The Hostage Bride (23 page)

Rufus shook his head. “Nay, man, keep it, if you’ll give me your parole. That was well fought.”

“Colonel Neath of Lord Leven’s Third Battalion gives his parole and that of his company,” the man intoned formally,
but with a slight question in his tone as he examined his captor for identification of rank if not company.

“Decatur, Lord Rothbury, at your service, sir.” Rufus bowed from his saddle, a slightly malicious glint in the blue eyes.

“Rothbury, eh?” Neath looked surprised as he sheathed his sword. “Your name is well known across the border, my lord.”

“And reviled, I daresay,” Rufus said with the same glint.

“Y’are known as a moss-trooper, an outlaw, certainly,” the colonel said in his soft drawl. “But ’tis said most of your unlawful activities have to do with the marquis of Granville and his property. There are those who say you have good reason to prey upon him.”

Rufus’s smile was ironic. “I’m grateful for the popular understanding, Colonel. But, in my present guise, I fly the standard for Prince Rupert on behalf of his most sovereign majesty, King Charles. We’ll be escorting you and your men to Newcastle, once we’ve tended to the wounded.”

“You’ll give me permission to talk with my men?”

“I have no objection.” Rufus gestured to where his own men were disarming the colonel’s, and Neath with a formal salute turned and rode over to them.

Rufus looked up to where Portia still lay on her belly overlooking the battlefield. She met his gaze with an air both rueful and puzzled. Slowly he sheathed his own sword, then rode over and drew rein immediately beneath her.

“So where did you spring from, gosling?” he inquired pleasantly, his gloved hands resting on the pommel of his saddle.

Portia sat up on the rock, letting her legs dangle over the side of the cliff. “I was with you all along,” she said. “Right from the stable yard.”

“I see.” He nodded. “And why didn’t you make good your escape?”

“I couldn’t until the engagement began, and then I wanted to see what happened.”

He nodded again. “That seems reasonable. What doesn’t seem reasonable is why you would then announce your presence in such dramatic fashion.”

“I’d have thought you’d be grateful.”

“Oh, believe me, gosling, I am. And I’m sure Will is even more so. But … uh … forgive my confusion.” A bushy red eyebrow lifted. “Just why would you weigh in on
my
side?”

“I really don’t know,” Portia said in a tone of such disgust and bewilderment that Rufus couldn’t help a crack of laughter.

He held up a hand. “Come down now … easily so you don’t startle Ajax.”

Portia took the hand and slid down from the rock until she was sitting on the saddle facing him. He was very close and she could smell the earthiness of his skin, the tang of sweat, the leather of his buff coat. She could see the tracery of laugh lines around his eyes and in the corners of his mouth, and the pale frown furrows on his forehead against the weathered complexion.

“I presume you have a horse somewhere?” Strong white teeth flashed from within the red-gold beard.

“I borrowed Penny.”

“Borrowed?” His eyes lifted again. “You truly intended only to borrow her?”

“No,” she stated flatly. “I intended to steal her. And why I didn’t is as much a puzzle to me as it is to you.”

Rufus appeared to consider. Then he said, “Well, I’m glad you didn’t, since theft is not something we tolerate, as I attempted to make clear last night in the matter of Bertram’s sledge. Where is the mare?”

“In the defile. And, Lord Rothbury, I think a lecture on the moral principles of a band of outlaws is out of place,” Portia retorted in an effort to take her mind off its overwhelming awareness of his body, so large and powerful, and so very close.

Rufus made no response. He lifted her bodily from the saddle, clearly finding her weight no more than a kitten’s, and leaned down to deposit her on the ground. “Fetch Penny.” He turned Ajax and rode over to where both sides in the battle were assessing the wounded.

Portia fetched the mare and rode her out of the defile. She dismounted again and hurried over to Rufus, who was talking with Colonel Neath as amiably as if they hadn’t just fought a pitched battle.

“There’s a house of somewhat doubtful repute in Yetholm,” Rufus was saying. “But there’s nothing to complain of in the hospitality. We’ll stop there and tend to the wounded before continuing to Newcastle. That man of yours looks as if he’s broken his leg, but we can get a bonesetter in Yetholm for him. Ah, Will … what’s the damage?”

Will was staring at Portia. “What’s
she
doing here?”

