Chapter 9
There were no reports of untoward movement across the barren landscape during the night. The approaches to the Decatur village offered no concealment from the ring of watchmen on the surrounding hilltops, and the moonlight had been exceptionally bright. As Rufus returned to the village the sun was coming up over the low-lying hills to the east, fingers of pink and orange reaching across the pale sky. It would be another brilliant winter day.
He turned into the mess, ducking his head beneath the low lintel. An elderly man looked up from the range where he was stirring cauldrons of porridge. “Mornin‘, master. After breakin’ yer fast, are ye?”
“Aye, Bill.” Rufus stripped off his gloves, surprised to find he was ravenous. “I’m the first, it seems.”
“Oh, the littl’uns were in a minute past.” The cook ladled porridge into an earthenware bowl and set it before the master. He brought a pitcher of cream and a bowl of thick, dark treacle.
“They’re up already?” Rufus poured cream and spooned treacle, stirring the contents of the porringer with hungry anticipation. “Did they eat?”
“Took some bread ‘n’ drippin‘ out wi’ ‘em,” Bill observed comfortably. “They was all excited about them puppies.”
“Oh, don’t tell me Tod’s bitch has whelped already?” Rufus sighed. “They’ve been agitating about having a pair of the puppies ever since Tod told them.”
“Reckon ye’ll ‘ave a fight on yer ’ands,” Bill said with a grin. “Fancy some sweetbreads?”
Rufus nodded through a mouthful of porridge, swallowed, and said, “Josiah’s gone to the cottage already?”
“Aye, about ‘alf an hour ago. Said he’d look in on the lass an’ see if she needs aught.” Bill glanced slyly at the master as he sliced sweetbreads into a skillet. A gently bred woman in the Decatur stronghold had never happened before, and speculation was rife among the lower echelons of the command, who were not in their commander’s confidence.
“Good” was all the response he got for his pains. Rufus continued calmly with his breakfast. Expecting his hostage to be a scared and innocent child, he had instructed Josiah, who ordinarily was relegated to helping with the mess and caring for Luke and Toby’s basic needs when their father was otherwise occupied, to take care of Olivia. Josiah was elderly, with a gentle and reassuring manner, and Rufus had reasoned that his young hostage would find him a less menacing male caretaker than anyone else in the military compound. Whether the hostage he had inadvertently acquired would need such consideration on his part was another matter.
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.
Portia’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.”