Jo Beverley - [Malloren 02] (53 page)

"...but it is better," completed Bryght. "Since I'm apparently not permitted to wring his neck, I suppose it will have to do."

"There is more," said Oliver stiffly. "I would not have told you, my lord, were it not for the fact that you seem to be my brother-in-law. Which I still find most peculiar. But, while Lord Walgrave has bought up the debt on Overstead, he is not returning the property to me just yet. It is a mortgage of sorts, but more stringent than most mortgages. My mother and sisters..." He broke off to cast a puzzled look at Portia. "My mother and sister will live at Overstead, but I cannot lose what I do not own. He has given me his word that he will not release the property to me to pay any kind of debt."

"Neat. Walgrave has more wit that I took him for." Bryght turned to Portia. "If you'd told me this, you could have saved me and your brother a great deal of trouble."

"I didn't know the details, but even if I had I wouldn't have thought it any of your business."

"And it is none of my business, I suppose, why you were exchanging
billets doux
with Walgrave at our wedding feast, and then ran off with him?"

"Because you wouldn't bring me!"

"Or what happened other than kisses during the journey."

"Nothing happened! You're going to have to trust me."

"Why, when you never trust me? Why didn't you tell me your real reason for wanting to travel to Overstead?"

Because she hadn't trusted him.

"You've given me no reason to trust you," she protested, and saw her wild words create an icy wall between them.

He turned toward the door.

"Wait!" she cried. "Where are you going?"

He turned back, distantly polite. "I'm giving you and your brother an opportunity to talk in peace, after which I assume he will want to leave to speak to the colonel. You may go with him if you wish. If you wish to talk to me, a servant will doubtless find me."

The door closed behind him with a steely click.

Portia stared at it.
You may go with him if you wish.

"Portia?" Oliver asked. "What the devil's going on?"

"Oh, Oliver, it's become such a coil."

"Then you'd best tell me all about it. I know I'm only your younger brother, but perhaps I can help."

So Portia sat with a sigh and told him of all her adventures. She even included the events at Mirabelle's since they seemed part of the whole.

"Lord above," he muttered, running a hand down his face. "The risks you've run."

"I did what I had to, and I've had few enough choices along the way."

"And now you're married to him."

"Yes."

He chewed his lip. "Perhaps we can get you out of it. Duress or something. After all, you fled on your wedding night...."

Portia blushed. "I'm not a virgin, Oliver. And I don't want to get out of it. But now I fear there's no hope."

"Plague take it," muttered Oliver, staring into the fire. "It's all my fault. If I hadn't been so foolish..."

"If you hadn't been so foolish, I would have stayed contentedly at Overstead counting turnips, and never so much as set eyes on Bryght Malloren." It seemed to her impossible that she could have lived without ever knowing the man who was now the center of her world.

The man she had lost.

She stood to roam the room. "I suppose I should leave with you. Perhaps an annulment is possible. You need me anyway to take care of Overstead. I can return home and... and count turnips for the rest of my... my life...." She swallowed fiercely. She would
not
cry.

"I think you should go and talk to him," said Oliver with surprising understanding. "Judging from the way he looked when you were crying, I don't think he wants you to leave."

"He probably wants to wring my neck."

"If you really did run off with Fort on your wedding night, he has reason. You've never been a coward, though, Portia. Face your devils."

It was good advice and she turned to him. "You truly want to be in the army?"

"With all my heart."

She kissed his cheek. "Be happy then. And wish me luck. War is probably a safer course than the one I'm choosing."

* * *

Portia left the room and found the corridor empty. Where would Bryght be? She could start searching rooms again, but the prospect wearied her. Instead she descended the stairs to the hall, seeking a servant.

The hall appeared empty, but then she heard a blast from a horn. Within moments the space was teeming with staff. She froze with surprise, but then two footmen swung open the doors to reveal the Marquess of Rothgar mounting the steps, his sister on his arm. Another gentleman came behind and they were trailed by a small retinue of personal servants. Two coaches each drawn by six horses, stood in the drive.

Portia was rooted to the stairs by shock. As servants bustled around divesting the arrivals of cloaks, hats, and muffs Lord Rothgar looked up and saw her.

He raised a cold brow.

He wasn't the devil she had intended to face but there was nothing for it. Portia descended the stairs, wishing Bryght would appear to support her.

"Bridgewater," said the marquess coolly to the pale, lanky young man by his side. "May I present Lady Arcenbryght Malloren?"

The duke took her hand and kissed it warmly. "Lady Bryght. I posted down to be sure he wasn't doing something foolish in my cause." He sounded pleased, but Portia wasn't sure how to take his words.

Elf stepped into the situation. "Oh, do let's go into the Tapestry Room where there will be a fire." She linked arms with Portia. "Came long. It was a lovely wedding, wasn't it...?" She swept them all along on a ripple of light chatter until they were in the room and the door was shut.

"Where's Bryght?" asked Rothgar crisply.

Portia flinched. "I don't know. He's here somewhere."

"You left the house separately. How did you get here?"

Portia swallowed. Perhaps
Rothgar
would wring her neck. "Fort brought me," she whispered.

"You are a rash and dangerous woman."

Portia began to wonder if she would be tossed out of Rothgar Abbey on her ear but Brand and Fort walked in.

"She certainly is," Brand said, shaking his head at her. "Lord, Bey, I recall you taking a switch to the twins when they climbed the north wall."

Rothgar's brows rose as he looked at Portia. "A very rash woman."

