Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (52 page)

He was right. "But still," Portia protested, "if no one gamed, no one would stake anything."

The major raised his brows. "As well say, if no one waged war, no one would have to fight. Unlikely, and demmed dull."

The servant returned with the chocolate pot, poured a cup for Portia, and then left.

"There are many people," she said, "who enjoy such a dull existence, enjoy the simple pleasures of peace and security, of family life and honest labor."

"How
did
you come to marry Bryght?" murmured Fort maliciously. "Perhaps it's not too late for an annulment."

Vicious antagonism sparked between Brand and Fort and Portia leapt to her feet. "I must—"

"Sit down," said Brand coldly. "I'll bind and gag you if I have to. You're doing nothing until Bryght gets here."

"No!"

"Don't worry. I won't let him kill you. Rothgar don't care for murder in the house."

At that, Fort snarled something, and Portia feared he would lunge across the table and throttle the Malloren. He assumed control again, however, and contented himself with silent animosity.

Portia looked wildly to Major Barclay, who might be the only sane man here. He did look uncomfortable, but she could never believe the villain in her life might help her.

So she would have to help herself. She turned to Brand. "I need to relieve myself."

A flicker of amusement showed in his eyes, but he said, "Of course," and rose to open the door for her. He led her through and up the wide staircase to the next floor. There he stopped to open a door. "An unused bedchamber, but I think you will find a close stool. There is no other door, so don't think to start wandering."

His smile said that he had seen through all her tricks.

Portia walked through and slammed the door in his face.

She did need to use it, so she found the pot. Then she checked the window just in case. With astonishment, she found the wall on this side was covered by heavy ivy. She was a good thirty feet off the ground but still, it was this or captivity, and she was well-practiced at the art. She eased up the window and checked. The vine was firm against the wall and as sturdy as a ladder.

"Ha, Brand Malloren," she muttered as she shed her hoops. "Now we'll see."

She shed her hoops. Then, lacking pins, she knotted her skirts then climbed out of the window, not allowing herself to think of how high she was. If the ivy was safe, the height didn't matter.

She worked her way down, expecting a shout from above at any moment. But she reached the ground without incident and looked up at the window with a grim smile of triumph.

It was a temporary victory, but at least she wouldn't be sitting meekly at the breakfast table when Bryght turned up to strangle her. And it was possible that in the meantime she might find Oliver and solve the mystery once and for all.

She unknotted her skirts and ran round the corner, looking for another way into the house. How long would it be before Brand intruded to find out what was keeping her? With any luck he'd give her time, thinking she'd be sulking.

She came across a side door and tried it. Unlocked! That wasn't surprising in the country, but it made her feel the fates were on her side. She found herself in a passageway, and walked quickly down it by the kitchen and scullery. There were servants there, but none saw her.

Now, where would the Mallorens keep Oliver?

She wondered if this house had a cellar beneath this floor, but a quick exploration showed no sign of one. She had to slip into a corner at the bottom of some stairs to avoid one undermaid carrying a bucket, but otherwise she met no one.

Attics?

She went up the stairs, climbing them all the way to the top. She heard a door open and close lower down, but no sound of anyone near by, and no sound of pursuit.

When she reached the limit of the stairs, she went through a door into a plain corridor. Long past caution, she opened a door and found, as she'd expected, a servants' bedroom. She checked each room and found them all the same. There was no sign of Oliver.

What now?

She would have to search the family part of the house. She didn't want to, but she must.

She came to a second set of stairs and went down them, trying to be quiet. By now Brand must have realized she'd given him the slip. She shrugged. Cowering would do her no good, and no amount of caution would avoid the eventual confrontation with Bryght. She opened a door and entered a carpeted corridor, pausing to listen.

She thought perhaps she did hear distant voices, but was surprised not to find a hullabaloo. Since no one seemed to be nearby, she began again methodically checking rooms, opening each door. The corridors in this old house wandered, and it wasn't easy for her to be sure she had checked everywhere.

There were suites of rooms, and she thought that perhaps each member of the family had such a set of rooms, always in readiness. In one bedroom—possibly Major Barclay's for it seemed more recently used and yet less settled than others—she found a pistol case. She calmly loaded one of the weapons and took it with her.

Then she looked into a bedroom with a wide open window. This seemed so strange in December that she went over and peered out, thinking perhaps Oliver might have been here and escaped.

She heard a
click
behind her.

She spun around to see Bryght pocketing the key.

Chapter 25

Portia's heart leaped into her throat and she raised her hand to cover the area, only then remembering the pistol. She pointed it at him, but with a trembling hand.

"This is where we came in, I think," he said, walking toward her. "Put that down."

"No. Where is Oliver?"

"Your wretched brother is perfectly safe. Put down the pistol." He was muddy, disheveled, and very angry.

"Take me to him. I don't trust—"

He kicked the pistol from her hand. It fired deafeningly even as he grabbed her by the gown and hauled her to him. "You don't trust me? That's obvious. You'd rather trust Fort Ware."

