And then she became aware of something nudging her bare thigh. The shirt was twisted around her waist and something was burrowing, nuzzling against her skin. Indolently she moved a hand down and her ringers closed over the hard shaft of flesh that with a life of its own flickered, grew, pulsed against her palm.
Portia smiled to herself. Rufus was still asleep while his body frolicked, following its own instincts. She played with him, her fingertips lightly stroking, kneading, sliding back the soft hood to feel the dampening tip. The flesh leaped in her palm, like some blind burrowing animal. Her smile broadened, her loins were filled with a delicious languid warmth, and with her free hand she touched herself.
“Let me do that.” Rufus’s sleepy voice, husky and with a smile dancing in its depth, caressed her even as his hand moved over her belly, slid between her thighs. His fingers found the little nub of her sex, the moist and tender opening of her body.
They lay side by side under the nesting warmth of the covers, playing with each other, until urgent desire banished the last vestiges of languor. Rufus turned her gently so that her back was to him and fitted himself against her, curling around her bottom. “I don’t want to hurt your ankle,” he whispered, his beard silky against her shoulder, drawing a surprised chuckle from her. “Bring your knees up.”
Her body thus opened to him, he slid within her, one hand at her waist, the other against the nape of her neck, warm and firm. Portia could do nothing but lie still while the waves of delight lapped over her, awakening her muted nerve endings, her sleep-quiet skin. And when he grasped her tightly against him, his breathing swift and hard against her neck, his belly pressing against her bottom, his flesh pulsing deep within her, flooding her womb with his seed, she felt herself drifting away, without form or sinew, a bubble of exquisite sensation.
With a soft exhalation, Rufus fell back, his hands loosening on her body. “Welcome to the day, gosling.”
Portia chuckled weakly. “That was a delicious good-morning. Oh, Juno!” she exclaimed as a wet tongue slobbered across her cheek. “But you do smell clean,” she murmured with approval, patting the puppy’s head. Juno gave a little yap of pleasure and tumbled off the bed, running to the head of the stairs and then back to the bed.
“She’d better go out.” Rufus flung aside the covers and stood up. He stretched, and the muscles in his back and buttocks tauntened. He bent to poke the fire into life again, throwing on kindling, then logs as the blaze took.
Portia feasted her eyes on his naked body, noticing how the pale light from the window caught the fine red-gold hair clustering on his shoulder blades, in the small of his back, along the lean, powerful thighs. He was very beautiful, she thought drowsily, regretting the moment when he reached for the robe she’d borrowed the previous evening.
Juno yapped again and Portia sat up, sensual dreaming forgotten. “On, Juno, no!”
“God’s Grace!” Rufus exclaimed, turning on the puppy, who was squatting by the head of the stairs, a puddle spreading beneath her. “The wretched creature isn’t even housebroken!”
“She can’t help it,” Portia said. “She’s so little and she’s been on the bed all night. She was probably bursting.”
“I was about to take her out,” Rufus said grimly. He caught Juno up by the scruff of the neck and carried her at arm’s length downstairs.
Portia listened to his voice, calm but undeniably scolding the errant puppy as he deposited her outside the door. He came back with a cloth and pail and mopped up the puddle. He looked less than pleased, Portia thought guiltily.
“Shall I do it?”
“No,” he said.
“She can’t be expected to know these things yet,” Portia pointed out, trying very hard not to hear the puppy whimpering from the snow outside the kitchen door. “She’ll have to be taught to go outside.”
“I had not expected to add housebreaking a puppy to my list of chores,” Rufus said aridly, wringing the cloth into the bucket.
“You won’t have to do it. I’ll do it.”
Rufus got off his knees. “It’ll keep you occupied, I suppose.”
Portia hauled herself up against the pillows. “Occupied? What do you mean?”
Rufus reached for his clothes on the chest at the foot of the bed. “I’ve been racking my brains trying to think what I’m going to do with you,” he said, throwing off the robe.
“Do with me?” Portia felt a faint stir of indignation at his tone. The languorous glow of after-love was disappearing rather rapidly.
Rufus pulled on his drawers and britches. He turned back to the bed. “This is a military camp, lass. There are no women, no friends or confidants for you. Everyone has their own duties… including me.” He was putting on his shirt as he talked. “I cannot be forever entertaining you or-”
“I don’t need entertaining!” Portia exclaimed. “You talk as if I’m some flighty flibberty-gibbet who’s going to be a burden to you.”
“No… no, I don’t mean that!” Rufus said, tucking his shirt into the waistband of his britches. “But the fact is, this is no place or situation for a woman. And I don’t know what to do with you… how you’re going to occupy yourself.”
“Oh, I expect I’ll sew on your buttons and clean your house and cook your meals,” Portia said dangerously. “That should keep me out of your way.”
“Josiah wouldn’t care for that,” Rufus said seriously. “He’d feel usurped.”
Portia gazed at him in disbelief. He had actually thought she was in earnest! “If this is such a problem for you, then I can’t think why you asked me to stay,” she said.
Annoyance and impatience flashed across his eyes. Then he seemed to make an effort to banish them. He came over to the bed. He bent over her. His mouth hovered, tantalizing, his eyes now teased. “Actually, I know exactly what I’m going to do with you. I’m going to keep you in my bed. The prospect of your lying here with nothing to do but wait for me to come to you is utterly delicious.”
For a moment Portia couldn’t resist the sensual promise in his voice. She responded with a low chuckle. “Pleasant dreams, my lord.” She brought up her knee, pressing it with pointed emphasis against his groin.
Rufus’s eyes darkened. His hands lightly clasped her throat, but before he could bring his mouth to hers, Portia wriggled sideways. “To be serious…”
“Oh, I am being,” he said. “Keep still.”
“No!” Portia pulled at his hands. “This is important, Rufus.”
He released her and straightened, his expression now dark with annoyance. “I haven’t time to argue over such a pointless issue. I have a host of things to do this morning.” He sat on the chest to pull on his boots.
“Pointless? It’s not pointless!” Portia couldn’t understand how he didn’t see this.
“There’s a war on, Portia,” he stated as if talking to a particularly stupid child. “I have an expedition to mount. In the light of those things, it is pointless.”
“You’re going after the treasure?”
“Of course.” He buckled his swordbelt and when he turned back to her it was clear his mind was elsewhere… once more in that dark place where Portia didn’t want to follow.
“And with any luck,” he said, almost to himself, “Cato Granville and I will meet up in his thwarted ambush.” He smiled the cold, mirthless, grim smile that Portia hated. “A neat piece of table-turning to have Cato’s head spitted on my sword, don’t you think?”
“You know what I think,” she said, biting her lip.
Rufus looked at her for a moment, with that same intimidating expression, and she returned his gaze steadily. A series of crashes sounded against the front door as Juno, frantic to be let in, hurled her small body against the oak.
“Damn dog,” Rufus said, his expression clearing. “I’ll send someone with breakfast for you. Do you want me to carry you downstairs?”