The Hostage Bride (27 page)

While she was simply alone. Returning to an uncertain welcome, to be tormented always by the memory of those moments when she had, however briefly, belonged.

T
he journey from Decatur village passed in a daze. Portia
had to ask the way several times, but found herself very quickly on Granville land. It was not much more than a hour after leaving Rufus that she saw the great gray bulk of Castle Granville on the hill across the valley. She didn’t know how to describe to herself how she felt. Her wretchedness had increased with each mile she put between herself and Rufus Decatur. It was as if she’d been thrust out into the cold, like a baby bird thrown from its nest. It didn’t matter that she told herself she had forced the issue herself … that she had left of
her own accord. It didn’t help at all. None of the many and varied miseries of her girlhood had prepared her for this sense of desolation.

She rode up to the wicket gate and the sentry peered at her suspiciously. She identified herself and it had a galvanizing effect. The gate swung open and the sentry grabbed Penny’s reins, yelling over his shoulder, “Fetch Sergeant Crampton. The girl’s back.”

Portia wearily dismounted and stood in the gatehouse, waiting for Giles. It seemed a less than ceremonious welcome for a miraculously returned hostage.

Giles bustled in. He’d been in the middle of his dinner and still carried a checkered napkin. He stared at her, his jaw dropping, and it was a minute before he demanded, “Where’d you spring from?”

“I escaped,” she said. “Why am I being kept here, Sergeant?” It was an attempt at hauteur and it had some effect on the sergeant.

“Lord Granville’s at dinner,” he said huffily. “But we’d best get along. Come wi’ me.”

Portia refrained from telling him that she knew her way to the dining parlor perfectly well, and submitted to being escorted like an escaped prisoner.

Within the dining parlor, Cato was wearily trying to entertain Brian Morse. Diana had been transformed from the first moment of their visitor’s arrival. Brian had brought with him the sanctified odor of the court. His dress was fashionable, his manner elaborately courteous, with more than a hint of flirtation to lend it spice. Diana was in her element, radiant and glowing. Cato was not.

“If you care to go hawking, Brian, I could—” Cato broke off at the sound of voices outside the oak door. He recognized Giles Crampton’s vigorous tones and was on his feet with an unabashed eagerness as the door opened.

The sergeant filled the doorway. “Beggin’ yer pardon for disturbin’ yer dinner, m’lord, but—”

“No matter, Giles.” Cato cast down his napkin. He couldn’t see Portia’s cloaked figure behind the sergeant’s bulk. “Come, let’s go to my chamber. If you’ll excuse me, my dear.” He offered
his wife a hasty bow and strode to the door. Then he stopped in astonishment.

“Portia! Good God, girl! How did you get here?”

“She just turned up, m’lord,” Giles said, before Portia could speak. “Just turned up at the wicket gate wi out a word of warnin’.”

“I would imagine a warning might have been difficult,” Cato said slowly, trying to take in this extraordinary reappearance, and what it could possibly mean. “Are you well, child? Not hurt?”

Portia shook her head but said in perfect truth, “No, but I own I’m weary, sir. It’s a long story.”

“Yes, of course. Come, we’ll discuss it in private.”

“What is it, my lord?” Diana’s curious tones came from the table behind him.

“Portia has returned,” Cato said. “A most extraordinary thing … but until she can tell me what happened, I can tell you nothing, my dear.” He closed the door firmly at his back. In almost the same movement, he swept Portia ahead of him down the corridor toward the bastion room, Giles marching a step behind.

Inside, with the door firmly closed, Cato surveyed Portia with the same puzzled astonishment. “What happened?”

“I wasn’t the right hostage,” she said. “But I expect you knew that.”

“Yes, I gathered the bastard Decatur was after Olivia.” His eyes narrowed. “You were not molested in any way?”

Portia shook her head. “The abduction itself was rough, but I had nothing to complain of in my treatment once we reached Decatur village.” She met his gaze steadily.

“She said she escaped, m’lord.” Giles was regarding her sharply.

