Will eagerly scanned the parchment, then he let out a low whistle. “Troop movements. This has to go to York immediately.”

“That’s rather what I thought,” Portia said. She could tell by the gleam of excitement in his eye that he’d forgotten his earlier disappointment in the prospect of bringing such a vital document back to his commander.

It was full dark when they passed the sentry fires and came to a weary halt in the stable yard. Will dismounted and Portia, handing Penny to one of the lads on stable duty, said, “Are you coming to the cottage, Will? I expect Rufus will be there.”

Will hesitated. Portia had been responsible for acquiring the priceless piece of information, but he, as leader of the expedition, had the right to take the credit for it. “You take it if you like.” He reached inside his jerkin.

“No, you go. I’ll go and find the boys. I expect they have Juno with them. It’s past their suppertime and I’m sure they’re not at home yet.” It was an educated assumption. Luke and Toby were only ever to be found at home when they were asleep, and not always then. Rufus didn’t seem to feel the need to instill routine in their lives, and Portia couldn’t see that it was any business of hers.

Will watched her go, feeling ungenerous and almost childishly petty in the face of Portia’s considerate restraint. He knew how anxious she would be to greet Rufus. She always became fidgety as they approached the village after an absence, and he sensed how she was longing to gallop ahead instead of trotting in decorously as part of the troop. And now for his sake she’d postponed the moment she’d been anticipating for the last hour.

But his own excitement soon overcame conscience, and he found himself running toward Rufus’s cottage. Rufus was standing in the open doorway, looking down the street, when Will came racing up.

“Where’s Portia?”

Will heard the sharp edge to the question and understood that Rufus had been anticipating her return as eagerly as had Portia. He flushed and said, “She went to find the boys and Juno. She said she’ll be along in a few minutes.”

Rufus frowned, then stepped back into the lit cottage. “You had a successful day?”

“We intercepted couriers.” Will handed over the parchment, trying to conceal his bursting excitement. “Details of troop movements!”

Rufus ran his eyes over the message. “How did you get this?”

Will’s hesitation was barely perceptible, before he said, “Portia and Paul did.” He explained the events of the day and the decisions he’d taken in meticulous detail and with total honesty.

Rufus listened gravely. Once or twice a quick frown flashed across the calm blue gaze, but at the end, he smiled and said, “A thoroughly successful expedition, Will. I congratulate you.”

Will beamed with pleasure. “We’ll be sending the information to the command in York, then?”

“Yes, it needs to go tonight.” Rufus turned to the table to pour ale for them both.

“I’ll take it.”

Rufus shook his head. “Nay, lad, you’ve been riding hard all day. George can carry it.”

Will looked disappointed but resigned. He drank his ale and set the tankard on the table. “I’ll be off, then.”

Rufus nodded. “Before you go off duty, take the dispatch to George and give him your instructions.”

Will looked gratified. He’d expected Rufus to take over this matter of such vital importance. “He’s to leave immediately?”

“Immediately,” Rufus affirmed. He leaned over and clapped him on the shoulder. “You did well, Will.”

“Yes, didn’t he?” Portia’s voice chimed in from the doorway. She stood regarding the two men with a slight smile that did nothing to hide the sensual glow in her eyes as they rested on Rufus. “The boys have gone downriver with Silas… to visit some friend of his, apparently. And they’ve taken Juno with them. There’s no knowing when they’ll be back. I can’t help feeling it’s late for them to be out.”

“Oh, Silas will look after them,” Will said airily. He brushed past Portia with a word of farewell.

Portia continued to stand in the doorway, motionless, her eyes still fixed upon Rufus. “Don’t you think it’s very late for them to be out?” she said.

“I think the absence of both dog and boys is very fortuitous.” He came toward her slowly, investing each step of his advance with silent promise. Portia shivered in anticipation, wondering how it was he could do this to her. How just being in the same room with him could cause such a melting in her loins, such a weakness in her thighs, such a jolting current of lust in her belly.

