Too Wicked to Tame (18 page)

“And what of you, Portia?”

She looked at him, feeling the skin of her brow knit in confusion.

“Come now, Portia,” he chided, his mocking voice grating. “Your family doesn’t permit you to pursue your desires, do they?”

She frowned, wondering if any member of her family even knew what it was that she desired.

Certainly no one had thought to ask.

His eyes drilled into hers, relentless, probing. Knowing. He already knew the answer to his infernal question. Still, he demanded to hear her response, demanded to hear her say that what she expected of him, her own family could not deliver.

Thrusting back her shoulders, she answered him. “No. My family has never taken my wishes into account.”

“Precisely,” he said in that exasperating, smug voice of his. “Most fathers and brothers do not.

Our world doesn’t work that way. Fathers and brothers make the decisions, and daughters dutifully obey.”

Obey. Never following her heart’s yearnings, never following her heart. Bearing no more freedom than a slave. Releasing her hands, she pressed her fingers to her temples, suddenly feeling a headache threaten.

Heath’s voice continued, a cold douse of reason. “Yet you expect me to be different.”

“Yes,” she shot back, a fire sparking deep in her chest, rising its way up her throat to inflame her tongue, “Because you are—you love your sister.”

His eyes softened for the barest moment before hard resolve filled them. “Love or not, if Mina desires a tumble in the hay, she’s not getting her way. In fact, she may find herself cloistered in a convent.”

“Then you’ll lose her,” she pronounced, saddened for Mina, for him, for herself who felt every bit as trapped as Heath’s foolish young sister.

Something that looked alarmingly close to pain flickered in his eyes. “I can live with her hatred if it means protecting her.” With that said, he turned and walked away.

She stared after him, feeling bewildered but mostly sad that no one could ever claim to love her that much.

“Did I ever tell you about the time my brother forced me to ride through the park with Lord Melton?” Portia pulled a face. “Eighty-eight years old. Creaky joints. Wooden teeth. Smelled of mold.” She glanced at Mina, hoping to see some reaction in her implacable expression.

Mina did not so much as blink. The tight set of her mouth brought Heath to mind. Did they even know how alike they were? Stubborn fools.

Their mounts ambled along side by side at an easy gait. Clouds hung low overhead, large puffs of dirty wool. Portia tightened her fingers around her reins and tried again. “Or the time he forced me to dance with Lord Houghton, renowned for his lead feet? My toes still bear the scars.”

Mina stared ahead, her expression unaltered.

“And then there was Sir Lionel—”

“Enough. Point taken,” Mina finally burst out. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but nothing you say will make me forgive my brother. I shall never speak to him again.”

Portia nodded slowly. “Very well. You’re entitled to your anger…but, then, perhaps so is he.”

Mina shot her a mutinous look, her lips twisting.

“Do you love him?” Portia asked gently.

“Who?”

“Your young groom, of course.”

“Edgar?” Mina laughed awkwardly. “No. I mean, I find him attractive, but…” Her voice slid into a sigh. “No, I don’t love him. I hardly know him. Is that so horrible? I suppose I should have at least believed myself in love to permit such liberties.” Mina’s lips trembled. “I simply tire of no gentleman considering me good enough.”

“You’re not horrible, Mina. And you’re good enough for any man.” Moistening her lips, she couldn’t resist imparting one final bit of advice. “You’re luckier than you realize. Your brother cares for you. He merely seeks to protect you from the Whitfields of this world.”

“Why are you defending him?” Mina demanded, her gaze searching Portia’s face. “You don’t even like him.”

“Regardless of how I feel about your brother, he’s good to you.”

And when he kisses me, he makes the world disappear. I become as wicked as he—as yielding as a serving girl in his arms.

Heat suffused her face and she pressed the back of her gloved hand to one overly warm cheek, then the other. Drawing in a ragged breath, she stared ahead, feigning interest in the rocky terrain closing in around them.

Praying Heath’s sister would not wonder at her flushed face, she suggested, “Perhaps we should head back? I smell rain.”

“It always smells of rain.”

“Well, it looks ready to rain.”

“It always looks ready to rain. Don’t be such a city girl,” Mina taunted. “I had hoped we might do some serious riding today.”

