“You had quite an adventure today, I gather,” he observed.
Portia paused in her ablutions, the washcloth suspended beneath one raised arm. “What did Will say?”
“Oh, that you and Paul had pursued the couriers alone and had succeeded in lifting their documents… vital documents, as I’m sure you realized.”
“Of course I did,” she said, resuming her washing. “Paul and I set up a neat little ambush for them. Paul pretended that his horse had thrown a shoe in the middle of the lane, and he was positioned across it so they had to stop…” She handed him a washcloth and turned her back.
Rufus obliged while she continued. “And he engaged them in the most wonderfully inane discussion, in the broadest Yorkshire you could imagine, so they could hardly understand a word, and while they were distracted, I came at ‘em!”
“Part your legs.”
She did so and he drew the cloth down between the cleft of her buttocks, along the inner reaches of her thigh. Her voice faltered.
“You were saying?” Rufus prompted, draping the washcloth over her shoulder and returning to his indolent position against the mantelpiece.
“I fired a shot from my musket which spooked both their horses. And as they reared, Paul jumped up and grabbed both bridles. They were still trying to get their swords out when I rode down on them, took one of them with my rapier and the other with my knife.”
“Did you kill them?”
“No… it would have been in cold blood. We couldn’t have done that,” she said flatly. She shrugged on her shirt again, buttoning it swiftly. “We disarmed them and tied them up in a henhouse, which we’d found earlier, and set their horses loose.”
“Sounds very neat.” Rufus bent and picked up her drawers and britches, tossing them across to her. “And was that your only adventure?”
Portia had her head lowered as she climbed into her britches. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Paul and I waited for Will and the others, and we all rode home together.” She fastened her waistband, aware that her fingers were suddenly all thumbs.
“I’m starving. Paul ate all the chicken and I’ve had nothing but bread and cheese.”
“We’ll go to the mess presently. Will said you weren’t at the rendezvous when he arrived.” He was watching her very closely, watching the clumsy fumble of her fingers, although his voice was casual, his posture still indolent, as he leaned against the mantelpiece, one arm stretched along its length, fingers curled loosely around the handle of his tankard.
“And did he also tell you that my stomach was upset and while Paul slept the sleep of the just, I spent most of the afternoon behind a bush?” she demanded, combing her fingers through her hair, her face slightly averted.
“No, he didn’t mention that.” He took a sip of ale, but his eyes never left her face. Pink tinged the pallor of her high cheekbones, and her mouth was unusually taut. “The rendezvous was very close to Castle Granville,” he continued casually. “Did you manage to see anything of interest while you were waiting?”
Portia shook her head, still keeping her face averted. “Nothing out of the ordinary. The drawbridge was down and there were detachments of troops coming and going. It all looked very busy, as usual.”
Rufus knew with absolute clarity that she was not telling him the truth. He had been perplexed when Will had told him of Portia’s unexplained absence so close to Castle Granville. He had thought to press her a little for an explanation, but immediately his puzzlement gave way to unease. Something was not true in her responses. And he was not interested in confronting the issue with finesse. “You’re lying,” he stated baldly.
The pink flooded her cheeks. “I don’t know why you would say that.”
“Do not lie to me, Portia.” His voice was clipped, dismay yielding to the anger lurking just below the surface calm. “What did you do when you left Paul?”
Portia looked directly at him then. She saw how his fists were clenched, how lightning forked in his eyes. She had the sense that the man who had loved her with such passion only a short time ago was about to be taken over by his demons again, and fear quivered along her spine. She couldn’t bear it again.
She swallowed hard, then said with all the courage she could muster, “I wanted to leave a message for Olivia. I’d promised to let her know that I was safe, but I haven’t had the chance before.”
“You are in contact with Granville?” His voice was now very quiet, but his expression was as terrible as ever.
“With Olivia,” she said, hearing the desperation in her voice. “Only Olivia. She’s my friend, Rufus. She worried about me. I promised to leave her a note. I went to do that, but she and Phoebe came by chance while I was there and we talked. That’s all.”
“Phoebe?”
“Cato’s sister-in-law. She’s my friend too.” Portia lifted her chin, finding renewed courage and strength in her own words. No one, not even Rufus Decatur, was going to dictate to her whom she could have as friends.
“Granville women,” he said flatly.
“Oh, devil take it, Rufus,” Portia exploded. “Olivia doesn’t give a damn about this feud you have with her father, and neither does Phoebe. I spent five minutes with them, and we didn’t talk of it once! That may surprise you, but-”
“Be quiet and come here!” he interrupted, moving suddenly away from the mantelpiece, his eyes glittering. He jerked a hand imperatively.
Portia instead moved back. “I’d rather step between a rutting boar and a sow in heat,” she stated, putting the table between herself and Rufus.
“Come here!”
Portia shook her head and when he came toward her, his step measured, his eyes filled with purpose, she reached behind her, her fingers closing over the handle of the copper pitcher of ale. “Don’t touch me, Rufus!”
He didn’t seem to hear her. He came on, shoving the table aside with alarming ease. Portia hurled the contents of the pitcher. Ale flew in a foaming jet and fell in a cascade over his head, pouring down his shoulders. It worked, stopping him in his tracks.
His expression was so incredulous, he looked so utterly dumbfounded with ale trickling into his boots, that Portia had a hysterical urge to laugh.
And then he lunged for her with something remarkably like a roar. Portia leaped to one side, realizing too late that she’d jumped away from the door, her only possible escape route. There was nowhere to go in the cottage. She ran for the stairs, but he’d darted sideways, reaching them the same instant she did. One arm flew out, blocking her passage upward. Instinctively she ducked beneath the arm and leaped for the first step, knowing that it was futile. There was no safety above.
Fingers closed around her ankle. A determined jerk had her tumbling backward, to be caught against him, his body iron hard and distinctly damp at her back. The reek of ale was overpowering.
“Damn you, Rufus! What are you going to do? Don’t you dare touch me.” She fought desperately but his grip merely tightened, lifting her off her feet so that she was struggling and kicking like a fly caught in a web, her death throes watched by an interested and hungry spider.
Then he was carrying her upstairs, still struggling. He dropped her face down on the bed and as she wriggled to the edge, he placed a knee in the small of her back pinning her like a butterfly in a display case. “Let me go, you great bully!”
Instead, he swung himself onto the bed and straddled her, sitting firmly on her bottom. Catching her wrists, he clipped them in the small of her back and held them there with one hand. She heaved against him, kicking her legs, even though she knew she was as helpless as a baby.
Rufus waited patiently, until she’d exhausted herself against his strength, then he shifted his position and rolled her over onto her back, still straddling her hips.