Preface to the Brides Trilogy 17 страница

“You won’t have to do it. I’ll do it.”

Rufus got off his knees. “It’ll keep you occupied, I suppose.”

Portia hauled herself up against the pillows. “Occupied? What do you mean?”

Rufus reached for his clothes on the chest at the foot of the bed. “I’ve been racking my brains trying to think what I’m going to do with you,” he said, throwing off the robe.

“Do with me?” Portia felt a faint stir of indignation at his tone. The languorous glow of after-love was disappearing rather rapidly.

Rufus pulled on his drawers and britches. He turned back to the bed. “This is a military camp, lass. There are no women, no friends or confidants for you. Everyone has their own duties… including me.” He was putting on his shirt as he talked. “I cannot be forever entertaining you or-”

“I don’t need entertaining!” Portia exclaimed. “You talk as if I’m some flighty flibberty-gibbet who’s going to be a burden to you.”

“No… no, I don’t mean that!” Rufus said, tucking his shirt into the waistband of his britches. “But the fact is, this is no place or situation for a woman. And I don’t know what to do with you… how you’re going to occupy yourself.”

“Oh, I expect I’ll sew on your buttons and clean your house and cook your meals,” Portia said dangerously. “That should keep me out of your way.”

“Josiah wouldn’t care for that,” Rufus said seriously. “He’d feel usurped.”

Portia gazed at him in disbelief. He had actually thought she was in earnest! “If this is such a problem for you, then I can’t think why you asked me to stay,” she said.

Annoyance and impatience flashed across his eyes. Then he seemed to make an effort to banish them. He came over to the bed. He bent over her. His mouth hovered, tantalizing, his eyes now teased. “Actually, I know exactly what I’m going to do with you. I’m going to keep you in my bed. The prospect of your lying here with nothing to do but wait for me to come to you is utterly delicious.”

For a moment Portia couldn’t resist the sensual promise in his voice. She responded with a low chuckle. “Pleasant dreams, my lord.” She brought up her knee, pressing it with pointed emphasis against his groin.

Rufus’s eyes darkened. His hands lightly clasped her throat, but before he could bring his mouth to hers, Portia wriggled sideways. “To be serious…”

“Oh, I am being,” he said. “Keep still.”

“No!” Portia pulled at his hands. “This is important, Rufus.”

He released her and straightened, his expression now dark with annoyance. “I haven’t time to argue over such a pointless issue. I have a host of things to do this morning.” He sat on the chest to pull on his boots.

“Pointless? It’s not pointless!” Portia couldn’t understand how he didn’t see this.

“There’s a war on, Portia,” he stated as if talking to a particularly stupid child. “I have an expedition to mount. In the light of those things, it is pointless.”

“You’re going after the treasure?”

“Of course.” He buckled his swordbelt and when he turned back to her it was clear his mind was elsewhere… once more in that dark place where Portia didn’t want to follow.

“And with any luck,” he said, almost to himself, “Cato Granville and I will meet up in his thwarted ambush.” He smiled the cold, mirthless, grim smile that Portia hated. “A neat piece of table-turning to have Cato’s head spitted on my sword, don’t you think?”

“You know what I think,” she said, biting her lip.

Rufus looked at her for a moment, with that same intimidating expression, and she returned his gaze steadily. A series of crashes sounded against the front door as Juno, frantic to be let in, hurled her small body against the oak.

“Damn dog,” Rufus said, his expression clearing. “I’ll send someone with breakfast for you. Do you want me to carry you downstairs?”

“Yes, please,” she said, hearing how dispirited she sounded. She swung her legs over the end of the bed and scrutinized her ankle. It was still swollen and it still throbbed.

Rufus handed her his robe. “Don’t let’s quarrel, gosling,” he said with clear effort. “It’s not necessary. We’ll find something for you to do.”

“I want to be a soldier,” Portia stated, pushing her arms into the robe. “I’ve always wanted to be. If you’re going to fight this war, then I’ll fight it with you.”

To her fury, Rufus burst out laughing, all his tension vanished under the supreme humor of such an idea. “There’s no place for a lass on a battlefield!” he exclaimed.

“I didn’t do too badly with Colonel Neath,” she said crossly, pulling the robe tight around her.

