Jane Feather - The Hostage Bride

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.

Tears pricked behind her eyes and tentatively she brushed them away, anxious not to awake her companion. The warmth of the bed began to creep along her cold, tired limbs and the deep featherbed nestled around her. She was vaguely aware of the constriction at her waist, but it was not uncomfortable and when experimentally she turned on her side the maneuver was easily accomplished.

A small snore rumbled from her companion, and now her own eyes were so heavy Portia didn’t think she could have stayed awake another minute even if she were still on her feet instead of curled in this nesting warmth…

Rufus awoke a few hours later, just before the first cock crow. He was always an early riser, regardless of how short the night or how convivial the preceding evening. His companion was curled on her side away from him, her breathing deep and regular. He hitched himself on one elbow and examined her sleeping countenance. It felt a little like voyeurism, watching an unconscious sleeper, but their dealings had been so tempestuous so far he hadn’t the chance for a leisurely assessment. And for all her exasperating facets, Portia Worth inspired his curiosity.

Fate had dealt the cards from the bottom of the pack when it came to allocating fortune and favor to this section of the Granville family, he reflected. Not even the most partisan description could apply russet or auburn or copper to the orange flame of hair springing forth from her pale, angular countenance. Her eyes, presently closed, were her best feature, but as counterweights in the scale of negatives they were lamentably light. But then, her physical attributes were probably the least interesting aspects of Mistress Worth. A man face-to-face with that indomitable, challenging spirit was unlikely to give her features a passing thought. She’d grown up in a hard school, he reflected, but it hadn’t crushed her. Self-pity was definitely not one of Mistress Worth’s failings, although Lord knew she had sufficient reason to indulge in it once in a while.

He caught himself smiling and thought somewhat acidly that it was an addled response to the temperament of his accidental hostage. Not only had he acquired a completely useless bargaining counter, but instead of a docile, meek child, he found himself saddled with a creature who didn’t know how to surrender to the inevitable. It definitely added insult to injury.

He unfastened the belt at his wrist with one quick tug on the knot, then slipped a hand beneath the quilts to free the buckle at Portia’s waist. His hand immediately encountered skin, the softest, smoothest skin he had ever touched. So amazingly delicate was it that his hand lingered, even as he realized that her nightrobe must have become entangled around her waist and he was presently tracing the bare curve of her bottom. Wisdom told him to abandon both belt and bed without further ado, but his fingers seemed deaf to such sage dictates.

They slid in a delicate voyage of exploration, the exquisite softness of her skin sending little tremors of arousal through his loins. It was a delightful sensation, one he was loath to bring to an end, but Portia stirred suddenly and muttered, pushing at his hand as if it were a buzzing insect. Reluctantly e let his hand fall away and forced himself back to the reality of the cold morning.

He slid out of bed, prepared to abandon the belt, then, without conscious intention, found himself very gently inching back the covers, listening almost guiltily to the continued rhythm of her breathing. The long, pale legs were curled, her arms were crossed over her breast, and Rufus caught himself thinking that there was something remarkably endearing about the slender, vulnerable line of her backside.

What the hell was he doing? He almost jumped back from the bed, feeling like a rapist. Needing a reason now for his actions, with grim concentration and extreme caution, he eased the belt through the buckle and slid it out from under her.

Miraculously, Portia slept on. Rufus pulled the covers over her again, dressed swiftly, and tiptoed downstairs. There was no sound from his sons’ bed, and he let himself out of the cottage into the gray dawn, making his way through the village and up to the sentry points to check on the night’s reports. The cold air cleared his brain and cooled his recalcitrant loins, and by the time he reached the sentry post, he was almost able to believe the whole episode had been the tail of an erotic dream.

There were no reports of untoward movement across the barren landscape during the night. The approaches to the Decatur village offered no concealment from the ring of watchmen on the surrounding hilltops, and the moonlight had been exceptionally bright. As Rufus returned to the village the sun was coming up over the low-lying hills to the east, fingers of pink and orange reaching across the pale sky. It would be another brilliant winter day.

He turned into the mess, ducking his head beneath the low lintel. An elderly man looked up from the range where he was stirring cauldrons of porridge. “Mornin‘, master. After breakin’ yer fast, are ye?”

“Aye, Bill.” Rufus stripped off his gloves, surprised to find he was ravenous. “I’m the first, it seems.”

“Oh, the littl’uns were in a minute past.” The cook ladled porridge into an earthenware bowl and set it before the master. He brought a pitcher of cream and a bowl of thick, dark treacle.

“They’re up already?” Rufus poured cream and spooned treacle, stirring the contents of the porringer with hungry anticipation. “Did they eat?”

“Took some bread ‘n’ drippin‘ out wi’ ‘em,” Bill observed comfortably. “They was all excited about them puppies.”

“Oh, don’t tell me Tod’s bitch has whelped already?” Rufus sighed. “They’ve been agitating about having a pair of the puppies ever since Tod told them.”

“Reckon ye’ll ‘ave a fight on yer ’ands,” Bill said with a grin. “Fancy some sweetbreads?”

Rufus nodded through a mouthful of porridge, swallowed, and said, “Josiah’s gone to the cottage already?”

“Aye, about ‘alf an hour ago. Said he’d look in on the lass an’ see if she needs aught.” Bill glanced slyly at the master as he sliced sweetbreads into a skillet. A gently bred woman in the Decatur stronghold had never happened before, and speculation was rife among the lower echelons of the command, who were not in their commander’s confidence.

“Good” was all the response he got for his pains. Rufus continued calmly with his breakfast. Expecting his hostage to be a scared and innocent child, he had instructed Josiah, who ordinarily was relegated to helping with the mess and caring for Luke and Toby’s basic needs when their father was otherwise occupied, to take care of Olivia. Josiah was elderly, with a gentle and reassuring manner, and Rufus had reasoned that his young hostage would find him a less menacing male caretaker than anyone else in the military compound. Whether the hostage he had inadvertently acquired would need such consideration on his part was another matter.