Chapter 1 #2
He simply unfastened the cloak and went forward, leaving her with a mass of heavy wool in her hands. She dropped it and plunged after him. He was headed for the fireplace and she ran around him and spread herself in front of it, gasping, “Not another step!”
He stopped mere inches from her. It occurred to her at last that she was being very, very foolish.
This room had two long uncurtained windows and the moonlight was bright, showing him to her clearly at last. Beneath his dark jacket and leather riding breeches was clearly a superb collection of bone and muscle that must out-mass her two to one.
Behind the beautiful face was a will that would not be turned from its goal.
His goal just now was the fireplace she guarded with her body.
She swallowed, hoping she didn’t look as frightened as she felt.
Portia’s mother had often bemoaned her daughter’s rash nature, blaming it upon the name chosen by her idealistic father.
Hannah Upcott did not care for theater at the best of times, and thought Portia’s name encouraged an unseemly drive to challenge the world.
She had insisted that her second daughter be named Prudence.
Hannah regularly predicted that Portia’s reckless nature would land her in trouble, and often quoted the adage: “Those who tempt fortune risk losing all.” Portia feared that she was about to prove her mother right, but she still couldn’t meekly step aside.
Her opponent made no immediate move to manhandle her. “If there is nothing there, why the heat?”
Despite a racing heart, she looked him in the eye. “You have forced your way into this house, sir. I will not allow this intrusion.”
“At another time, Hippolyta, I would be amused to test your ability to allow or disallow, but my business is somewhat urgent. May I point out that the easiest way to have me leave is to allow me to find what I have come for?”
“You will have to prove you have the right to the document. To whom does it belong?”
“I told you. To a lady.” There was the warning edge of impatience in his voice.
“And how did it come to be here?”
“Let us say, she was a guest.”
She glanced around the stark room. “In here? I doubt it.”
“Perhaps she has ascetic tastes. Why, I wonder, are you so fierce in your guarding of this place? Does the Earl of Walgrave deserve such allegiance?”
The name startled Portia. If this Malloren man knew the house was leased by the Earl of Walgrave, then he clearly was not in the wrong house after all.
For the first time Portia wondered if his business here was legitimate.
He had, after all, knocked on the door like an honest man.
She had heard the sharp raps but ignored them.
No one would be knocking at the door looking for her, and being alone in the house she had no mind to open it so late at night.
She said, “The earl, like any householder, has the right to expect that his home be inviolate.”
“I doubt the mighty earl would claim this simple place his home. He merely leased it for a purpose. Since it is the earl’s property, however, I wonder what you are doing here. Housekeeper, perhaps?”
“Certainly not.”
“An intruder, then, like myself? After all, I came upon you skulking in the chilly dark, pistol in hand.”
“I was not skulking. We are guests, sir. We are well-acquainted with the earl, and he invited us to stay here.” Portia would not tell him that she and her brother were impoverished supplicants and that the earl had commanded them to await his pleasure here.
“Us?”
Portia realized she was being trapped into conversation, and conversation was dangerous.
“Us?” he repeated softly.
“Myself, ten hefty brothers, and three servants,” she declared, chin high. “They are all out at the moment.”
“Only three servants?” he drawled. “How paltry. I require that many to hand me my clothes in the morning.”
She was not entirely sure he was joking. “I will not meekly permit you to do what you want here, Mr. Malloren.”
“My lord,” he corrected amiably, moving a little closer. “Lord Arcenbryght Malloren. An absurd name, but mine own.”
Portia was aware of a distressing tendency to both gape and sidle away, but she hit back. “Your rank does not excuse your wickedness, my lord.”
“True.” He caged her with a hand on the wall on either side of her head.
“But it makes it a lot less likely I’ll be hauled before the magistrates for my sins, doesn’t it?
” His height forced her to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, and her neck hurt as she watched his lips lower toward hers.
Her heart was pounding and she was beginning to turn dizzy. Damn him, damn him, damn him….
“So, mignon,” he whispered inches from her lips, “why not just allow me my wicked way?”
Portia admitted at last that she was completely outmatched. He was a lord, a rake, and a large, ruthless man intent on his purpose. She ducked away from him and he let her go, flashing her an all-too-knowing grin.
May the ten curses of Egypt fall on his head!
