The Hostage Bride (46 page)

“I can’t let you out.” Portia sat back on her heels on the cold stone floor, for the first time fully aware of her predicament. “I can’t let either of us out.” A faint diffused light came from the barred window high up in the wall and she guessed it was moonlight. There was total silence. Was she to be left moldering here forever?

It was a terrifying thought, almost worse than the prospect of what had awaited her in York. She forced down the panic, swallowed the tears, and broke off a piece of bread. Plain bread sometimes helped the nausea. She nibbled it slowly, feeling her stomach settling. Juno had yielded to the force of nature and was squatting in the far corner of the cell, looking apologetically at Portia.

Then came a sound. The scrape as the heavy bar was raised on the outside door. Lamplight poured into the space and Portia couldn’t help a little cry of relief.

“Eh, just what’ve you been an’ gone an’ done?”

Josiah’s rather creaky voice was the most welcome sound Portia thought she had ever heard. The old man set his lamp down on a table outside Portia’s cell. A rich aroma drifted upward from the covered dish he set beside the lamp. Josiah approached the cell, the lamplight shining off his round bald head, giving the fluffy white tonsure a pinkish tinge.

“I’d best take the pup out … oh, too late.” He spotted the puddle and shook his head with annoyance. “I looked in a couple o’ times, but you was both dead t’ the world. I’ll fetch ye a mop.”

“Can you let us out?” Portia stood up and approached the bars.

“Just the pup, George says.” Josiah unlocked the door and opened it. Juno raced out between his legs, and the old man closed the door again. “I’ll be back wi’ that mop.” He shuffled out of the building, Juno darting ahead of him.

Portia sat down on her cot and contemplated her situation. It was better than she’d thought a few minutes ago, but it seemed she was to be kept a prisoner in this tiny space.

Josiah returned with a bucket of water and a mop, which he passed to Portia, unlocking and locking the door with great caution. “So, what ’ave ye gone an’ done? George wouldn’t say.”

“Nothing, as it happens,” Portia said grimly, cleaning up Juno’s mess. “But Rufus thinks I have.”

“’Tain’t like the master to be unfair,” Josiah stated, clearly not believing Portia’s claim. “Not in all the years I’ve known ’im … an’ I’ve known ’im since ’e was nobbut a nipper.” He unlocked the bars again to take back the bucket and mop.

“There’s no need to keep locking and unlocking those bars,” Portia said wearily. “I’m not going anywhere. Where’s Juno?”

“Runnin’ around outside.” Josiah hesitated, looking at the prisoner’s wan and battered countenance, then he turned to the table, leaving the bars unlocked. “Ye want some supper?”

As usual these days, Portia’s stomach was giving mixed signals, but she knew she needed food. “Can I come out and eat it?”

Again Josiah hesitated. Then he said, “If’n ye promise—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Portia repeated swiftly. She stepped into the main room. “What did George tell you?”

“Just that the master’s ordered that y’are to be kept in prison until ’e says otherwise. I’m to take care of ye, since there’s only us old folk left be’ind.” He lifted the lid on the dish. “There’s a spoon fer the stew.”

Portia ate standing up because there was no chair. And with the first spoonful she found she was ravenous. “Could you bring me some warm water to wash, d’you think?”

“Aye, I’m to give you anything you need,” Josiah said with a nod. “Empty the bucket an’ such like … bring ’ot water and food. I’ll bring ye wine, or ale, when I comes in the mornin’.”

Portia set down the empty bowl and returned to her cell. “Can you bring me something to do? Paper, a quill and ink, perhaps, and one of Rufus’s books? Any one will do.”

Josiah looked doubtful. “Take things from ’is cottage when ’e’s not there? I dunno.”

“I don’t think he’d mind,” Portia said. “And if he does, he won’t blame you, he’ll blame me.”

