The Hostage Bride (38 page)

Paul chuckled. “Aye, the master’ll be pleased wi’ what we got out of em.”

They’d tracked the two men to a hamlet some five miles away from their present picnic spot and had managed to spring an unpleasant surprise on them. With the result that the two couriers were now lodged, bound and gagged, in a henhouse awaiting an uncertain rescue, and the papers they’d been carrying were tucked away in an inner pocket in Portia’s saddlebag. They were interesting papers, too, revealing information about troop movements that would be of vital importance to the royalist armies.

Will had sent Portia and Paul off on this errand while he and the rest of the patrol had gone after a small troop of Granville militia, hoping to engage them in a skirmish.

It had been a desultory war in the north border lands during these winter months. One of skirmishes and spies, of sieges and needling harassment. No decisive battles had been fought since Leven had brought his Scots army across the border. The royalist forces still held the north, except for Hull, but spring was in the air, armies would soon be able to move more freely, and the royalist forces under Lord Newcastle were now outnumbered. If the two wings of the rebel armies joined forces, the king’s cause would be destroyed in the north.

Rufus would certainly be very interested in the information Portia carried in her saddlebags.

“I’m going for a little stroll, Paul.” She slid off the rock.

Paul merely grunted and closed his eyes, arms folded over his chest beneath his cloak, preparing to take a nap.

Portia knew he assumed she was merely going to answer nature’s call and left him with that assumption. With any luck, he’d sleep most of the afternoon … she might even be back before he awoke.

She moved with all the speed and cunning she had learned in the last weeks, through the small grove of trees that covered the hillside leading down to the castle, darting from trunk to trunk, using the concealment of bushes and rocks. Her britches and jerkin were dark wool, blending with the landscape, and her bright hair was concealed beneath a cap that hugged her head. She had both rapier and knife in her belt … and if she had to use them it wouldn’t be the first time. She had learned many things in the last weeks, not least that scruples about shedding blood vanished into the wind when one’s own blood was threatened.

She inched her way around the moat until she faced the little island. There was a warmth in the March sun now; the vicious bite of the winter wind softened. In a week the ice on the moat would be too thin for Olivia to venture forth on skates. This was Portia’s last chance to leave the promised missive beneath the boulder.

She had been agonizing over how to get a message to Olivia, but there had been no opportunities until today. Even if it would have been possible to leave Decatur village without detection, she’d been kept far too busy to make such an expedition.

The master of Decatur had been true to his word, and the new recruit to the ranks had been absorbed without reference to her sex or her relationship with the master. Her position was lowly, and she was regularly assigned to the boring and tedious tasks that went into keeping a full-scale armory in pristine condition. She took sentry duty according to the roster, and if it meant she was absent from Rufus’s bed, the commander accepted it without a murmur. And when Rufus went out on expeditions, he didn’t always include her among those he chose to accompany him. She’d challenged her exclusion on one occasion, only to be told that he’d checked the roster and seen she was assigned to culverin drill. And Portia had reluctantly come to the conclusion that Rufus genuinely had not considered the possibility of changing her duty to accommodate such conflicts.

Today’s little excursion had begun as routine. Will was checking up on the network of spies he had around the countryside and had taken a detachment of ten with him, including
Portia and Paul. Ordinarily he would have been content just to pursue the rebel couriers, but the news that a small troop of Granville men was approaching from York had fired his blood. He wanted to conduct an engagement, without either Rufus or George. It would be the first time ever, and it was too good an opportunity to prove his skills as a battlefield commander.

Sending Portia and Paul after the couriers, not a particularly dangerous task since they’d be better armed than their quarry and would have the advantage of surprise, had seemed to Will to be the perfect solution. They had arranged to rendezvous for the ride back to Decatur village at sunset. Which gave Portia two hours to complete her business on the moat. Plenty of time.

She looked up at the castle, the standards flying from its battlements and keeps. On the ice, hidden by the island, she would be out of sight of the drawbridge and the watchtowers, and once on the island she’d be quite safe from detection. Nevertheless, it took a deep breath of courage to force herself to emerge from the safety of the bushes and step down onto the ice. It looked greenish and transparent, and there was a single ominous crack as she walked forward.

