“Jed, fetch my horse. I believe I’ll let her get to the third watch before we stop her. Let her think she’s getting away with it,” he said, adding with a degree of savagery, “the shock’ll be all the greater.”
Jed, who’d brought the message, saluted and left the mess for the stables to saddle Ajax.
Rufus finished his lamprey pie, but Will could see that his cousin was no longer enjoying his supper and he could find it in his heart to feel a little sorry for Mistress Portia Worth.
“Right.” Rufus pushed aside his empty platter and stood up. “I’d best get this over with.” He strode to the door, swinging his cloak around him, his expression grim. For two pins he would have let the girl go. She was no use to him. But something wouldn’t allow him to let her get the better of him. When he was ready to let her go, he would do so. But he wasn’t ready yet. And besides, she had stolen a sledge, not to mention what was on it. Theft was one of the deadly sins among Decatur men.
Jed was holding Ajax at the door. He held the master’s stirrup as Rufus vaulted into the saddle. “I sent a runner to the watchmen, m’lord. They’ll not stop ‘er till ye gives the order.”
“Good.” The great chestnut plunged forward under the nudge of his rider’s heels.
The third watch was three miles from where Portia would have started from. Rufus rode away from the bank, parallel to the river. He had plenty of time. It would take a strong-muscled man the best part of an hour to accomplish that distance poling the sledge. Against all inclination, he caught himself almost admiring the dauntless spirit of the girl. She must have had no idea how far she’d have to go before she was safely out of Decatur territory.
He rode up to the third watch and drew rein beneath the hide. He called softly upward. “How far away is she?”
“About two hundred yards, sir.”
Rufus rode Ajax to the riverbank and sat there, motionless in the moonlight, watching the approach of the sledge.
Portia didn’t see him immediately. The effort of poling was consuming all her attention. What had seemed easy at the beginning was now arduous, her arm muscles and shoulders aching, her hands sore, even through her gloves, as they gripped and pushed the pole. She raised her head wearily, wondering whether she was far enough from Decatur village to risk stopping and resting. The great horse, his immobile rider, filled her exhausted vision. They stood there on the bank a few yards ahead of her like accusers from the Day of Judgment.
She felt sick. Her palms were suddenly clammy. She could think only of how unfair it was. She had been so sure she would succeed, and now there he sat, waiting for her. Triumphant. She could almost have screamed with frustration, but she was also dreadfully afraid.
Could she pole past him, gather enough speed to skim away? But she knew she couldn’t outrun the stallion. It would be futile to try. Futile and undignified… if there was any dignity to be salvaged from this hideous situation. Paradoxically, her fear gave her some kind of courage. She would not show him she was afraid.
Portia raised her pole from the ice, and the sledge came to a gentle stop in the middle of the river. She sat down on the pile of hides and waited.
Rufus dismounted and stepped onto the ice. He walked carefully, deliberately across to the sledge and stood looking down at her. “Just what do you think you’re doing, Mistress Worth?”
“Running away,” Portia replied with a snap. “What did you think?”
“I had rather come to that conclusion myself,” he agreed with a deceptively amiable smile. “Once again, I’m forced to note that you don’t seem very good at it.”
Portia folded her hands in her lap and shivered, aware of the sweat of effort drying on her skin beneath her torn cloak and bedraggled gown. Now that she was still, the cold air knifed her and she wished he wouldn’t just stand there looking at her with that shark’s smile on his mouth and the speculative consideration in his eyes. He was angry; she could feel it as she could feel the stabbing gusts of icy wind. He’d told her he was a man of uncertain temper… she’d seen the shadow of that temper several times already. And now he was just torturing her with this ghastly suspense. His eyes glinted at her, chips of blue like the moonlight sparking off the icy surface of the river.
“What are you going to do?” she demanded.
“Do?” Rufus raised an eyebrow. “What do you think might be appropriate action, Mistress Worth?”
Portia compressed her lips. “Just get it over with,” she muttered, wishing now that she’d chosen to remain on her feet. Sitting here with him towering above her wasn’t helping matters in the least.
“The sledge and the hides belong to Bertram.” Rufus tapped the back of one gloved hand into the palm of the other, making a rhythmic slapping sound in the quiet night. “He’ll expect to see everything back where he left it in the morning, so you’d better get moving.”
“Get moving?” Portia regarded him with dawning horror as she began to have an inkling of what he meant.
He nodded. “Take it back, Mistress Worth. We don’t tolerate theft in Decatur village.”
“But it’s upstream!”
“Yes, I believe it is.” He stepped away from the sledge. “I’ll ride along the bank beside you… just in case you get any other foolish ideas.” His teeth flashed white within the shadow of his beard, but it was still a far from friendly smile.
Portia glanced down at her hands. The leather in the palms of her gloves was splitting, and her palms stung. Grimly she stood up, took the pole to the back of the sledge, and pushed off. The craft moved barely a foot. It was as if the runners had been blunted or wrapped in rags. She bit her lip and pushed again.
From the bank, Rufus stood watching her efforts for a minute, then he swung astride Ajax and set the horse to a slow walk, keeping pace with the sledge’s laborious progress. Slowly his punitive anger died. The girl had been exhausted before she’d begun this mad enterprise, and what she was enduring now must be unadulterated torture. Once again, he was stirred to reluctant admiration by her indomitable spirit. He remembered telling her in Castle Granville that they were alike, he and she. That recognition now vanquished his anger. He would have done just what Portia Worth had done in a similar situation.
It was still damnably irritating, though, to have to spend the shank of his evening chasing after her. His irritation rang in his voice as he called out to her, “Portia, leave the sledge and come over here.”
Portia ignored him, setting her teeth, thrusting the pole against the ice. If she stopped, she would lose what little momentum she had. She could see no lights ahead of her now and guessed that the village had retired for the night. Thoughts of the little bed in the apple loft, of fire and candlelight, danced in her head. She closed her mind to everything but the need to drive the sledge across the ice.
Rufus’s irritation grew closer to anger again. “God’s grace, girl! Will you do as you’re bid?” His voice roared across the river.
This time she looked up and saw that he’d drawn rein and was standing in the stirrups, hands cupped around his mouth to amplify his words.
“Why?” she demanded, still pushing.
Of all the obstinate creatures! “Because I say so,” Rufus bellowed. “Now come over here at once!”
Portia flung aside the pole and stepped out of the sledge. She no longer cared what further torments the master of Decatur had in mind. She was half dead with cold and exhaustion and decided that the other half would be a welcome relief. She slipped and slithered to the bank and stood there, hands on her hips, glaring up at him. “Now what?”
Rufus leaned down from the saddle. “Give me your hand and put your foot on mine.”
Still Portia hesitated, warily examining his countenance. It was not particularly reassuring. Could he really have relented and be offering her a ride back to the village?