Chapter 25
Portia’s heart leaped into her throat and she raised her hand to cover the area, only then remembering the pistol. She pointed it at him, but with a trembling hand.
“This is where we came in, I think,” he said, walking toward her. “Put that down.”
“No. Where is Oliver?”
“Your wretched brother is perfectly safe. Put down the pistol.” He was muddy, disheveled, and very angry.
“Take me to him. I don’t trust—”
He kicked the pistol from her hand. It fired deafeningly even as he grabbed her by the gown and hauled her to him. “You don’t trust me? That’s obvious. You’d rather trust Fort Ware.”
Her hands were stinging but she was almost dizzy with fear. “I don’t trust anyone anymore!”
“Why? What did he do?” The rage in him was terrifying, reminding her brutally of their first meeting.
“Nothing,” she whispered. “He brought me here.”
“He didn’t touch you?”
She shook her head.
“Kiss you?”
Her guilt must have shown for the fury burned brighter.
“I asked him to!” she cried. “Don’t fight him….”
He threw her aside so she stumbled.
“I should have let him buy you,” he said coldly, anger banked, but still glowing. “Perhaps guilt would have changed his mind about marrying you. Or perhaps he’d have been entranced by your charms. Either way, you’d have preferred it, wouldn’t you?”
“Fort would never—”
“Fort would have raped you on the slim chance that I might care. I wonder why he didn’t.”
Portia turned away from his bitterness and covered her mouth with a trembling hand. “Because he thinks I’ll be a greater cross for you to bear as it is.”
“Surprisingly astute of him. You’ve caused me nothing but grief from the moment we met.” She heard him unlock the door and turned.
He opened it. “Come.”
“Where?”
“Do you have the right to ask?”
“Yes, but there’s probably no purpose to it.” Portia raised her chin and walked through into the corridor.
Bryght did not touch her in any way, but led her across to the part of this floor she had not yet checked. He unlocked a door. Inside was Oliver in his shirtsleeves, sitting despondently in front of the fire.
He looked up suspiciously, then a blend of confusion and anger crossed his face. “Portia? Malloren? Why in the name of heaven have you kept me prisoner here?” By then he was standing belligerently.
Portia saw with horror that he had a virulent black eye, and was limping. “Oliver!” She ran to him. “What have they done to you? But, oh, thank heavens. I was so afraid….”
He caught her in his arms. “Afraid? Of what?” He pushed her away a little, studying her. “What have they done to you?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly, brushing his loose hair back from a swollen temple, then the absurdity of that statement struck her and control fell away. “Oh God!” And she started to cry.
She felt other hands upon her shoulders, and heard Bryght say, “If you don’t give her to me, I’m like to kill you.”
“Why the devil should I?” Oliver demanded, holding her tight.
Portia tried to choke out an explanation but tears swamped her voice.
“Because she’s my wife,” said Bryght.
Oliver’s grasp loosened, probably through shock. Portia was turned into Bryght’s arms. “Portia, stop,” he said, holding her tight. “You’ll break my heart, crying like this.”
She tried to control herself, gulping in deep breaths, but tears started again. She tried to speak, but nothing coherent came out. He rocked her and murmured comfort, and in a while it began to help.
“I’m sorry,” she choked and found her handkerchief.
He relaxed his hold. “You have reason enough for tears, petite, but we need to talk.”
Portia pulled herself out of his arms and blew her nose. “I don’t cry,” she said truculently.
“So I see.” His tone was dry but his expression was much milder than before.
“I don’t!” she protested. “Oliver, when did I last cry?” But then she remembered that time at Mirabelle’s which Oliver knew nothing about.
“She doesn’t,” Oliver said. “When I was in the nursery, my father would berate me for crying more than a girl.”
“I was four years older than you,” Portia said. “That wasn’t fair.”
“But girls cry at any age. Everyone knows that. Look at Pru. She gushes at the sight of a pretty sunset.”
“That’s because she knows she cries prettily.”
Bryght cleared his throat and Portia suddenly recollected the disastrous state of her life. She looked at him warily, but though somber he did not seem to be in an ungovernable rage.
“Sir Oliver,” he said, “it was not part of my orders that you be brought here and confined, but I did send men to find you and watch over you. I accept responsibility for their over-enthusiasm and apologize.”
“But why did you do such a thing?”
“I intended to marry your sister, but had no mind to cover even more of your debts.”
Oliver flushed. “I’m done with gaming forever.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Bryght dryly. “But can we believe you?”
“I don’t see that you have much choice.”
“Don’t you?”
Portia stepped between them. “You will not harm him,” she stated fiercely. “I will not permit it.”
“I didn’t think you would.” She couldn’t read him at all.
“What reason do you have to distrust Oliver’s word, when you made the same promise to me and expected to be believed?”
“I have never been a besotted gamester.”
“You’re known the length of the country for it!”
“But not for losing.”
Portia could see his temper shortening, but would not back down. “Does that make it right?”
“It helps.”
“Not for the people you steal from.”
He hissed in a breath. “Portia—”
“My lord,” said Oliver stepping forward and pushing Portia behind him, “you will have to trust me.”
Bryght turned his cold eyes on him, and Portia could only be glad of it. She was brutally reminded that there was a reckoning to come.
“In case I prove frail,” Oliver said with dignity, “other measures have been taken. I am to join the army. In fact, I had an appointment with the colonel of the 5th, which your men made me miss.”
“My apologies. But it is possible to game in the army, you know.”
“But he won’t,” said Portia quickly. “Oliver has always wanted the army. It’s boredom that has led to gaming. I don’t want to see him in a war, but…”
“…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?”