“A farmhouse up the road.”
“And you’ll force them to give succor to an outlaw,” she said acidly, and then immediately cursed her unruly tongue.
However, to her relief, Rufus merely chuckled. “No, no, on the contrary. The Boltons will be delighted to see me. I hope you have a good appetite, because Annie’s likely to get offended if her plates aren’t cleaned.”
Portia glanced back again over her shoulder. She couldn’t see what she could do to aid the sergeant and his men, even if she knew where they were.
“Shall we canter?” Rufus suggested. “You’re looking very pinched and cold.”
“I always look cold. It’s because I’m thin,” she returned with a snap. “Like a scarecrow, really.” She nudged her mount into a canter, keeping pace with the chestnut’s easy lope until they drew rein outside a stone cottage set back from the road behind a low fieldstone wall. Smoke curled from the twin chimneys, and the windows were shuttered against the cold.
Rufus leaned down to open the gate and moved his horse to one side so she could precede him into the small front garden, where cabbage stalks poked up from the snow-covered ground. The door flew open and a small boy exploded into the garden.
“It’s Lord Rufus,” he yelled excitedly. “Grandmama, it’s Lord Rufus.”
“Lord bless ye, lad.” A plump woman appeared behind him in the doorway. “There’s no need to shout it from the rooftops.” She came out of the cottage, drawing a shawl over her head. “It’s been overlong, m’lord, since ye’ve paid us a visit.”
“Aye, I know it, Annie.” Rufus swung down from his horse and embraced the woman, who seemed to disappear into his cloak for a minute. “And if you’ll not forgive me, I’ll not sleep easy for a se’enight.”
“Oh, get on wi‘ ye!” She laughed and slapped playfully at his arm. “Who’s the lass?”
“That I don’t know as yet.” Rufus turned back to Portia, still sitting her horse. “But I expect to discover very shortly.” Before she realized what he was about, he had reached up and lifted her out of the saddle, his hands firm at her waist. “You’ll not be holding secrets, will you, lass?”
He held her off the ground and there was an unmistakable challenge behind the laughter in his voice. Portia’s hackles rose in instant response as she glared down into the bright blue gaze.
He chuckled softly and lifted her a little higher. His large hands easily spanned her waist, and Portia suddenly felt acutely vulnerable, like a doll made of twigs. “Put me down,” she demanded, resisting the almost uncontrollable urge to kick and struggle.
To her relief he did so immediately, saying over his shoulder, “We’re both right famished, Annie. Freddy, bait the horses and rub ‘em down, lad.”
“Aye, m’lord.” The boy’s gaze was adoring as Rufus ruffled his shock of spiky dark hair.
“ ‘Ow’s those lads of your’n, m’lord?” Annie inquired, hustling them into the cottage.
“Squabbling,” Rufus said with one of his deep laughs, unclasping his cloak and hanging it on a nail beside the door. He held out a hand for Portia’s in a gesture as matter-of-fact as it was commanding.
Rufus took the cloak from her, then held it for a minute before hanging it up, running his eyes over her in an unabashed appraisal that made her feel uncomfortably exposed.
“Mmm. See what you mean about the scarecrow,” he said. “You’ve no meat on your bones at all. What’s a Granville protegee doing half-starved?” He gestured to the fire as he hung up her cloak. “Sit close to the warmth. You’re frozen.”
“Lord, but the lass is white as a ghost!” Annie exclaimed, encouraging her to take a stool almost inside the inglenook. “But it’s a coloring that goes with the carrot top, I daresay.” She fetched a leather flagon from a shelf above the hearth. “ ‘Ere, a drop of rhubarb wine’ll put the blood in yer veins, duckie.”
Portia accepted the pitch tankard she was offered. She was not particularly offended by Annie’s personal comments on her appearance; she’d been hearing their like all her life and had few illusions of her own. But for some reason Rufus Decatur’s unflattering appraisal seemed to be a different matter, even if he was only echoing her own comments.
“I’ve potato and cabbage soup and a pig’s cheek,” Annie said. “It’ll take me but a few minutes to get it to table. Would ye slice the loaf, m’lord?”
Rufus took up a knife and a loaf of barley bread from the table and, holding the loaf against his chest, began to slice it with all the rapid expertise of a man accustomed to such household tasks.
Portia watched with unwilling fascination. Such a homely skill seemed quite incongruous in the large hands of this red-bearded giant. Remarkably well-shaped hands they were, too. The fingers were long and slender, the knuckles smooth, the nails broad and neatly filed. But his wrists, visible below the turned-back cuffs of his shirt, were all sinew, dusted with red-gold hairs.
“So,” Rufus said, putting the sliced bread back on the table. “An answer to my question before we eat. Who are you?”
The diversion was a relief. “Portia Worth.” She had no reason to hide her identity.
“Ah.” He nodded and took up his tankard again. “Jack Worth’s spawn.” He regarded her with a hint of sympathy. “Don’t answer this if you don’t wish to, but is it by-blow?”
Portia shrugged. “Jack wasn’t the marrying kind.”
“No, that he wasn’t.”
“You knew him?” She was startled into a show of interest.
“I knew of him. I knew he took his mother’s name.” Rufus gave a short laugh. “Some misguided sensibility about sullying the Granville name with his misdeeds! As if such a name weren’t sufficiently tainted… Come, sit at the table.” He gestured to a stool at the table as Annie placed wooden bowls of steaming soup before them.