“No, a very creditable imitation of David and Goliath.” Rufus was still chuckling. “I don’t deny you’re very handy with a knife. But women do not make good warriors, lass.”

“Some have,” Portia said tightly. “Joan of Arc, for instance. Boadicea, for instance. The Amazons.”

“Enough!” He threw up his hands in mock despair. “You’ve windmills in your head, lass.”

Portia said no more and Rufus took her silence as agreement to let the ridiculous subject drop. He lifted her and carried her downstairs, set her on a stool at the table, kissed her, ruffled her hair with careless affection, and left, letting Juno in on his way out.

The puppy bounded ecstatically to Portia, jumping up at her lap. Portia stroked her head absently, then, grasping the side of the table, stood up gingerly, wondering if she could make it through the fresh snow to the privy. She probably should have used the chamber pot upstairs, but she didn’t like the idea of not being able to empty it herself.

She hopped to the scullery and found a pair of wooden clogs and a stout blackthorn stick by the back door. She stuck her good foot into one of the wooden clogs and with the aid of the stick hobbled out into the backyard. The blizzard had dumped close to a foot of snow, it seemed. The sun on the snow was dazzling and the air could cut glass. Someone in the last hour had shoveled the path to the privy. Someone delegated to take care of the master’s comfort, she thought. There were definite advantages to rank.

The smell of bacon greeted her when she returned to the kitchen, blowing on her bare hands to warm them, shaking snow off the hem of the robe.

“I’ve brought your breakfast.” Will turned from the table where he was setting out dishes. He blushed a little as he took in her dishabille. Rufus’s robe swamped her, but there was still something sensuous and intimate about it.

Juno bounced around Portia’s legs in greeting, as if she hadn’t seen her in months, and Will with visible relief turned his gaze upon the puppy. “The devil! What an ugly thing! Where’d it come from?”

“She came with me. She’s called Juno.” Portia hopped to the table and sat down with a hungry sniff. “Can you keep me company for a few minutes, Will? There are some questions I want to ask you.”

“Can’t Rufus answer them?” Will looked rather as if he’d wandered into a witches’ coven.

Portia took a sip of ale and broke a chunk off the loaf of bread. “What do you have to do to be a soldier in the Decatur militia?”

This was a comfortable subject and Will looked immediately more at ease.

“First, you must be able to draw a longbow of ash and hit a target at twenty-five yards.” He counted off on his fingers. “Then you must be able to handle a cavalry sword. Third, you must be able to fire and reload a musket within two minutes… and hit a target at twenty paces. Fourth, you must be able to handle a pike.”

It was an impressive, not to say intimidating, list of requirements. Portia speared bacon on her fork. “Would it matter if one used a lighter sword than a cavalry sword, and a willow bow instead of ash? As long as one used them properly?”

Will considered this. “I don’t see why it should,” he said after a minute. “As long as your comrades can depend upon you, then…” He paused, looking at her curiously. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I intend to join your militia,” she said simply. “And I want you to teach me what I need to know.”

Will’s jaw dropped. “I can’t-”

“You can if you’re willing,” Portia interrupted. “I’m a good fencer already. I’m an expert with a knife. And I’m quite a reasonable archer. Of course, I’ve never used weapons in a battle… except of course for the knife… but I’m ready to do so.”

“Does Rufus know?” Will still looked incredulous.

“Well, he does and he doesn’t,” Portia said judiciously. “It would be a secret though. I want to surprise him.” She regarded Will shrewdly. “I saved your life once. You could say that I’m calling in the favor.”

Before Will could respond, excited squeals preceded an energetic thumping on the door. “It’s the boys,” Will said distractedly. “They were following me.” He rose from the table and went to open the door. Two small bundled figures tumbled in, caught off balance as they’d been jumping to reach the latch.

“Papa’s comin‘,” Luke shrieked, righting himself.

“He wants to talk to Will,” Toby explained with rather more solemnity. “You’ve hurt your foot,” he stated, pointing to Portia.

“How d’you do it?” Luke inquired, scuttling on his knees to where Portia still sat at the table. He peered intently at her bandaged ankle.

“I tripped in a rabbit hole,” she informed him placidly. Neither child seemed inclined to question her presence in their father’s house.

