It was such a volte-face Portia was momentarily speechless. His vivid blue gaze danced with laughter, his mouth curved in a smile of unexpected sweetness. “Truce?” He pressed the tip of her nose with a forefinger.

God, how she hated him! He was manipulating her again, teasing her with all the deceit and arrogance of men the world over. How could he know that when he touched her and looked at her in that way it made her blood sing? Her loathing of the man just seemed to slide away under a smile that seemed to imply some deep knowledge of the world, of herself, even. But he did know and he was using it for his own ends.

The sheer force of his personality, his physical presence itself, was somehow dictating how she was to respond to him, overpowering her own sense of what was rational and legitimate in the circumstances.

Rufus let his hands fall from her shoulders, and Portia stepped away from him, her hands half lifted as if to ward something off.

“Truce,” she said in a voice that didn’t sound quite like her own. Then she turned abruptly to where the boys still stood at the back of the room and lunged for Luke, catching him up in a shrieking tangle of limbs. Josiah caught Toby as he dived between the legs of the table.

Rufus stood for a minute, unaware that he was smiling as he wondered what it was about his accidental hostage that was so appealing. She was all spikes and sparks, and yet there were moments when he saw beneath the antagonism, and what he saw he found utterly delightful.

It was disturbing. He turned on his heel and left the shrieking chaos of the cottage.

When he returned half an hour later, it was to find his sons in clean clothes, astonishingly subdued, damp curls clinging to their scalps, cheeks scrubbed shiny. They were sitting by the fire, shivering intermittently like newly bathed puppies, and regarded their father with large eyes filled with recrimination.

“I’m cold,” Toby said reproachfully.

“We’re both cold,” his brother chimed in.

“They’re only cold because their skin isn’t used to fresh air and water,” Portia said. “We almost had to scrape the grime off them.”

“Well, I’ve fulfilled my side of the bargain. See what you think of these.” Rufus handed her a bundle, with a strange gleam in his eye that put Portia immediately on her guard.

“I’ll be off, then, master.” Josiah headed for the door, Luke and Toby on his heels, as Portia took the bundle gingerly, almost as if she were expecting it to conceal a sharp-toothed ferret.

“What are these?” Portia gestured to the parcel.

Rufus grinned. “Take them upstairs and find out. I think you’ll be surprised.”

“Good surprised or bad surprised?”

“I don’t know. But they were all I could find. We have a rather limited supply of spare garments in the compound.”

Portia, now convinced that it was going to be an unpleasant surprise, carried the bundle upstairs. Presumably he’d found her some peasant woman’s rough homespun gown and holland petticoat. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and if they were clean she’d not complain.

She laid the bundle on the bed and untied it. She stared in astonishment and then lifted up the garments one by one, shaking them out. A pair of doeskin britches, woolen stockings and garters, a shirt of unbleached linen, woolen under-drawers, a sleeveless jerkin of dark worsted, and a frieze wool cloak. There was even a belt, and a new pair of gloves to replace the split ones. Rufus had thought of everything.

Astonishment gave way to delight. She’d always wanted to shed the irksome trappings of femalehood. Here was her chance.

The water Josiah had brought her earlier was tepid now, but she washed herself thoroughly, shivering but resolute. Then, with almost languid pleasure, she dressed, relishing the strange feel of the garments. She sat on the bed to pull on her own boots, then slowly stood up, running her hands down the unfamiliarly delineated length of her body. There was a wonderful sense of freedom in these garments, and they seemed warmer than gowns and petticoats. The woolen underdrawers helped, of course, and the leather britches seemed to resist the cold better. It was, Portia decided, a vast improvement on her previous incarnation, but there was no mirror in Rufus’s bedchamber, so she had no way of telling what she looked like.

Rufus had his back to the stairs as she came down, but he turned at the sound of her step. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of her. “How do you like them?” He regarded her over the rim of his tankard as he took a sip of ale.

“I’ve always believed I was supposed to have been born a boy,” Portia said. “I’m not formed like a woman. I don’t have any curves or anything.”

“I wouldn’t say no curves,” Rufus murmured consideringly. “Turn around.”

Portia obeyed.

