by Jason
She looked so distressed at that news that he wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. There were a number of dangerous weapons close to her hand, however, including a heavy statuette and a poker, so he desisted.
Then she raised her chin in the fighting gesture so typical of her. “We can send my mother a letter. I prefer to go to Overstead on the chance that Oliver is there.”
“We can send him a letter,” he countered.
She looked him in the eye. “I want to go to Overstead.”
Just as firmly, he said, “No.”
When she drew in breath to object, he said, “Remember those vows to obey? We are going north, wife. And,” he added, seeing rebellion flash in her eyes, “if you try to go alone, I will drag you back by the hair.”
She hissed with rage and tried to sweep past him, but he caught her arm and when she struggled he tightened his grip. “We will send a message to Dorset. There is absolutely no reason for you to go there.” He could feel dangerous anger licking at his control.
“Perhaps I just want to, and am used to doing as I want.”
“The name for that, madam wife, is spoiled.”
Her eyes flashed fire. “Then you, my lord, are spoiled beyond redemption!”
He dragged her into his arms. “Am I? Then perhaps I should take what I want. We’ve made love on the floor in front of a fire before, haven’t we?”
She fought for a moment then went rigid. “I suppose you think you have the right now, regardless of my wishes.”
It was like a shower of icy water and he took a steadying breath. He forced her chin up, but gently, so she had to look at him. “Why are we fighting, Portia? What do you want?”
He saw his own bewildered pain reflected in her eyes. “I want to go to Overstead.”
Pain was swamped by furious incomprehension. He’d never seen any sign in her before of this sort of mulishness. He knew Portia was not always sensible in her rage, and was reminded he didn’t know her very well.
She was high-spirited, rash, and brave. Was she also irrationally stubborn and demanding? He couldn’t take her to Overstead where she might learn that her brother had been kidnapped by the Mallorens.
He couldn’t let Oliver go until he’d decided what to do about the situation.
He made a conscious effort to relax and to soothe her. “Portia, your brother might be anywhere. It makes more sense to send a messenger to find him and for us to go north to see your mother. I also have business near Manchester with the Duke of Bridgewater.”
She was not noticeably soothed. “But Fort has promised to save the estate. As soon as my mother and sister have the happy news, they will return home. If we go north, we could cross them on the way. And I’m sure your business can wait.”
Damn. He wasn’t surprised to hear what Fort had done, but he’d wanted to be the knight in shining armor. And her reasoning made altogether too much sense. “I’m afraid my business cannot wait. But we can go to Overstead immediately on our return south.”
She pulled sharply against his hold and he had to hurt her or let her go. He let her go.
“I see you are determined,” she said icily, “and you now have the right to order me as you will. We should return to our guests, my lord. They might begin to think we are up to no good.”
She marched toward the door but waited for him to open it for her. He was tempted to keep her here and try to talk sense into her but, as she said, their absence might have been noted.
There would be time enough later. Time enough tonight, and during a long, leisurely journey to Lancashire to wear down her sense of ill-usage, teach her to trust, and make her completely his.
He opened the door, and as she swept through it to rejoin the reception he noted that she was wearing a serene smile. His courageous Amazon. There were times, however, when he’d rather she were a timid mouse.
He steered her toward some safe family members then passed by Rothgar. “Keep an eye on her, Bey. I’m not at all sure she won’t try to bolt.”
“If she has reason, I’m likely to abet her.”
“ ‘Struth, I don’t need you snarling at me, too.” He quickly explained about Barclay and the debt. “I have Oliver Upcott held in secure comfort at the Abbey and Barclay’s gone down there to make sure all is well. Portia is hell-bent on setting out for Dorset to find him. I can’t permit that until I decide what to do about him, and I do need to go north to inform Bridgewater of the new circumstances. The fact that the rest of her family are there makes a convenient excuse.”
“What do you intend to do with the brother?”
“If I knew, matters would be somewhat simpler.”
“Murder is so messy,” said Rothgar, “but few other methods cure an inveterate gamester.”
“Somehow I don’t think fratricide would enhance my marital bliss.”
“Nor would refusing to pay his debts next time he sinks deep.”
“Do you think I don’t know that? I need to woo Portia before we confront that problem. Hence the leisurely journey north.”
Rothgar looked over to where Portia stood conversing with a group of ladies. Despite the smile, she looked as stiff as an iron rod, and as cold. “I think your reputation as a mythic lover is about to be tested. Meanwhile, perhaps Brand should return to the Abbey. Having had the late Earl of Walgrave come to a messy end there not long ago, another death might raise questions.”
“You are fixed in town?” Bryght asked.
“For a little while.” Rothgar took a pinch of snuff. “I didn’t want to add to your concerns, but Fort has wind of your involvement with Bridgewater—I smell an unholy collusion with Nerissa Trelyn there—and is supporting Brooke in the opposition to the canal bill. With such weight behind them, it becomes interesting.”
“Christ! But he has no interest in the matter.”