Portia quirked a brow. “Serious riding?”

A devious light twinkled in Mina’s eyes. “Yes. Up for a little race?”

Portia appraised Mina for a moment, then shrugged. Why not? It had been years since she could ride anywhere other than the boundaries of Hyde Park. A slow grin curved her lips. “You’ve no idea who you’re challenging.”

Mina lifted a single brow, the jaunty feather of her hat bouncing in the wind. “I admit you sit a horse well.” Her smiling eyes raked Portia. “But a city girl can’t think to best me. I was born in the saddle.”

“Let’s see, then.” With an exultant shout, Portia jabbed her heels and hurtled ahead.

“No fair,” Mina shouted behind her.

Portia laughed over her shoulder. The pounding of hooves on earth filled her ears, spurring her on even faster. It had been too long. Too long in Town. Too long limited to sedate rides on Rotten Row under Astrid’s watchful eyes.

Without glancing back, she gave herself up to the thrill of the ride, heedless of her bonnet flying from her head. The wind clawed her hairpins loose and her hair trailed behind her. She whooped in delight. Tears smarted in her eyes from the wind’s sting, but she didn’t care; she felt alive.

Free.

After several minutes, she slowed her pounding pace. Assuming she had won, she looked over her shoulder, prepared to tease Mina mercilessly.

Craggy limestone terrain stared back. Gorse and wild blackthorn shuddered in the wind, but no Mina.

“Mina?” Portia pulled on her reins and came to a complete stop.

No sight of her anywhere. Frowning, Portia turned in every direction. “Mina!” she called, worry hammering her heart.

The wind howled back like a beast in the distance, heightening her sense of isolation. She spun her mount around, her unbound hair whipping into her face, blinding her. Wiping the dark strands from her eyes, she scanned the horizon, searching even as she tried to steady her racing pulse. Nothing. She thundered back in the direction she had come.

After several moments, she stopped again, acknowledging that she was well and truly lost.

Believing Mina behind her, she had not paid attention to landmarks.

“Brilliant,” she muttered, her eyes scanning the barren landscape. Opening her mouth, she called Mina’s name until she grew hoarse. The dark clouds looked close to bursting overhead. She was in for another soak if she didn’t somehow find her way back to the house.

Prodding her mount into motion again, she set a halting pace, surveying her surroundings as she went along.

The first raindrop landed on her cheek. So softly she barely felt it. Several more followed, growing in volume and intensity. Tilting her face to the skies, she muttered an epithet no lady should know.

Heath sat in his office the precise moment the storm hit. Wind and rain buffeted the tall mullioned windows at his back. He lifted his head from the ledgers scattered across his desk and turned to glance out the window behind him, hoping his sister and Portia had returned from their afternoon ride.

He had seen them head out over an hour ago—had considered putting a stop to it. With yesterday’s debacle so fresh in his mind, how could he not consider putting an end to their time together? As far as companions went, Lady Portia was entirely unsuitable. Impeccable pedigree or not, she wasn’t a lady with whom his sister ought to keep company. Mina had never given him as much trouble in her entire life as she had since Portia’s arrival. Still, he couldn’t concentrate until he knew they were safely inside. Shoving to his feet, he strode from his office.

He’d just reached the foyer when Mina burst into the house, soaked to the skin, jabbering so fast he could hardly make out a word.

“Heath,” she panted between gulping breaths. Her wet fingers latched onto his wrist. “I’ve lost Portia!”

“Lost?” he demanded, his heart leaping against his chest.

“What’s this?” His grandmother called from the top of the stairs, one of her many cats tucked in her arm. The animal’s yellow eyes glittered in seeming mockery.

“I lost Portia.” Mina shook her head, wide eyes a mixture of awe and worry. “Who knew a girl from Town could ride like that?”

“Well, Heath,” his grandmother drawled, “you’ll have to go after her, won’t you?”

A sound request. Logical. Except his grandmother’s eyes gleamed with a victorious light. She angled her head, her shifty blue eyes watching him, waiting.

The hair on his arms prickled. He pinched the bridge of his nose, convinced more than ever that he wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until Portia was gone. Still, losing her somewhere on his estate was not the way to rid himself of her.

