“If I have to dismount, Mistress Worth, one of us is going to regret it,” Rufus declared. He clicked his fingers impatiently.
It seemed she was damned if she went and damned if she stayed. Portia scrambled up the bank and took the large hand, her fingers curling painfully around his. With her last vestige of strength, she managed to lift her foot high enough to gain purchase on his boot in the stirrup, then she was sailing upward without much help from her own muscles to land on the saddle in front of him.
“Are you just going to leave the sledge there?” she demanded. “I thought you said Bertram, or whatever his name is, will expect to find it where he left it.”
Rufus was astounded. Did nothing squash her? Then he felt her shiver, felt the rigidity of her thin frame. She had half turned to look up at him as she threw her challenge, and the moonlight caught her white face, and he saw the strain in the slanted green eyes, and the fear beneath the defiance. Without thinking, he raised his hand and lightly cupped the curve of her cheek in his gloved palm. Her eyes widened. The fear receded and something took its place. Puzzlement that yet contained a flicker of anticipation. And he knew she was remembering as was he that teasing kiss in the court of Castle Granville. It hadn’t meant anything. Of course he hadn’t meant anything by it.
His hand dropped from her cheek, and with a brisk gesture, he wrapped his cloak around her thin, shivering frame and urged Ajax into a canter.
Portia tried to hold herself upright, to deny her fatigue. Her cheek was still warmed by that strange little caress, but every instinct told her it had been as much an aberration as the stroking paw of the tiger. He had teased her and manipulated her in the castle ward, and he was just doing the same now. It obviously pleased him to taunt her, and she couldn’t understand why she had for a minute allowed herself to believe that it was a genuine gesture. He must have seen her gullibility in her eyes.
“Sit back, for pity’s sake!” Rufus pulled her backward against him with an impatient movement. “I’m not a porcupine.” He held her so tightly she had no choice but to slump against his broad chest. She could feel his heart beating strongly against her ear and her own seemed to slip into the same rhythm, sending her into a strange daze.
In less than ten minutes they were riding into the darkened village, and Portia from within her numbed trance thought with a shudder of how long it would have taken her to propel the sledge, in the unlikely event that she’d been able to do it.
Rufus drew rein outside his cottage and lifted Portia from the saddle, lowering her to the ground. “Go inside and get ready for bed. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve taken Ajax to the stables.”
A man clearly accustomed to the habit of command, Portia thought with a twinge of derision that heartened her. It meant she hadn’t quiet lost her backbone. She let herself into the cottage. The warmth was blissful. She huddled over the banked fire, stretching her white numbed hands to the glow, wracked by convulsive shivers. A snuffling mumble came from behind the curtain. She froze, listening, but all was quiet again. One of the boys must be dreaming.
Rufus quietly let himself into the cottage five minutes later. He frowned at her. “I thought I told you to get ready for bed.”
“I was too cold to go upstairs.”
“It’s warm enough. Come.” He gestured to the stairs. “I hope you’ve learned a few things tonight about the nature of a military compound, but just in case you’re still not completely clear, we’ll take certain measures to ensure we both spend what’s left of the night in relative peace.” He put a hand in the small of her back and pushed her firmly ahead of him.
In the big bedchamber, Rufus said brusquely, “All in all, this has been a very tiresome day, and I find myself very short of patience. You, I know, are exhausted, so let’s do each other a favor and get to bed without any more tedious discussion.”
He drew off his gloves and unfastened his cloak, tossing them over the chest at the foot of the bed. His buff jerkin followed, then he sat on the chest to pull off his boots and stockings. Portia watched him with a sort of horrified fascination as he unbuckled his belt and kicked off his britches.
“For God’s sake, girl, don’t just stand there like a moon calf!” In his white linen shirt and drawers, he regarded her impatiently. “Do you wish to sleep in your clothes? If not, I suggest you put on that nightrobe in the other chamber.” Turning away, he bent over the washstand, splashing water on his face, running his wet hands through his beard and hair.
Portia turned and went into the apple loft, firmly closing the door. She hadn’t the faintest idea what he’d meant about taking certain measures, but it seemed as if she was finally going to be able to get out of her torn and filthy clothes and sink into bed, and the prospect was far too enticing to waste time probing riddles.
The bang at the door so shocked her as she was fastening the ribbons of the nightrobe that she jumped half out of her skin. “Come out, Portia. I’m ready for you.”
“What?” She stared at the closed door, her fingers quivering.
The door opened and Rufus Decatur’s blue gaze surveyed her through the gap. He crooked a finger in an unmistakable gesture of command. “I am really very tired,” he repeated wearily. “Come out!” His tone was one that brooked no argument, and Portia found herself moving forward as if drawn by a magnet.
“What are you going to do?” All her previous fears rose to the surface. She was alone with this half-naked man in his bedchamber. There was no one to hear her, and even if there were, no one would interfere with the master of Decatur taking his pleasure.
“Sleep,” he said succinctly. “As are you. But since I’ve had enough running around for one night, I’m going to ensure you stay in one place until morning.” He reached for her wrist, drawing her inexorably into the other chamber.
Portia felt as if she had lost all will of her own. She stared, shocked into stunned silence, as he looped his belt around her waist, running the leather through the buckle without fastening it, continuing to hold the free end loosely in his hand. What kind of perversion did he have in mind?
“Fortunately you’re skinny enough to leave enough slack in the belt to move around comfortably,” he muttered, bending to fling aside the covers. “You may sleep under the quilt, and I’ll sleep on top under a rug. That way we shall preserve the proprieties.” Suddenly he laughed with such genuine amusement that Portia wondered if the master of Decatur was of sound mind.
“Conventional proprieties don’t exist in the Decatur village,” he explained. “But we tend to be considerate of the foibles of others. Would you get under the quilt, please?”
Portia was rendered speechless.
“In!” He lifted her and deposited her willy-nilly in the middle of the bed. “Lie down.” He tossed the quilts over her, then lay down beside her, pulling up a thick fur-lined rug over himself. Taking the free end of the belt, he tied it one-handed around his own wrist in a complex knot that looked completely undoable to Portia’s horrified gaze.
“There. Now I shall be sure to wake up if you get any further fugitive ideas before the morning. Pleasant dreams, Mistress Worth.”
And to Portia’s indescribable amazement, Rufus Decatur yawned and fell instantly asleep.
She lay rigid for a minute, barely daring to breathe. A minute ago she’d been expecting a rape, and now she was tucked up in bed as cozily and safely as if it were Jack sleeping soundly beside her. She’d shared chambers and beds, blankets and quilts with Jack over the years, listening to his stertorous breathing, sometimes holding her own breath, waiting in terror when she was very little for him to take a breath when it seemed as if he’d ceased to breathe altogether. She could remember vividly the incredible relief of the moment when the shuddering rattle had started up again, and how his drunken snores had provided the only certain lullaby that would send her to sleep.