Josiah frowned, his weak, faded eyes examining his charge. She looked desperate in her unhappiness and he could think only of how vibrant and happy and exuberant she had always been. Whatever she’d done, this imprisonment in the near-deserted village was harsh enough without adding to its severity.
“I s’ pose I could,” he said after a minute. “An’ it’ll get awful tedious sittin’ in ’ere on yer tod.”

“Thank you.” Portia managed a stiff but grateful smile.

But when Josiah had returned Juno and left, and the bar fell heavily across the outside door, Portia lay down on the cot, assailed by misery.

She could see Rufus’s cold eyes, hear the bitter contempt in his voice, and it was unendurable that he should believe what he did of her. She loved him and she had dared to think that he loved her. But he believed her false, and if he had loved her, he would have known she could not have betrayed him. If he had loved her, he would have accepted her … accepted who and what she was, and none of this dreadful confusion and wretchedness would have happened.

She was so very tired of steering a path through the obstacle course of his vendetta. So very tired of denying some part of herself in order to satisfy Rufus. It was too high a price to pay for his … his what?

Regard? Love? Passion?

Oh, what did it matter anymore? Everything was dust and ashes. Portia curled herself up in the blankets, and sleep brought temporary end to misery.

“H
ow far gone are you, then?”

Portia raised her head from the bucket and sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with her handkerchief. “How did you guess?”

Josiah shrugged. “Not ’ard, when a lassie’s pukin’ every mornin’. So, ’ow far gone are you?”

Portia struggled to her feet. Josiah was the only person she saw these days and the only person in whom she could confide. “It’s embarrassing, but I’m not sure. I can’t remember when I had my last terms.”

Josiah placed the pot of porridge on the table. “Pukin’ usually stops after the first three months.”

“You mean I won’t be heaving up my guts
forever?”
Portia was more than ready to accept that Josiah had some knowledge of these things.

“Most don’t,” Josiah replied. “But some lassies do.”

“I’ll probably be one of those who do,” Portia said glumly. She stretched in the cramped space, envying Juno, who was running free outside. Josiah made sure the puppy had three good runs a day. But then, Juno couldn’t use a bucket, Portia reflected wryly.

“Does t’master know?” Josiah asked, unlocking Portia’s cell.

“By the time I was sure, the right moment never arose to tell him.” Portia came out of the cell with a little sigh of relief. Five days of this confinement was becoming tedious. Her legs jumped with the need to walk; her body, filled with suppressed energy, refused to settle into sleep; her mind seethed with “if onlys.”

“Josiah, could I just walk a little along the riverbank? I give you my word—my parole—that I’ll come back.”

Josiah looked uncomfortable. “I knows ye won’t be goin’ anywhere, but I ’aven’t ’ad orders.”

Portia was stumped. The Rufus she thought she knew would not have condemned her to this kind of confinement. It made sense to think that in the intensity of those last moments in the camp, he’d given his orders and simply missed specifying the details of her imprisonment. But perhaps not. Perhaps this was what he’d intended. He’d saved her from a spy’s punishment, but his own was another matter. Ultimately more merciful, but still dreadful.

“Mebbe I could send—” Josiah’s musing was cut off by the shrilling of pipes. The cottage was set away from the village, but they could hear the commotion—racing footsteps, shouts.

“What is it?” Portia moved swiftly to the barred window, her blood racing. She knew the answer in every bone and sinew. Rufus was back.

“I’ll go an’ see. Eat yer porridge an’ I’ll be back.” Josiah’s shuffle was faster than usual as he went to the door, releasing a breath of early-morning-fresh summer air that filled Portia with an aching need to leave her prison.

The door banged shut behind him, and Portia heard the heavy bar drop into place.

She ate her porridge, without enthusiasm or appetite. Inaction dulled appetite anyway, and the diet lacked the kind of variety that might stimulate it. But she was conscious of the life growing within her. A life that had somehow become intrinsic to her own. She lived for this child. Her blood flowed for the child. Her mind thought for it. Her lungs breathed for it. It was as if her body was devoting itself without conscious instruction to the nurturing of a life that had not yet discovered its own importance, or its own needs. She was the child within her womb as that child was her own self.

