The Hostage Bride (7 page)

Portia heard him behind her, the chestnut’s pounding hooves cracking the thin ice that had formed over the wet mud between the ridges on the track. She urged her horse to greater speed, and the animal, still panicked from the earlier melee, threw up his head and plunged forward. If she had given him his head, he would have bolted, but she hung on, maintaining some semblance of control, crouched low over his neck, half expecting a musket shot from behind.

But she knew this was a race she wasn’t going to win. Her horse was a neat, sprightly young gelding, but he hadn’t the stride or the deep chest of the pursuing animal. Unless Rufus Decatur decided for some reason to give up the chase, she was going to be overtaken within minutes. And then she realized that her pursuer was not overtaking her, he was keeping an even distance between them, and for some reason this infuriated Portia. It was as if he were playing with her, cat with mouse, allowing her to think she was escaping even as he waited to pounce in his own good time.

She slipped her hand into her boot, her fingers closing over the hilt of the wickedly sharp dagger Jack had insisted she carry from the moment he had judged her mature enough to attract unwelcome attention. Maturity rather than physical appeal had clearly been the issue. She’d learned
rapidly that men didn’t seem to care if their female prey was ragged, poxed, and looked like the back end of a beer keg when they had sex on their minds.

By degrees, Portia drew back on the reins, slowing the horse’s mad progress even as she straightened in the saddle. The hooves behind her were closer now. She waited, wanting him to be too close to stop easily. Her mind was cold and clear, her heart steady, her breathing easy. But she was ready to do murder.

With a swift jerk, she pulled up her horse, swinging round in the saddle in the same moment, the dagger in her hand, the weight of the hilt balanced between her index and forefingers, steadied by her thumb.

Rufus Decatur was good and close, and as she’d hoped his horse was going fast enough to carry him right past her before he could pull it up. She saw his startled expression as for a minute he was facing her head-on. She threw the dagger, straight for his heart.

It lodged in his chest, piercing his thick cloak. The hilt quivered. Portia, mesmerized, stared at it, for the moment unable to kick her horse into motion again. She had never killed a man before.

“Jesus, Mary, and sainted Joseph!” Rufus Decatur exclaimed in a voice far too vigorous for that of a dead man. He pulled the dagger free and looked down at it in astonishment. “Mother of God!” He regarded the girl on her horse in astonishment. “You were trying to stab me!”

Portia was as astonished as he was, but for different reasons. She could see no blood on the blade. And then the mystery was explained. Her intended victim moved aside his cloak to reveal a thickly padded buff coat of the kind soldiers wore. It was fair protection against knives and arrows, if not musket balls.

“You were chasing me,” she said, feeling no need to apologize for her murderous intent. Indeed, she sounded as cross as she felt. “You abducted my escort and you were chasing me. Of course I wanted to stop you.”

Rufus thought that most young women finding themselves in such a situation, if they hadn’t swooned away in fright or
thrown a fit of strong hysterics first, would have chosen a less violent course of action. But this tousled and indignant member of the female sex obviously had a more down-to-earth attitude, one with which he couldn’t help but find himself in sympathy.

“Well, I suppose you have a point,” he agreed, turning the knife over in his hand. His eyes were speculative as he examined the weapon. It was no toy. He looked up, subjecting her to a sharp scrutiny. “I should have guessed that a lass with that hair would have a temper to match.”

“As it happens, I don’t,” Portia said, returning his scrutiny with her own, every bit as sharp and a lot less benign. “I’m a very calm and easygoing person in general. Except when someone’s chasing me with obviously malicious intent.”

“Well, I have to confess I do have the temper to match,” Rufus declared with a sudden laugh as he swept off his hat to reveal his own brightly burnished locks. “But it’s utterly dormant at present. All I need from you are the answers to a couple of questions, and then you may be on your way again. I simply want to know who you are and why you’re riding under Granville protection.”

“And what business is it of yours?” Portia demanded.

“Well … you see, anything to do with the Granvilles is my business,” Rufus explained almost apologetically. “So, I really do need to have the answer to my questions.”

“What are you doing with Sergeant Crampton and his men?”

“Oh, just a little sport,” he said with a careless flourish of his hat. “They’ll come to no real harm, although they might get a little chilly.”

Portia looked over her shoulder down the narrow lane. She could see no sign of either the sergeant and his men or Rufus Decatur’s men. “Why didn’t you overtake me?” She turned back to him, her eyes narrowed. “You could have done so any time you chose.”

“You were going in the right direction, so I saw no need,” he explained reasonably. “Shall we continue on our way?”

The right direction for what?
Portia was beginning to feel very confused. “You’re abducting me?”

“No, I’m offering you shelter from the cold,” he corrected
in the same reasonable tone. “Since you can’t continue on your way for a while longer … until my men have finished their business … it seems only chivalrous to offer you shelter.”

“Chivalrous?” Portia stared at him and quite unconsciously her voice mimicked the mockery she had so often heard from her father on the subject of Decatur honor. “A Decatur,
chivalrous!
Don’t make me laugh!”

“Oh, believe me, nothing is further from my intention,” Rufus said softly, and Portia’s confusion gave way to downright fear. Some demon had sprung into the bright blue gaze, and Decatur’s dormant temper was clearly wide-awake now. She could almost feel as a palpable force the power he was using to control it.

She realized with a sick feeling that he was waiting for an apology, but Jack would turn in his grave if his daughter apologized to a Decatur. And then, embarrassingly, her stomach growled loudly in the tense silence.

Quite suddenly, the demon vanished from Decatur’s eyes, and when he spoke his voice was once more coolly reasonable. “We both seem to be in need of our dinner,” he observed. “Let’s put that unfortunate exchange down to an empty belly and the fact that you don’t know me very well as yet … When you do,” he added almost reflectively, “you’ll know to be a little more careful where you tread.” He turned his horse on the narrow path. “Come, let us go in search of dinner.”

Portia wanted to respond that she had neither the interest in nor intention of furthering their acquaintance, but she opted for an indifferent shrug instead. “At least let me have my dagger back.”

“Oh, certainly.” He presented it to her politely, hilt first, watching with interest as she tucked it back into her boot. “You threw it like an expert assassin.”

“As it happens, I’ve never tried to kill anyone before, but I know how to, should the need arise.” She turned her horse beside his. “Where are you taking me?”

“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 protégée 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.”