by Jason
“No! Where is Oliver?”
“Your wretched brother is perfectly safe. Put down the pistol.” He was muddy, disheveled, and very angry.
“Take me to him. I don’t trust—”
He kicked the pistol from her hand. It fired deafeningly even as he grabbed her by the gown and hauled her to him. “You don’t trust me? That’s obvious. You’d rather trust Fort Ware!”
Her hands were stinging but she was almost dizzy with fear. “I don’t trust anyone anymore!”
“Why? What did he do?” The rage in him was positively terrifying, reminding her brutally of their first meeting.
“Nothing,” she whispered. “He brought me here.”
“He didn’t touch you?”
She shook her head.
“Kiss you?”
Her guilt must have shown for the fury burned brighter.
“I asked him to!” she cried. “Don’t fight him!”
He threw her aside so she stumbled.
“I should have let him buy you,” he said coldly, anger banked, but still glowing. “Perhaps guilt would have changed his mind about marrying you. Or perhaps he’d have been entranced by your charms. Either way, you’d have preferred it, wouldn’t you?”
“Fort would never—”
“Fort would have raped you on the slim chance that I might care. I wonder why he didn’t.”
Portia turned away from his bitterness and covered her mouth with a trembling hand. “Because he thinks I’ll be a greater cross for you to bear as it is.”
“Surprisingly astute of him. You’ve caused me nothing but grief from the moment we met.” She heard him unlock the door and turned.
He opened it. “Come.”
“Where?”
“Do you have the right to ask?”
“Yes, but there’s probably no purpose to it.” Portia raised her chin and walked through into the corridor.
Bryght did not touch her in any way, but led her across to the part of this floor she had not yet checked. He unlocked a door. Inside was Oliver in his shirtsleeves, sitting despondently in front of the fire.
He looked up suspiciously, then a blend of confusion and anger crossed his face. “Portia? Malloren! Why in the name of heaven have you kept me prisoner here?” By then he was standing belligerently.
Portia saw with horror that he had a virulent black eye, and was limping. “Oliver!” She ran to him. “What have they done to you? But, oh, thank heavens. I was so afraid. .. .”
He caught her in his arms. “Afraid? Of what?” He pushed her away a little and looked into her eyes. “What have they done to you?”
“Nothing!” she said quickly, brushing his loose hair back from a swollen temple, then the absurdity of that statement struck her and control fell away. “Oh God!” And she started to cry.
She felt other hands upon her shoulders, and heard Bryght say, “If you don’t give her to me, I’m like to kill you.”
“Why the devil should I?” Oliver demanded, holding her tight.
Portia tried to choke out an explanation but tears swamped her voice.
“Because she’s my wife,” said Bryght.
Oliver’s grasp loosened, probably through shock. Portia was turned into Bryght’s arms. “Portia, stop,” he said, holding her tight. “You’ll break my heart, crying like this.”
She tried to control herself, gulping in deep breaths, but tears started again. She tried to speak, but nothing coherent came out. He rocked her and murmured comfort, and in a while it began to help.
“I’m sorry,” she choked and found her handkerchief.
He relaxed his hold. “You have reason enough for tears, petite, but we need to talk.”
Portia pulled herself out of his arms and blew her nose. “I don’t cry,” she said truculently.
“So I see.” His tone was dry but his expression was much milder than before.
“I don’t!” she protested. “Oliver, when did I last cry?” But then she remembered that time at Mirabelle’s which Oliver knew nothing about.
“She doesn’t,” Oliver said. “When I was in the nursery, my father would berate me for crying more than a girl.”
“I was four years older than you,” Portia said. “That wasn’t fair!”
“But girls cry at any age. Everyone knows that. Look at Pru. She gushes forth at the sight of a pretty sunset!”
“That’s because she knows she cries prettily. . . .”
Bryght cleared his throat and Portia suddenly recollected the disastrous state of her life. She looked at him warily, but though somber he did not seem to be in an ungovernable rage.
“Sir Oliver,” he said, “it was not precisely part of my orders that you be brought here and confined, but I did send men to find you and watch over you. I accept responsibility for their over-enthusiasm and apologize.”
“But why did you do such a thing?”
“I intended to marry your sister, but had no mind to cover even more of your debts.”
Oliver flushed. “I am done with gaming forever.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Bryght dryly. “Can we believe you?”
“I don’t see that you have much choice.”
“Don’t you?”
Portia stepped between them. “You will not harm him,” she stated fiercely. “I will not permit it.”
“I didn’t think you would.” She couldn’t read him at all.
“What reason do you have to distrust his word, when you have made the same promise to me and expected to be believed?”
“I have never been a besotted gamester.”
“You’re known the length of the country for it!”
“But not for losing.”
Portia could see his temper shortening, but would not back down. “Does that make it right?”
“It helps.”
“Not for the people you steal from.”
He hissed in a breath. “Portia—”
“My lord,” said Oliver stepping forward and pushing Portia behind him, “you will have to trust me.”
Bryght turned his cold eyes on him, and Portia could only be glad of it. She was brutally reminded that there was a reckoning still to come.