“Oh, what’s that?” Toby caught sight of Juno, who had retreated behind the log basket and was regarding these strange beings with a somewhat nervous air. “It’s a puppy!” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet and rushing forward. “Look, Luke, it’s a puppy!”

Juno growled, her hackles up, and backed up until she was almost in the fire as both boys reached for her with their eager dimpled hands, their voices shrill with excitement.

“Don’t scare her,” Portia said. “She’s very little and you seem very big to her.”

The boys nodded and dropped their voices to whispers as they waggled their hands, trying to coax Juno out from sanctuary. “Why won’t she come?” demanded Luke.

“Because you’ve frightened her,” Will said. “Come away from her and if you take no notice of her for a few minutes maybe she’ll feel brave enough to come out.”

The boys backed away on their knees and sat on their ankles a few feet from Juno, fixing her with intent bright blue stares.

“We come to c’llect our swords,” Toby said without taking his eyes off the puppy.

“They’re hanging on the hook next to Papa’s.” Luke pointed. Portia’s gaze flew to the hook where Rufus kept his swordbelt and for the first time saw the two little wooden swords sheathed in felt hanging beside their father’s great curved weapon. She grinned, it was such an absurd sight.

“God’s grace! You are a pair of Lucifer’s imps! You have wings on your feet!” Rufus appeared in the still-open doorway. His face was ruddy with cold and he clapped his gloved hands together vigorously. He gave Portia a quick smile but he was clearly distracted.

“Ah, Will, I’m glad you’re here. Granville is sending his treasure out on Friday. They’re going by the Durham road.” He bent to the fire, rubbing his hands together.

“And we’re going to stop them,” Will stated with a grin.

“Some of us are.” Rufus straightened, his voice crisp. “I’ll be leading the expedition. You'll stay here as commander, with George as your second.”

Will couldn’t hide his disappointment but he didn’t attempt to argue. Orders were orders.

“How convenient,” Portia murmured so that only Will heard. He cast her a quick glance and she winked at him. He blushed and turned back to Rufus, who was continuing to speak, issuing rapid-fire orders as he paced the kitchen.

“Right, put that in motion, Will, and order a general muster in fifteen minutes,” he finished. “Oh, and take the boys with you.”

“We want our swords!” Toby announced, jumping up at the hook.

“Here.” Rufus took them down. “Now go with Will.”

The three of them left and Rufus turned back to Portia. He came over to her, catching her chin on the palm of his hand. “The day seems to have gone off course,” he murmured. “Forgive me if I seemed too abrupt, gosling. It’s a failing of mine, I know.”

“Oh, I quite understand,” she responded with a demure smile. “You’re such a busy commander. So many lives depend upon you… why, even a king’s throne and-”

The sweet little diatribe was silenced by his mouth. And this time Portia yielded to the wave of pleasure, her lips parting, her tongue flickering against his mouth, dipping into the corners in insistent little darts like a butterfly on buddleia. She had her plan and she was going to demolish Rufus Decatur’s prissy ideas about what a woman could and could not do in his world. Until she was ready to spring her surprise, she could afford to pretend submission.

Rufus held her chin on the palm of his hand as he kissed her, moving his mouth from hers to touch the tip of her nose, her eyelids, the high, angular cheekbones, painting her features with the tip of his tongue and the pliant brush of his lips.

A trumpet blast calling for the general muster brought him reluctantly upright. “Let me put you back to bed, gosling. You still look exhausted.”

Portia offered no objection and within minutes she was back in bed, Juno, after another visit outside, curled breathily into the small of her back.

“There now,” Rufus said, with a mischievous twinkle. “All tucked up and waiting for me. Just as I like.” The clatter of his booted feet on the stairs had faded before Portia could come up with a suitably tart response.

The sensation that awoke her was so delicate, so tantalizing, that for a moment she thought she dreamed it. Then she became aware of the air on her skin. Her robe was opened, the sides spread wide, baring her body. And something was moving over her skin, something exquisitely insubstantial, arousing little flickers of dreamy pleasure in its wake.

Her eyes opened and met the intent gaze of Rufus Decatur. He was naked, propped on one elbow beside her, and he was smiling with pure mischievous delight. “Don’t speak,” he said softly, and as if to enforce the command, he touched her lips with the soft plume of a quill pen.

