Jane Feather - The Hostage Bride

“Now, just who do we have here?”

Portia drew the reins tight. The quivering horse raised its head and neighed in protest, pawing the ground. Portia looked up and into a pair of vivid blue eyes glinting with an amusement to match the voice.

“And who are you?” she demanded. “And why have you taken those men prisoner?”

Her hood had fallen back in her struggles with the horse, and Rufus found himself the object of a fierce green-eyed scrutiny from beneath an unruly tangle of hair as orange-red as a burning brazier. Her complexion was white as milt, but not from fear, he decided; she looked far too annoyed for alarm.

“Rufus Decatur, Lord Rothbury, at your service,” he said solemnly, removing his plumed hat with a flourish as he offered a mock bow from atop his great chestnut stallion. “And who is it who travels under the Granville standard? If you please…” He raised a red eyebrow.

Portia didn’t answer the question. “Are you abducting us? Or is it murder you have in mind?”

“Tell you what,” Rufus said amiably, catching her mount’s bridle just below the bit. “We’ll trade questions. But let’s continue this fascinating but so far uninformative exchange somewhere a little less exposed to this ball-breaking cold.”

Portia reacted without thought. Her whip hand rose and she slashed at Decatur’s wrist, using all her force so that the blow cut through the leather gauntlet. He gave a shout of surprise, his hand falling from the bridle, and Portia had gathered the reins, kicked at the animal’s flanks, and was racing down the track, neither knowing nor caring in which direction, before Rufus fully realized what had happened.

Portia heard him behind her, the chestnut’s pounding hooves cracking the thin ice that had formed over the wet mud between the ridges on the track. She urged her horse to greater speed, and the animal, still panicked from the earlier melee, threw up his head and plunged forward. If she had given him his head, he would have bolted, but she hung on, maintaining some semblance of control, crouched low over his neck, half expecting a musket shot from behind.

But she knew this was a race she wasn’t going to win. Her horse was a neat, sprightly young gelding, but he hadn’t the stride or the deep chest of the pursuing animal. Unless Rufus Decatur decided for some reason to give up the chase, she was going to be overtaken within minutes. And then she realized that her pursuer was not overtaking her, he was keeping an even distance between them, and for some reason this infuriated Portia. It was as if he were playing with her, cat with mouse, allowing her to think she was escaping even as he waited to pounce in his own good time.

She slipped her hand into her boot, her fingers closing over the hilt of the wickedly sharp dagger Jack had insisted she carry from the moment he had judged her mature enough to attract unwelcome attention. Maturity rather than physical appeal had clearly been the issue. She’d learned rapidly that men didn’t seem to care if their female prey was ragged, poxed, and looked like the back end of a beer keg when they had sex on their minds.

By degrees, Portia drew back on the reins, slowing the horse’s mad progress even as she straightened in the saddle. The hooves behind her were closer now. She waited, wanting him to be too close to stop easily. Her mind was cold and clear, her heart steady, her breathing easy. But she was ready to do murder.

With a swift jerk, she pulled up her horse, swinging round in the saddle in the same moment, the dagger in her hand, the weight of the hilt balanced between her index and forefingers, steadied by her thumb.

Rufus Decatur was good and close, and as she’d hoped his horse was going fast enough to carry him right past her before he could pull it up. She saw his startled expression as for a minute he was facing her head-on. She threw the dagger, straight for his heart.

It lodged in his chest, piercing his thick cloak. The hilt quivered. Portia, mesmerized, stared at it, for the moment unable to kick her horse into motion again. She had never killed a man before.

“Jesus, Mary, and sainted Joseph!” Rufus Decatur exclaimed in a voice far too vigorous for that of a dead man. He pulled the dagger free and looked down at it in astonishment. “Mother of God!” He regarded the girl on her horse in astonishment. “You were trying to stab me!”

Portia was as astonished as he was, but for different reasons. She could see no blood on the blade. And then the mystery was explained. Her intended victim moved aside his cloak to reveal a thickly padded buff coat of the kind soldiers wore. It was fair protection against knives and arrows, if not musket balls.

