The Hostage Bride

minute. “And in future maybe he’ll be a little careful whom he decides to mock.”

“He’ll never forgive you,” Olivia said.

“So I should hope,” Portia said cheerfully. “I’d rather roll in a muck heap than have that bully’s forgiveness. Anyway, I’ve only just started on Mr. Morse. By the time I’ve finished with him, he’s not going to know his arse from his elbow.”

Very softly she drew back the bolt and opened the door a crack. The corridor was deserted. “Do you know which is his chamber?”

“We c-can’t go in there.” The terror was back in Olivia’s eyes again and her voice shook.

“He won’t catch us, don’t worry. But do you know?”

Olivia shook her head. “But Bailey will.”

“Good, then you can ask him. Now, come on. We have to go to the privy.” She grabbed up her cloak, slinging it around her shoulders.

“What for?” Olivia asked before she realized how idiotic a question it was.

“Not the usual.” Portia slipped out of the room. “Come.” She beckoned her, took her hand, and ran with her down the passage to the kitchen stairs.

The kitchen was as usual a hive of activity, and no one paid attention to the two girls as they slid through and out into the kitchen yard. The outhouse was at the far end of the kitchen garden, where its product could be put to good use. Olivia, cloakless, shivered as they ran down the path toward the glow of lamplight that hung above the door, but she didn’t ask further questions, merely waited for Portia to reveal her plan.

Portia lifted the lamp off the hook at the door and entered the noisome shed. She handed the lamp to Olivia. “Hold it up high.”

“But what are we looking for?”

“Spiders,” Portia said. “They like the corners of privies. There are some big red spotted ones sometimes, and they bite.”

Olivia had no idea what Portia intended, but she couldn’t help a little giggle, shivering as a gust of wind banged the door shut and the lantern flickered.

“Ah… here we are. Oh? aren’t you a beauty,” Portia murmured lovingly, as she knelt on the hard-packed earth. “What lovely big spots you have,” she crooned, taking a handkerchief out of her pocket. “There we go, in you pop.” She folded the handkerchief over her treasure. “Now let’s see if we can find another.”

Olivia didn’t care for spiders, but she was utterly fascinated and leaned forward to watch Portia’s painstaking examination of the darkest corners of the privy.

“Someone’s coming,” she whispered, hearing a footstep on the path.

“So what? No one’s going to question what we’re doing in the privy.” Portia scooped a second and particularly juicy specimen into the handkerchief.

“I always use the chaise percee in my chamber,” Olivia said doubtfully.

Portia only shook her head and continued with her collecting. When she had half a dozen in assorted sizes, she straightened carefully. She laid a finger on her lips and opened the door. A kitchen maid stood on the path. “Evenin‘, miss.” Her eyes widened as Olivia followed Portia, holding the lamp.

“Evenin‘, Lady Olivia.”

“G-good evening, Mary.” Olivia handed her the lamp with what she hoped was aplomb and followed Portia’s blithe step back up the path to the lights of the kitchen.

“Find out which chamber the snake has,” Portia instructed, holding her hand carefully against her skirts beneath the folds of her cloak. “And hurry. Because they’re getting restless and I don’t want to get bitten myself.”

Olivia nodded and wandered over to the servants’ table, where Bailey was addressing a platter of sirloin and a tankard of ale. Portia left the kitchen and waited for Olivia at the head of the kitchen stairs. “Well?”

“In the east bastion. But Bailey doesn’t know if he’s in there now.”

“Mmmm.” Portia frowned, nibbling her lip. “That could be awkward.” She examined Olivia carefully. “If he’s in there, we’ll have to decoy him. It’ll only take a minute. Could you do that?”

“Be alone with him?” Olivia shook her head vigorously.

“It’ll only take a minute,” Portia urged, realizing on some level that Olivia needed to face down whatever demon was embodied in Brian Morse. “I won’t be far away, I swear it.”

Olivia swallowed, squared her shoulders. “You p-promise?”

“I promise. Come on. They’re doing spidery things all over the place.” She set off down the corridor, and after a hesitation, Olivia followed.

They stopped outside the door to Brian Morse’s chamber. Portia flattened herself against the wall behind the door and gestured to Olivia that she should knock.

Olivia simply stood there, staring at the door, paralyzed, unable to raise her hand. The silence lengthened, then Portia leaned round and banged loudly on the door. Olivia jumped back, white faced.

The door flew open. Brian Morse surveyed his visitor with his little pebble eyes. “Well?”

“D-Diana.” It was such an effort it came out more like a screech than anything resembling normal speech. Olivia pointed wildly in the direction of Diana’s parlor, standing with her skirts gathered up, ready to flee if he made a move toward her.

Brian didn’t bother to engage her further, merely banged the door closed at his back and strode away. Olivia stepped back so that she was blocking any view of Portia should he for some reason look back, but he didn’t, and as soon as he’d rounded the corner of the corridor, Portia darted out from hiding.

“Here, take these and put them in his bed! Be quick. I’ll stay here and keep watch. I’ll whistle if someone comes.” She held out the handkerchief with its wriggling occupants as she opened the chamber door with her free hand.

“Go on!” she urged as Olivia still stood there.

Olivia swallowed, grabbed the handkerchief, and darted into the chamber. Portia stepped into the doorway, her eyes darting up and down the corridor. “Pull back the covers at the bottom of the bed,” she instructed softly.