Then she understood what had been causing that strange and wonderful sensation. She lay still, gazing up at him in wonderment and surprise. The quill pen whispered on her ear, tracing the shell-like curve, dipping inside so that she squirmed with a sensation so exquisite that it was almost painful and she would have spoken if he hadn’t placed a finger on her lips. The plume painted the curve of her cheekbones and then the line of her collarbone.

Portia quivered, a curious tightness building in her belly. Her nipples cried out for the brushing caress even before it came. Before he traced the small mound of her breast and then delicately… oh, so delicately… flicked at the nipple until it tightened and the spiral of tension coiled ever tighter in her belly. The fluttering touch moved over her stomach, flicked into her navel, and then gently he parted her thighs, spreading them wide on the bed.

The air, cool and yet not cold, laved her heated center, making her feel truly opened, exquisitely vulnerable, and yet not afraid, only filled with a deep and inarticulate longing. The plume whispered over her inner thighs, so that her opened body throbbed, and then the sensation changed. The tip, sharper than the feathers and yet surprisingly soft, pricked her skin as he drew it up her thigh in a long steady line, drawing ever closer to her center. His gaze held hers. She was drowning in the bright blue pools that were so intent and yet so filled with that mischievous delight. She wanted to speak, to urge, to cry out with the anticipation that filled her so completely her mind no longer held sway over her body. Her loins throbbed, were filled with an unendurable longing-and yet she must endure.

With her eyes she begged for release and yet in this sensate world of utter confusion she begged too that this would never stop. He opened her center, the moist and swollen lips that guarded the secrets of pleasure. His touch was so delicate and yet it rendered her utterly exposed, utterly at the mercy of the pleasure only he could bring her. For an eternity, nothing happened. She lay untouched, suspended on the very outermost brink of bliss, and then he wielded the dainty instrument of delight. Her body jumped as the current of unimaginable joy jolted her again and again. She was lost to the world. Mindless. Aware of nothing but the great crimson waves of bliss breaking over her.

And before she came to shore, Rufus smiled and took her mouth with his as he gathered her against him. He slid into her tender opened body, his own flesh now a pulsing throb of need. Her eyes were wide open as she gazed up at him, still caught in the rolling peaks of a climax that had changed shape, had begun to sharpen, to build anew. Rufus knelt up between her thighs and drew her legs onto his shoulders. He drove deep into her, to the very edge of her womb, and he held himself there, sliding his hands down her thighs to cup her raised buttocks. She arched her back with a little sob, trying to draw him even further within her as her inner muscles tightened around him. With a wicked little smile, he withdrew slowly inch by inch until the very tip of his flesh stroked the nerve-stretched entrance to her body. Then, with one swift movement, he sheathed himself within her again.

Portia cried out, again and again. It was unbearable, it was astounding, it was unimaginable. Her fingernails raked his back and she clung desperately to him, clasping him tight in her arms, clinging to him as if he were driftwood in a raging sea.

But at last her hands fell limply from his back. “Sweet Jesus, what was that?” She could barely speak, her mouth pressed into his shoulder, tasting the salt sweat of his skin.

Rufus rolled sideways and lay still, his chest heaving, his belly glistening with sweat. One heavy hand moved blindly to cover her pubic mound, the fingers tangling in the damp curls, possessing her.

“La petite mort,” he murmured. “For those lucky enough to experience it.”

“The little death.” Portia turned her head sideways to look at him, the wonderment still lingering in her eyes. “I could become accustomed to such a dying.”

He chuckled weakly. “It doesn’t always happen, lass. There are always disappointments in the business of loving.”

Portia stroked his nipples with the tip of her forefinger. “Is that a warning?”

He captured her hand with his free one and kissed her palm. “Don’t expect the heavens to fall in every time, love.”

“All right then, I won’t.” She grinned at him. “Even something a little less cataclysmic would be worth having.”

Rufus laughed and reached over to close the sides of her robe. “You’ll get chilled.”

“It’s quite warm in here.”

“It’s a furnace!” he corrected with some vehemence. “Before I dared expose that fragile little body to the air, I built the fire up until it was close to setting the chimney afire.”

Portia sat up. “So you’d planned this?”

“Not really.” He swung to the floor. “It came to me in a flash of inspiration.” He stood, hands on his hips, looking down at her on the bed. “We had some unfinished business, if you recall.”

