The Hostage Bride

Cato was as displeased as he was astonished at such a challenge from his normally reticent daughter.

“This business does not concern you, Olivia,” he said sharply. “And I do not appreciate your discourtesy. You may leave.”

Olivia flushed. In silence she curtsied again and backed out of her father’s sanctum. She stood leaning against the closed door, gathering herself together. That interview had required a great deal of courage, and it had achieved nothing except a show of her father’s anger.

The clock in the bastion tower struck four, and she remembered with dull distaste that she was supposed to be attending Diana in the stillroom. Some jars of preserves had gone missing, and Diana was interrogating the stillroom maids. Her stepdaughter was supposed to be learning the arts and skills of household management.

She pushed herself away from the door and trailed grimly down the corridor toward the domestic part of the building. As she rounded the corner at the end of the passage, a voice said, “Well, if it isn’t the little Olivia. My own little sister.”

Olivia raised her eyes. Her stomach churned. Brian Morse, her father’s stepson, barred her way. He’d come after all. And Portia was not here. She had promised to be here, and she wasn’t.

Brian Morse was a slight man, with an elongated face, small brown eyes like pebbles, and a startling white lock of hair growing back from his narrow forehead.

Portia would not be afraid. “I am n-not your sister,” Olivia managed in a voice that was almost steady.

“Oh s-s-such a f-f-fierce little th-thing, aren’t we?” he mocked. He stretched out a hand and made to grab her shoulder.

She jumped back, her face white, her eyes great black holes of disgust and fear. “Don’t t-touch me!”

He laughed with the same mockery. “You’ve changed your tune, little sister.”

“No!” With a sudden movement, she ducked sideways and raced past him, for the first time in her life desperate for Diana’s company.

Brian Morse watched her go, a smile on his thin lips. She was growing up, turning into quite the young woman. Tall for her age and with a nicely emerging bosom. Mind you, from that little encounter, she appeared to be still such a pathetic-creature that it was barely worth the effort to tease her. He’d always liked a little challenge to his sport.

But then again… His smile grew. It might be very amusing to see how far he could push that emerging womanhood on this visit. Four years ago, as he recalled, it had been remarkably easy to drive her to near hysteria. Like taking cake from a baby.

He went on his way to Cato’s sanctum, knocking briskly on the door and entering at the command.

Cato half rose from his chair when he saw his visitor. “Brian, I hadn’t known whether to expect you or not, under the circumstances.”

“There are many families torn apart in this war, my lord.” Brian shook the extended hand. “I respect your decision even if I cannot accept it.”

“Mmm.” Cato gestured to a seat and resumed his own. Brian’s sentiments were always appropriate, but glib.

“Oh, forgive me…” He remembered his duties as host and got up again. “Wine?” He poured from the flagon on the sideboard into two pewter goblets and handed one to his guest. “Your attendants are being looked after, I trust?”

“I came alone.”

“Oh?” One mobile eyebrow lifted in surprise. “The countryside is not conducive to solitary travel these days.”

“I’m on a private mission for Prince Rupert.” Brian’s smile was smug as he took the scent of his wine.

“Then you’d best keep it to yourself,” Cato said shortly. “How long do you intend staying?”

Brian looked momentarily discomfited. “If my presence is unwelcome, I trust you would say so, my lord.”

“As a supporter of the king’s cause, your presence here is inconvenient,” Cato said deliberately. “As a member of my family, of course, you are welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

“My visit is of a purely social nature. I came to pay my long overdue respects to Lady Granville. I deeply regretted being unable to attend your wedding.”

Cato sipped his wine and gave a noncommittal nod. He was aware, although Brian probably didn’t know, that his stepson had been absent from the wedding because he had been detained in a debtors’ prison in Paris.

“I bumped into Olivia just now,” Brian continued. “Such a young woman she is now. Hardly a trace of the little girl I remember from my last visit.”

“No,” Cato agreed somberly. “Hardly a trace.” He reached for the bellpull. “You must be in need of rest and refreshment after your journey… Ah, Bailey, escort Mr. Morse to a guest chamber and have someone attend him during his stay.”

The servant bowed and stood aside for Brian to pass through the door.

“I’ll escort you to Lady Granville when you’ve refreshed yourself,” Cato said.

The door closed behind his unwanted visitor, and he flung himself back into his carved oak chair, crossing his legs, long fingers playing with the quill on the table. What exactly was Brian doing here? Was he spying for Prince Rupert? He would be able to gauge the size of the Granville militia and its readiness for war. But those were no secrets. It would do no harm for the royalists to know what was easily available to anyone in the area.

But they must not know of the treasure piling up in the vaults of Castle Granville. They must not know how much Cato had collected for Parliament. When the time came to send it on its way, Brian Morse could not be in the castle.

A slight smile touched Cato’s mouth as he reached for his goblet. It was not a particularly pleasant smile. The treasure was going to kill two birds with one stone. Rufus Decatur was prepared to go to outrageous lengths to claw back his family revenues for the king. What would he not do for such a hoard as Cato held in his vaults? It was sweet bait for a trap that would lead Rufus Decatur straight to a noose on the battlements of Castle Granville. And if Jack’s daughter was an innocent pawn in the game Decatur played, then her abductor’s capture would bring her release.

