The Hostage Bride (29 page)

“I was at Oxford two months ago,” Brian said. “Their Majesties’ courage is an inspiration to all who serve them.” He didn’t think it necessary to add that although he had certainly been in the city of Oxford, he had not once attended the court-in-exile and his only view of the king and queen had been from the street when they’d attended church one Sunday.

“I wish I could persuade my husband to …” Diana stopped, lightly dabbed at her eyes with the corner of a perfumed handkerchief. “Forgive me, Mr. Morse. It’s not for me to offer criticism of my husband’s decisions, but I feel so … so dishonored. My duty, my loyalty, is to my sovereign, and to find myself in this invidious position … forgive me,” she repeated and buried her face in her handkerchief.

Brian patted her knee, his little eyes sharp. He scented the possibility for mischief here. Very useful and productive mischief. “Sometimes, my dear madam, one must follow one’s conscience even if duty dictates otherwise.”

Diana looked up. Her countenance bore no disfiguring signs of distress. “What do you mean, sir?”

Brian coughed delicately. “Personal lovalties … matters of
personal conscience … I don’t believe that even your husband would expect you to abandon your conscience simply because his own takes him along a different route. And you and I know, dear Lady Granville, that Lord Granville is gravely mistaken in his decision. To stand against the king is to stand against God himself. The king has a divine right to rule. He is God’s anointed representative.”

This gravely sententious speech was music to Diana’s ears. “I do so fear for my husband,” she murmured. “What will happen to him … to all those … who have stood against the king when this rebellion is put down, and they must face the king’s wrath?”

“It’s a grave prospect indeed,” Brian said. “And Lord Granville cannot have considered that his own family will share his fate.”

Diana shuddered. “My own father is thinking of declaring for Parliament also. There will be nowhere to take shelter.”

“Perhaps … but, no, I couldn’t … couldn’t suggest such a thing.” He rose and began to pace in apparent agitation around the warm, firelit room.

“Oh, yes, pray do speak your mind,” Diana begged.

“It seems so … so ungrateful when Lord Granville has welcomed me with such generosity … and yet … and yet I cannot endure to see you suffering so, my lady.” He came back to the sofa and knelt before her, taking her hands. “If you would trust me.”

“Oh, but of course I trust you.” She squeezed his hands. “What is it you would say to me?” Her eyes shone with eagerness.

“Why, that maybe you could with your own actions mitigate your husband’s offense in the eyes of the king.”

“Work against my husband?”

“Not exactly. But perhaps if you could find a way to help the king’s cause without your husband’s knowing …” His tongue flickered over his lips. This was dangerous ground, but Diana was regarding him with such open wonder that he could already taste his triumph. What a coup. To subvert the wife within the very confines of a rebel stronghold.

Cato was a powerful man. An honorable man whose
support for Parliament would make an enormous difference to the cause … would legitimate it in the eyes of many waverers. If he could be undermined on his own territory, from within his own walls, he would lose all credibility. And Brian Morse, the instrument of his downfall, would receive the immeasurable gratitude of a sovereign once more restored to his rightful throne.

“How?” Diana whispered, no less aware than Brian of the danger. But before he could answer, the door opened.

“Good God, man, what are you doing on your knees?” Cato demanded. “I assure you my wife is already spoken for.”

Brian scrambled to his feet. “Oh, my lord, I was … was …”

“Mr. Morse was helping me look for a particular shade in my embroidery silks,” Diana said calmly.

“I see.” Cato bent over the basket of silks. “Perhaps I can help.”

Diana merely smiled at him. “Come now, my lord, you know you have no interest in anything not connected with this dreadful war.”

Cato shrugged. “Perhaps so.” He reached for the bellpull.

“Has something occurred to upset you, my lord?” Diana rose and fluttered across to him, laying a concerned hand on his arm.

“Just this damn war,” he said shortly. “Ah, Bailey … bring wine.”

“Anything in particular troubling you, my lord?” Brian inquired, bending to poke the fire.