“Making herself remarkably useful,” Rufus said dryly. “You owe her a debt of gratitude as it happens. Mistress Worth has an assassin’s way with a knife.”

Will’s stare grew wider, and Portia, unable to resist, opened her own eyes as wide as they could go in mimicry. Will’s expression snapped back into focus. “That was your knife?”

“Yes, and I’d like it back,” she said. “Did the man manage to take it out of his arm?”

“We thought it best to leave it in … until he can see a surgeon.” Will gave up the puzzle of Rufus’s hostage. There were too many practical issues to occupy his mind. “He might bleed to death if we pull it loose here.”

“Perhaps we can fashion a tourniquet. I’ll go and find him,” she said.

Will looked inquiringly at his cousin, who merely repeated his first question with visible patience, “How much damage, Will?”

“Oh … apart from the colonel’s man with a broken leg and the man with the knife in his arm, it’s not too bad. Ned’s lost a fingertip. He’s looking for it now. He’s convinced it can be sewn back on again.”

“Ned always did have strange notions,” Rufus said. “Let’s fashion a litter for the broken leg, put everyone else back on their horses, and we’ll head for Yetholm.”

Rufus went over to Portia, who was bending over the man who had taken her knife in the arm. “Are you skilled in battlefield surgery?”

“I had to patch Jack up on more than one occasion when he’d been in a brawl and we couldn’t afford a surgeon,” she returned. “Injuries worse than this, too.” She had used her own kerchief as a tourniquet when she’d pulled free the knife and was now fashioning a sling from a checkered napkin that
she’d liberated from Ajax’s saddlebags. “You’d finished your provisions, so I thought you wouldn’t mind lending this.”

“Not at all. Anything I have that can be of service,” he said amiably. “Did I detect a slight note of envy on the subject of food?”

“Yes, you did. No one thought to put up provisions for me too.”

“I daresay it was because the cooks didn’t realize you were coming with us,” Rufus observed. With a tiny chuckle, he strolled away.

T
hey didn’t reach Yetholm until after sunset. By then a
hard frost was forming and the horses were quivering and stamping, and the injured man in the litter could no longer control the moans that emerged from his violently chattering teeth.

Portia, riding in the rear of the column, felt colder than she’d ever been, although rational memory told her that wasn’t so. But hunger gnawed at her backbone and she could not stop shivering. So locked in misery was she that she didn’t at first notice when Ajax surged up out of the shadows. Rufus’s voice, sharp with concern, brought her head up with a start.

“Come here … take your feet out of the stirrups.” He leaned over and swung her out of the saddle and onto Ajax. He pulled off his own cloak and wrapped it around her, then drew her against him. The breastplate was hard at her back, but even so she could feel his body warmth. “Will, take Penny’s rein.”

Portia hadn’t noticed that Will had accompanied Rufus. The younger man took Penny’s rein immediately and followed Rufus as he returned to the head of the column.

“How did you know I was so cold?” Her teeth chattered unmercifully.

“An informed guess,” he responded wryly, conscious of how the bitter wind was cutting through his leather jerkin now that he no longer had the protection of his cloak.

The village of Yetholm straddled the cart track, and on its outskirts stood a two-storied thatched building. Light spilled
from its parchment-covered, unshuttered windows, and smoke curled thickly from two chimneys. Raucous laughter and shouts of a generally genial nature found their way out into the night through the cracks in door and window frames.

“Thank God!” Rufus muttered, nudging Ajax to quicken his pace at the sight of sanctuary.

“Aye, I doubt that poor fellow would survive much more of this,” Colonel Neath said, riding beside him. “’Tis the kind of cold that’s no’ fit for man nor beast.” He cast a curious glance at the tightly wrapped figure huddling close against Lord Rothbury’s chest. Soldiers didn’t ordinarily cuddle up to their commanders.

If Rufus noticed the look, he offered no explanation, observing merely, “It’s too cold to snow though … for which we might be thankful come morning.” He drew rein before the door that opened directly onto the track.

Will had jumped from his horse, but before he could reach the door it was flung open with a wide expansive gesture.

“Well, well, and who have we here on such a night?” a light voice called merrily. A woman held a lantern high above her head. “Eh, if it’s not Rufus. It’s been too long since you graced my door, Decatur.”

“I know it, Fanny. I’ve wounded here. Will you send for the bonesetter?” Rufus swung Portia to the ground and then dismounted behind her. He turned to Will, issuing rapid-fire instructions as to the disposition of their own men and their prisoners.