Portia was not in the habit of defending her father’s family, because she was not accustomed to hearing them attacked. Even Jack through his drunken cynicism had accorded Cato, his half brother, a degree of careless respect bordering on what could almost pass for a measure of sibling affection. But base-born though she was, she was still half a Granville and she’d been taught to view the lawless viciousness of the outcast Decaturs with her father’s eye. Her blood rose hot and she forgot caution.
“When it comes to misdeeds, you should maybe look to your own,” she said tautly. “Murder, robbery, brigandage-”
“Now, now, missie, there’s no cause to be throwing such words around my table.” Annie, her cheeks pink with indignation, spun around from her pots on the fire. “Lord Rufus is an honored guest in my ‘ouse, an’ if ye wish to-”
Rufus’s response was utterly surprising in the light of their previous contretemps. He interrupted the woman’s diatribe with a lifted hand. “Hush, Annie, the lass is only standing up for her own. I’d think less of her if she did otherwise.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel complimented?” Portia demanded. “I couldn’t give a hoot in hell what you think of me, Lord Rothbury.”
“So far, I haven’t made up my mind on the subject,” he said. “Your Granville blood is definitely against you, but I’ll not hold your loyalty against you, even if I consider it misplaced.” He took up his spoon. “Just beware of making groundless accusations. Now, sit down and use your breath to cool your soup.” He turned his attention to his own soup as if signaling a definitive end to the subject.
She would make no points by starving herself. Portia hitched out the stool with her foot and sat down. Nothing further was said until she was halfway through her bowl and Rufus had finished his.
Then he said, “And why are you journeying to Cato’s domain?”
“Jack died.”
He caught the quick shadow that crossed her eyes and said quietly, “I’m sorry.”
“He was all I had,” she responded, the matter-of-fact tone belying her emotions. She still wept for her father in the dark and dead of night.
“So, you’re throwing yourself upon Granville mercy?”
It was the same bitter, sardonic tone, the flash of sympathy vanished, and it brought Portia back to the reality of her situation. Half-kidnapped, while the devil only knew what Decatur’s men were doing to her Granville escort. She put down her spoon with a gesture of finality.
“Finish your soup,” Rufus said. “Annie will be upset if you leave any.”
She pushed the bowl from her.
Rufus raised an eyebrow. “Where have you come from?” he asked, his tone neutral.
“Edinburgh,” she said dully.
“Cato sent men to fetch you?”
“What business is it of yours?” she flashed, pushing back her stool. “What possible interest can that be to you?”
“Everything Cato does is of interest to me,” he responded calmly. “Sit down and finish your soup. What good will it do to starve yourself?”
“Oh, I’m perfectly accustomed to starvation,” she said bitterly, stalking to the door. “I’ll not sit here and meekly betray my uncle for a bowl of soup.” Icy air gusted into the cottage as she opened the door and then slammed it behind her.
Rufus wondered how long it would take before she realized she’d forgotten her cloak in her anger.
“What’s with the lass?” Annie set the pig’s cheek and a dish of turnips on the table. “She eatin‘ or not?”
Rufus, to his surprise, found he was not inclined to leave the uncooperative Mistress Worth to the consequences of her stubbornness.
“Yes, she’s eating.” He got up and went to the door. Portia was standing at the garden gate. Freddy wouldn’t produce her horse without Rufus’s orders, and she was clearly contemplating her situation. He caught himself reflecting that Jack Worth’s daughter for all her youth had an old head on her shoulders.
There was something about her that disturbed him. Something he found moving in the way she held her frail body rigid against the renewed flurries of snow. Her bright hair was veiled in white, and when she turned her head at the sound of his step, the sharp angularity of her profile looked pinched and drawn.
“Portia.” He came down the path toward her, clapping his hands across his chest against the cold. “No more questions. Come inside now.”
“You’ve discovered all you need to know, I suppose.”
“No,” he said frankly. “I’ll never discover all I need to know about Cato Granville’s affairs. However, I want you to come inside and finish your dinner.”
“I’ll not come in while my uncle’s men are being used as sport.”
Rufus abruptly lost patience. He’d done what he could, coaxed and cajoled enough to save a damned Granville from an empty belly and an ague.
“Please yourself then.” He turned and went back inside. He took her cloak from beside the door and tossed it along the path toward her. Then he stepped back into the warmth and closed the door.
Portia ran to pick up her cloak before it became soaked on the snow-covered ground. The flakes were now thick and growing heavier. She wrapped herself in the garment and walked purposefully around the side of the cottage, following the horses’ hoofprints. There would be a stable, and stables were a damn sight warmer than the open air.
She found a substantial wooden structure at the rear of the cottage. Four horses, two of them shires, filled the small space with steaming breath and the rich smell of horseflesh. Tack hung on the wall, and she found her own saddle slung over a crossbeam.
There was no sign of the boy. Nothing to stop her saddling up and riding out. She stood frowning. Would escape be this easy? She had nothing to lose by finding out.
“Come on then, Patches.” She backed the originally named piebald out of the stall. He turned his head and whickered at the smell of snow from the open door behind her. “Yes, I’m sorry, but we have to go out there.” She hoisted the saddle off the beam and flung it over his back. “Even if we can’t find the sergeant and his men, there’s got to be a town or hamlet friendly to the Granvilles somewhere close by in this godforsaken land.”
Her fingers were numb even within her gloves, and buckling bridle and girth took longer than it should have done. However, finally she was ready. She vaulted onto the piebald’s back and rode
