The Hostage Bride

moment of firing. The set of her shoulders, the little adjustments of her feet. He waited for her to look up into the sky as she always did the instant before loosing the arrow.

And as always he was aware of reluctant admiration at her determination. If determination alone would get her through, she would succeed. The willow was strong, much stronger than any bow she would have used in sport archery, and it was an effort for her to bend it, but she managed it now with the appearance of ease.

An excited shout came from the lane leading to the river just as she released the string. The arrow flew mortifyingly wide of the mark, to land on the river, skidding across the ice.

“We’ll get it… we’ll get it!” Toby and Luke, still shrieking, materialized from the lane. “We saw you… we saw you,” they chanted, as they raced past and skidded across the ice to retrieve the arrow. There was a brief rough-and-tumble as they fought for possession, then Toby, triumphant, slid on his bottom back to the bank, waving his prize above his head. Luke, wailing, remained in the middle of the ice.

Will went to fetch him, carrying him back to shore. “You can’t be here while we’re practicing,” he said.

“We’ll stand behind,” Toby protested. “Way way behind. All the way over here.” He bounced back a few yards in demonstration.

“That’s not good enough,” Will said firmly.

“Apart from anything else, you ruined my shot,” Portia declared, taking another arrow from her quiver. “If you do that again, I could easily misfire and hit you. And then where would you be?”

“Dead?” questioned Toby thoughtfully.

“Hurt, anyway,” Portia said. “Go back to the village, and when Will and I have finished, I’ll come and fetch you and we’ll take Juno for a walk.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

They went reluctantly, looking over their shoulders as they did so.

“I think,” Will began diffidently, “that you’re not standing quite right. You need to open your legs more.” A deep flush spread up from his neck.

“Like this?” Portia braced herself, feet wide apart, as she fitted the arrow to the bow.

“Yes, but your shoulders…” Will adjusted her shoulders, his face aflame, silently wishing his cousin to the devil. He stepped back. “Now try.”

The arrow this time hit the target respectably close to the center. Will retrieved it. “That was good.”

“Not good enough,” Portia stated flatly. “I’m damned if I’ll leave this bank today before I get a bull’s-eye, Will.” She took the arrow back and fitted it to her bow. “Tell me what else I’m doing wrong. You must know.”

“I think it’s the way your fingers are controlling the arrow,” he said diffidently. “You’re holding it too tightly.” Standing behind her he reached around to demonstrate. His arms brushed her breasts and he jumped back as if he’d been burned.

Portia turned to him. “Look, Will, can’t you forget that I’m female?”

“Not very easily,” he said. “And particularly when you’re Rufus’s bedmate.”

“Oh.” She scratched her head in thought. “Can’t you think of me like one of the other women who come into the village?”

Will merely stared at her as if she’d lost her wits. She sighed. “I suppose not. Well, let’s look at it this way. As far as I’m concerned, you’re Rufus’s cousin and therefore almost like a brother to me. Can’t you see me like a sister?”

“I suppose I could try,” Will said a touch glumly. “But it’s not easy. I’ve never had a sister… and I don’t think even if I had she would be anything like you.”

Portia gave up. Will would get used to her in the end.

Her lessons with George were altogether easier. The old soldier saw only his task, and once he’d decided for himself that his pupil was absolutely serious, he went about teaching her with the prosaic efficiency he employed with any new recruit. It took Portia a while to get used to lunging at a sack of straw with a pike, imagining that the wickedly sharp point was ripping through human flesh and sinew. She wasn’t bloodthirsty by nature, and George’s lessons in anatomy, while pointing out the most efficacious points of contact, were remarkably graphic.

However, she told herself that this was only an exercise. She had to prove to Rufus and his men that she could do it. That she could be depended on in any situation. It didn’t have to mean that she would find herself actually trying to skewer someone’s guts.

The musket was better. There was some distance involved in firing a bullet, although she was under no illusions as to the damage it would cause. Her long, thin fingers were deft and quick, and she had little difficulty mastering the art of reloading in the time allotted. The weapon was heavy on her shoulder, though, and the recoil jolted her arm badly. Within a few hours she’d acquired a massive bruise, and it took all her powers of endurance to continue practicing without letting George see how painful it was.

The rapier work was the best. Jack had taught her to fence when she was twelve. It was a sport at which he had excelled until brandy had ruined his eye and the tremors prevented him holding anything heavier than a brandy flagon. Will was much more relaxed when they were fencing in Tod’s barn. Portia’s skill left him little to teach her, and quickly their bouts became enjoyable for both of them.

As the days passed with no news, Portia quelled her anxiety. She told herself that the longer Rufus was away, the better.

She wanted to be absolutely proficient when he returned. She wanted George and Will to be able to say without a qualm that she was skilled enough to stand beside them in the line of battle. Her lessons drew observers. They were amused, skeptical, at first. But then there were subtle changes in their attitude. Their comments became encouraging rather than slightly mocking, and soon they were offering their own advice. Portia began to feel with each day that she was somehow-all on her own without Rufus-forging a place for herself among these men.

Not once did she feel threatened by her position as a lone woman among an infamous band of savage brigands. Experience had taught her to expect the worst of men, particularly in groups, and at first she assumed their restraint was because she was the master’s woman and no one would dare to muscle in on their commander’s territory. But that wouldn’t preclude lascivious looks, insulting sexual innuendos, asides, and degrading jokes. But there were none of those either. It was a pleasant surprise, one that put a few dents in her preconceived notions of the male sex in general.

