The Hostage Bride (20 page)

The mess had filled with other men in search of breakfast by the time Rufus had finished his own meal. He left the noisy building and ducked back out into the crisp morning in search of his sons. He heard their voices before he reached Tod’s barn, the excited gabble sounding for once in harmony. As he entered the barn, they bounded over to him, two pairs of bright blue eyes radiating wonderment.

“See the puppies, Papa!” They grabbed his hands, dragging him across to the nest of straw where the red setter had settled her new litter.

“They’s blind, Papa,” Luke squealed, swinging on his father’s hand. “’Cause they’s too small to see.”

“Was we blind too?” Toby asked curiously, as he knelt in the straw, expertly soothing the bitch’s head with one dimpled fist.

“No, human babies can open their eyes as soon as they’re born.” Rufus squatted beside his sons to admire.

“When they’s big enough, we’re havin’ two of ’em,” Toby informed his father. “Tod said we could.”

“We got to choose which ones!” Luke squawked. “Eenie meenie minie mo …”

It was too early in the morning to deal with tempests, but their father couldn’t afford to give the impression of tacit
approval. “You’re not old enough yet to have your own dogs.” Rufus captured Luke’s pointing finger before one of the soft brown bundles could be accidentally jabbed.

“But we
want
em!” Toby announced, his voice rising several notches.

“Yes, we
want
’em!” his little brother added. “Tod said we could!”

“Not until you’re seven,” Rufus said firmly, rising to his feet and drawing the boys up with him. “Seven is the proper age to have a dog. That’s when I had my first puppy.”

“Then I’ll have mine ’afore Luke!” Toby yelled, prancing on the tips of his toes. “See, Luke. I’ll have mine first.”

“But that’s not fair!” Luke wailed, his voice trembling with tears. “He can’t have one first … he
can’t.”

Too late, Rufus realized what he’d stepped into. Whatever he did now, one of them would consider it unfair. “The issue isn’t going to arise for another three years,” he said, frowning at them. They looked more than ordinarily disheveled, their jerkins only half buttoned, their eyes still sticky with sleep, crumbs of toast and shiny spots of dripping adorning their small round mouths. They must have rolled out of bed in the very instant they’d awoken. It was their usual habit, one reason why they preferred to sleep in their clothes.

It probably wasn’t a very good habit, Rufus thought with some surprise, remembering that Portia, even in her own difficulties the previous evening, had sounded disapproving. He’d never before given it a second thought, but they really did seem remarkably unsavory.

“You both need to go under the pump,” he declared, scooping a child under each arm.

The prospect drove all thoughts of puppies from their heads and brought instant alliance. Shrieking in protest, they were borne out of the barn, their squirming bodies dangling beneath their father’s arms.

P
ortia’s eyes opened slowly. It was full daylight and the
memories of the preceding day and night came back in a hot rush of mingled mortification and outrage. She was now alone
in the bed she had shared with Rufus Decatur. She moved her hand over her body. The belt was no longer around her waist.

“You awake then, lass?” A man’s voice spoke from the far side of the room, and Portia struggled up onto an elbow, blinking blearily.

An old man turned from the washstand where he was placing a jug of hot water beside the ewer. He had a pink face adorned with fluffy white whiskers and an equally fluffy white tonsure around a shiny bald head. Faded blue eyes regarded Portia with benign interest.

“Who are you?” Portia demanded.

“Name’s Josiah. Master told me to see t’ yer needs. There’s ’ot water ’ere fer washin’.” He gestured to the washstand.

“How considerate of Lord Rothbury,” Portia said acidly. “What time is it?”

“All of eight o’clock.” Josiah seemed unperturbed by the acid tone. “Summat wrong wi’ the bed in the apple loft, was there?”

“Your master seemed to think so,” Portia said as tartly as before. She sat up and yawned, stretching her arms above her head, linking her fingers as she did so.

“Ah, wanted a bedmate, did ’e?” Josiah nodded sagely.

“Not in the way you think,” Portia snapped. She pushed aside the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Lord Rothbury merely kept me prisoner on the bed because he was afraid I’d run away again.”

“Oh, aye, I ’eard about that.” Josiah said. “Took Bertram’s sledge an’ all. ’e wasn’t best pleased this mornin’, I can tell you. ’ad to go an’ fetch it, ’e did.”