“He has an interest in all things Malloren. I will handle it. Don’t worry.”
“I didn’t think you were much concerned about the canal.”
“I let no one act with spite against my family. Which reminds me, I really should have a word with Lady Trelyn.”
“You can’t harm her,” Bryght said with some alarm.
“I don’t suppose I can at the moment. But I can warn her.”
Bryght hoped Nerissa took the warning.
“This does mean,” said Rothgar, “that you have no pressing need to seek out Bridgewater. I’ll make sure he doesn’t founder in the next few weeks.”
“I still intend to go north. If Portia doesn’t come around, we’ll keep going up to the Highlands, perhaps even to the Arctic. It would suit the current state of our marriage.” Then he saw that the king and queen were finally preparing to take their leave and muttered, “Thank God.”
Bryght headed toward his icy bride. The sooner he had her out of here, the sooner he could start thawing her.
Despite everything, he felt a lightning of his spirit. The situation was not ideal, but he knew Portia and he were bound at the deepest levels, and he had her.
Possession, so they said, is eleven points in the law.
When he spoke her name and she turned, however, his optimism faded. She did not look hostile as much as despairing. In God’s name, what had happened to distress her so?
Should he insist on knowing about that letter?
He almost laughed aloud. If Portia did not want him to know, he suspected he’d need a fully-equipped torture chamber to squeeze the information out of her.
He led her to say farewell to the monarchs and stood by while the plain-faced queen kissed her cheek and wished her all joy and happiness in her marriage.
Bryght wondered wryly if such royal wishes had any mystical effect. After all, the king’s touch was supposed to heal the King’s Evil.
Then they were in the coach and he wanted very much to gather her into his arms. She looked so brittle, though, he feared she’d break.
He’d swear she was afraid, but of what? He couldn’t imagine that she w
as scared of the marriage bed, but if she was, didn’t she know he’d never force her?
He sought a neutral topic. “Your family will be staying with relatives in Manchester?”
She was looking down at her rings. “Yes. An uncle.”
“What kind of man is he?”
“A tradesman. A stocking-maker. Far below your touch.”
He wished she’d look at him. “You’d be surprised. Is he involved with the new manufactories?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’ve never been there?”
“I’ve visited.”
“Then you must know something of it,” Bryght said, fighting an alarming desire to shake her.
“No. I had no interest in such things.”
“Such manufactories are the way of the future.”
She faced him then, but with hostility. “The strength of England will always be in the land.”
At last he had a spirited reaction. “Or under the land.” At her look, he said, “Coal.”
“Nasty stuff!”
“But valuable,” he countered. “So, if you believe in the land, what do you know of it?”
He expected her to have to admit ignorance, but being Portia she surprised him.
“I am a believer in the intensive use of manure on the land, and the rotation of crops. At Overstead we have used many of the improvements recommended by Mr. Tull and by Viscount Townsend, with excellent results.”
“How excellent?”
“Our yield per acre has risen from twelve to eighteen bushels, and should continue to increase. Our breeding program increased our production of quality meat by twenty percent per carcass.”
He almost laughed. He did admire a woman who knew her subject. “It’s as well I have bought us an estate then,” he said.
She stared at him. “You’ve bought one?”
“Didn’t you think I had the money? It’s called Candleford Park. You can have a free hand in the managing of it. I know little of such things.” Talk of money had reminded him of something. He dug in his pocket, brought out a pouch of guineas, and tossed it in her lap. “Trelyn gave that to me as your mighty lord and master.”
She clutched it. “Thank you, but you are not my master.”
He decided he would not leave her untouched tonight. Unless she fought and screamed he was going to seduce her, break through this icy shell, and find Hippolyta.
When they arrived at Malloren House, the whole staff was out to congratulate them and to welcome Lady Bryght. Bryght wished them at the devil but went through the motions. Portia, he noticed, even managed to smile and he loved her for it.
Then he could take her to his study, a room he hoped she remembered well and fondly.
He eased off her cloak then drew her into his arms. “Lady Bryght suits you. You shine like a candlelit window in a winter storm.”
He felt her shiver, and prayed it was with desire. But when she looked up at him, he saw only bewildered pain. “Promise you will take me to Overstead,” she whispered.
Abruptly he let her go. “For God’s sake, Portia, is this some kind of test? Fetch me the horn of a unicorn? Tomorrow we go north,” he said firmly. “Later we will visit Overstead.”
Twenty-three
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Portia wanted to argue, but what was the point? She went to the fire to warm her hands, and to put distance between them. She wish the heat could penetrate deeper, into the icy core of fear and pain.
She kept fighting, fighting against her terrible suspicions, but he kept reinforcing them.
He knew that her mother and sister had gone to Manchester. How did he know that unless he had agents down in Dorset? She had realized soon after her request that no messenger could get to Dorset and back in time for the wedding.
Now he was being unreasonably stubborn in his refusal to go to Overstead.
She was sure Bryght was never unreasonable, and she feared she knew what his reasons were.
