The Hostage Bride

keeping to her bed. Why don’t you go to her now.”

“Certainly, sir.” Portia, unable to curtsy in her britches, offered a slightly awkward bow.

The minute she opened Olivia’s door, she forgot her own unhappiness.

Olivia lay with her eyes closed, her face whiter than the pillow, the sheet pulled neatly up to her chin. She was as still as if she were laid out in her coffin, and Portia’s heart missed a beat. Cato had said she was ailing. But she looked at death’s door.

“Olivia?”

“Portia!” Olivia shot up in bed and Portia’s anxiety receded. Olivia was clearly not at death’s door.

“Is it you? Is it really you?” Olivia’s eyes widened as she took in Portia’s unconventional costume. “You’re wearing britches!”

“Yes, it’s me… and yes, I’m wearing britches.” Portia closed the door and came over to the bed. “Why are you in bed? Your father said you were ailing.”

“I am.” Olivia reached for Portia’s hands and clutched them painfully. “Oh, I am so g-glad to see you. What happened to you? Why are you in those clothes?” Her black eyes were now bright with interest, and her cheeks had pinkened.

Portia perched on the end of the bed. “It’s a long story, duckie.”

“Tell me!” Olivia demanded, squeezing her hands even tighter.

Portia was silent for a minute. The urge to pour out her heart and her misery was suddenly overwhelming. Then Olivia repeated, “Tell me,” and Portia found herself speaking.

She tried to make light of it, but Olivia heard the unhappiness beneath the self-mockery and the ironic tone. And she realized that Portia, whom she’d always thought of as so strong, so funny, so fiercely independent, was wounded. The girl who had been such a steadfast friend to Olivia now needed a friend of her own.

Olivia felt a rush of warmth, of purpose. “D-do you love him?” she asked as Portia fell silent.

Portia’s laugh was mirthless. “Love? I don’t know what that is, Olivia. I suppose I loved Jack… but maybe I just depended upon him because he was all I had. No, I don’t think love came into my brief encounter with Rufus Decatur.”

“Then what was it?” Olivia persisted, still holding Portia’s hands tightly.

Portia gazed into the middle distance, aware of the warmth and strength of Olivia’s grip and wordlessly comforted by it. What had it been? Passion, excitement, curiosity? All of those things. And if there had been something else, if she had felt the beginnings of something deeper-the possibility of something deeper-it was clear that Rufus had not. She would always be the enemy. Always tainted by her blood.

“It certainly wasn’t love, duckie,” she said with a little shrug. “I don’t think love of any kind has a place in my life.”

“I love you,” Olivia said fiercely, leaning forward to hug Portia’s thin frame. “I love you.”

“Oh, Olivia!” Portia swiped at her eyes as tears began to spill down her cheeks. “Now look what you’ve done!”

“It’s good to c-cry sometimes,” Olivia said through her own tears.

Portia yielded for a minute and then drew out of Olivia’s embrace. “I’m just tired and hungry,” she said with a pallid smile. “I don’t cry.”

“You just d-did,” Olivia pointed out with her own wan smile.

“What a pair we are.” Portia laughed, this time with a hint of her old self. She examined the contents of the tray that lay neglected on a side table. “Is this your dinner? Can we share it?”

“I’m not hungry,” Olivia said, pushing the tray toward Portia.

“Are you sure?” Portia broke a drumstick off a roasted pigeon. She cast a shrewd glance at Olivia. “I’ve told you my tale of woe; now you have to tell me why you’re hiding in here, pretending to be ill.”

“B-Brian,” Olivia said, falling back against the pillows. “He’s here.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Portia stripped the flesh from the drumstick with her teeth, discarded the bone, and selected a wing, waiting patiently as Olivia stared sightlessly into the middle distance.

Olivia struggled to find something concrete with which to answer Portia’s question. But it was the same as always. There was only this disgust and terror at the mere thought of him. And as always when she tried to penetrate the confusion, she shrank away from it. It wasn’t something she wanted to know.

She shook her head. “I can’t tell you. I d-don’t know. All I know is that I’d like to kill him.” She looked helplessly at Portia, who did not seem at all shocked by her sentiments. There was something so solid about Portia. Nothing seemed to surprise her.

Without noticing what she was doing, Olivia reached out and took a piece of manchet bread from the tray.

Portia merely offered her the crock of butter and took a fork to a dish of pickled beetroot. They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Portia said, “I won’t kill him for you, but I know a trick or two to make life quite uncomfortable for him if you like.”

Olivia’s eyes lit up. “What t-tricks?”

Portia grinned. Her own eyes were still a little red, but the old glint was back. “I’ll tell you. But first you have to get up and be sociable. We can’t do much to this Brian person if you’re skulking in here.”

Olivia ate a mushroom tart. Could Portia possibly be a match for Brian Morse? She herself felt so helpless in his company, an already wounded mouse with the cat. But perhaps, with Portia there, she could be strong, could somehow keep herself from his vileness. “All right,” she said. “I’ll get up in the morning.”

“Bravo!” Portia applauded.

Portia had long learned the valuable lesson that in action lay relief from misery, particularly the soul-deep misery of the spirit. She could do nothing to alter her present situation, at least not for the moment, but she could throw herself into Olivia’s problems, and if a little mischief was involved in the distraction, then so much the better.

