The Hostage Bride

“Thank you.” Portia managed a stiff but grateful smile.

But when Josiah had returned Juno and left, and the bar fell heavily across the outside door, Portia lay down on the cot, assailed by misery.

She could see Rufus’s cold eyes, hear the bitter contempt in his voice, and it was unendurable that he should believe what he did of her. She loved him and she had dared to think that he loved her. But he believed her false, and if he had loved her, he would have known she could not have betrayed him. If he had loved her, he would have accepted her… accepted who and what she was, and none of this dreadful confusion and wretchedness would have happened.

She was so very tired of steering a path through the obstacle course of his vendetta. So very tired of denying some part of herself in order to satisfy Rufus. It was too high a price to pay for his… his what?

Regard? Love? Passion?

Oh, what did it matter anymore? Everything was dust and ashes. Portia curled herself up in the blankets, and sleep brought temporary end to misery.

Chapter 22

“How far gone are you, then?”

Portia raised her head from the bucket and sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with her handkerchief. “How did you guess?”

Josiah shrugged. “Not ‘ard, when a lassie’s pukin’ every mornin‘. So, ’ow far gone are you?”

Portia struggled to her feet. Josiah was the only person she saw these days and the only person in whom she could confide. “It’s embarrassing, but I’m not sure. I can’t remember when I had my last terms.”

Josiah placed the pot of porridge on the table. “Pukin‘ usually stops after the first three months.”

“You mean I won’t be heaving up my guts forever?” Portia was more than ready to accept that Josiah had some knowledge of these things.

“Most don’t,” Josiah replied. “But some lassies do.”

“I’ll probably be one of those who do,” Portia said glumly. She stretched in the cramped space, envying Juno, who was running free outside. Josiah made sure the puppy had three good runs a day. But then, Juno couldn’t use a bucket, Portia reflected wryly.

“Does t’master know?” Josiah asked, unlocking Portia’s cell.

“By the time I was sure, the right moment never arose to tell him.” Portia came out of the cell with a little sigh of relief. Five days of this confinement was becoming tedious. Her legs jumped with the need to walk; her body, filled with suppressed energy, refused to settle into sleep; her mind seethed with “if onlys.”

“Josiah, could I just walk a little along the riverbank? I give you my word -my parole -that I’ll come back.”

Josiah looked uncomfortable. “I knows ye won’t be goin‘ anywhere, but I ’aven’t ‘ad orders.”

Portia was stumped. The Rufus she thought she knew would not have condemned her to this kind of confinement. It made sense to think that in the intensity of those last moments in the camp, he’d given his orders and simply missed specifying the details of her imprisonment. But perhaps not. Perhaps this was what he’d intended. He’d saved her from a spy’s punishment, but his own was another matter. Ultimately more merciful, but still dreadful.

“Mebbe I could send-” Josiah’s musing was cut off by the shrilling of pipes. The cottage was set away from the village, but they could hear the commotion -racing footsteps, shouts.

“What is it?” Portia moved swiftly to the barred window, her blood racing. She knew the answer in every bone and sinew. Rufus was back.

“I’ll go an‘ see. Eat yer porridge an’ I’ll be back.” Josiah’s shuffle was faster than usual as he went to the door, releasing a breath of early-morning-fresh summer air that filled Portia with an aching need to leave her prison.

The door banged shut behind him, and Portia heard the heavy bar drop into place.

She ate her porridge, without enthusiasm or appetite. Inaction dulled appetite anyway, and the diet lacked the kind of variety that might stimulate it. But she was conscious of the life growing within her. A life that had somehow become intrinsic to her own. She lived for this child. Her blood flowed for the child. Her mind thought for it. Her lungs breathed for it. It was as if her body was devoting itself without conscious instruction to the nurturing of a life that had not yet discovered its own importance, or its own needs. She was the child within her womb as that child was her own self.

The simple task of eating also calmed her. The sounds beyond her prison had now changed. Now she could hear the pipes and drums of an army, the marching feet, all the concomitants of a conventional military discipline that subsumed the martial encampment of an erstwhile outlaw.

Rufus Decatur was no longer a moss-trooper, an outlaw.

He was the rightful earl of Rothbury, fighting for his king, and Portia Worth was a traitor whom he was harboring. Whatever business had brought him here, he would have to ignore her presence officially. But surely he would come to her… say something… send a message through Josiah or George or Will.

Juno’s short barks at the door to the jail heralded Josiah’s entrance, with the puppy bounding ahead of him. Juno leaped at Portia as if she hadn’t seen her for a week.

“Yes… yes… I love you too.” Portia bent to stroke her. Two months ago she could have lifted her easily into her arms. But at six months the puppy was bidding fair to become a large dog, although Juno hadn’t seemed to realize that herself and looked disappointed when she was left at ground level.

“Is it Rufus?” Portia tried to keep both anxiety and hope from her voice as she looked up at Josiah while keeping a calming hand on Juno’s neck.

“Aye.” Josiah’s customary tranquility was disturbed. “They’re all back, wi‘ the prince’s men, too. They’re sayin’ there’s goin‘ to be a big battle. T’army’s ’eadin‘ out t’morrow mornin’.”

Portia’s heart plunged. “Did you see Rufus?”

“Not to speak to… You finished ‘ere?” Josiah gestured to the bowl on the table. His old eyes were troubled. “Seems very busy, ’e does… what wi‘ the prince’s officers an’ all.”

