He made no response, just continued to sit Ajax, staring down again now at the ruins of his home. Portia gathered Penny’s reins and spoke the only truth there was. “I cannot help it and you cannot forget it, Rufus. There’s no place for me in Decatur village. I’m no good to you as a hostage, and I cannot be anything else to you. I will always be the enemy.”
He looked across at her, his eyes now bleak. “You’re an hour’s ride due south to Castle Granville. Go back home, back to the Granville hearth where you belong.”
Portia set Penny down the hill, back to the lane, then turned due south. She didn’t look back, but she could still see in her mind’s eye the man sitting his horse at the top of the rise, alone with his vengeance.
While she was simply alone. Returning to an uncertain welcome, to be tormented always by the memory of those moments when she had, however briefly, belonged.
The journey from Decatur village passed in a daze. Portia had to ask the way several times, but found herself very quickly on Granville land. It was not much more than a hour after leaving Rufus that she saw the great gray bulk of Castle Granville on the hill across the valley. She didn’t know how to describe to herself how she felt. Her wretchedness had increased with each mile she put between herself and Rufus Decatur. It was as if she’d been thrust out into the cold, like a baby bird thrown from its nest. It didn’t matter that she told herself she had forced the issue herself… that she had left of her own accord. It didn’t help at all. None of the many and varied miseries of her girlhood had prepared her for this sense of desolation.
She rode up to the wicket gate and the sentry peered at her suspiciously. She identified herself and it had a galvanizing effect. The gate swung open and the sentry grabbed Penny’s reins, yelling over his shoulder, “Fetch Sergeant Crampton. The girl’s back.”
Portia wearily dismounted and stood in the gatehouse, waiting for Giles. It seemed a less than ceremonious welcome for a miraculously returned hostage.
Giles bustled in. He’d been in the middle of his dinner and still carried a checkered napkin. He stared at her, his jaw dropping, and it was a minute before he demanded, “Where’d you spring from?”
“I escaped,” she said. “Why am I being kept here, Sergeant?” It was an attempt at hauteur and it had some effect on the sergeant.
“Lord Granville’s at dinner,” he said huffily. “But we’d best get along. Come wi‘ me.”
Portia refrained from telling him that she knew her way to the dining parlor perfectly well, and submitted to being escorted like an escaped prisoner.
Within the dining parlor, Cato was wearily trying to entertain Brian Morse. Diana had been transformed from the first moment of their visitor’s arrival. Brian had brought with him the sanctified odor of the court. His dress was fashionable, his manner elaborately courteous, with more than a hint of flirtation to lend it spice. Diana was in her element, radiant and glowing. Cato was not.
“If you care to go hawking, Brian, I could – ” Cato broke off at the sound of voices outside the oak door. He recognized Giles Crampton’s vigorous tones and was on his feet with an unabashed eagerness as the door opened.
The sergeant filled the doorway. “Beggin‘ yer pardon for disturbin’ yer dinner, m’lord, but-”
“No matter, Giles.” Cato cast down his napkin. He couldn’t see Portia’s cloaked figure behind the sergeant’s bulk. “Come, let’s go to my chamber. If you’ll excuse me, my dear.” He offered his wife a hasty bow and strode to the door. Then he stopped in astonishment.
“Portia! Good God, girl! How did you get here?”
“She just turned up, m’lord,” Giles said, before Portia could speak. “Just turned up at the wicket gate wi’out a word of warnin‘.”
“I would imagine a warning might have been difficult,” Cato said slowly, trying to take in this extraordinary reappearance, and what it could possibly mean. “Are you well, child? Not hurt?”
Portia shook her head but said in perfect truth, “No, but I own I’m weary, sir. It’s a long story.”
“Yes, of course. Come, we’ll discuss it in private.”
“What is it, my lord?” Diana’s curious tones came from the table behind him.
“Portia has returned,” Cato said. “A most extraordinary thing… but until she can tell me what happened, I can tell you nothing, my dear.” He closed the door firmly at his back. In almost the same movement, he swept Portia ahead of him down the corridor toward the bastion room, Giles marching a step behind.
Inside, with the door firmly closed, Cato surveyed Portia with the same puzzled astonishment. “What happened?”
“I wasn’t the right hostage,” she said. “But I expect you knew that.”
“Yes, I gathered the bastard Decatur was after Olivia.” His eyes narrowed. “You were not molested in any way?”
Portia shook her head. “The abduction itself was rough, but I had nothing to complain of in my treatment once we reached Decatur village.” She met his gaze steadily.
“She said she escaped, m’lord.” Giles was regarding her sharply.
Portia hesitated and Cato’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right,” she said. How could she possibly have explained the truth?
“She was ridin‘ a blood mare, m’lord,” Giles commented. He was still looking at Portia, and it was with clear suspicion.
“A Decatur horse?”
“Yes.” It was Portia who answered.
“Did you steal it?”
“I suppose you could say that.” She swayed slightly and grabbed the back of a chair. She wasn’t up to this interrogation. Not tonight. “I thought of it as merely borrowing.”
“Escapin‘ from Decatur village ain’t easy,” Giles put in. “Mebbe they was lookin’ the other way.”
Portia looked at him in confusion. What was he implying?
“The horse must go back,” Cato declared. “I’ll not give Decatur the opportunity to accuse me of theft.”
“We could lead ‘er most o’ the way there, then let ‘er find ’er own way back, sir.”
“Yes, together with a message for friend Decatur,” Cato said grimly. He turned back to Portia. “What happened to your clothes?”
Portia glanced down at her unorthodox attire. “My own were ruined during the abduction,” she explained. “These were all that were available in Decatur village. There aren’t any women there,” she added.
Cato nodded. “I had heard that.” He regarded her closely. “Did you learn anything useful while you were there?”
“I don’t know what you would consider useful, my lord.”
“Did you have the sense of a military encampment?”
“A very efficient one, sir. And they’re flying the king’s standard.”
Cato stood frowning at Portia in her indecorous garb, her hair a wind-whipped tangle. Was she telling him the truth about her escape? There had been that telltale hesitation. Could this surprising return be part of some deeper plan of Decatur’s? How could a slip of a girl manage to escape the Decatur stronghold? And steal a Decatur blood mare. He couldn’t fathom the girl. She was his brother’s child, and she looked at him now with his brother’s eyes. Could he trust her? He didn’t know.
He noticed her white knuckles as she gripped the back of the chair, and the great dark rings beneath her eyes. Whatever had brought her back, she was utterly exhausted.
“We’ll talk at length later,” he said, waving her to the door. “Olivia will be glad to see you. She’s been worried about you, and I understand from Lady Granville that she’s been ailing and is keeping to her bed. Why don’t you go to her now.”
“Certainly, sir.” Portia, unable to curtsy in her britches, offered a slightly awkward bow.
The minute she opened Olivia’s door, she forgot her own unhappiness.
Olivia lay with her eyes closed, her face whiter than the pillow, the sheet pulled neatly up to her chin. She was as still as if she were laid out in her coffin, and Portia’s heart missed a beat. Cato had said she was ailing. But she looked at death’s door.