“Hell and the devil!” she muttered, and, crouching low, raced across the ice. She had no idea how deep the moat was, but even if it was shallow, she’d be in a pretty pickle if she went through the ice. She scuttled onto the island amid a quacking flurry of ducks and dived into the screen of bushes.

The boulder was there as she remembered. She took the letter out of the inside pocket of her jerkin and slid it beneath the boulder, then prepared to make the dash back across the ice.

She heard the voices the instant before she stepped out from concealment. They were a little way away and it took her a minute to realize that one of them was Olivia’s. But who the hell was the other one? It was one thing for Olivia to see her here, but she couldn’t afford anyone else to catch her.

There was nowhere to go. The island was little bigger than a large rock, and she was taking advantage of its only concealment. Perhaps Olivia was skating on the moat and would bypass the island. The voices came closer. They were high and
intense, both female. Portia frowned, searching errant memory. There was something familiar about the second … ah, she got it. It belonged to Phoebe. Diana’s little sister. Not dangerous unless she’d changed dramatically. She perched on the boulder and waited.

The girls came onto the island. “The boulder is behind the bushes,” Olivia said, her voice somewhat breathless. “She p-promised to leave a message, but she hasn’t yet. I’m worried that maybe she didn’t get to Decatur.”

“I got there all right, duckie,” Portia said, relishing her moment of surprise.

Olivia squeaked with shock and delight. She flung up her hands. “Oh,
Portia
!”

Portia hugged her. “I left you a note, but it’s a bit superfluous now.” She regarded Olivia’s companion with a smile. Phoebe hadn’t changed at all. Her round face was pink with surprise, her candid gray eyes full of good nature.

“Good heavens, how you startled us,” she declared rather obviously. “Olivia was sure you were dead. What extraordinary clothes you’re wearing.”

“They’re very practical for the life I’m leading these days,” Portia said with a cheerful grin.

“Olivia thought you were going to be Lord Rothbury’s mistress. Does he like you in britches?” The question expressed simple curiosity.

“Not in bed,” Portia said wickedly.

“You’re wearing a
sword!”
Olivia gasped. “Why?”

“Because I’m a soldier,” Portia said patiently. “I always wanted to be.”

“Yes, that’s what you said in London,” Phoebe put in. “I remember. When we all swore to be true to our ambitions, and not to be ordinary.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ve broken the pact,” Portia said. “There’s nothing ordinary about being a soldier.”

“I haven’t got very far with my ambition,” Phoebe said a touch gloomily. “I’m trying to write poetry, but I’m not very satisfied with my efforts. There’s always something missing, it seems to me. And I can’t do good works when we’re not permitted to leave the castle because of the war.”

Olivia wasn’t listening to this exchange. “You c-can
use
the sword?” she demanded of Portia, eyes incredulous.

“Of course.”

“Show us, then.”

Portia realized how very far she had moved from Olivia’s life. “It’s not a toy,” she said quietly, and changed the subject. “So, Phoebe, what brings you up north?”

“Oh, my father! He’s declared for Parliament and so he brought his own militia up here to join with General Fairfax, and he thought I’d be safest in Castle Granville with Diana,” Phoebe said in disgust.

“Yes, Portia. And D-Diana hates her more than she hates
me.”

“Lord, that must be hard,” Portia said.

“It’s
dreadful,”
Phoebe stated. “She is such a horrible person. I thought maybe being married and having babies would make her kinder, but it hasn’t … oh, look, how did I get stains there?” She brushed dismally at a collection of spots on her cloak.

“And your petticoat flounce is torn,” Olivia pointed out helpfully.

“Oh God!” Phoebe wailed. “How?”

“When you fell on the ice.”

“I can’t skate properly,” Phoebe said with a glum sigh. “I trip over my feet just walking, so how could I possibly expect to remain upright with these on my boots?” She raised one foot with the bone blade attached.

“You won’t be able to skate much longer anyway. The ice is thinning,” Portia said, thinking to offer comfort.