Your supremely annoying presence, and a whole hornets’ nest of suspicions about Portia Worth.
“Where’re the girls?” Cato asked, seeming to ignore the question. “It’s suppertime, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Diana said. “Should I send for them … or for Olivia?” She smiled up at her husband, continuing with all sweet concern, “I’ve been thinking, my lord, that we are perhaps too ready to include Portia in the family. I don’t think her influence on Olivia is really to be encouraged … particularly after this latest escapade … such a terrible business. I know you don’t wish to slight your brother’s child, but … but
I think she would be happier taking her place more with the servants.”

Cato tried to control his irritation. He had no intention of taking Diana into his confidence. “I disagree, madam. She seems to have persuaded Olivia to leave her bed, at least. And that can’t be bad. I have my own reasons for wishing her to remain within the family circle … at least for the time being.”

Diana looked most put out. “Am I to know those reasons, sir?”

Cato shook his head. “There’s no need to trouble yourself about them, my dear. I have matters well in hand. Ah, Bailey …” He turned as the butler returned with the wine. “Tell Lady Olivia and Mistress Worth that we’ll be taking supper in ten minutes.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Bailey bowed himself out.

Diana compressed her lips but held her tongue, and when Olivia and Portia entered a few minutes later, she smiled warmly at Olivia and kissed her. “I’m so happy to see that you’re feeling better, my dear child.”

Olivia smiled faintly and surreptitiously wiped her cheek as she turned away.

Cato appeared abstracted at the supper table, leaving the conversational burden to Diana and Brian. But he was watching Portia. She behaved with perfect decorum, saying very little, answering politely when spoken to. There was nothing in her demeanor to suggest he had a Decatur spy under his roof. He had sensed that she had not been telling him the whole truth about her sojourn in the Decatur compound. He had had the same conviction when he’d questioned her about her first meeting with Decatur. Perhaps Giles was right. The sergeant was convinced that there was something wrong about the girl’s dealings with Decatur.

He wasn’t aware of how closely he was watching her, until Portia suddenly raised her eyes from her plate and boldly met his gaze. That challenge was there again. Perhaps she could no more help it than his brother had been able to. And perhaps she was mocking him with it, just as Jack had done … thinking she was making a fool of him.

He determined to talk with her again. Probe a little more deeply.

After supper he summoned Portia to his bastion sanctuary. She sat demurely facing him across the big table, trying to hide her unease. She was under no illusions about Cato. He was sharp as a needle. And he must not—
could not
—know the whole truth of her encounter with Rufus Decatur.

“How many conversations did you have with Decatur?”

Portia considered. “Only one really. When I first arrived and he realized I was not Olivia.”

“Did that anger him?”

“At first, but then he seemed to realize that his men had made an understandable mistake. I’d borrowed Olivia’s cloak and they were told to take the girl in blue.”

Cato had learned about the borrowed cloak from Olivia. So far their stories were consistent. “How exactly were you treated?”

With humor; with lust; with passion? Or just simply teased and manipulated by the Granvilles’ bitterest enemy?
She answered Cato levelly, “I was kept in an apple loft for the most part. I tried to escape by stealing a sledge and going down the river, but his sentries picked me up.” She met his gaze.

Cato frowned. “And how did you escape in the end?”

“Some men went out on an expedition, and I managed to mingle with them, and then when we were well outside Decatur village I slipped away.” The knowledge that that had been her intention and it could have worked gave conviction to her words.

Portia realized that she’d made no conscious decision not to help Cato in his war with Rufus Decatur, but there’d been no decision to make. She wasn’t going to give him anything useful.

Cato stroked his chin, beginning to feel a flash of optimistic relief. So far he couldn’t fault her. His gaze fell on a dispatch that had reached him that morning. “While you were there, did you hear anything of an attack on a party of Lord Leven’s men just outside Yetholm?”

“Lord Rothbury and some men were absent from the village when I escaped,” she responded carefully. “I didn’t hear anything about their plans while I was in the apple loft.”
Which was undeniably true.
“Has there been such an attack, my lord?” she inquired.

“Apparently,” Cato said with a dismissive gesture, as if it were not important. He rose and began to pace the small room. “Did you discover what ransom Decatur was demanding for Olivia’s safe return?”

“No.” Portia lied directly for the first time. She saw in her mind’s eye Rufus’s face, a rictus of pain and fury, looking down on his house. She heard his voice, harsh, savage, describing what had been done by Granvilles to his father and his home … telling her what he had hoped to gain by abducting Olivia. How could she talk about that horror with Cato when she couldn’t bear to remember it?