Chapter 13

Portia would have disliked Brian Morse on sight even if she hadn’t known of Olivia’s loathing for the man. When she was introduced to him in Diana’s parlor later the next afternoon, he took one look at her and dismissed her instantly as beneath his notice. A poor relation with neither countenance nor bearing to recommend her.

“My husband has a very generous nature,” Diana said in an undertone that was nevertheless intended for Portia’s ears. “I know of few men who would offer houseroom to their half brother’s bastard.”

“Such an ill-favored wench,” Brian murmured, glancing to where Portia stood with Olivia in the window. The last lingering light of the afternoon caught her orange hair and fell across her angular countenance, throwing her nose into harsh relief, illuminating her freckles.

“Olivia,” Diana called sharply. “Come over here and converse with Mr. Morse. I don’t know what’s happened to your manners just recently. It’s most unbecoming to huddle in a corner with Portia, who, I am sure, has duties to attend to.”

“My father said P-Portia should keep me c-company,” Olivia declared, jumping to Portia’s defense, flushing as much with anger as with the effort of speech.

“My dear, I’m sure your father expects you to show his guests the attention due them from a daughter of the house,” Diana said, her tongue acid-tipped. “Mr. Morse wishes to visit the mews. I suggest you escort him. Portia is needed in the nursery.”

Olivia’s eyes, desperate in their appeal, flew to Portia’s face. Portia dropped one eyelid in a slow wink and moved casually to the door of the parlor.

“Lord Granville most particularly asked me this morning to remain with Olivia, madam. I believe he wishes me to act in some sort as a companion for her… just until she’s quite recovered her strength. I’ll fetch a cloak for her at once, if she’s to go outside. Although it’s a very raw evening and I wonder at the wisdom of venturing-”

“Very well.” Diana broke irritably into this sweet commentary. “I hadn’t realized how late it was.” It occurred to her that Cato might well have given the girl his own instructions, and she couldn’t set herself up against his wishes without discussing it with him first.

“If it’s too cold for outside, perhaps my little sister would take a walk through the gallery with me,” Brian suggested. “I’m anxious to renew our acquaintance. It’s been such a very long time. You were little more than a baby, as I recall.”

He had a particularly oily smile, Portia thought with distaste. Oily and utterly untrustworthy. And he was needling Olivia, she could feel it. For whatever reason, Olivia feared him and he knew it. And he was enjoying himself, toying with her.

“What a good idea,” she said, turning back to link her arm through Olivia’s. “Let’s show Mr. Morse the gallery, Olivia.”

This was not what Brian had intended. He considered it beneath his dignity to keep company with this scarecrow, whose status in the household was somewhat less than that of paid nursery maid. But the temptation to amuse himself with Olivia was too great, and he was confident that he could squash the pretensions of Jack Worth’s bastard once he was alone with the two girls. Olivia after all had never given him any trouble.

In the narrow corridor, he took Olivia’s free arm and drew her firmly beside him, so that Portia was forced to drop behind. Portia promptly slithered sideways between Olivia and the wall and walked crablike with her back to the wall.

Brian ignored her completely. “S-s-so, little s-sister,” he said mockingly, “I w-was hoping f-for a much w-warmer w-welcome.”

Portia’s anger rose as she felt Olivia’s distress. She plunged into battle, drawing his attention forcibly away from Olivia.

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, you nasty little man?”

Brian looked so astounded that Olivia forgot her terror for a minute and almost laughed.

“You look like some kind of dung beetle in that black velvet,” Portia continued. “But I imagine you’re so accustomed to occupying the dizzying heights of a dung heap that it feels like protective coloring. Did no one ever tell you that when you have particularly scrawny shanks, black velvet is a mistake. It exaggerates the- ”

She broke off and ducked as he swung at her, his face almost purple with astonished fury. “You’ll have to be quicker than that to catch me, Mr. Dung Beetle,” she taunted. “Mr. Slubberdegullion Whoreson, who’s too much of a coward to pick a fight with someone who can give him one back.” She danced backward down the corridor, giving him an obscene gesture, as Brian gobbled for words.

“Cat got your tongue? See, Olivia, this piece of gutter slime is going to swallow his tongue in a minute.” With impeccable timing, she reached behind her and opened the door onto her own chamber. Deftly seizing Olivia by the wrist, she pulled her in behind her and kicked the door shut, throwing the bolt.

Olivia laughed and laughed. She collapsed against the door as it shivered beneath a violent onslaught from the apoplectic Brian Morse.

“How could you?” Olivia gasped, wiping her streaming eyes. “How did you dare to say those things?”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Portia scoffed. “I have a much broader vocabulary than that. Just listen to this.” She went to the door and whispered through the keyhole. It was a penetrating whisper but the words were not ones Olivia had ever heard. She didn’t need to be told they were unimaginably indecent, however, and hugged herself as silence fell outside. It was an astonished, incredulous silence and into it Portia continued to speak, softly and utterly fluently, ending with a flourish as she likened the unfortunate Mr. Morse’s male organ to that of a particularly runty piglet’s.

There was no response. Olivia had ceased laughing and merely gazed in awe at Portia, who leaned back against the door, arms folded, grinning. “That silenced him,” she declared after a