Inhaling deeply through his nose, he said, “Tell me precisely where you last saw her.”

Mina’s shoulders sagged in clear relief. “You mean you’ll find her?”

He felt his lips twist. Dropping his hand from his face he met his grandmother’s triumphant gaze, asking, “Was there ever any doubt?”

Rain fell in torrents. Portia squinted against the downpour, giving up any attempt to guide her horse through the quagmire that threatened to drag them down. She let the reins fall lax in her hands and simply trusted that the animal desired shelter as much as she did.

“Come on, boy,” she muttered through chattering teeth. Crouching low, she clung to the horse’s neck as he wrestled his hooves from the marshy ground. “Take us home.”

A cottage materialized through the gray curtain of rain as if her words alone had summoned it.

Her mount, clearly no stranger to the dwelling, bypassed the cottage, trotting straight for the nearby stables. He halted at the closed doors, snorting loudly enough to be heard over the heavy thrum of rain.

“Not precisely what I had in mind,” Portia grumbled as she slid off the horse’s back and trudged through the mud to fling open the doors. Still, it was shelter, and she couldn’t begrudge the beast from delivering them safely from the storm.

Her mount needed no prodding. He barreled past her in his haste to get inside. Muttering beneath her breath, she followed after him. Her gaze swept over the interior as she tugged off her clinging gloves. A quick survey revealed no animals and little in the way of equipment. Barren stalls stared back at her. Her horse sauntered in and out of these, snuffling and devouring the hay littering the ground.

She followed the horse into one stall. Removing his saddle, she snatched a blanket that hung over one of the rails and rubbed the animal down.

Satisfied that she had tended the horse to the best of her ability, she gave his rump one last pat and darted back outside, a hand shielding her face in a feeble attempt to ward off the deluge.

After three swift raps, her hand went for the latch. Thankfully, the cottage door was unlocked.

Gasping, she stumbled inside. Closing the door behind her, she eyed the room.

This was no meager crofter’s cottage. Contrary to the humble exterior, the inside was well appointed—an elegant sanctuary.

Wringing water from her hair, she moved to the center of the single-room dwelling and turned in a small circle. Her gaze fell on the large tester bed, the type found in any fine home. An elegant dining table, accompanied with high back chairs, sat before the shuttered window. A large desk, littered with books and papers, occupied one corner. A chintz-covered sofa was angled before the fireplace, allowing room for a large sheepskin rug, the mere sight of which already made her feel warm. Her gaze landed on a stack of wood in a basket.

“Yes,” she breathed, her breath fogging the air. Already she imagined the heat of a fire soaking into her bones and ridding her of foggy breath. Hurrying forward, she arranged the logs in the fireplace. Her cold fingers stumbled several times, stinging from both cold and the abrasive wood, until at last she coaxed a fire to life.

Her trembling hands then attacked the buttons of her habit, eager to be rid of the clinging wet fabric, eager for the fire to do its work and warm her bones.

Stripped bare, she draped her clothing over the backs of the chairs. Shaking in the frigid air, she snatched the blanket off the bed and drew it around her. Wrapped tight, she sank onto the rug before the hearth, the soft lambskin a heavenly cloud beneath her chilled body.

She stared into the dancing flames, feeling rather satisfied with herself. Bathed in the warm glow of the fire, she felt at peace in the unexpected solitude. Freedom at last, even if short-lived.

She had contemplated running away before. Escape from responsibility. From the pressure of insurmountable debt. From a constant sense of inadequacy. If her mother could escape, could take leave of all expectations placed upon her, why not her?

Sighing softly, Portia rested her chin on her knees. She flexed her toes in the soft wool. Her eyelids grew heavy as she watched the flames stretch and sway in the hearth. Lethargy crept into her bones and her thoughts drifted back to her mother. Did the daughter she left behind never intrude on her thoughts? Portia gave her head a violent shake and wiped at the sudden dash of tears on her cheeks, refusing to let such thoughts rob her of this rare-found tranquility.

She snuggled onto her side, loosening the blanket so that it draped over her. With the soft wool cushioning her body, she could almost imagine she floated in the heavens. Popping sounds from the fire and the steady beat of rain lulled her. She closed her eyes and let her muscles sink and melt into deep sleep.