“Yes, and it would be just my luck to go right through it,” Phoebe said. “I’m so fat. Diana says I’m like an elephant.”

Portia regarded Phoebe critically. “You’re not fat. You’re round.”

“I couldn’t wear britches,” Phoebe stated. “Can you imagine what I’d look like?”

Olivia gave a little choke of laughter and Portia said, “Why would you want to?”

“I don’t,” Phoebe said. “Fortunately.” Then she went into a peal of merry laughter that transformed her countenance, chasing away the self-deprecatory frown in her eyes.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here to keep Olivia company,” Portia said. “I’ve been worried about her.”

“I told Phoebe about what you did to Brian,” Olivia confided on another choke of laughter.

Portia grinned. “What we
both
did, duckie.” Then she sobered. “What did your father say when I disappeared?”

Olivia shook her head. “He was very angry. But I said I didn’t know where you’d gone, or why. He seemed to believe me. And then something really bad happened. I don’t know what. But I know he blames you for it.”

Portia nodded. It was what she’d expected. “I have to go,” she said abruptly. “I’m glad you’ve got Phoebe here, Olivia. Goodbye.” She slid past them before they had fully grasped that she was leaving so suddenly. Then with a quick wave, she plunged onto the ice, racing across the moat to disappear into the bushes on the far side.

Portia clambered up the hill. She heard the jingle of bridles, the low murmur of voices, just before she broke from the grove of trees onto the open hillside where she’d left Paul sleeping. She slowed her step and crept forward, her heart banging against her ribs. She must have been away for at least an hour. Had Paul been ambushed?

What she saw, however, made her curse under her breath. Will and his group had arrived earlier than expected. They were all still mounted except for Will, who was deep in conversation with Paul—an agitated conversation judging by the waving arms.

She braced herself for questions and sauntered out of the trees. “It wants an hour to sunset,” she observed. “You made good time. Did you have good fortune?”

Will spun round. “Where’ve you been? Paul said you’ve been gone for hours.”

“Paul was asleep,” Portia said, taking a calculated risk. “I’ve been and gone several times.” A quick glance at Paul reassured her. He was now looking uncertain.

“Where did you go?” Will was frowning.

“I must have eaten something that upset me,” Portia said. “Surely you don’t wish me to go into details.”

A couple of weeks ago, Will would have blushed to his
ears, but no longer. He was as comfortable with Portia now as he was with any of his comrades and found it perfectly possible to ignore her relationship with Rufus. His rank within the militia gave him authority over her, and since Portia didn’t question it and Rufus clearly upheld it, matters between them had become easy and friendly. He merely retorted, “Well, I hope we don’t have to keep stopping for you on the way back. The countryside is crawling with Roundheads.”

Portia swung herself into Penny’s saddle, bringing the mare up beside Will’s mount. She could tell that Will was upset about something other than her disappearance. “Did you find more than you bargained for with the Granville men?”

Will was silent for a minute, then he said reluctantly, “We had them on the run, but a battalion of bastard rebels came over the ridge. We were hopelessly outnumbered, so we had to abandon the chase.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Portia leaned over and touched his gloved hand in a fleeting gesture of sympathy. She had guessed how much this expedition had meant to him. “But you
did
have the first lot on the run.”

Will’s expression cleared. “Oh, you should have seen them go, Portia! They turned tail like so many rabbits before the reaper. We could have taken ’em all prisoner.”

“There’ll be another time,” Portia comforted. “And a good commander knows when to pull back from battle. Rufus is always saying so.”

“Aye, he is, isn’t he?” Will looked much happier. “Paul told me you took dispatches from those couriers.”

“Did he tell you what was in them?”

“No … we were too busy wondering what had happened to you.”

“As I said …” Portia raised a speaking eyebrow, then leaned sideways to unfasten her saddlebag. She fumbled inside for a second, then withdrew the rolled parchment. “See for yourself.”

Will eagerly scanned the parchment, then he let out a low whistle. “Troop movements. This has to go to York immediately.”

“That’s rather what I thought.” Portia said. She could tell
by the gleam of excitement in his eye that he’d forgotten his earlier disappointment in the prospect of bringing such a vital document back to his commander.