of the garments. She sat on the bed to pull on her own boots, then slowly stood up, running her hands down the unfamiliarly delineated length of her body. There was a wonderful sense of freedom in these garments, and they seemed warmer than gowns and petticoats. The woolen underdrawers helped, of course, and the leather britches seemed to resist the cold better. It was, Portia decided, a vast improvement on her previous incarnation, but there was no mirror in Rufus’s bedchamber, so she had no way of telling what she looked like.
Rufus had his back to the stairs as she came down, but he turned at the sound of her step. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of her. “How do you like them?” He regarded her over the rim of his tankard as he took a sip of ale.
“I’ve always believed I was supposed to have been born a boy,” Portia said. “I’m not formed like a woman. I don’t have any curves or anything.”
“I wouldn’t say no curves,” Rufus murmured consideringly. “Turn around.”
Portia obeyed.
Rufus’s gaze ran slowly down the slender frame. Her legs in the britches seemed even longer than usual. The jerkin sat on her hips and was buttoned tight into the indentation of her waist cinched by the belt.
“It suits you,” he pronounced finally, his eyes alight with appreciation.
Portia’s smile was involuntary and so full of delight that Rufus was strangely moved. He had the feeling she hadn’t received too many compliments in her life. Unless, of course, other hands had come into contact with that exquisitely fine skin, or some other man could appreciate a spirit so unyielding, reflected in a pair of widely spaced, slanted, pure green cat’s eyes.
“Now you’re dressed, we’re going to take a tour of the compound,” he said, his tone crisp as he returned to business. He handed her the frieze cloak. “Put this on.”
“I can’t think why I would wish to tour a thieves’ den,” Portia retorted, automatically taking the cloak. “You may well think it’s the duty of a courteous host, but I do assure you it’s a courtesy I can forgo.”
The moment of truce was clearly over.
Rufus regarded her steadily, his eyes hard as diamonds.
“Make no mistake, Mistress Worth. This tour has a very straightforward purpose. It’s by way of saving myself further trouble. I wish you to understand that any other attempt to leave this compound will be utterly futile. You cannot escape from here undetected.”
“And how long do you intend to keep me here?”
“I haven’t as yet decided,” he said shortly.
“But Lord Granville isn’t going to pay any ransom for me. You already know that.”
“My decision will not necessarily be based on Cato’s actions.”
Portia’s mouth was a little dry. “Are you going to kill me?”
“What on earth would give you that idea?” Rufus frowned at her.
“You’re a thief and a kidnapper. You hate Granvilles, and I’m a Granville,” she stated, trying to ignore the blue fire now enlivening his gaze, the little pulse beating rapidly in his temple.
There was a moment of tense silence. Then Rufus said with cold finality, “I am beginning to resent these accusations. Be a little careful. You don’t know anything about me. And I suggest that until you do, you keep a still tongue in your head.” He took her elbow and propelled her outside into the lane.
He walked fast, almost pulling her along so that she had to skip to keep up with him. In flat tones that did nothing to disguise his continued anger, he imparted information, every detail related to the impregnable nature of the stronghold and the absolute authority of its master.
He didn’t stop once, didn’t even slow his speed, acknowledging the half salutes from men they passed with a brusque nod-men drilling, sharpening pikes, oiling muskets. The place hummed with martial activity. Portia was disconcerted to find that after the first slightly curious glances, she drew no more attention than if she were a dog accompanying the master of Decatur on his rounds. Did no one here ever question the master’s actions?
She made no attempt to interrupt the flow of instructions and against her will began to understand why the men of Decatur viewed their master with such unquestioning awe.
A lawless outcast he might be, the leader of a band of brigands he might be, but he had a fearsome authority and Decatur village was run with superb military efficiency. She remembered how Jack, whenever he’d mentioned Rufus Decatur, had always implied that he was a worthy enemy. Despite his contempt for brigandage, her father had had an unwilling respect for the man whose vengeance could not lightly be dismissed. And she’d heard the same note from Cato, lurking behind his interest in her past encounter with Decatur, his need for the finest details.
She’d have a good few interesting details to impart to Cato after her forced march through Decatur village, she thought suddenly. And that chill of rear rose anew. Surely Decatur wouldn’t reveal so much to someone from the enemy camp if he intended to release her unharmed?
“We’re going up to the sentry post now.” Her escort’s clipped tones were for once a welcome interruption to her chain of thought. He pointed up the hill to where smoke curled from the watchman’s fire. “You were brought in through the eastern section of the valley. There are posts at every compass point overlooking the Cheviots and all the way to the border. Just as there are along the river for ten miles either side. I believe you discovered that last night.”
Portia didn’t dignify that with a response, and Rufus continued in the same tone, “My cousin Will has charge of all the sentry dispositions and all the reports. You met him last night.”
As they climbed upward Rufus found himself noticing that Portia had begun to walk in a different way, swinging her hips as her stride lengthened. She was obviously adapting to the freedom of britches. In his present mood it annoyed him that he’d noticed.
Will, when they reached him, stared at her with a deal more open interest than his fellows in the village. “That’s a novel costume,” he observed.
“It was all we had in the stores,” Rufus told him. “Her own aren’t fit for anything after last night.”
Will nodded as if this made perfect sense, and Portia maintained a stony silence. Clearly Will, like Josiah, knew all about her humiliating forced return. It was probably the talk of the village.
Rufus took Portia’s elbow again and led her away from the fire. “Now look around. Do you see that on every hilltop there’s a watch fire?”
Portia folded her arms across her chest. “You’ve made your point. More than once.”