“Oh, well, remind me to beg his pardon,” Portia said with a sardonic smile. “I’m sure I didn’t mean to cause a thieving brigand any trouble.”

“Eh, someone got outta bed on t’ wrong side,” Josiah observed placidly. “Mebbe a good wash’ll sweeten yer temper.” He bustled back to the washstand and poured hot water into the ewer. “There’s a nice piece o’ lavender soap, too.” He looked expectantly at Portia.

“I’m not about to strip naked in front of you,” she said. “Or has the master decreed that I’m not to be granted any privacy?”

“Lord bless ye, lass, the master never said nothin’ o’ the kind. Not that ye needs to worry about me. I’ve seen all an’ more than you’ve got to show.” Josiah chuckled and went to the stairs. “Skinny little thing, aren’t you?”

“Very.” Portia untied the ribbons of her nightrobe.

The door below banged open and the sounds of shrill, squealing protest rose up the stairs. Rufus’s voice cut through the childish trebles. “Josiah?”

“Aye, m’lord. I’m ’ere. What’s all that caterwaulin’?” Josiah hurried down to the kitchen where Rufus had set the boys on their feet but was keeping a tight hold on their collars.

“These children need to go under the pump,” Rufus announced. “Just hold Toby while I get these filthy clothes off Luke.”

Portia heard him in astonishment. Was the man completely mad or just totally heartless? She yelled from the top of the stairs, “For pity’s sake, Decatur, you can’t put them under the pump. It’s freezing!”

Rufus, still clutching the boys, came to the bottom of the stairs. He looked up and saw a pair of bare feet and long white legs. “Aren’t you dressed yet?”

“My clothes aren’t fit to put on, thanks to you.” She hastily retreated from view, grabbed a coverlet from the bed, wrapped it around her like a toga, then made her way downstairs.

The boys ceased their wailing and regarded her with hope. “It’s too cold for the pump,” Toby declared.
“She
says it is.”

“Yes, of course it is,” Portia reiterated firmly. “Of all the cruel and absurd ideas. It’s January, for God’s sake.”

Rufus looked both annoyed and nonplussed. “There’s no reason for wild accusations,” he said stiffly.

“Oh, you mean cruelty?” Portia regarded him with cold scorn. “My experiences in this den of thieves, my lord, make such an accusation perfectly reasonable. And when I think how this
hospitality
was designed for Olivia, I’d like to cut out your heart!”

Rufus released his hold on the boys. “All right, Portia, let’s not get carried away here. You have in no way been treated with cruelty, although you’re entitled to your own view on the matter. But don’t confuse your experiences with the way I treat my children. You know nothing about it. However, I
concede that it is too cold to wash them outside. I wasn’t thinking clearly. It’s just that I always put them under the pump when they get unsavory.”

There was a warning snap in his eyes.

“Well, they’re certainly unsavory.” Portia examined the boys with a critical frown. “I haven’t had much experience with children, but surely you could bathe them in a tub or something.”

The snap in Rufus’s eyes vanished. “They won’t keep still,” he said gloomily. “And they splash water all over the place. The kitchen’s a lake by the time they’re finished.”

Portia wanted to laugh. There was something so absurd about the master of Decatur defeated by a pair of toddlers. She sat on the bottom step, resting her chin on her linked hands. “Take all their clothes off, sponge them down and put clean things on them, and then they won’t look nearly so unsavory.”

Rufus seemed to consider, then he said, “I’ll strike a bargain with you. If you and Josiah will deal with these two, I’ll find you some clean clothes. How would that be?”

Portia regarded the boys, who had retreated to the far end of the kitchen and looked ready to fly out of the back door at the first move against them. “I think you would have the best of the bargain,” she said.

“Please yourself. If you want to stay wrapped in a quilt, it’s all the same to me,” Rufus said airily. “In fact, on reflection I think it would be a very good thing. It would keep you within doors as effectively as any restraints. I withdraw the offer.”

“You are an unmitigated son of a bitch,” Portia said softly, realizing that they had just come dangerously close to a moment of affability.

“Eh, watch yer tongue!” Josiah exclaimed, for once shocked out of his customary placidity. “You don’t use language like that to the master.”

“Ah, but Mistress Worth acknowledges no master,” Rufus said. “Isn’t that so?” He raised an interrogative eyebrow at Portia. “Isn’t it so?” he repeated when she made no answer.