She gathered what remained of her dignity and gestured disdainfully at the empty hearth and plain wooden surround.
“Proceed, my lord. I cannot wait to see you produce paper out of thin air. Are you perhaps a magician?”
“Perhaps I am.” He went forward and instead of looking in the empty grate or up the sooty chimney, he inspected the place where the wood joined the plaster wall. Portia couldn’t resist going closer to see what he was doing.
He was prying at the space between the wood and the wall, but he suddenly cursed and sucked a finger.
“Oh, dear,” she said with spurious sympathy. “Have you torn a nail, my lord?”
The look he sent her made her resolve to control her saucy tongue. “Is there truly something behind there, my lord?” she asked more moderately.
“Yes, Mistress Curiosity, there truly is.” He dug in his pocket for his pen-knife and used it to work at the problem. “So, you are guests, are you? I would have thought the earl a better host. There seems to be a marked lack of servants, furniture, and heat.”
“The other rooms are normally furnished.”
“And the heat and servants? Ah, I forgot. The servants are out with your ten hefty brothers.”
“Exactly. And I prefer cool temperatures. They are healthier.” She crossed her arms, wished for her shawls, and tried not to shiver.
“You must forgive me if I don’t believe a word you say, Hippolyta. I doubt it’s any concern of mine, however. In fact, if you want to pilfer Walgrave’s property, you have my blessing.”
Portia felt as if her hair must be standing on end with fury. “How dare you suggest…”
But he wasn’t paying attention. “Ah,” he said, and began to slide a folded paper free. He wiggled it carefully out with the tip of the knife until he could grip it, then stood to hold it teasingly before her. “Abracadabra!”
The taunt was the final straw. Portia twitched it out of his loose hold and ran. She was snared by the back of her gown, dragged hard against his body, and the paper was plucked from her hand. “Very foolish,” he said.
Portia knew it, for now there was no humor in his voice at all. He had one arm unbreakably around her and the folded paper was in front of her face. It was heavily scented with Otto of Roses and she turned her head away from the smell.
“Do you not care for the perfume?” It was said lightly, but nothing could persuade her that he was in a good humor.
“It is a little cloying, my lord.”
“A lady of virtue and discretion, would you say?”
“Hardly.”
“But this letter could be to a friend, discussing the latest gowns.”
“Is it?”
“I fear not.” His tone was almost contemplative.
His arm was a prison as secure as iron bars, but Portia was relaxing. Again, she sensed no direct threat in him, and in fact found this strange embrace almost comforting. It was hard being small, female, and responsible for everything. What would it be like to have a strong man at one’s command?
Such foolishness. What point in trusting men when they could lose the very roof over one’s head with foolish investments, or on the turn of a card? As her father had done, then shot himself. As her half-brother had done, landing them in this predicament.
She pushed against his hold. “Let me go, my lord. You have what you came for, and I cannot stop you from taking it.”
“I’m glad you realize that at last.” He relaxed his arm and she pushed free and turned to face him.
She saw she was right. The light humor that had marked him throughout their encounter was shadowed now by something else, and the way he was looking at the papers in his hand was disquieting. Surprisingly, she felt a kind of tenderness, a desire to comfort one who suffered.
Suffered?
“Are those not the papers you came for?” she asked.
His gaze flicked up to hers. “Do you think there is a collection of perfumed love-letters behind the fireplace? What an entrancing thought. I suppose I should check this….” He made no move to do so, however, but turned the papers contemplatively in his long fingers.
“It would be a shame to leave with merely a laundry list pushed back there to seal a gap, wouldn’t it? ”
Portia folded her arms primly. “That, my lord, is no laundry list.”
“Recognize the type, do you? Tut, tut, Hippolyta. Yes, I do indeed expect it to be a searing love letter, and one that is part of an illicit, rather than a holy love.” He was speaking lightly, but he was not composed of light.
He was dark and coiled dangerously tight.
Even though she didn’t feel he posed any direct threat to her, Portia shivered.
They stood there, frozen in the silvered silence for what seemed an age, but then he unfolded the paper and angled it into the moonlight.
She saw his face change.
He could not be otherwise than pale in the moonlight, but now his features tightened as if he read bad news. Portia put aside antagonism and went forward to place a gentle hand on his sleeve. “My lord, what is it?”