Rufus stood in front of her without touching her. He leaned around and pulled the door closed, the latch clicking like a statement in the fire-warmed, candlelit silence. He was so close to her he could almost feel her heart beating, and the scent of her skin filled his nostrils-it was a rich earthy scent where sweat and horseflesh and fresh air mingled with her own particular fragrance, a fragrance he didn’t think he could ever tire of. It was youthful, delicate, and yet abundantly healthy, and it went with the exquisite softness of her skin and the wild, unruly strength of her hair and the living light in her eyes.

He raised a hand and pulled off her cap. The bright orange mass of curls sprang free with a life of their own, and the pale face was surrounded by a flaming halo. She had a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

Negligently almost, he traced the line of her cheek with his forefinger, lightly pressed the jutting tip of her chin, ran the pad of his thumb over her mouth. All the while she stood still, her eyes never leaving his face, her lips slightly parted as if she had been about to speak but something had prevented the words from issuing forth.

He unclasped her cloak, tossing it aside, then pulled off her gloves, one at a time. They joined the cloak. He unfastened her swordbelt, hanging the rapier up beside his own heavy cavalry sword. Then he lifted her, and sat her on the edge of the table to pull off her boots and stockings.

Portia fell back on the hard flat surface of the table. She raised her hips so that he could pull off her britches and drawers, lifting her hands way over her head to grasp the far edge of the table. Rufus, without taking his eyes from hers, unfastened his britches.

Guessing what he wanted of her, Portia wrapped her legs around his waist. The jutting spike of flesh slid into her body with the ease of temptation. She gripped the table edge even tighter, lifting her hips, moving against him as he stood, holding her ankles at his back, watching her with that deep smile in his eyes. Portia laughed with pure exultation and the sound was almost shocking, breaking as it did the powerful intensity of their silence.

Rufus chuckled, transferred his grip on her ankles to one hand and brought the other hand around. He ran his thumb in a long, leisurely rubbing caress over the moist and heated opened core of her body, and the hot fire of pleasure made her cry out. Her hips arced on the hard surface beneath her, her eyes closed as the wave of pleasure curled ever closer, and her breath was swift and ragged.

Rufus held her on the edge, feeling the little ripples of her muscles around his flesh buried so deep within her. He watched her face, loving the wonderful translucence of her skin as her climax approached. Her eyes shot open, meeting his intent gaze, and then she was lost. She reached up, pulling him tight against her, feeling the throbbing pulse of his flesh against her womb. Her fingers tugged urgently at the dusting of red curls on his back, as his soft groans of delight were muffled against her shoulder.

“Welcome home, gosling,” Rufus murmured, slowly bringing himself upright again. “I give you good evening.”

“And I you, Lord Rothbury,” she returned with an impish grin, sitting up on the table. “I wasn’t expecting such a vigorous welcome, I must say.”

“Learning from experience is a sign of intelligence,” he observed, refastening his britches.

“Ah, but when I’m with you I forget everything I’ve ever learned,” she said, sliding to the floor. “I’m sure I’m not very nice to know at the moment… I must reek of horseflesh and sweat.”

In just her shirt, she went to the pantry to fetch a basin. She filled it with hot water from the kettle and, discarding the shirt, set to washing herself with matter-of-fact efficiency.

Rufus leaned against the mantelpiece and watched her. She was as thin as ever, despite a regular and more than ample diet, but he loved the angularities of her body, the sharp bones of her hips, the narrowness of her clearly delineated rib cage, the hollow of her throat within the necklace of her collarbone, the shape of her shoulder blades moving beneath the white skin.

“You had quite an adventure today, I gather,” he observed.

Portia paused in her ablutions, the washcloth suspended beneath one raised arm. “What did Will say?”

“Oh, that you and Paul had pursued the couriers alone and had succeeded in lifting their documents… vital documents, as I’m sure you realized.”

“Of course I did,” she said, resuming her washing. “Paul and I set up a neat little ambush for them. Paul pretended that his horse had thrown a shoe in the middle of the lane, and he was positioned across it so they had to stop…” She handed him a washcloth and turned her back.

Rufus obliged while she continued. “And he engaged them in the most wonderfully inane discussion, in the broadest Yorkshire you could imagine, so they could hardly understand a word, and while they were distracted, I came at ‘em!”

“Part your legs.”

She did so and he drew the cloth down between the cleft of her buttocks, along the inner reaches of her thigh. Her voice faltered.