyes, but the tears continued to fall.
For a moment, Rufus was nonplussed. He realized that of all the reactions he might have expected from Portia Worth, weeping wasn’t one of them. He had thought her combative and tough, with a cool, realistic view of the world, and this collapse was a complete surprise. He took a hesitant step toward her. “What on earth’s the matter?”
“What do you think’s the matter?” she demanded with an angry sniff. “I’m exhausted and hungry and my face is all scratched and sore and my clothes are all torn, and all for nothing. You never wanted me in the first place.” It was a ridiculous thing to say and she realized it even in the depths of her mortifying weakness, but for some reason the knowledge of being unwanted, something she had absorbed with her wet nurse’s milk, was the last straw in this entire wretched confusion.
“You certainly weren’t the object of this little exercise,” Rufus agreed calmly. “And I’m sorry that you’ve been so uncomfortable. But if you’d simply done as George told you, you would have suffered little or no discomfort.”
“How could you say that?” Portia’s tears dried miraculously. “Olivia would have done as she was told because she would have been paralyzed with terror. She’s not like me… she’s gently bred, she’s been sheltered all her life. She would have been petrified. You call utter terror little or no discomfort!”
Rufus was relieved to see a return of the Portia Worth he knew. “George isn’t a frightening person,” he pointed out. “That’s why I most particularly chose him for the task. He has a very fatherly air about him.”
Portia stared, unable to believe her ears. “Fatherly air!” she exclaimed.
“He’s the most respected elder in our community,” Rufus said a mite defensively. “I value his advice and assistance above anyone’s. He knew to treat the girl gently, and he would have done so.”
“Oh, I’m to believe that you would have treated the daughter of Cato Granville with decency?” Portia demanded, scorn dripping from her tongue. “You hate the man and I don’t believe for one minute that you wouldn’t have made his daughter suffer that hatred.”
Rufus paled beneath his weathered complexion, and his eyes were blue fire. “Be careful,” he said softly.
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
“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
“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.
