away from her post for an hour or two. Or only in the most unfortunate of circumstances, and Portia had decided it was a risk worth taking.
Adam greeted her with a grin of relief. “Hell’s teeth, but am I glad to see you. I thought Paul was taking the next one, though.”
“I exchanged with him. I wanted some time tomorrow afternoon.”
“Oh, aye.” Adam nodded in easy acceptance. “Well, it’s been about as exciting as a spinster’s bed. I wish ye joy of it.” He raised a hand in farewell and set off with a bounce in his stride to an ale pot in the mess.
Portia realized that she no longer felt sick. Perhaps terror was the antidote. She patrolled her route three times. No one came near her. There were no sounds but the occasional faint noises from the camp below, the usual forest rustles of small animals, and the call of a nightjar. The moon was new, a mere sliver in the dark sky, visible only occasionally when the heavy thunderclouds shifted. The evening star showed now and again, but on the whole the night was as dark as one could expect a night in June to be.
Portia slipped into the trees and found the oak tree she had selected that afternoon. She felt beneath the thick moss covering its roots and pulled out the dark cap that would cover her hair. She took off her boots and her stockings and her white shirt, burying them beneath the moss. Without a shirt, the dark wool jerkin was hot and prickly against her bare skin, but it would enable her to blend with the shadows. Her rapier joined the discarded garments under the moss. She bound the knife against her leg over her britches with a strip of linen, wrapping the sharp blade securely in several folds of material.
She thrust the fruit she had also hidden into her pockets – apples and pears. It was all she could take. Anything more substantial would be ruined by the water in the moat, but she had reasoned that if one was thirsty, the moist flesh and sweet juice of the fruit would be welcome. In final preparation, she tied a kerchief around her mouth and nose. Then, barefoot, she crept forward through the trees, around the castle until she was abreast of the ducks’ island.
She slithered down the hill on her belly. The picket was walking his line-a two-hundred-yard stretch between the posts. When he was three quarters of the way back, facing away from her, Portia slithered the last few yards and dropped over the rim of the moat. She stayed there, finding a foothold in the bank so she could hold herself above the water level, clinging to a twisted root poking through the mud just above her head.
The fires were smoldering against the walls, but the kerchief protected her from the worst of the smoke and would muffle an inconvenient cough. She waited until she heard the picket return. When he turned again and passed her, she inched forward, clinging like a mollusk to the bank, hoping to keep herself as dry as possible for as long as possible. There were three patrols between the ducks’ island and the drawbridge, and her greatest danger would come when she followed the curve of the moat to the stretch where it ran directly in front of the encampment.
Luck was with her. She seemed to have found a ridge of soil in the bank of the moat, just wide enough to give her toes purchase, and she was able to creep crabwise under the overhang until the shadow of the drawbridge supports loomed ahead. Above her she could hear muted voices now and again as the pickets exchanged comments, but the camp was abed. As was the castle-or so she hoped.
Facing the wall beneath the drawbridge, Portia took a deep breath. If she stopped to think, she wouldn’t do it. She slid beneath the surface of the water, feeling the weeds reaching up to twist and twine around her ankles as she swam underwater the short distance to the shadowy safety of the far wall.
She raised her head above the surface of the water and took a gulp of air. It was acrid with smoke but better than nothing. She ducked back beneath the water and waited with bursting lungs, in case anyone on the bank had noticed a disturbance on the water during her swim. Once it had dissipated, they would with luck move on and forget about it.
When she could hold her breath no longer, she slowly raised her head again. The hulking shape of the drawbridge supports was directly above her head. The castle wall where the level of water had dropped was green with slime. Above the green, however, the wall was as clean as she remembered it when she was standing on the ice. She edged closer to the wall, feeling with her toes for a crack or cranny where she could stand and lift herself out of the water and up to the level of the door. Her questing feet found what they sought. It was a bare toehold, but it lifted her high enough to reach up and find the lines of the door.
But where was the lever that opened it? She had found it by accident before. But this time she couldn’t stand with her back against it and find the pressure point by the same lucky chance. At least she knew that it was contained within the door itself and not along the edge. She took the top section of the door and moved her hands over the stone, pressing firmly with the heels of her palms. Then she moved down several inches and covered that area.
Despite the warm night, she was rapidly chilled, her wet clothes clammy and clinging. Her hands were shaking, her teeth chattering so loudly she was sure someone would hear. Whether it was with cold or tension she no longer knew, but doggedly she continued her minute exploration of the stone.
And then it happened. There was a tiny click and she felt the stone move beneath her flat palms. Her heart jumped. The slab swung inward just as she’d remembered. She hauled herself up and over the edge into the black tunnel. It seemed darker even than she’d remembered it, and she was now bitterly cold.
She hesitated, the door still open behind her. It was not too late to go back… to forget this whole crazy idea. Her teeth chattered unmercifully and she began to shake with cold. If she went back now…
Even as Portia thought this, thought of her dry shirt waiting among the roots of the oak tree, she was pulling the door gently closed behind her and moving along the tunnel, holding the walls as she’d done before. The vault opened up ahead. It was empty now. Portia made for the opening in the far wall that would take her to the stairs. She was moving swiftly, silently, without thought.
