“One of these days, I need to learn to stop without having to run into something,” she called to Olivia, who, a much more accomplished skater, came to an elegant halt beside her.
Portia glanced up at the crowds still pouring across the drawbridge and her eyes narrowed. “What do you think about joining the festivities, Olivia?”
Olivia looked startled. “But we haven’t b-been invited.”
“No, but as your father’s daughter, don’t you think you should play hostess a little?” Portia casually smoothed her gloves over her fingers, waiting to see how Olivia would respond to this novel suggestion.
“I never have done,” Olivia said doubtfully. “It’s D-Di-ana’s place.”
“But Diana’s not coming out of her bedchamber today,” Portia pointed out. She was leaning against the wall, arms folded, her green gaze bright and questioning and more than a little shrewd.
Olivia absorbed this in thoughtful silence. She glanced up at the gray castle walls, towering above her. The sounds of music, of voices raised in merriment, billowed forth from the outer ward.
“It would make Diana look remiss,” she said slowly.
“Precisely.” Portia chuckled. “Come.” She skated to the bank, Olivia following, and sat down to remove her skates. “And it’ll keep me out of Janet Beckton’s clutches for a while longer this morning, too.”
Olivia’s laugh was both nervous and excited as they made their way across the drawbridge back into the castle.
Cato was surprised to see the girls mingling with the merrymakers in the outer ward, but he was pleased to see the confident manner in which Olivia was supervising the filling of the tables. She seemed to know what she was doing.
Portia, deciding that Olivia didn’t need her assistance in her domestic overseeing, veered toward the fires, attracted by the aromas of roasting meat. Hunger was still such a lively memory that Portia never passed up the opportunity to eat when it presented itself.
She wriggled through the crowds around the spit where a suckling pig was turning over the flames. An elderly man, his back misshapen beneath a homespun cloak, stood beside the spit, slicing through the crisp pork with his dagger, spearing succulent meat on the point of his knife and offering it to his neighbors.
“I’ll have a slice, goodman,” Portia said cheerfully, stripping off her gloves, holding her bare hands to the fire’s warmth as she waited for meat. She was standing very close to the man, and the strangest sensation rippled over her skin, the fine hairs lifting as if a ghost had crossed her path. She froze, her extended hands motionless, her breath stopped in her chest. Impossible recognition crackled in her veins.
“D’ye care for the crisped skin, mistress?” The man spoke in an old and creaky voice, his Yorkshire burr very pronounced as he sliced deep into the carcass, cutting off a thick chunk of meat with its crisp golden skin. He turned toward her, his eyes blue sparks beneath the concealing hood, drawn low over his forehead.
Portia stared at Rufus Decatur, incredulous. What was he doing here? Lord Granville’s mortal enemy standing casual as you please within the castle walls, cheerfully helping himself to Granville meat. She took a step backward out of the circle around the fire, whether for her own protection or Decatur’s she wasn’t sure. But Rufus Decatur stepped back with her, his offering still poised on the tip of his dagger.
“Are you run quite mad?” she whispered, unknowingly echoing Will.
Rufus seemed to consider this, but his bright eyes were far from serious as they rested on her upturned face. He was laughing at her, and she had the unmistakable impression he was inviting her to share in the jest.
“Are you mad?” she repeated in a bare whisper, trying to tear her own eyes away from the lodestone of that gaze.
“I don’t believe so, Mistress Worth,” he said thoughtfully.
“But it might be safer if you could manage to look a little less like a mesmerized rabbit. I’m afraid you might draw unwelcome attention, when I’ve gone to such great lengths to make myself inconspicuous.” He offered an apologetic smile but his eyes were still laughing at her.
Portia couldn’t help a guilty glance at the people around them, and Rufus tutted reproachfully. “That’s a sure way to draw attention to oneself,” he murmured.
He moved an arm and his cloak swirled out like a bat’s wing, and without Portia’s knowing quite how it happened, she was moving within the shield of this wing. Being moved rather than moving of her own volition, she decided numbly. And when she came to a halt, again without her own volition, she found herself in a secluded corner of the court, sheltered from the crowd by the massive outcrop of a buttress.
“What do you want?” she demanded in a hiss. She was still contained within the swirling wing of his cloak, standing so close to him she could feel the heat of his body, smell the leather of his buff jerkin, the rough wool of his homespun shirt and britches. The world seemed to have shrunk to this small, dim, aromatic spot, and the boisterous sounds of a merrymaking crowd came from a great distance.
Rufus didn’t answer. He merely offered her the meat that he still carried on the tip of his knife. Without thinking, she reached to take it and then gave a little cry as it seared her bare fingers.
“Careful!” he warned, sounding genuinely concerned. He took the meat with his own bare hand and blew on it. “Try it now.” He held the succulent morsel to her lips, and in a kind of daze Portia opened her mouth to take it. It was delicious, the skin crisp and slightly scorched, the meat beneath juicy and tender. She savored it with all the delicacy of one who really relished her food, forgetting their surroundings in the moment of pleasure and failing to see the appreciative glimmer in her companion’s eyes as he watched her.
“Good?” he inquired, his voice so low it increased the sense of their complete intimacy in the thronged and noisy yard. He licked his fingers and then, with a little frown of concentration, rubbed the pad of his thumb over Portia’s lips and chin, where there was a smear of meat juice. The skin of his thumb was roughened, and her mouth tingled beneath the firm pliancy of his touch. For a fleeting instant his palm cupped her cheek and she could feel the swordsman’s calluses against her own delicate skin. The fine hairs on her nape lifted, a current of tension jolted her belly, then his hand dropped from her face. She watched, mesmerized, as he deliberately licked his thumb again, before sheathing his dagger and replacing his glove.
Slowly the world stopped spinning and she struggled to renew her grasp on reality. “What do you want here?” she demanded yet again.
“Oh, I am, how does the bard put it…? ‘A snapper up of unconsidered trifles,’ ” he replied with a nonchalant gesture that seemed to encompass the entire scene.
“You’re spying?”
“If you choose to put it that way,” he agreed.
“But Lord Granville will have you hanged!” She had a sudden vivid image of Granville’s soldiers descending upon them in this quiet corner. One man, even one as powerful as this one, would be helpless. They’d beat him to a bloody pulp before… She’d seen hangings. She knew what a body looked like swinging from a gibbet, the head at an unnatural angle, tongue protruding, face blue, eyes popping… She felt queasy and the meat she’d just eaten with such relish felt like greasy lead in her belly.
“Granville will have to discover me first.” Rufus’s eyes traced her face, where the freckles stood out against her pallor with the intensity of her expression. “What is it?” he asked involuntarily, seeing the horror in her slanted green eyes. “You look as if you’ve seen the devil.”
“Perhaps I have,” she said, snapping back to herself. “The devil as Rufus Decatur. Don’t you realize that all I have to do is raise my little finger and Lord Granville’s men will fall on you like flies on a carcass?”