“He’s naught but a horse doctor, but I daresay he’s better than nothing,” Fanny observed, her shrewdly assessing eye taking in the large party with a degree of calculation. “You been scrappin’, Rufus, or on the king’s business?”

“The latter,” Rufus said. He gestured to Neath, who had dismounted and stood quietly by his horse. “May I present Colonel Neath. He and his men are prisoners en route to Newcastle, but we’re all in need of warmth, food, and wine.”

Colonel Neath bowed. “We’ll be grateful for any hospitality you can offer us, mistress, in the circumstances.”

Fanny nodded. “We don’t trouble ourselves too much with
politics in my house, sir. And it’s a slow night, this night. No one’s venturing far from home in this cold, so you’re all right welcome. Come you in. It’ll be a squeeze, but it’ll be all the cozier for that.”

“Get inside, Portia. Someone’ll see to Penny.” Rufus urged her toward the door and Portia scuttled in, guiltily aware that she was not going to object to someone doing her dirty work for her.

She found herself in one large room furnished with long tables and benches, two massive fires burning at either end. Women and a few men lounged at the tables among pitchers of ale and flagons of wine. A staircase led up to a gallery that ran the width of the main room. Lamps hung from the rafters and tallow candles burned on the tables. The air was thick with wood smoke and the acrid smell of tallow and oil overlaying spilled wine, stale beer, and roasting meat. But more than anything it was warm.

Portia threw off Rufus’s cloak and then the frieze one beneath; Her hair blazed orange in the lamplight.

“Lord above, ’tis a lass in britches!” Fanny exclaimed. “Is she prisoner or doxy, Rufus?”

“Neither,” Rufus replied, taking his cloak back. “Give her a cup of wine, Fanny, she’s half dead with cold.” He spun back to the door. “I’ll be back in a minute. Neath, let’s get that man of yours off the litter.”

The two men went back outside and Portia found herself the object of a calculating examination from Fanny and the other women in the hall.

“Well, get to the fire, lass. Y’are white as a ghost … never seen anything like it.” Fanny gave her a push. “Lucy, give her a cup of that burgundy. It’ll put color in her cheeks.”

“I doubt that,” Portia said. She took the wine with a grateful smile. She felt oddly at home and a wave of nostalgia hit her with the first sip of wine. She could almost hear Jack’s voice, rising with the drink, as he toyed with some deep-bosomed harlot and every now and again remembered to dilute his young daughter’s wine with water as she sat beside him, gazing at the scene with sleepy indifference. Portia had spent many a night in establishments like this one, huddled
before the fire or curled under a table while Jack amused himself. She’d been befriended by more than one of Mistress Fanny’s profession and had resisted a good few offers in the last couple of years to join their girls, who, compared to Portia’s condition, were more often than not enviably well dressed, well fed, and comfortable.

“Scrawny thing, aren’t you?” Fanny observed. “Y’are not kin to the Decaturs?”

“No.” Portia drank her wine. Her frozen toes and fingers were thawing, and she grimaced with the pain as the circulation returned to their numb tips.

Any further questions remained unasked as the door burst open and Rufus and Neath came in carrying the litter. Behind them men poured in, some supporting the walking wounded, others exclaiming in vivid language at the contrast between the freezing conditions without and the warmth within.

Portia was struck by the easiness they all seemed to feel with each other—a camaraderie that transcended political differences. They all came from the same sphere of society. Civil war had torn them all from the farms and workshops of ordinary life, and on the long ride they had battled the miseries of midwinter campaigning together. Tomorrow they would separate again into prisoners and captors, but for now they were just men grateful to find themselves out of the deadly cold. They took up wine and ale, eyes lighting up at the sight of the women who moved forward eagerly.

“Eh, Doug, ye’ve need of this to wet your whistle after all that playing!” One of Neath’s men thrust a foaming tankard into the piper’s ready hand. “’Twas a brave sound you made, man.”

“Aye,” the piper said complacently, once he’d downed his ale. “An’ there’s more where that came from when I’ve had a bite. I’m fair clemmed.”

“You’re not the only one,” Portia muttered.

“Girls, to the kitchen!” Fanny snapped her fingers. “They’ll be no good to you wi’out food in their bellies.”