“I’ve yet to meet someone worth the title,” she said frigidly. “And I don’t expect to … not in this life.” She rose to her feet, preparing to return upstairs.

Rufus moved swiftly, catching her around the waist and
lifting her down into the kitchen. He held her shoulders and smiled down into her furious face. “Come, Portia, I was merely jesting. Let’s call a truce. Help Josiah with the boys, and I’ll find you a change of clothes. It’s a beautiful morning, and if you promise not to quarrel, I’ll take you out for a walk and show you around the village.”

It was such a volte-face Portia was momentarily speechless. His vivid blue gaze danced with laughter, his mouth curved in a smile of unexpected sweetness. “Truce?” He pressed the tip of her nose with a forefinger.

God, how she hated him! He was manipulating her again, teasing her with all the deceit and arrogance of men the world over. How could he know that when he touched her and looked at her in that way it made her blood sing? Her loathing of the man, just seemed to slide away under a smile that seemed to imply some deep knowledge of the world, of herself, even. But he did know and he was using it for his own ends.

The sheer force of his personality, his physical presence itself, was somehow dictating how she was to respond to him, overpowering her own sense of what was rational and legitimate in the circumstances.

Rufus let his hands fall from her shoulders, and Portia stepped away from him, her hands half lifted as if to ward something off.

“Truce,” she said in a voice that didn’t sound quite like her own. Then she turned abruptly to where the boys still stood at the back of the room and lunged for Luke, catching him up in a shrieking tangle of limbs. Josiah caught Toby as he dived between the legs of the table.

Rufus stood for a minute, unaware that he was smiling as he wondered what it was about his accidental hostage that was so appealing. She was all spikes and sparks, and yet there were moments when he saw beneath the antagonism, and what he saw he found utterly delightful.

It was disturbing. He turned on his heel and left the shrieking chaos of the cottage.

When he returned half an hour later, it was to find his sons in clean clothes, astonishingly subdued, damp curls clinging to their scalps, cheeks scrubbed shiny. They were sitting by the
fire, shivering intermittently like newly bathed puppies, and regarded their father with large eyes filled with recrimination.

“I’m cold,” Toby said reproachfully.

“We’re both cold,” his brother chimed in.

“They’re only cold because their skin isn’t used to fresh air and water,” Portia said. “We almost had to scrape the grime off them.”

“Well, I’ve fulfilled my side of the bargain. See what you think of these.” Rufus handed her a bundle, with a strange gleam in his eye that put Portia immediately on her guard.

“I’ll be off, then, master.” Josiah headed for the door, Luke and Toby on his heels, as Portia took the bundle gingerly, almost as if she were expecting it to conceal a sharp-toothed ferret.

“What are these?” Portia gestured to the parcel.

Rufus grinned. “Take them upstairs and find out. I think you’ll be surprised.”

“Good surprised or bad surprised?”

“I don’t know. But they were all I could find. We have a rather limited supply of spare garments in the compound.”

Portia, now convinced that it was going to be an unpleasant surprise, carried the bundle upstairs. Presumably he’d found her some peasant woman’s rough homespun gown and holland petticoat. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and if they were clean she’d not complain.

She laid the bundle on the bed and untied it. She stared in astonishment and then lifted up the garments one by one, shaking them out. A pair of doeskin britches, woolen stockings and garters, a shirt of unbleached linen, woolen underdrawers, a sleeveless jerkin of dark worsted, and a frieze wool cloak. There was even a belt, and a new pair of gloves to replace the split ones. Rufus had thought of everything.

Astonishment gave way to delight. She’d always wanted to shed the irksome trappings of femalehood. Here was her chance.

The water Josiah had brought her earlier was tepid now, but she washed herself thoroughly, shivering but resolute. Then, with almost languid pleasure, she dressed, relishing the strange feel of the garments. She sat on the bed to pull on her own boots, then slowly stood up, running her hands down the
unfamiliarly delineated length of her body. There was a wonderful sense of freedom in these garments, and they seemed warmer than gowns and petticoats. The woolen underdrawers helped, of course, and the leather britches seemed to resist the cold better. It was, Portia decided, a vast improvement on her previous incarnation, but there was no mirror in Rufus’s bedchamber, so she had no way of telling what she looked like.