Cato glanced sharply at her and knew immediately that she was lying. It was in her eyes, in the tension of her mouth. And why would she lie if she had nothing to hide?

He stopped before the fire and stood resting one foot on the fender, his arm along the mantelpiece as he regarded her carefully. “Decatur knew the color of Olivia’s cloak. That bespeaks an intimacy with our life here that’s hard to credit. And I’m wondering how he would know to look for her on the moat. How would he know you were in the habit of skating together?”

“I don’t know,” Portia said.

“I’m wondering if perhaps there’s a spy in our midst,” he said in a musing tone, his eyes resting on her face.

Portia felt as if she were treading on stepping stones across a racing torrent. All she could think of was Rufus eating Cato’s meat in the outer bailey, eavesdropping on his enemy’s conversations, watching her skate with Olivia on the moat. Risking his neck in a deadly game that only amused him. His eyes had been laughing the whole time … it had been the first time he’d kissed her….

Her eyes dropped to her hands knotted in her lap. “I suppose it’s possible, my lord.”

Cato smiled suddenly and said, “Well, there’s no need for you to concern yourself anymore. I’m only glad that you’re back, safe and well. And Olivia, I know, is delighted. She has need of a companion. You may go to her now.”

When she’d curtsied and left, Cato resumed his pacing. The smile had vanished the minute the door closed behind her. He was certain now that Portia was hiding something.
She hadn’t been able to meet his eye. But if she was a spy in his camp, maybe he could turn her to his own use. So long as she didn’t suspect his suspicions, she could be fed information. Disinformation that would draw Rufus Decatur into the trap that would bring his downfall.

And what in the devil’s name had Brian been playing at with Diana that afternoon? They had certainly not been selecting embroidery silks. The sooner he got rid of Brian Morse, the easier he would be.

Had he known it, unexpected forces were at work to rid Castle Granville of Brian Morse. Brian fell into bed much the worse for Cato’s fine cognac and was soon snoring. The nest of red-spotted spiders greeted the expanse of bare flesh disturbing their peace with vicious indignation. They scuttled over him, insinuating themselves into the nooks and crannies where the flesh was at its most moist and succulent. Brian tossed and turned, drawing up his knees, plagued in his drunken dreams with pinpricks of discomfort.

He awoke when the servant assigned to him opened the shutters and the bedcurtains. “There’s ’ot water for shavin’, sir. An’ the boot boy cleaned all your boots.”

Brian sat up, blinking at the harsh light. His head was throbbing. He pushed a hand beneath the covers to scratch his thigh and then his groin. Something brushed against his fingers and he threw off the bedclothes. The squiggling red-spotted creatures exposed to the light were like some nightmare of delirium tremens. An involuntary screech emerged from his lips.

The servant stared in astonishment. “Where’d they come from? Them’s spiders, them is.”

“I know it, you fool!” Brian leaped to the floor. “Kill ’em.” He examined his legs. Great red welts showed up against the flesh. He turned his thigh out and saw the line of them creeping up into the dark pubic nest. He shuddered with revulsion as the servant began to thrash at the spiders with the poker.

“Can’t think where they come from, sir,” the servant declared, chasing a particularly succulent specimen scuttling to safety into the rumpled bedclothes. “You must’ve brought ’em in wi’ you.”

“Fool! Of course I didn’t.” Brian began to scratch and as he
scratched the itch grew worse, the welts grew larger, and seemed to spread. “Bring me a bath … hot water … scalding water!” he bellowed and the servant fled.

In the corridor, the man bumped into Lady Olivia and Mistress Worth. They were strolling casually along the passage, arm in arm. “Good morning, Peter. Is something the matter with Mr. Morse?” Olivia inquired.

“Oh, Lord love us, Lady Olivia. But fair crazed, ’e is.” Peter was grinning. “Shouldn’t laugh, I know, but Lord, it was funny. ’e’s got spiders in ’is bed. An’ they’ve bit ’im all over. Wants scaldin’ water now. Fair scratchin’ ’isself to death, ’e is.” And Peter went off chuckling.

“Oh, Portia, you’re so clever!”

Portia’s smile was smug. “It’s quite a nice little trick, isn’t it?”