“I’m not much of a nurse,” he muttered, shaking his head. “How could you possibly have done this to yourself?”
“I didn’t know I’d run into a thicket of thornbushes until I got there,” Portia retorted, wondering why she felt so hot suddenly as his large, powerful hands turned her face around with a curious and incongruous gentleness.
“Just as a matter of interest, what were you going to do if you had escaped?” Rufus inquired as he satisfied himself that he’d cleansed all of the visible scratches. He perched on the end of the table, the damp, blood-streaked towel in his hands. “You were in strange territory, miles away from anywhere.”
“I didn’t think that far ahead.”
“Are you ordinarily so impulsive?”
“I am not ordinarily required to try to rescue myself from a kidnapper.” Her slanted eyes were narrowed as she looked up at him from beneath the tangled red halo of her hair.
She was such a scarecrow, so thin and seemingly so frail, her freckles standing out against the extreme pallor of her countenance, that Rufus found her plucky bravado peculiarly moving.
“This is a veritable bird’s nest,” he murmured with an unconscious smile, picking out a twig from her hair. He began to comb through the curls with his fingers, plucking out foreign bodies.
Portia’s eyes widened and a slight pink tinged her pale cheeks. He disentangled a clump of blanket lint from a particularly tight knot of orange curls and continued almost to himself, “Somewhere, I believe I have some salve.” He dropped the towel onto the table and made his way to the small stone-flagged pantry at the rear of the cottage.
“Ah, here it is. Smells dreadful but it works like a charm.” He reappeared, unscrewing the lid of a small alabaster pot. “Keep still now. It stings a little.” He dipped his fingertip in the strong-smelling ointment and painted Portia’s scratches with it.
She flinched. He wasn’t fooling about the sting. Her whole face felt on fire as if a swarm of bees had settled there.
“It’ll cool down in a minute,” he told her, turning her face from side to side with a hand under her chin as he looked for untreated hurts. “That’ll do, I think.” He screwed the lid back on the pot. “Now, what else must we remedy… ah, yes, hunger. It’s a damnably long ride from Castle Granville; you must be starved.”
The calm, matter-of-fact way he moved about the kitchen and pantry, setting bread, cheese, and cold meat on the table, somehow belied the contained power of the soldier’s body. Everything about him shouted of battlefields, and yet he seemed perfectly at home in a kitchen. Portia found herself fascinated by his deft efficiency, by the sense that he was a man of so many contrasts.
“Try that first.” He poured thick creamy milk from a copper jug and set the beaker in front of her.
“I haven’t drunk milk since I was a little girl,” Portia protested, even as she realized to her astonishment how inviting it looked.
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen.” She took a deep gulp of the milk.
“Is that all?” It wasn’t that she looked so much older, it was just that her attitude bespoke a wealth of experience.
“The life of a vagabond bastard tends to be aging,” Portia observed sardonically.
Rufus contented himself with a raised eyebrow and a shrug. He reached for the stone jar of whisky on the shelf above the fireplace.
“So, what are you going to do now?” Portia demanded through a mouthful of bread and beef.
Rufus seemed to consider the question. “Laughing like a madman is a possibility. Screaming like a banshee is another.”
Portia was about to ask exactly what Olivia’s ransom was to have been when there was a loud bang at the door. Will burst into the cottage as if Lucifer’s hounds were on his tail. “Hell and the devil, Rufus. George says it’s the wrong one!” He stared at Portia. “Is it?”
“So it would seem, Will,” Rufus agreed, spearing a piece of cheese on the point of a knife and carrying it to his mouth.
Will stepped farther into the room, his eyes still on Portia. “What happened to her face?”
“Scratches and salve.” Rufus drank from the stone jar. “Sit you down, lad, and have a mug of ale.”
Portia clapped both hands to her still-burning cheeks. Her face felt swollen as well as sore, and she couldn’t imagine what she looked like, but judging by the newcomer’s expression it must be pretty dreadful. Maybe the salve had been some horrible trick to disfigure her even further.
“It’s all right. The burning will die down soon,” Rufus said, correctly reading her expression. “You’ll be right as rain in an hour.” He sliced more sirloin and forked it onto her platter. “More milk, or would you prefer ale now?”
“Ale, please.” There seemed no point responding to this hospitality with sulkiness, although the entire situation felt so unreal that Portia was beginning to wonder if she was going to wake up soon.
Will was still looking at her in disbelief. He’d barely moved from the door. “But who’s this one?”
“Portia Worth,” Portia snapped, no longer willing to be referred to by this idiotic man as if she were a stuffed dummy. “And if you have questions concerning me, why don’t you address me directly?”
Will blushed to the roots of his sandy hair, and his eyes, a paler blue than his cousin’s, were filled with dismay. “My apologies, ma’am. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
“Disrespect?” Portia exclaimed. “After I’ve been abducted, and carried off wrapped up tight as a sausage in its skin, and bumped and tossed about for hours… you talk of disrespect!”
Will looked helplessly at Rufus, who stood with his broad shoulders against the thick oak mantelpiece, holding the stone jar easily with a finger hooked into the handle.
“But… but will Granville pay-”
“I very much doubt it,” Rufus interrupted. “But it might be interesting to see how he responds. The ransom message was delivered after the girl was picked up. He’ll need some time to deliberate.”
“And if he doesn’t respond?”
The lingering amusement vanished from the bright blue eyes, and the earl’s expression hardened. “Then we’ll have to find another way, Will.”
“But… but I still don’t understand who she… I mean who you are.” Will tried to direct his questions at Portia, who, her hunger appeased, was listening intently, hoping to learn at last exactly what the earl of Rothbury wanted of the marquis of Granville.
“Jack Worth was Cato’s half brother The lass is his daughter.”
“Oh.” Will continued to stare at Portia, who stared back.
“Bastard daughter,” she said deliberately. “Not worth a farthing to anyone… now that Jack’s dead.”
Silence stretched between them, then Will said, unconsciously following the train of thought, “Oh, that reminds me. The boys, Rufus. They were following me but they must have been sidetracked.” He wrenched open the door and shouted into the night. “Luke… Toby… where are you, you little devils?”
Portia shivered as the wind gusted through the open door. Then two bundles rolled past Will’s legs and entered the kitchen like a pair of dervishes. They were so well wrapped in coats and jerkins that they were as round as they were tall. Two pairs of blue eyes raced around the kitchen.
“We’re back,” Toby announced.
“So I see,” Rufus observed gravely.
“Who’s that?” Luke pointed at Portia.
“My guest,” his father replied in the same tone.
“Like Maggie?” Toby inquired with intelligent interest.
Will choked and Rufus said, “Not exactly. Mistress Worth will be staying here for a few days.”
“Oh, will I?” Portia muttered sotto voce. Who were these two lads, and just who was Maggie when she was at home?
“Shall I put them to bed, then?” Will gestured to the boys, who had quite suddenly collapsed in front of the fire, where they sat rubbing their eyes and swaying slightly.