She thought briefly of telling him everything in the hope that there was an innocent explanation, but if the worst was true he was capable of anything. She certainly doubted that he would give her the chance to flee, to run off alone and find out the truth.
And that was what she was going to have to do. She didn’t know how she was going to escape, but she had to.
She didn’t hear him approach, so she started when he slid his hands over her exposed shoulders. “We can do better than this, Portia. Can we not at least try?”
Portia wanted nothing more, but had lost faith. She didn’t resist, however, when he freed her hair from its pins and spread it around her shoulders, turning her to face him. “Your hair is like flame, and could warm my soul. Can you not tell me what stands between us?”
His fingers traced the swell of her breasts. She watched those long clever fingers, remembering other pleasures and trying to hold back any response.
“I know you better,” he said, “than to think you mindlessly demanding . . .”
Portia made herself see his gentle words as a trick, a trap, designed to pry free her secrets.
He sighed and raised her chin. “Could you perhaps say something?”
At the blend of desire and anger in him, her heart began to race and her mouth went dry. She said the first neutral thing that occurred to her. “Where’s Zeno?”
He laughed, bitterly. “Surprisingly to the point! Enjoying his mate, or thinking of it constantly. Boudicca has come into heat.”
Portia knew she was red. “We humans have no need of heat.”
“Some warmth is pleasant, however.”
She flinched at the edge in his voice. “I’m sorry if you find me cold. But we are married. You do not need my consent.”
“Do I not?” After a dangerous moment, he asked, “Are you by any chance thinking to withhold your warmth until I do as you wish and take you to your home?”
The thought hadn’t occurred to her, but now she grasped it. “Yes!”
After a moment he let her go. He picked up her velvet cloak and the pouch of money. “Come.” He was leading the way into the bedroom.
Portia almost refused, but what good would it do? She would not respond, she vowed, no matter what pressure or skills he brought to bear. She would not.
But he led her through his bedroom, through a small dressing room, and into another bedchamber where a fire glowed in the hearth, and a warming pan protruded from the big bed.
Portia looked at him in total bewilderment.
“Your bedchamber,” he said. “As you see, the servants have followed the fiction that it will be used. Do you need help with your gown?”
“N—no.”
“Then I will say good night.”
“But . . .”
He turned in polite, distant query.
“But it’s only seven in the evening.”
“There are books. I have work to do.” After a moment he added, “Portia, I will not beg you or rape you, so I see no alternative.” With that, he went back through the door and closed it with a click.
Portia felt like a child sternly rebuked. But she was not a child, nor was she concerned with childish matters. She had to remember that.
There were, as he said, books—some poetry, some sermons, a book of travels, and Mr. Richardson’s Pamela. Had the story of the maid who trapped the lord into marriage been left here deliberately?
She was burningly aware of Bryght, not many doors away, available for pleasure if she would but submit. She grimly chose a book of sermons and sat to read.
Her eyes tracked the words but her mind wandered, seeking an innocent explanation for his refusing to take her to Dorset. She found none except an arrogant insistence on his way that was almost as bad as her suspicions.
She let the book droop onto her knees and stared into the flames as she reviewed her recent past and the disaster of it. She could not even see clearly a point at which she could have stopped the wheel of fortune and escaped. . ..
It was hours later that she stirred, thinking she might as well go to bed, and abruptly realized she was a total fool.
Here she had been given the ideal opportunity to escape and make her way to Overstead alone and she had wasted it.
She looked out of the window at the dark. There was no clock here, but it must be late. It was too late to venture anywhere. But this might be her only chance.
She took a deep breath. If it had to be done, she would do it. But how?
She wondered if she ought to go first to Dresden Street to check if Oliver was there, but if he had arrived in Town she couldn’t imagine him not coming to see her.
So, she needed transport to Dorset.
It was too late for a stage, and so she would have to wait for the morning. How was she to avoid capture until the morning, and then travel on the stage with the Mallorens on the hunt? Bryght would know exactly where she had gone.
Almost she gave up, but then she realized she had one possible course. Fort. It was he, after all, who had alerted her to the problem, and he had said he was going to Dorset in the morning to check on the matter.
He had also made it clear that he had forced her into this marriage out of deep hatred for the Mallorens.
She clasped her hands, going round and round the dreadful dilemma. She could not stay to be taken north and forced into lovemaking with Bryght. She could not hesitate in trying to discover what had happened to Oliver, and in rescuing him if he was still alive. But surely she could not run off on her wedding night with her husband’s worst enemy!
She was hesitating now out of simple terror, but she made herself go forward. She had no choice.
She had the pouch of guineas. Did she have any clothes? When she opened the chests and armoires she found that all her belongings were neatly disposed there. Of course they were. This was now one of her homes along with Rothgar Abbey and a place called Candleford Park.
Refusing to think of such things, Portia took off her wedding gown and hoops, and changed into a plain dark brown traveling dress and sturdy shoes. She put on her warm cloak and slipped the pouch of guineas into her pocket.