Olivia’s heart was thumping so violently she could barely breathe. But she followed Portia’s instructions and untucked the sheets at the foot of the bed, lifted them, and shook the wriggling contents of the handkerchief onto the bottom sheet.

“Now tuck the sheets in again tightly,” Portia directed.

Olivia deftly retucked the sheets, then she gave the bed a little pat for good luck, giggling with a mixture of nervousness and excitement, and rejoined Portia.

“There, that should do it. They’ll settle down in the warmth, and when the toad gets into bed they’ll gravitate to the warmest, most humid spot available. And guess where that’ll be.” Portia grinned wickedly. “He’ll wake up in the morning covered in great red bites in all the most inaccessible places.”

“Are they poisonous?”

“Not lethal,” Portia replied solemnly. “I did say I wouldn’t kill him.”

“Oh, I wish I could see it.” Olivia hugged herself.

“Watch him at the breakfast table.” Portia grinned.

Brian paused outside Diana’s parlor and automatically straightened his doublet, readjusted the fall of lace on his shoulders. He still hadn’t recovered from his experience with Jack Worth’s bastard. No one had ever insulted him in such fashion before, not even during his sojourns in the vilest taverns, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He couldn’t imagine reporting the incident to Granville or Diana. How could he possibly admit that a bastard guttersnipe had so routed him? How could he possibly repeat what she’d said? And the worst of it was that Olivia had heard. That pathetic brat had witnessed his defeat. Somehow, he would be avenged upon the bastard, but in his own time and in his own fashion. He was good at vengeance. He had a long memory and when it came time to strike it was all the sweeter.

He knocked and opened the door to the parlor, bowing low. “Lady Granville… how can I be of service?”

She looked up from the letter she was writing and smiled in some surprise. “Why, how delightful of you to keep me company, Mr. Morse. I own life can be a little dreary these days. We have so few visitors. Who would pay social calls to an armed camp?”

She made a little moue of discontent. “Of course, my husband must do what he thinks best, but I do so long for civilization sometimes. A little stimulating conversation, the opportunity to dabble in fashion again. Why, you know I have no idea what the latest court fashions are.” Her hand passed in self-deprecation over the skirts of her elegant gown. “I dare swear you must think me a positive dowd.”

“Why, no indeed, my dear Lady Granville.” Brian took a seat on the sofa beside her. “You are the very picture of elegance. No one at court could hold a candle to you.”

Diana laughed musically. “You flatter me, sir. But pray don’t stop.” She touched his hand. “Give me news of the court. How is the dear queen managing in this adversity? I do so wish I could be with her to lend her my support. And the poor little princess, Henrietta. Such a fragile child. She must be feeling it very badly.”

“I was at Oxford two months ago,” Brian said. “Their Majesties’ courage is an inspiration to all who serve them.” He didn’t think it necessary to add that although he had certainly been in the city of Oxford, he had not once attended the court-in-exile and his only view of the king and queen had been from the street when they’d attended church one Sunday.

“I wish I could persuade my husband to…” Diana stopped, lightly dabbed at her eyes with the corner of a perfumed handkerchief. “Forgive me, Mr. Morse. It’s not for me to offer criticism of my husband’s decisions, but I feel so… so dishonored. My duty, my loyalty, is to my sovereign, and to find myself in this invidious position… forgive me,” she repeated and buried her face in her handkerchief.

Brian patted her knee, his little eyes sharp. He scented the possibility for mischief here. Very useful and productive mischief. “Sometimes, my dear madam, one must follow one’s conscience even if duty dictates otherwise.”

Diana looked up. Her countenance bore no disfiguring signs of distress. “What do you mean, sir?”

Brian coughed delicately. “Personal loyalties… matters of personal conscience… I don’t believe that even your husband would expect you to abandon your conscience simply because his own takes him along a different route. And you and I know, dear Lady Granville, that Lord Granville is gravely mistaken in his decision. To stand against the king is to stand against God himself. The king has a divine right to rule. He is God’s anointed representative.”

This gravely sententious speech was music to Diana’s ears. “I do so fear for my husband,” she murmured. “What will happen to him… to all those… who have stood against the king when this rebellion is put down, and they must face the king’s wrath?”

“It’s a grave prospect indeed,” Brian said. “And Lord Granville cannot have considered that his own family will share his fate.”

Diana shuddered. “My own father is thinking of declaring for Parliament also. There will be nowhere to take shelter.”

“Perhaps… but, no, I couldn’t… couldn’t suggest such a thing.” He rose and began to pace in apparent agitation around the warm, firelit room.

“Oh, yes, pray do speak your mind,” Diana begged.

“It seems so… so ungrateful when Lord Granville has welcomed me with such generosity… and yet…and yet I cannot endure to see you suffering so, my lady.” He came back to the sofa and knelt before her, taking her hands. “If you would trust me.”

“Oh, but of course I trust you.” She squeezed his hands. “What is it you would say to me?” Her eyes shone with eagerness.

“Why, that maybe you could with your own actions mitigate your husband’s offense in the eyes of the king.”

“Work against my husband?”

“Not exactly. But perhaps if you could find a way to help the king’s cause without your husband’s knowing…” His tongue flickered over his lips. This was dangerous ground, but Diana was