Her hands were stinging but she was almost dizzy with fear. "I don't trust anyone anymore!"

"Why? What did
he
do?" The rage in him was terrifying, reminding her brutally of their first meeting.

"Nothing," she whispered. "He brought me here."

"He didn't touch you?"

She shook her head.

"Kiss you?"

Her guilt must have shown for the fury burned brighter.

"I asked him to!" she cried. "Don't fight him...."

He threw her aside so she stumbled.

"I should have let him buy you," he said coldly, anger banked, but still glowing. "Perhaps guilt would have changed his mind about marrying you. Or perhaps he'd have been entranced by your charms. Either way, you'd have preferred it, wouldn't you?"

"Fort would never—"

"Fort would have raped you on the slim chance that I might care. I wonder why he didn't."

Portia turned away from his bitterness and covered her mouth with a trembling hand. "Because he thinks I'll be a greater cross for you to bear as it is."

"Surprisingly astute of him. You've caused me nothing but grief from the moment we met." She heard him unlock the door and turned.

He opened it. "Come."

"Where?"

"Do you have the right to ask?"

"Yes, but there's probably no purpose to it." Portia raised her chin and walked through into the corridor.

Bryght did not touch her in any way, but led her across to the part of this floor she had not yet checked. He unlocked a door. Inside was Oliver in his shirtsleeves, sitting despondently in front of the fire.

He looked up suspiciously, then a blend of confusion and anger crossed his face. "Portia? Malloren? Why in the name of heaven have you kept me prisoner here?" By then he was standing belligerently.

Portia saw with horror that he had a virulent black eye, and was limping. "Oliver!" She ran to him. "What have they done to you? But, oh, thank heavens. I was so afraid...."

He caught her in his arms. "Afraid? Of what?" He pushed her away a little, studying her. "What have they done to
you?"

"Nothing," she said quickly, brushing his loose hair back from a swollen temple, then the absurdity of that statement struck her and control fell away. "Oh God!" And she started to cry.

She felt other hands upon her shoulders, and heard Bryght say, "If you don't give her to me, I'm like to kill you."

"Why the devil should I?" Oliver demanded, holding her tight.

Portia tried to choke out an explanation but tears swamped her voice.

"Because she's my wife," said Bryght.

Oliver's grasp loosened, probably through shock. Portia was turned into Bryght's arms. "Portia, stop," he said, holding her tight. "You'll break my heart, crying like this."

She tried to control herself, gulping in deep breaths, but tears started again. She tried to speak, but nothing coherent came out. He rocked her and murmured comfort, and in a while it began to help.

"I'm sorry," she choked and found her handkerchief.

He relaxed his hold. "You have reason enough for tears,
petite,
but we need to talk."

Portia pulled herself out of his arms and blew her nose. "I don't cry," she said truculently.

"So I see." His tone was dry but his expression was much milder than before.

"I don't!" she protested. "Oliver, when did I last cry?" But then she remembered that time at Mirabelle's which Oliver knew nothing about.

"She doesn't," Oliver said. "When I was in the nursery, my father would berate me for crying more than a girl."

"I was four years older than you," Portia said. "That wasn't fair."

"But girls cry at any age. Everyone knows that. Look at Pru. She gushes at the sight of a pretty sunset."

"That's because she knows she cries prettily."

Bryght cleared his throat and Portia suddenly recollected the disastrous state of her life. She looked at him warily, but though somber he did not seem to be in an ungovernable rage.

"Sir Oliver," he said, "it was not part of my orders that you be brought here and confined, but I did send men to find you and watch over you. I accept responsibility for their over-enthusiasm and apologize."

"But why did you do such a thing?"

"I intended to marry your sister, but had no mind to cover even more of your debts."

Oliver flushed. "I'm done with gaming forever."

"I'm delighted to hear it," said Bryght dryly. "But can we believe you?"

"I don't see that you have much choice."

"Don't you?"

Portia stepped between them. "You will not harm him," she stated fiercely. "I will not permit it."

"I didn't think you would." She couldn't read him at all.

"What reason do you have to distrust Oliver's word, when you made the same promise to me and expected to be believed?"

"I have never been a besotted gamester."

"You're known the length of the country for it!"

"But not for losing."

Portia could see his temper shortening, but would not back down. "Does that make it right?"

"It helps."

"Not for the people you steal from."

He hissed in a breath. "Portia—"

"My lord," said Oliver stepping forward and pushing Portia behind him, "you will have to trust me."

Bryght turned his cold eyes on him, and Portia could only be glad of it. She was brutally reminded that there was a reckoning to come.

"In case I prove frail," Oliver said with dignity, "other measures have been taken. I am to join the army. In fact, I had an appointment with the colonel of the 5th, which your men made me miss."

"My apologies. But it is possible to game in the army, you know."

"But he won't," said Portia quickly. "Oliver has always wanted the army. It's boredom that has led to gaming. I don't want to see him in a war, but..."