“If he wants to talk to me, I suppose he will.” Portia sounded as dispirited as she felt. She went back into her cell, Juno at her heels. “He knows I’m here, after all.”

“Aye, but ‘e doesn’t know yer carryin’,” Josiah said, locking the barred door before picking up the empty porridge bowl. “‘I’ll be back wi’ dinner at noon.”

Portia lay back on her cot and listened to the familiar sounds of the door and the bar locking her in. How long was Rufus intending to keep her here? Until the war was over? Until she no longer faced charges of treason? Would he ever talk to her again? Or would Josiah open the door one day and tell her she was free? Free to go wherever fancy and fate took her, so long as she never crossed Rufus Decatur’s path again?

Free to give birth to a Decatur bastard who would never know its father?

Rufus entered his cottage and the emptiness assailed him. It had been many months since he’d lived here without Portia, and something essential seemed to have gone from the place. Her heavy winter cloak still hung from the hook by the door, and he knew that if he went upstairs he would see her nightrobe over the bedrail, and he could even fancy that the mattress was still imprinted with the slight indentation of her body. His own body was so much bigger and heavier than Portia’s deceptively frail form that she always rolled down into the valley he made to come to rest against his back, curled around him like a limpet on a rock.

He had never in his life been as wretched as he was now. Not even as an orphaned lad, cast adrift with the memories of his father’s last words and the sound of the shot that had killed him and the reek of the smoke that had burned to ashes the only home Rufus had ever known. Not even when he’d stood over the dead bodies of his mother and infant sister and worried about how he was to bury them.

There had still been a future then, a terrifying, unknown future, but the knowledge of a future was essentially hopeful. Now he felt as if something vital to his continued existence had been cut out of him. There was nothing to look forward to, nothing to plan for. For the one and only time in his adult life, he had given himself-his trust, his loyalty, and his love-to another person. He had loved… no, still loved her… with such an overwhelming power that that emotion contained all others. And she had deceived him, used his love to betray him. And the knowledge of that was unendurable.

“Is she here? Is Portia here?” Luke and Toby pushed against his legs in their hurry to get inside. They tumbled headlong into the kitchen and righted themselves, looking around the barren room.

“She’s not here?” Luke said, his voice forlorn.

“She’s not anywhere,” Toby stated flatly. He looked up at his father. “Where is she?”

Rufus had thought they’d accepted Portia’s disappearance as easily as they usually adapted to their lives’ constantly changing circumstances. Now he realized it had been wishful thinking. The fact that they hadn’t questioned her absence meant only that they had put their own construction on it, and had simply assumed she would reappear in familiar surroundings. Now they were both looking up at him with a mixture of accusation and trepidation, and he cursed himself for being such a blind fool. Portia had become as indispensable a part of their lives as she had of his. He’d been too absorbed in his own wretchedness to look at his sons and see how they were dealing with her sudden and unexplained absence.

And now in order to answer his children, he had to face the question he’d pushed aside in the last week. He couldn’t keep Portia imprisoned forever. So what was he to do?

“I don’t know,” he heard himself saying, almost absently answering his own question, not Toby’s.

The boys stared up at him incredulously. “Where is she?” Toby repeated with a strangely adult air of patience, as if he believed that his father hadn’t properly understood him the first time.

“When’s she coming back?” Luke demanded, a quiver in his voice as he stared up at Rufus.

“I’m not quite sure,” Rufus said, forcing a note of brisk reassurance into his voice. “She had some things to do.”

“But she didn’t even say goodbye. I felt sure she’d be here,” Toby said with the same strange maturity that covered a wealth of confusion.

“She had to leave very suddenly and she didn’t wish to wake you,” Rufus said. “I’ve explained that already. Now, you’re going to stay at Mistress Beldam’s for a couple of days, so hurry up and get anything you want to take.”

Once he’d told Portia with some indignation he wouldn’t consign his children to the care of a brothel, but while he could take them to the relatively placid scene of a siege, he could not have them on a battlefield. And Rufus was under no illusions about the nature of the coming battle. Prince Rupert was insisting that the king’s men were ready to fight, that it was time to force the decisive battle of the war. But Rufus suspected… no, he knew… that the prince was mistaken. The king’s men were not ready to fight a decisive battle. And if they lost this one, then Charles might as well surrender to Parliament His short acquaintance with the prince had convinced him that the man, for all his reputation as a supreme commander, was far from levelheaded. It would have been sensible to have seen the siege of Castle Granville through to its conclusion. To walk away from it when it was so close to success had been rash and fatal for morale.

The king’s army had been losing steadily since the winter, and they needed some clear success. The surrender of Castle Granville would have afforded them that. Rufus had seen how dispirited the king’s men were, but Prince Rupert refused to acknowledge it. And Rufus had had no choice but to obey the orders of his supreme commander. Rufus had committed himself to the king for the present, and he was subject to the orders of Prince Rupert, whether he agreed with them or not. After this battle was fought… if he walked whole from the battlefield… then he would reassess his position.

How it had maddened him to walk away from Cato’s castle, to leave the man triumphant when Cato had been so close to surrender! But Rufus held close the conviction that their final confrontation would come another day. In this coming battle they would meet on the field. He knew it in blood, bone, and sinew.

“Beggin‘ yer pardon, master…?”