“Oh, yes,” she said lazily. “I recall.” Her gaze sharpened. “When are you leaving?”

“In the morning. We have to prepare our own reception for Granville’s men, and the disposition of the treasure. It can’t lie around the countryside.”

“No,” she agreed, managing to sound a little forlorn. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

“It’s hard to say. But at least a week.”

“I see,” she said with a mournful droop to her mouth.

“Who wanted to be a warrior?” he teased, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead with a finger.

Portia lowered her lids to hide the flash in her eyes.

“I’m resigned to being a left-at-home-to-worry woman,” she murmured.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Rufus said seriously. “I promise you, lass, that I will return unscathed from this little expedition.”

And how many wouldn’t?

She had betrayed Cato and his men to Decatur vengeance. Or had she simply protected Rufus from Granville vengeance? Maybe it all came to the same thing.

Chapter 17

Will was as embarrassed on the third day of lessons as he’d been on the first. He stood on the riverbank, watching critically as Portia drew back the slender willow bow, taking aim at the target set into the thick trunk of a leafless oak.

It was the britches, he thought. That was what made her seem so outlandish, so unlike any woman he’d ever met. But then he thought it wasn’t just that. Although that was a part of it. It was all part and parcel of her strangeness. And Will was a conventional soul, truly comfortable only with the routines and the people he knew. He liked the excitements of his outlaw life, certainly, but they were what he was used to. He knew what to expect, and what to expect of his comrades. And this Mistress Worth was as unexpected and as curious as if she’d descended from the moon.

At first Will hadn’t known whether Portia was serious or not about joining Rufus’s militia, but after its commander and his men had left Decatur, she’d made it crystal clear that she was in deadly earnest. And Will had found her impossible to resist. He still didn’t know why. Oh, it was one thing for her to remind him that she’d saved his life, to say she was calling in the favor, but he still could have refused on the grounds that his commander hadn’t authorized it and he couldn’t act without orders. But for some reason he hadn’t been able to say that.

He’d consulted George, who was Rufus’s oldest friend, the man who, on the death of Rufus’s uncles, had taken on the role of elder statesman among the outlaw clan. And George, instead of saying Portia’s idea was ridiculous, had merely twinkled at Will in his placid fashion and said, “Why not? Can’t do any ‘arm to gi’ the lass a few lessons. It’ll be between ‘er an’ the master in the end, anyway.” And he’d offered to teach Portia the more savage arts of pike and musket, leaving Will with the delicacies of archery and swordsmanship.

George seemed to have no difficulties with his task, but then the older man was not disturbed by his new pupil, unlike Will, who, in Portia’s presence, became tongue-tied, argumentative, although he didn’t want to be, and stumble-footed.

Will forced himself to concentrate on the task in hand. Having once agreed to take it on, pride would not let him fail. It wasn’t going to be his fault if Portia didn’t succeed in making the grade.

As he watched her closely now, she was testing her healing ankle gingerly before loosing the arrow, and he knew from three days of this all the telltale signs of nervousness that preceded the moment of firing. The set of her shoulders, the little adjustments of her feet. He waited for her to look up into the sky as she always did the instant before loosing the arrow.

And as always he was aware of reluctant admiration at her determination. If determination alone would get her through, she would succeed. The willow was strong, much stronger than any bow she would have used in sport archery, and it was an effort for her to bend it, but she managed it now with the appearance of ease.

An excited shout came from the lane leading to the river just as she released the string. The arrow flew mortifyingly wide of the mark, to land on the river, skidding across the ice.

“We’ll get it… we’ll get it!” Toby and Luke, still shrieking, materialized from the lane. “We saw you… we saw you,” they chanted, as they raced past and skidded across the ice to retrieve the arrow. There was a brief rough-and-tumble as they fought for possession, then Toby, triumphant, slid on his bottom back to the bank, waving his prize above his head. Luke, wailing, remained in the middle of the ice.

Will went to fetch him, carrying him back to shore. “You can’t be here while we’re practicing,” he said.

“We’ll stand behind,” Toby protested. “Way way behind. All the way over here.” He bounced back a few yards in demonstration.

“That’s not good enough,” Will said firmly.

“Apart from anything else, you ruined my shot,” Portia declared, taking another arrow from her quiver. “If you do that again, I could easily misfire and hit you. And then where would you be?”