Chapter 12

“We’ll not make Newcastle tonight,” Will observed, looking up into the dirty gray sky.

“No, you’ll have to bivouac along the road.” Rufus glanced behind him at the procession of horses. The animals were fresher than their riders, who were for the most part red eyed and hungover, clinging to the reins, swaying in their saddles, half asleep.

Portia was riding beside him. She was heavy eyed and languorous. She said very little, out of deference to Will, he thought. The young man hadn’t known where to look that morning when Rufus and his bedmate had emerged into the gray dawn. Since Will had found his own solace from among Fanny’s young women, his prudish discomfiture struck Rufus as somewhat comical, but then again Will had never come across anyone quite like Portia Worth before.

Portia’s silence, had Rufus known it, had very little to do with Will. In the cold light of morning, the question she had struggled to ignore in the riotous games of the night rose hard and cold as crystal. What was to happen now? Would she now be a happy prisoner? Cheerfully resigned to captivity in the bed of her captor? She didn’t feel either cheerful or resigned. She kept glancing covertly at Rufus and could read nothing in his expression. There’d been little opportunity for private speech since they woke. Rufus had been far too occupied getting his drunk and debauched troops back into military formation. He hadn’t been very kind about it either, she’d noticed. But no one seemed to have resented the vigorous curses heaped upon them by their irritated commander.

Colonel Neath rode up from the back. “Och, but I’ve a head on me to rival Thor’s hammer.” He cast a wan look skyward, as Will had done. “Looks like snow.”

“Aye,” Rufus agreed shortly. “You’ll find a sheltered spot to bivouac. You’ve tents?”

“Aye,” Neath said. “We’ve what’s necessary. But are you not coming with us, man?”

Rufus shook his head. “No, I’ll leave Will and half the men to escort you to Newcastle. The rest of us will peel off at Rothbury.”

Portia looked up at this. It was the first she’d heard of this plan. Not that it made much difference to her situation where they went next.

Penny was so accustomed to keeping her place in a troop of horses that she barely required riding, and Portia was almost asleep when the cavalcade suddenly halted. She jerked upright in the saddle, shaking herself awake, and saw that they’d reached a crossroads.

“This is where we part company, Colonel.” Rufus leaned forward to shake Neath’s hand. “I wish we could have met in other circumstances.”

“Aye, me too.” Neath grimaced, taking the hand. “I’ll wish you Godspeed, man, but not good fortune.”

Rufus laughed and raised a hand in salute. “God keep you, Neath. And may you live to fight another day… Will, I’ll expect you back within the week. If you’re going to dally in Newcastle, send word.”

“Why would I dally?” Will asked innocently.

“There’s bound to be many opportunities in headquarters,” Portia pointed out with blunt truth.

Will blushed and his horse shifted restlessly on the path, aware of his rider’s discomfort.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” Portia said quickly. But the apology only made matters worse, and Will’s flush deepened.

Rufus took pity on him. “You’ll have enough to do, Will, and little time for dalliance,” he declared and turned his horse on the lefthand path. “Godspeed.”

“Godspeed, Will,” Portia echoed, as Penny without prompting followed Ajax onto the narrow path, together with the fifteen men returning with them.

They rode a short way, then Rufus stopped at the top of a small rise to watch the procession of prisoners and their escort wind its way along the narrow path and out of sight in a grove of saplings. Then he turned Ajax and set off again.

Portia was wide awake now, and she remembered what he’d said earlier. “This place is called Rothbury? Are we passing through your family land?”

Rufus didn’t answer for a minute, and when he did speak it was barely audible. “Was.”

The bitter tone silenced further questions. As they rode, Portia felt the darkness settling over him like a black mantle. She lost all desire to talk. Behind them, George’s familiar sturdy figure rode in the front line of the cavalcade snaking its way along the path. Nobody seemed inclined for speech, and the only sounds were the rhythmic clopping of hooves and the jingle of harness.

Rufus fought the dreadful compulsion. He had known what he risked by taking this route, but it was the quickest way back to Decatur village, and he had been feeling strong, buoyant after the success of his foray against Neath’s troop. He had thought he would be safe from the madness. But as they drew closer to the place, the black tendrils of obsession wreathed around him.

When he drew rein at the place, he knew that he could do nothing about his obsession but yield to it. In his father’s name… in honor of his father’s memory. He must not forget. And he would not forget.

He turned in his saddle and spoke to George, his tone flat. “I’m leaving you here. Carry on to Decatur and I’ll join up with you later.”

George’s sharp glance was both compassionate and troubled. He knew where they were. “Y’are sure, sir?”

Rufus nodded curtly.

“Where are we going?” Portia inquired.

“You’ll stay with George,” Rufus stated. Without a further word, he turned Ajax aside and set him up to jump a small stile onto a stubble field.

“Let’s keep movin‘, lass.” George came up beside Portia. “T’ master’ll be along later.”

Portia in frowning silence allowed Penny to trot on peacefully. After a few minutes she said, “I’m going to fall back for a minute.”

George nodded easily. Nature’s calls were answered simply enough in the countryside.