The simple task of eating also calmed her. The sounds beyond her prison had now changed. Now she could hear the pipes and drums of an army, the marching feet, all the concomitants of a conventional military discipline that subsumed the martial encampment of an erstwhile outlaw.

Rufus Decatur was no longer a moss-trooper, an outlaw.
He was the rightful earl of Rothbury, fighting for his king, and Portia Worth was a traitor whom he was harboring. Whatever business had brought him here, he would have to ignore her presence officially. But surely he would come to her … say something … send a message through Josiah or George or Will.

Juno’s short barks at the door to the jail heralded Josiah’s entrance, with the puppy bounding ahead of him. Juno leaped at Portia as if she hadn’t seen her for a week.

“Yes … yes … I love you too.” Portia bent to stroke her. Two months ago she could have lifted her easily into her arms. But at six months the puppy was bidding fair to become a large dog, although Juno hadn’t seemed to realize that herself and looked disappointed when she was left at ground level.

“Is it Rufus?” Portia tried to keep both anxiety and hope from her voice as she looked up at Josiah while keeping a calming hand on Juno’s neck.

“Aye.” Josiah’s customary tranquility was disturbed. “They’re all back, wi’ the prince’s men, too. They’re sayin’ there’s goin’ to be a big battle. T’army’s ’eadin’ out t’morrow mornin’.”

Portia’s heart plunged. “Did you see Rufus?”

“Not to speak to…. You finished ’ere?” Josiah gestured to the bowl on the table. His old eyes were troubled. “Seems very busy, ’e does … what wi’ the prince’s officers an’ all.”

“If he wants to talk to me, I suppose he will.” Portia sounded as dispirited as she felt. She went back into her cell, Juno at her heels. “He knows I’m here, after all.”

“Aye, but ’e doesn’t know yer carryin’,” Josiah said, locking the barred door before picking up the empty porridge bowl. “I’ll be back wi’ dinner at noon.”

Portia lay back on her cot and listened to the familiar sounds of the door and the bar locking her in. How long was Rufus intending to keep her here? Until the war was over? Until she no longer faced charges of treason? Would he ever talk to her again? Or would Josiah open the door one day and tell her she was free? Free to go wherever fancy and fate took her, so long as she never crossed Rufus Decatur’s path again?
Free to give birth to a Decatur bastard who would never know its father?

R
ufus entered his cottage and the emptiness assailed
him. It had been many months since he’d lived here without Portia, and something essential seemed to have gone from the place. Her heavy winter cloak still hung from the hook by the door, and he knew that if he went upstairs he would see her nightrobe over the bedrail, and he could even fancy that the mattress was still imprinted with the slight indentation of her body. His own body was so much bigger and heavier than Portia’s deceptively frail form that she always rolled down into the valley he made to come to rest against his back, curled around him like a limpet on a rock.

He had never in his life been as wretched as he was now. Not even as an orphaned lad, cast adrift with the memories of his father’s last words and the sound of the shot that had killed him and the reek of the smoke that had burned to ashes the only home Rufus had ever known. Not even when he’d stood over the dead bodies of his mother and infant sister and worried about how he was to bury them.

There had still been a future then, a terrifying, unknown future, but the knowledge of a future was essentially hopeful. Now he felt as if something vital to his continued existence had been cut out of him. There was nothing to look forward to, nothing to plan for. For the one and only time in his adult life, he had given himself—his trust, his loyalty, and his love—to another person. He had loved … no,
still
loved her … with such an overwhelming power that that emotion contained all others. And she had deceived him, used his love to betray him. And the knowledge of that was unendurable.

“Is she here? Is Portia here?” Luke and Toby pushed against his legs in their hurry to get inside. They tumbled headlong into the kitchen and righted themselves, looking around the barren room.

“She’s not here?” Luke said, his voice forlorn.

“She’s not
anywhere,”
Toby stated flatly. He looked up at his father.
“Where
is she?”