“You were chasing me,” she said, feeling no need to apologize for her murderous intent. Indeed, she sounded as cross as she felt. “You abducted my escort and you were chasing me. Of course I wanted to stop you.”

Rufus thought that most young women finding themselves in such a situation, if they hadn’t swooned away in fright or thrown a fit of strong hysterics first, would have chosen a less violent course of action. But this tousled and indignant member of the female sex obviously had a more down-to-earth attitude, one with which he couldn’t help but find himself in sympathy.

“Well, I suppose you have a point,” he agreed, turning the knife over in his hand. His eyes were speculative as he examined the weapon. It was no toy. He looked up, subjecting her to a sharp scrutiny. “I should have guessed that a lass with that hair would have a temper to match.”

“As it happens, I don’t,” Portia said, returning his scrutiny with her own, every bit as sharp and a lot less benign. “I’m a very calm and easygoing person in general. Except when someone’s chasing me with obviously malicious intent.”

“Well, I have to confess I do have the temper to match,” Rufus declared with a sudden laugh as he swept off his hat to reveal his own brightly burnished locks. “But it’s utterly dormant at present. All I need from you are the answers to a couple of questions, and then you may be on your way again. I simply want to know who you are and why you’re riding under Granville protection.”

“And what business is it of yours?” Portia demanded.

“Well… you see, anything to do with the Granvilles is my business,” Rufus explained almost apologetically. “So, I really do need to have the answer to my questions.”

“What are you doing with Sergeant Crampton and his men?”

“Oh, just a little sport,” he said with a careless flourish of his hat. “They’ll come to no real harm, although they might get a little chilly.”

Portia looked over her shoulder down the narrow lane. She could see no sign of either the sergeant and his men or Rufus Decatur’s men. “Why didn’t you overtake me?” She turned back to him, her eyes narrowed. “You could have done so any time you chose.”

“You were going in the right direction, so I saw no need,” he explained reasonably. “Shall we continue on our way?”

The right direction for what? Portia was beginning to feel very confused. “You’re abducting me?”

“No, I’m offering you shelter from the cold,” he corrected in the same reasonable tone. “Since you can’t continue on your way for a while longer… until my men have finished their business… it seems only chivalrous to offer you shelter.”

“Chivalrous?” Portia stared at him and quite unconsciously her voice mimicked the mockery she had so often heard from her father on the subject of Decatur honor. “A Decatur, chivalrous! Don’t make me laugh!”

“Oh, believe me, nothing is further from my intention,” Rufus said softly, and Portia’s confusion gave way to downright fear. Some demon had sprung into the bright blue gaze, and Decatur’s dormant temper was clearly wide-awake now. She could almost feel as a palpable force the power he was using to control it.

She realized with a sick feeling that he was waiting for an apology, but Jack would turn in his grave if his daughter apologized to a Decatur. And then, embarrassingly, her stomach growled loudly in the tense silence.

Quite suddenly, the demon vanished from Decatur’s eyes, and when he spoke his voice was once more coolly reasonable. “We both seem to be in need of our dinner,” he observed. “Let’s put that unfortunate exchange down to an empty belly and the fact that you don’t know me very well as yet… When you do,” he added almost reflectively, “you’ll know to be a little more careful where you tread.” He turned his horse on the narrow path. “Come, let us go in search of dinner.”

Portia wanted to respond that she had neither the interest in nor intention of furthering their acquaintance, but she opted for an indifferent shrug instead. “At least let me have my dagger back.”

“Oh, certainly.” He presented it to her politely, hilt first, watching with interest as she tucked it back into her boot. “You threw it like an expert assassin.”

“As it happens, I’ve never tried to kill anyone before, but I know how to, should the need arise.” She turned her horse beside his. “Where are you taking me?”

“A farmhouse up the road.”

“And you’ll force them to give succor to an outlaw,” she said acidly, and then immediately cursed her unruly tongue.

However, to her relief, Rufus merely chuckled. “No, no, on the contrary. The Boltons will be delighted to see me. I hope you have a good appetite, because Annie’s likely to get offended if her plates aren’t cleaned.”

Portia glanced back again over her shoulder. She couldn’t see what she could do to aid the sergeant and his men, even if she knew where they were.