Rufus’s gaze ran slowly down the slender frame. Her legs in the britches seemed even longer than usual. The jerkin sat on her hips and was buttoned tight into the indentation of her waist cinched by the belt.

“It suits you,” he pronounced finally, his eyes alight with appreciation.

Portia’s smile was involuntary and so full of delight that Rufus was strangely moved. He had the feeling she hadn’t received too many compliments in her life. Unless, of course, other hands had come into contact with that exquisitely fine skin, or some other man could appreciate a spirit so unyielding, reflected in a pair of widely spaced, slanted, pure green cat’s eyes.

“Now you’re dressed, we’re going to take a tour of the compound,” he said, his tone crisp as he returned to business. He handed her the frieze cloak. “Put this on.”

“I can’t think why I would wish to tour a thieves’ den,” Portia retorted, automatically taking the cloak. “You may well think it’s the duty of a courteous host, but I do assure you it’s a courtesy I can forgo.”

The moment of truce was clearly over.

Rufus regarded her steadily, his eyes hard as diamonds.

“Make no mistake, Mistress Worth. This tour has a very straightforward purpose. It’s by way of saving myself further trouble. I wish you to understand that any other attempt to leave this compound will be utterly futile. You cannot escape from here undetected.”

“And how long do you intend to keep me here?”

“I haven’t as yet decided,” he said shortly.

“But Lord Granville isn’t going to pay any ransom for me. You already know that.”

“My decision will not necessarily be based on Cato’s actions.”

Portia’s mouth was a little dry. “Are you going to kill me?”

“What on earth would give you that idea?” Rufus frowned at her.

“You’re a thief and a kidnapper. You hate Granvilles, and I’m a Granville,” she stated, trying to ignore the blue fire now enlivening his gaze, the little pulse beating rapidly in his temple.

There was a moment of tense silence. Then Rufus said with cold finality, “I am beginning to resent these accusations. Be a little careful. You don’t know anything about me. And I suggest that until you do, you keep a still tongue in your head.” He took her elbow and propelled her outside into the lane.

He walked fast, almost pulling her along so that she had to skip to keep up with him. In flat tones that did nothing to disguise his continued anger, he imparted information, every detail related to the impregnable nature of the stronghold and the absolute authority of its master.

He didn’t stop once, didn’t even slow his speed, acknowledging the half salutes from men they passed with a brusque nod-men drilling, sharpening pikes, oiling muskets. The place hummed with martial activity. Portia was disconcerted to find that after the first slightly curious glances, she drew no more attention than if she were a dog accompanying the master of Decatur on his rounds. Did no one here ever question the master’s actions?

She made no attempt to interrupt the flow of instructions and against her will began to understand why the men of Decatur viewed their master with such unquestioning awe.

A lawless outcast he might be, the leader of a band of brigands he might be, but he had a fearsome authority and Decatur village was run with superb military efficiency. She remembered how Jack, whenever he’d mentioned Rufus Decatur, had always implied that he was a worthy enemy. Despite his contempt for brigandage, her father had had an unwilling respect for the man whose vengeance could not lightly be dismissed. And she’d heard the same note from Cato, lurking behind his interest in her past encounter with Decatur, his need for the finest details.

She’d have a good few interesting details to impart to Cato after her forced march through Decatur village, she thought suddenly. And that chill of rear rose anew. Surely Decatur wouldn’t reveal so much to someone from the enemy camp if he intended to release her unharmed?

“We’re going up to the sentry post now.” Her escort’s clipped tones were for once a welcome interruption to her chain of thought. He pointed up the hill to where smoke curled from the watchman’s fire. “You were brought in through the eastern section of the valley. There are posts at every compass point overlooking the Cheviots and all the way to the border. Just as there are along the river for ten miles either side. I believe you discovered that last night.”

Portia didn’t dignify that with a response, and Rufus continued in the same tone, “My cousin Will has charge of all the sentry dispositions and all the reports. You met him last night.”

As they climbed upward Rufus found himself noticing that Portia had begun to walk in a different way, swinging her hips as her stride lengthened. She was obviously adapting to the freedom of britches. In his present mood it annoyed him that he’d noticed.