She was engaged with Will in a fierce fencing match in Tod’s barn when Rufus returned. He had ridden into the village a little ahead of his men and arrived without fanfare, wanting to surprise Portia. He was disappointed to find the cottage empty, and went in search of her in the mess.

“Oh, the lassie’s usually wi‘ Will in Tod’s barn at this time o’ day,” Josiah informed him casually from among the cooking pots.

Rufus was intrigued. What possible daily business could take Will and Portia to the barn? He made his way there and paused at the unmistakable sound of steel on steel. Frowning now, he slipped through the half-open door to the barn and stood in the shadowy dimness watching the two lithe figures.

Portia was good, he realized immediately. She was quicker than Will, and maybe a little less accurate in her lunges because of her speed, but she parried his attacks with impeccable precision and her opponent could rarely get under her guard.

God, how he’d missed her! Even in the absorption of planning, in the heat of danger and the excitement of victory, he had thought of her constantly. He couldn’t wait to get back to her… couldn’t wait to hear that she had missed him as he had missed her.

She’d not been sitting moping in his absence, though, he thought wryly. He watched her for a moment, unseen, enjoying this private moment of appreciation. Her grace and enthusiasm on the piste reminded him of her wonderful uninhibited dancing, and of the lithe, sinuous way she used her body in lovemaking. She was laughing with exhilaration as she caught Will’s blade with a parry in tierce and Will, looking grimly determined in contrast, dropped his point.

“Bravo, gosling.” Rufus stepped out of the shadows, clapping his gloved hands in approval.

“Rufus!” Portia tossed her rapier onto a bale of straw, bounded across the barn, and leaped straight into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, kissing him with unashamed passion.

“You’re safe,” she declared against his mouth. “I was so worried, although I tried not to be.”

“Of course I’m safe,” he scoffed, his hands cupping her buttocks.

“But did you get the treasure?”

“It’s been transported to Newcastle.”

“Any casualties?” Will asked, trying not to sound as awkward as he felt. He didn’t know where to look. His cousin’s hands seemed so large and Portia’s bottom so small.

“Some,” Rufus said. “But no deaths on our side.”

There was a moment of silence. Portia couldn’t bear the suspense. Even if it jeopardized this moment of reunion, she had to find out. Had she betrayed Cato to his death? “Cato?” The one-word question seemed to crash through the silence.

Rufus set her on her feet. “Granville did not take part in his ambush,” he stated. “Left it to his minions… fortunately for him,” he added with a harsh laugh. “We routed them so thoroughly, had he been there we would have had our reckoning, he and I.” Then, with almost visible effort, he wiped the darkness from his eyes and said briskly, “So what are you doing fencing with Will?”

Will looked at Portia, who looked at Will. Then Portia took a deep breath and said, “Will and George have been teaching me all the necessary skills to fight in the militia.”

“What?” Rufus demanded.

“I told you I wish to join your men,” Portia said steadily. “And I can prove to you now that I’m quite capable of doing so. I’m good enough, aren’t I, Will?” She fixed him with a gimlet gaze, willing him to speak up.

Will felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Rufus was looking as if he couldn’t believe his ears. But Will was no coward. He said, “Her swordplay’s better than mine, and she’s decent enough with a bow.”

“Thank you, Will,” Portia said softly.

He glanced at her quickly, then shrugged. “ ‘Tis the truth. You saved my life once, and I’d not fear if you were beside me again.”

High praise indeed! Portia flushed with pleasure. She had the impulse to kiss him, but soldiers did not go around embracing their comrades in arms.

“Are you telling me you dragged George into this ridiculous business?” Rufus demanded.

“Aye, m’lord. I’ve been teachin‘ ’er pike and musket.” George spoke from behind him. He’d heard of the master’s return and had come immediately to hear news of the expedition. Judging from the master’s fulminating countenance, it seemed Portia’s plan was in danger of foundering. “The lass’ll do well enough, sir. The men’ve been watchin‘ ’er practice. They’re all of the same opinion.”

That was something Portia had not heard. Her flush deepened. She said with swift determination, before Rufus could react, “I’ll prove it to you, Rufus. You saw me fence just now, but I’ll fence with you.” She darted to pick up her rapier, drawing it in a swift salute through the air. “And then I’ll hit three bull’s-eyes on the target out of six arrows, and I’ll show you how I can fire and reload a musket in just over a minute… and then I’ll show you how I can disembowel a hay bale.” Her eyes shone with the overpowering need to convince him; the words tumbled from her mouth in an exuberant cascade. “If you’ll just let me-”

Rufus held up a hand. “I don’t need to see you do these things,” he said, his voice clipped. “If Will and George say you can do them, then that’s good enough for me. But it doesn’t make any difference, lass. D’you really think I’m going to let you expose yourself to the dangers of a battlefield?”

Portia squared her shoulders and faced him, her chin tilted, her mouth set. “If I wish to expose myself to those dangers, that’s my business, not yours, Rufus. I’m good enough to fight under your standard, and it’s insulting for you to say that just because I’m a woman you won’t permit it. If your own men are willing to have me join them, why should you prevent it?”

At the end of this impassioned speech, the silence in the barn was so thick it would have smothered a conflagration. No one noticed that George had beaten a quiet retreat.

Rufus’s expression was unreadable, then he said brusquely, “Will, in an hour, I’ll give a briefing on the expedition. General muster in the drill hall.”