Portia hesitated and Cato’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right,” she said. How could she possibly have explained the truth?

“She was ridin’ a blood mare, m’lord,” Giles commented. He was still looking at Portia, and it was with clear suspicion.

“A Decatur horse?”

“Yes.” It was Portia who answered.

“Did you steal it?”

“I suppose you could say that.” She swayed slightly and grabbed the back of a chair. She wasn’t up to this interrogation. Not tonight. “I thought of it as merely borrowing.”

“Escapin’ from Decatur village ain’t easy,” Giles put in. “Mebbe they was lookin’ the other way.”

Portia looked at him in confusion. What was he implying?

“The horse must go back,” Cato declared. “I’ll not give Decatur the opportunity to accuse
me
of theft.”

“We could lead ’er most o’ the way there, then let ’er find ’er own way back, sir.”

“Yes, together with a message for friend Decatur,” Cato said grimly. He turned back to Portia. “What happened to your clothes?”

Portia glanced down at her unorthodox attire. “My own were ruined during the abduction,” she explained. “These were all that were available in Decatur village. There aren’t any women there,” she added.

Cato nodded. “I had heard that.” He regarded her closely. “Did you learn anything useful while you were there?”

“I don’t know what you would consider useful, my lord.”

“Did you have the sense of a military encampment?”

“A very efficient one, sir. And they’re flying the king’s standard.”

Cato stood frowning at Portia in her indecorous garb, her hair a wind-whipped tangle. Was she telling him the truth about her escape? There had been that telltale hesitation. Could this surprising return be part of some deeper plan of Decatur’s? How could a slip of a girl manage to escape the Decatur stronghold?
And
steal a Decatur blood mare. He couldn’t fathom the girl. She was his brother’s child, and she looked at him now with his brother’s eyes. Could he trust her? He didn’t know.

He noticed her white knuckles as she gripped the back of the chair, and the great dark rings beneath her eyes. Whatever had brought her back, she was utterly exhausted.

“We’ll talk at length later,” he said, waving her to the door. “Olivia will be glad to see you. She’s been worried about you, and I understand from Lady Granville that she’s been ailing and is keeping to her bed. Why don’t you go to her now.”

“Certainly, sir.” Portia, unable to curtsy in her britches, offered a slightly awkward bow.

The minute she opened Olivia’s door, she forgot her own unhappiness.

Olivia lay with her eyes closed, her face whiter than the pillow, the sheet pulled neatly up to her chin. She was as still as if she were laid out in her coffin, and Portia’s heart missed a beat. Cato had said she was ailing. But she looked at death’s door.

“Olivia?”

“Portia!”
Olivia shot up in bed and Portia’s anxiety receded. Olivia was clearly not at death’s door.

“Is it you? Is it really you?” Olivia’s eyes widened as she took in Portia’s unconventional costume. “You’re wearing britches!”

“Yes, it’s me … and yes, I’m wearing britches.” Portia closed the door and came over to the bed. “Why are you in bed? Your father said you were ailing.”

“I am.” Olivia reached for Portia’s hands and clutched them painfully. “Oh, I am so g-glad to
see
you. What happened to you? Why are you in those clothes?” Her black eyes were now bright with interest, and her cheeks had pinkened.

Portia perched on the end of the bed. “It’s a long story, duckie.”

“Tell me!”
Olivia demanded, squeezing her hands even tighter.

Portia was
silent for
a
minute.
The urge
to pour out
her heart and her misery was suddenly overwhelming. Then Olivia repeated, “Tell me,” and Portia found herself speaking.

She tried to make light of it, but Olivia heard the unhappiness beneath the self-mockery and the ironic tone. And she realized that Portia, whom she’d always thought of as so strong, so funny, so fiercely independent, was wounded. The girl who had been such a steadfast friend to Olivia now needed a friend of her own.

Olivia felt a rush of warmth, of purpose. “D-do you love him?” she asked as Portia fell silent.