“Dead?” questioned Toby thoughtfully.

“Hurt, anyway,” Portia said. “Go back to the village, and when Will and I have finished, I’ll come and fetch you and we’ll take Juno for a walk.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

They went reluctantly, looking over their shoulders as they did so.

“I think,” Will began diffidently, “that you’re not standing quite right. You need to open your legs more.” A deep flush spread up from his neck.

“Like this?” Portia braced herself, feet wide apart, as she fitted the arrow to the bow.

“Yes, but your shoulders…” Will adjusted her shoulders, his face aflame, silently wishing his cousin to the devil. He stepped back. “Now try.”

The arrow this time hit the target respectably close to the center. Will retrieved it. “That was good.”

“Not good enough,” Portia stated flatly. “I’m damned if I’ll leave this bank today before I get a bull’s-eye, Will.” She took the arrow back and fitted it to her bow. “Tell me what else I’m doing wrong. You must know.”

“I think it’s the way your fingers are controlling the arrow,” he said diffidently. “You’re holding it too tightly.” Standing behind her he reached around to demonstrate. His arms brushed her breasts and he jumped back as if he’d been burned.

Portia turned to him. “Look, Will, can’t you forget that I’m female?”

“Not very easily,” he said. “And particularly when you’re Rufus’s bedmate.”

“Oh.” She scratched her head in thought. “Can’t you think of me like one of the other women who come into the village?”

Will merely stared at her as if she’d lost her wits. She sighed. “I suppose not. Well, let’s look at it this way. As far as I’m concerned, you’re Rufus’s cousin and therefore almost like a brother to me. Can’t you see me like a sister?”

“I suppose I could try,” Will said a touch glumly. “But it’s not easy. I’ve never had a sister… and I don’t think even if I had she would be anything like you.”

Portia gave up. Will would get used to her in the end.

Her lessons with George were altogether easier. The old soldier saw only his task, and once he’d decided for himself that his pupil was absolutely serious, he went about teaching her with the prosaic efficiency he employed with any new recruit. It took Portia a while to get used to lunging at a sack of straw with a pike, imagining that the wickedly sharp point was ripping through human flesh and sinew. She wasn’t bloodthirsty by nature, and George’s lessons in anatomy, while pointing out the most efficacious points of contact, were remarkably graphic.

However, she told herself that this was only an exercise. She had to prove to Rufus and his men that she could do it. That she could be depended on in any situation. It didn’t have to mean that she would find herself actually trying to skewer someone’s guts.

The musket was better. There was some distance involved in firing a bullet, although she was under no illusions as to the damage it would cause. Her long, thin fingers were deft and quick, and she had little difficulty mastering the art of reloading in the time allotted. The weapon was heavy on her shoulder, though, and the recoil jolted her arm badly. Within a few hours she’d acquired a massive bruise, and it took all her powers of endurance to continue practicing without letting George see how painful it was.

The rapier work was the best. Jack had taught her to fence when she was twelve. It was a sport at which he had excelled until brandy had ruined his eye and the tremors prevented him holding anything heavier than a brandy flagon. Will was much more relaxed when they were fencing in Tod’s barn. Portia’s skill left him little to teach her, and quickly their bouts became enjoyable for both of them.

As the days passed with no news, Portia quelled her anxiety. She told herself that the longer Rufus was away, the better.

She wanted to be absolutely proficient when he returned. She wanted George and Will to be able to say without a qualm that she was skilled enough to stand beside them in the line of battle. Her lessons drew observers. They were amused, skeptical, at first. But then there were subtle changes in their attitude. Their comments became encouraging rather than slightly mocking, and soon they were offering their own advice. Portia began to feel with each day that she was somehow-all on her own without Rufus-forging a place for herself among these men.

Not once did she feel threatened by her position as a lone woman among an infamous band of savage brigands. Experience had taught her to expect the worst of men, particularly in groups, and at first she assumed their restraint was because she was the master’s woman and no one would dare to muscle in on their commander’s territory. But that wouldn’t preclude lascivious looks, insulting sexual innuendos, asides, and degrading jokes. But there were none of those either. It was a pleasant surprise, one that put a few dents in her preconceived notions of the male sex in general.

Дата добавления: 2015-09-30