“Then I trust you’ve taken it,” he said coldly. “You may make your own way back to the cottage. I’ve wasted enough time on you for one morning, and I’ve more important matters to attend to.” He turned on his heel and began to stride back down to the village.
Portia’s jaw dropped at this abrupt dismissal. All her earlier fears vanished under a wave of fury. How dared he snub her with such insulting indifference? She began to run after him, picking up speed on the slippery ground, intending to return insult for insult.
She jumped a small pile of rocks, caught her foot on a patch of ice, fell onto her rear, and slid with a yelp down the path, cannonading into the back of Rufus’s legs. His legs shot out from under him and he fell in a helpless sprawl, his limbs mingling with Portia’s as they slid together inexorably downward.
Rufus rolled sideways, caught her hard against him and dug his heels into the ice. Her head was tucked beneath his chin, his arms encircling her body. He could feel her ribs, was aware of the rapid patter of her heart against his chest, her long legs tangled with his. She pushed against him, trying to free herself, even as she cursed him for an arrogant, clumsy bastard. Her face, glowing with indignation, was turned up toward him, so close to his gaze that he could see only a pale blur and the bright anger in the brilliant eyes.
His grip tightened, resisting all her efforts to escape. “Did you do that on purpose?” he demanded incredulously as the eloquent tirade of her fury continued to break over him.
“What if I did?” she threw at him, breathless and seething.
There was an instant of silence. Portia saw his eyes narrow, something leap into them, something dangerous and yet it sent a thrill of excitement to jolt the pit of her stomach. The silence seemed to expand until it contained them, suspended, waiting…
Then his hands loosed their encircling grip of her body. He grasped her head between both hands, his fingers twisting in the tangled orange curls around her ears. He shifted his body slightly, his legs scissoring hers, so he was holding her pinned to the ground beneath him. She could feel every line of his powerful frame pressing against her, imprinting himself upon her. She could feel his heat, the warmth of his breath.
“There is such a thing as retribution, Mistress Worth,” he murmured, and then he took her mouth with his. This was no light brushing kiss to tease. It was a hard possessive statement. Without volition, her mouth opened for the insistent demand of his tongue, and she felt the sinuous muscular presence plundering the warm, soft cave, tasting her. And then their tongues danced and she was tasting him back, exploring the contours of his mouth, running her own tongue over his teeth, into the hollows of his cheeks. Her eyes were closed on a red darkness and her blood raced with excitement. She could feel the hard jut of his erection pressing against her loins; her hands went around his back, kneading his taut buttocks. His fingers curled deeper into her hair, gripping her yet more firmly, and then slowly he raised his head.
Rufus gazed down into her flushed face, taking in her reddened lips, the dazed look in her eye. He still held her with his body and his hands in her hair, and for a minute he didn’t move. “Whatever made me do that? I wonder.” The smile that played over his mouth contained both surprise and a degree of bemusement. “It was not at all what I intended to do.”
Portia touched her swollen lips with her tongue. “What did you intend doing?”
“Something rather less pleasant,” he responded, still with the same smile. “But for some reason, in my dealings with you, you unruly gosling, I keep taking myself by surprise.”
He released his grip on her hair and swung himself off her. He stood up, brushing off his cloak and britches. “Get up now.” He leaned down to take her hands and haul her to her feet.
Portia pushed back her hair with both hands, trying to subdue the tangled halo, trying to order her senses. The world seemed to have tilted off its axis, and she seemed to be having difficulty standing straight against the steep pitch of the hillside.
Rufus’s gaze was still somewhat perplexed as he looked at her. “You really are a gosling,” he murmured. “All leggy and ruffled feathers.” He glanced up the hill, wondering if anyone had witnessed that mad moment, and as he did so a trumpet blast from the northern hilltop resounded through the valley.
All thoughts of dalliance, all vestiges of perplexity, were instantly banished. The call meant only one thing. Something of more than ordinary interest had been spied by a sentry. He set off at a rapid pace, climbing back up the hillside.
Portia stood on the path for a minute, still trying to order her senses. Then the trumpet shrilled again and without further thought she began to clamber up after Rufus. There was something so urgent, so elemental, about that call that it couldn’t be resisted.
Will, terse with excitement, handed Rufus a spyglass as the master reached him. “Troop of soldiers, to the north, at four o’clock.”
“Granville men?” Rufus wiped the glass with his gloved thumb before putting it to his eye. Neither man acknowledged Portia’s swift and silent arrival.
“Don’t reckon so. They’re not flying the Granville standard.”
Rufus examined the troop of horsemen moving across the barren landscape some five miles distant. “Looks like Leven’s standard,” he said. “Cavalry-fifteen or twenty of ‘em. Wonder where they’re going?”
“We going to stop ‘em getting wherever that is?” Will was grinning ear to ear as he asked what was clearly a rhetorical question.
Rufus lowered the spyglass. “Well, now,” he teased. “I’m not sure about that.”
Will’s grin widened. “How many of us?”
“Thirty. Pikes and muskets. Breastplates and gauntlets, but tell ‘em to keep their cloaks tight. We’ll keep our warlike aspect hidden until we’re upon them.”
“Right. Shall I sound the call to arms?”
“By all means.” Rufus turned and seemed to see Portia for the first time. “Don’t get in the way,” he commanded, as crisply authoritative as if that moment on the path had never taken place. Then he set off down the hill, without undue haste this time, while behind him the trumpet shrilled two notes that sent another shiver of excitement down Portia’s spine.
Portia followed, keeping back so as not to draw attention to herself, and if Rufus was aware she was following him he gave no sign. He strode through the village where men were crowding the lane, strapping on breastplates, shouldering muskets, as they hurried to muster on the bank of the river.
