The Hostage Bride

“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.

“There’s not a trace… not even a goddamned footprint!” Cato was speaking even as he entered his wife’s parlor. “I just don’t understand now she could have disappeared… without a trace.” He flung himself into a carved elbow chair by the fire and glowered into the flames.

Diana rose gracefully and went to the sideboard. She poured wine into a pewter goblet and brought it to him. “The girl has been nothing but trouble since she arrived,” she said. “And I’ve been against these skating expeditions all along.”

Cato drank his wine, his frown deepening. “I saw nothing amiss. They were in sight of the battlements while they were on the moat.”

“But not, it seems, for the whole time,” Diana pointed out gently, resuming her seat.

“No, so it would seem.” Cato rose to his feet and began pacing the room. “How’s Olivia now? Has she been able to say what happened yet?”

“Nothing coherent.” Diana laid aside her embroidery. “But that’s only what you would expect, really. She’s not particularly coherent at the best of times, poor dear.”

“It was not always so.” Cato strode to the window and stood, his hands clasped behind his back, looking down on the inner ward. It was three hours since Olivia had raced screaming into the castle, babbling something about three men and Portia, but it had been impossible to calm her sufficiently to make sense of the story, except the one incontrovertible fact-Portia had disappeared.

“The physician gave her something to help her sleep,” Diana said now. “I thought she might be able to speak more easily when she’s rested?”

“Mmm.” Cato swung impatiently away from the window. “I’ll go and talk to her again.”

Diana rose immediately. “I’ll come with you.”

Olivia was lying in bed, her eyes wide open despite the physician’s sedative. When her father and stepmother came quietly into the room, she closed her eyes tightly and lay very still, praying that they would go away.

Cato stood looking down at her, a puzzled frown in his eye. “Olivia, are you awake?”

Olivia debated. She would have to speak sometime, but it would be so much better if Diana weren’t there. She allowed her eyelids to flicker. “Have you found her?”

“You must tell us what happened, my dear. There’s little I can do until I know what happened.”

There was something unusually reassuring in her father’s voice, and Olivia opened her eyes properly. She forced the words out very slowly, trying to control her stammer. “We were s-skating and feeding the d-ducks. And three men c-came and took Portia.” She struggled up onto her pillows and regarded her father intently, ignoring Diana.

“Did Portia know them?” Cato’s voice was still gentle.

Olivia shook her head. “They threw a b-blanket over her head and c-carried her off.”

“Did they say anything?”

Olivia shook her head. She remembered the whole dreadful scene as a blur. There’d been no noise that she was aware of. One minute Portia had been standing beside her, throwing corn to