“In case I prove frail,” Oliver said with dignity, “other measures have been taken. I am to join the army. In fact, I had an appointment with the colonel of the 5th, which your men made me miss.”
“My apologies. But it is possible to game in the army, you know.”
“But he won’t,” said Portia quickly. “Oliver has always wanted the army. It is boredom that has led to gaming. I don’t want to see him in a war, but . . .”
“... but it is better,” completed Bryght. “Since I am apparently not permitted to wring his neck, I suppose it will have to do.”
“There is more,” said Oliver stiffly. “I would not have told you, my lord, were it not for the fact that you seem to be my brother-in-law. Which I still find peculiar. But, while Lord Walgrave has bought up the debt on Overstead, he is not returning the property to me just yet. It is a mortgage of sorts, but more stringent than most mortgages. My mother and sisters . . .” he cast a puzzled look at Portia, “... sister, will live at Overstead, but I cannot lose what I do not own. He has given me his word that he will not release the property to me to pay any kind of debt.”
“Neat. Walgrave has more wit that I took him for.” Bryght turned to Portia. “If you had told me this, you could have saved me and your brother a great deal of trouble.”
She raised her chin. “I didn’t know the details, but even if I had I would not have thought it any of your business!”
“I see. And it is none of my business, I suppose, why you were exchanging billets doux with Walgrave, and ran off with him?”
“Because you wouldn’t bring me!”
“Or what happened other than kisses during the journey.”
“Nothing happened! You’re going to have to trust me.”
“Why, when you never trust me? W
hy didn’t you tell me your real reasons for wanting to travel to Overstead?”
Because she hadn’t trusted him. “You have given me no reason to trust you!” she protested, and her wild words created an icy wall between them.
“Have I not?” He turned toward the door.
“Wait!” she cried. “Where are you going?”
He turned back, distantly polite. “I am giving you and your brother an opportunity to talk in peace, after which I assume he will want to leave to speak to the colonel. You may go with him if you wish. If you wish to talk to me, a servant will doubtless find me.”
The door closed behind him with a steely click.
Portia stared at it. You may go with him if you wish.
“Portia?” Oliver asked. “What the devil’s going on?”
“Oh, Oliver, it has become such a coil.”
“Then you had best tell me all about it. I know I’m only your younger brother, but perhaps I can help.”
So Portia sat with a sigh and told him of all her adventures. She even included the events at Mirabelle’s since they seemed part of the whole.
“Lord above,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “The risks you’ve run!”
“I did what I had to, and I’ve had few enough choices along the way.”
“And now you’re married to him.”
“Yes.”
He chewed his lip. “Perhaps we can get you out of it. Duress or something. After all, you fled on your wedding night...”
Portia blushed. “I’m not a virgin, Oliver. And I don’t want to get out of it. I just wonder if he’s disgusted by me.”
“Plague take it,” muttered Oliver, staring into the fire. “And it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t been so foolish . . .”
“If you hadn’t been so foolish, I would have stayed contentedly at Overstead counting turnips, and never so much as set eyes on Bryght Malloren.” It seemed to her impossible that she could have lived without ever knowing the man who was now the center of her world. She stood to roam the room restlessly. “I suppose I should leave with you. Perhaps an annulment is possible. You need me anyway to take care of Overstead. I can return home and . . . and count turnips for the rest of my . . . my life. . . .” She swallowed fiercely. She would not cry.
“I think you should go and talk to him,” said Oliver with surprising understanding. “Judging from the way he looked when you were crying, I don’t think he wants you to leave.”
“He probably wants to wring my neck.”
“If you really did run off with Fort on your wedding night, he probably does. You’ve never been a coward, though, Portia. Face your devils.”
It was good advice and she turned to him. “You truly want to be in the army?”
“With all my heart.”
She kissed his cheek. “Be happy then. And wish me luck. War is probably a safer course than the one I’m choosing.”
Portia left the room and found the corridor empty. Where would Bryght be? She could start searching rooms again, but the prospect wearied her. Instead she descended the stairs to the hall, seeking a servant.
The hall appeared empty, but then she heard a blast from a horn. Within moments the space was teeming with staff. She froze with surprise, but then two footmen swung open the doors to reveal the Marquess of Rothgar mounting the steps, his sister on his arm. Another gentleman came behind and they were trailed by a small retinue of personal servants. Two coaches each drawn by six horses, stood in the drive.
Portia was rooted to the steps by shock. As servants bustled around divesting the arrivals of cloaks, hats, and muffs Lord Rothgar looked up and saw her.
He raised a cold brow.
He wasn’t the devil she had intended to face but there was nothing for it. Portia descended the stairs, wishing Bryght would appear to support her.
“Bridgewater,” said the marquess coolly to the pale, lanky young man by his side. “May I present Lady Arcenbryght Malloren?”
The duke took her hand and kissed it warmly. “Lady Bryght. I posted down to be sure he wasn’t doing something foolish in my cause.” He sounded pleased, but Portia wasn’t sure how to take his words.