Portia’s laugh was mirthless. “Love? I don’t know what that is, Olivia. I suppose I loved Jack … but maybe I just depended upon him because he was all I had. No, I don’t think love came into my brief encounter with Rufus Decatur.”

“Then what was it?” Olivia persisted, still holding Portia’s hands tightly.

Portia gazed into the middle distance, aware of the warmth and strength of Olivia’s grip and wordlessly comforted by it.
What had it been?
Passion, excitement, curiosity? All of those things. And if there had been something else, if she
had
felt the beginnings of something deeper—the possibility of something deeper—it was clear that Rufus had not. She would always be the enemy. Always tainted by her blood.

“It certainly wasn’t love, duckie,” she said with a little shrug. “I don’t think love of any kind has a place in my life.”

“I love you,” Olivia said fiercely, leaning forward to hug Portia’s thin frame. “I love you.”

“Oh, Olivia!” Portia swiped at her eyes as tears began to spill down her cheeks. “Now look what you’ve done!”

“It’s good to c-cry sometimes,” Olivia said through her own tears.

Portia yielded for a minute and then drew out of Olivia’s embrace. “I’m just tired and hungry,” she said with a pallid smile. “I don’t cry.”

“You just d-did,” Olivia pointed out with her own wan smile.

“What a pair we are.” Portia laughed, this time with a hint of her old self. She examined the contents of the tray that lay neglected on a side table. “Is this your dinner? Can we share it?”

“I’m not hungry,” Olivia said, pushing the tray toward Portia.

“Are you sure?” Portia broke a drumstick off a roasted pigeon. She cast a shrewd glance at Olivia. “I’ve told you my tale of woe; now you have to tell me why you’re hiding in here, pretending to be ill.”

“B-Brian,” Olivia said, falling back against the pillows. “He’s here.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Portia stripped the flesh from the drumstick with her teeth, discarded the bone, and selected a wing, waiting patiently as Olivia stared sightlessly into the middle distance.

Olivia struggled to find something concrete with which to
answer Portia’s question. But it was the same as always. There was only this disgust and terror at the mere thought of him. And as always when she tried to penetrate the confusion, she shrank away from it. It wasn’t something she wanted to know.

She shook her head. “I can’t tell you. I d-don’t know. All I know is that I’d like to
kill
him.” She looked helplessly at Portia, who did not seem at all shocked by her sentiments. There was something so
solid
about Portia. Nothing seemed to surprise her.

Without noticing what she was doing, Olivia reached out and took a piece of manchet bread from the tray.

Portia merely offered her the crock of butter and took a fork to a dish of pickled beetroot. They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Portia said, “I won’t kill him for you, but I know a trick or two to make life quite uncomfortable for him if you like.”

Olivia’s eyes lit up. “What t-tricks?”

Portia grinned. Her own eyes were still a little red, but the old glint was back. “I’ll tell you. But first you have to get up and be sociable. We can’t do much to this Brian person if you’re skulking in here.”

Olivia ate a mushroom tart. Could Portia possibly be a match for Brian Morse? She herself felt so helpless in his company, an already wounded mouse with the cat. But perhaps, with Portia there, she could be strong, could somehow keep herself from his vileness. “All right,” she said. “I’ll get up in the morning.”

“Bravo!” Portia applauded.

Portia had long learned the valuable lesson that in action lay relief from misery, particularly the soul-deep misery of the spirit. She could do nothing to alter her present situation, at least not for the moment, but she could throw herself into Olivia’s problems, and if a little mischief was involved in the distraction, then so much the better.

P
ortia would have disliked Brian Morse on sight even if
she hadn’t known of Olivia’s loathing for the man. When she was introduced to him in Diana’s parlor later the next afternoon, he took one look at her and dismissed her instantly as beneath his notice. A poor relation with neither countenance nor bearing to recommend her.

“My husband has a very generous nature,” Diana said in an undertone that was nevertheless intended for Portia’s ears, “I know of few men who would offer houseroom to their half brother’s bastard.”