With barely a whisper, the door opened as easily as it had done before, and Portia found herself in the familiar scullery. The silence was profound. There was no fire in the range; even the clock was still. She flitted through the scullery to the back stairs. As she crossed the kitchen she heard a sound. A shuffle, a mumble. She froze against the walls, praying her dark clothes would make her inconspicuous in the shadowy kitchen. The sound came again and she relaxed. Someone was snoring. One of the kitchen boys was presumably sleeping on a bench near the empty range.
She slid onto the stairs, as stealthily as any spy in an enemy camp, and flew upward. The stairs opened onto a little-used corridor that intersected the main passage where the family’s bedchambers were to be found.
Portia had almost forgotten that she was cold and wet now. Excitement and terror warmed her, kept her moving to Olivia’s door. She lifted the latch and slipped inside, and only when she’d closed the door behind her did she realize that her heart was beating so violently it felt as if it would burst from her chest.
Chapter 21
“Hush! It’s only me,” Portia whispered back.
“Yes. Do be quiet.” Portia flitted to the bed, where the two girls sat side by side, staring at her in astonishment.
“It’s all very well to say ‘It’s only me,’ ” Phoebe declared with some indignation. “How could we possibly expect to see you?”
“No, how could you?” Portia agreed. “But please whisper.”
“You’re all wet?” Phoebe said. “You’re dripping all over the floor.”
“I had to swim across the moat.” Portia shivered, hugging her arms across her chest. “And I don’t seem to be getting much of a welcome for my trouble.”
“Oh, Portia, of c-course you are!” Olivia leaped from her bed, flinging her arms around Portia in a convulsive hug. “Oh, you’re so cold! You’re soaked to the skin!”
“I know,” Portia said gloomily. “I brought you some fruit.” She took the offering from her pockets and laid it on the bed.
“Take your clothes off.” Olivia began to pull and tug at Portia’s jerkin. “We can try to dry them.”
Phoebe had climbed from the high bed herself and was rummaging in the linen press. “Here’s a woolen robe you could borrow.”
“Oh, thank you!” Portia flung off the soaked and clammy jerkin and peeled down her britches. “Wet clothes are the most disgusting things.”
“Here’s a t-towel.”
Portia scrubbed herself dry and was suddenly vividly reminded of Rufus scrubbing warmth and life back to her deadened body after she’d been lost in the blizzard. Somewhere, she thought, if she were warm enough to find it, there was a supreme irony in her present situation.
She thrust her arms into the sleeves of the robe that Phoebe held out for her and wrapped it tightly around her body. Her teeth had stopped chattering at last.
“I brought you some fruit,” she said again, gesturing to the bed. “It’s not much, I know, but all I could carry.”
“I don’t understand anything,” Phoebe said, taking a hearty bite of a pear. “This is good… How on earth did you get in here? No one can get out, so how did you get in?”
“There’s a way in,” Portia said, seating herself on the window seat. “But I can’t tell you about it. I needed to see how you both were. I was worried about you.”
“It’s horrid,” Olivia said, hitching herself onto the bed. “We c-can’t cook anything because there isn’t any water.”
“And there’s only ale to drink,” Phoebe put in. “And Lord Granville is so angry all the time, and Diana blames him for everything, only of course she doesn’t say so, but she takes it out on us. It’s most uncomfortable.” On this understatement, she tossed the core of her pear into the empty grate and carefully selected an apple.
“And it’s so hot,” Olivia said. “We c-can’t open the windows because of the smoke. And my father won’t let us go outside because of arrows.”
“Will it soon be over, do you think?” Phoebe regarded Portia shrewdly.
“I don’t know,” Portia said. “And I can’t talk about it.” A fierce frown furrowed her brow. It was harder than she’d expected to keep faith with Rufus while offering comfort to her friends. She hadn’t anticipated such questions, but of course she should have done.
“You can’t talk about it because you’re the enemy” Phoebe observed with customary bluntness.
“Portia’s not the enemy!” Olivia exclaimed, her voice rising in her indignation. “How c-could you say such a thing?”
“Strictly speaking, Phoebe’s right,” Portia said. “But I didn’t come here to talk about the war. At least, not directly. I wanted to see how you were. And… and… well, I wanted to talk to you both.”
“Is it lonely, being in the army?” Phoebe asked.
Portia shrugged. Phoebe’s bluntness verged on the tactless, but she had an uncanny way of fingering the truth. “I didn’t expect it to be, but yes, it is a bit.”
She realized that she had always been lonely, always dependent only upon herself, even when Jack was alive. But she’d persuaded herself she hadn’t needed companionship and so hadn’t missed it. But Olivia and Phoebe had given her an insight into what female friends could offer, and it was something that no amount of passion and loving between a man and woman could replace.
“But what of Lord Rothbury?” Phoebe persisted, with the same directness. “Aren’t you still his mistress?”
“I’m having his child.” Portia found herself blurting her news.
“Oh!” Olivia’s eyes were round as saucers. “B-but you aren’t married.”
“You don’t have to be, duckie,” Portia said wryly. “As I am the living proof.”
“Won’t you get married, though?” Phoebe asked. “Before the child is born?”
“I shouldn’t think so.” Portia’s eyes were on her hands, twisting in her lap. “I haven’t told Rufus yet, but…” She looked up with a tiny rueful laugh. “But I’m not exactly the kind of woman of whom countesses are made. Can you imagine me as Lady Rothbury?”
“But the earl is an outlaw.”