Elf stepped into the situation. “Oh, do let’s go into the Tapestry Room where there will be a fire.” She linked arms with Portia. “Came long. It was a lovely wedding, wasn’t it... ?” She swept them all along on a ripple of light chatter until they were in the room and the door was shut.
“Where’s Bryght?” asked Rothgar crisply.
Portia flinched. “I don’t know. He’s here somewhere.”
“You left the house separately. How did you get here?”
Portia swallowed. Perhaps Rothgar would wring her neck. “Fort brought me,” she whispered.
“You are a rash and dangerous woman.”
Portia began to wonder if she would be tossed out of Rothgar Abbey on her ear but Brand and Fort walked in.
“She certainly is,” Brand said, shaking his head at her. “Lord, Bey, I recall you taking a switch to the twins when they climbed the north wall.”
Rothgar’s brows rose as he looked at Portia. “A very rash woman.”
“He locked me in!” But she had seen the flicker of amusement on the marquess’s eyes. “It’s an easy climb.”
“True enough. But not to be encouraged for eight-year-olds. One assumes older people will have more sense. Is your brother well?”
“Yes.”
“Oliver’s safe?” asked Fort sharply.
“Yes,” Portia told him, praying he’d make no further trouble. “It was all a mistake.”
He smiled slightly. “What a shame. Does Bryght want to kill me?” He sounded mildly hopeful.
Portia could have killed him herself. “Fort, stop this! Go away and leave my life alone!”
“But you’re a Malloren,” he said. He strolled toward her and took her hand, raising it for a kiss. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to run away with me?”
Portia was burningly aware of a roomful of Mallorens and a total stranger. “Not in the slightest,” she said icily, dragging her hand from his.
“How ungrateful you are,” he lamented. He looked around the room then bowed. “Au revoir. A la prochaine.”
Portia sadly watched him leave. Until the next, he said. But what next? Would he succeed in getting his revenge, or in finding death at the hands of a Malloren?
“Portia!”
The marquess’s sharp tone brought her attention back to him.
“If you wish to leave with Lord Walgrave, I will not stop you.” He sounded as if he might wave her on her way.
Portia licked her lips. “I don’t.”
“What are your feelings for Bryght?”
Portia looked around at the watchful faces, and Elf flashed her an encouraging smile.
“I love him,” she admitted.
Rothgar’s expression did not lighten. “Then you had best find him, don’t you think?”
Portia wished he would offer a little support and guidance. “I don’t know where to look.”
“It rather depends on whether he wants to be found, doesn’t it?” Then he smiled slightly. “His rooms would be an optimistic place to start. Elf, could you play guide to this architectural mass?”
“Of course.” Elf took Portia’s hand to lead her from the room.
“And Portia,” said the marquess, halting them, “if necessary, scream very loudly. We have had our due allotment of violent deaths here for one year.”
Portia was trembling as Elf led her to the stairs.
Elf paused to smile. “Don’t worry. Bryght won’t harm you.”
“Can you be sure?” Portia asked. “I tried to shoot him. Again!” Her heart was racing and her knees were knocking, but it wasn’t so much fear of violence—though that was possible—as fear of rejection.
Elf laughed. “That is probably part of your charm.”
Portia wasn’t sure she had any charm anymore. Bryght had said he loved her, but
that was before she had betrayed him. Not betrayed him physically, but emotionally, in fearing the worst.
They were in a side corridor and Elf stopped by a door. “Here we are.” She suddenly gathered Portia into her arms and hugged her. “It will be all right. Just be honest!”
With that, she turned and retraced her steps, not looking back to see what Portia would do.
Portia wiped a damp hand on her skirt. If there were any sensible choices she might have walked away from this door, but Bryght had to be faced. If he were here at all.
What if he did not want to be found?
She turned the knob and went in, to find only an empty room. Her heart turned to a painful lump in her chest.
It was a kind of study with a well-stocked library and desk, but with chairs by the fire and a sideboard bearing decanters and a bowl of fruit. It was a comfortable, well-used room which spoke to her senses of Bryght.
But he wasn’t here.
He didn’t want to be found.
Then she saw the half-open adjoining door to the bedroom. That room too looked empty, but she entered it anyway.
Bryght was leaning against the windowsill, stark naked.
Portia’s mouth dropped open.
“Naked to your malice or your love,” he said, and though his body concealed nothing, his feelings were cloaked.
Portia couldn’t see her way, and it appeared he wasn’t going to guide her. “I can’t say I’m sorry,” she whispered. “In the same situations, I would do the same things.”
“I know. But I have to know you’ll trust me in the future, that when you have doubts you’ll tell me of them, not run off on some crazy start.”
“Will you trust me?” she demanded. “You thought I was capable of committing adultery on my wedding night!”
His jaw twitched. “You’ve expressed a preference for Fort.”
“I’ve known him since we were children.”
“That hardly makes it better.”
“He’s like a brother.” Portia clasped and unclasped her hands. “I asked him to kiss me in the coach because I had never been truly kissed by a man other than you. I wanted to know if the effect was from the kisses or the man.”
“And?” he asked softly.
She shrugged uneasily and looked away. “He had little effect on me. ... Of course, that isn’t a very wide test....”