"He locked me in!" But she had seen the flicker of amusement on the marquess's eyes. "It's an easy climb."

"True enough. But not to be encouraged for eight-year-olds. One assumes older people will have more sense. Is your brother well?"

"Yes."

"Oliver's safe?" asked Fort sharply.

"Yes," Portia told him, praying he'd make no further trouble. "It was all a mistake."

"What a shame. Does Bryght want to kill me?" He sounded mildly hopeful.

Portia could have killed him herself. "Fort, stop this. Go away and leave my life alone."

"But you're a Malloren," he said. He strolled toward her and took her hand, raising it for a kiss. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to run away with me?"

Portia was burningly aware of a roomful of Mallorens and a total stranger. "Not in the slightest," she said icily, dragging her hand from his.

"How ungrateful you are." He looked around the room then bowed.
"Au revoir. A la prochaine."

Portia watched him leave. Until the next, he said. But what next? Would he succeed in getting his revenge, or in finding death at the hands of a Malloren?

"Portia!"

The marquess's sharp tone brought her attention back to him.

"If you wish to leave with Lord Walgrave, I will not stop you." He sounded as if he might wave her on her way.

Portia licked her lips. "I don't."

"What are your feelings for Bryght?"

Portia looked around at the watchful faces, and Elf flashed her an encouraging smile.

"I love him," she admitted.

Rothgar's expression didn't lighten. "Then you had best find him, don't you think?"

Portia wished he would offer a little support and guidance. "I don't know where to look."

"It rather depends on whether he wants to be found. His rooms would be an optimistic place to start. Elf, could you play guide to this architectural mass?"

"Of course." Elf took Portia's hand to lead her from the room.

"And Portia," said the marquess, halting them, "if necessary, scream very loudly. We have had our due allotment of violent deaths here for one year."

Portia was trembling as Elf led her to the stairs.

Elf paused to smile. "Don't worry. Bryght won't harm you."

"Can you be sure? I tried to shoot him. Again." Her heart was racing and her knees were knocking, but it wasn't so much fear of violence—though that was possible—as fear of rejection.

Elf laughed. "That's probably part of your charm."

Portia wasn't sure she had any charm anymore. Bryght had said he loved her, but that was before she had betrayed him. Not betrayed him physically, but emotionally, in fearing the worst. In not trusting him.

They were in a side corridor and Elf stopped by a door. "Here we are." She suddenly gathered Portia into her arms and hugged her. "It will be all right. Just be honest."

With that, she turned and retraced her steps, not looking back to see what Portia would do.

Portia wiped a damp hand on her skirt. If there were any sensible alternatives she might have walked away from this door, but Bryght had to be faced. If he were here at all.

What if he didn't want to be found?

She turned the knob and went in, to find only an empty room. Her heart turned to a painful lump in her chest.

It was a kind of study with a well-stocked library and desk, but with chairs by the fire and a sideboard bearing decanters and a bowl of fruit. It was a comfortable, well-used room which spoke to her senses of Bryght.

But he wasn't here.

He didn't want to be found.

Then she saw the half-open adjoining door to the bedroom. That room too looked empty, but she entered it anyway.

Bryght was leaning against the windowsill, stark naked.

Portia's mouth dropped open.

"Naked to your malice or your love," he said, and though his body concealed nothing, his feelings were cloaked.

Portia couldn't see her way, and it appeared he wasn't going to guide her. "I can't say I'm sorry," she whispered. "In the same situations, I would do the same things."

"I know. But I have to know you'll trust me in the future, that when you have doubts you'll tell me of them, not run off on some crazy start."

"Will
you
trust me?" she demanded. "You thought I was capable of committing adultery on my wedding night."

His jaw twitched. "You've expressed a preference for Fort."

"I've known him since we were children."

"That hardly makes it better."

"He's like a brother." Portia clasped and unclasped her hands. "I asked him to kiss me in the coach because I had never been truly kissed by a man other than you. I wanted to know if the effect was from the kisses or the man."

"And?" he asked softly.

She shrugged uneasily and looked away. "He had little effect on me. Of course, that isn't a very wide test...."

"Portia," he warned.

She realized her hands were tight together now. "Bryght, I'm scared. Tell me you love me."

"No. I've done that and had it thrown back at me. It's your turn."

She eyed him uncertainly, wondering if he wanted a chance to reject her love. Perhaps his nakedness was an insult.

"What is love?" she whispered.

"What do you feel?"

She turned away from the distracting sight of him. "I can't imagine life without you. I care about you. I want you to be happy. I... I want to bear your children...." Still he said nothing. "I desire you."

His bare feet had made no sound, so she jumped when he touched her shoulders. He turned her and undid the clasp that held her gown together at the front.

"What...?"

"If you want to bear my children, we had best work at it."

She gripped his hands. "Bryght!"

He stopped. "I'm sorry. That was unfortunate. I'm still a little angry with you." He raised his hands to cradle her face. "But I love you, Portia. I, too, cannot imagine life without you. I want your happiness, your children, and your desire. Always. And," he added with a smile, "the River Thames is rather insistently rising."

She looked down and saw it was true. She curled her hand around him. He felt as hot as her face. "I can't believe how bold I am with you. It's as if I'm not me at all."

"You are entrancingly you." He slipped her gown off her shoulders, down her arms, to fall to the floor, then ran his hands restlessly over her pretty bridal stays and petticoats. "No hoops?"