Rothbury, at your service,” he said solemnly, removing his plumed hat with a flourish as he offered a mock bow from atop his great chestnut stallion. “And who is it who travels under the Granville standard? If you please …” He raised a red eyebrow.
Portia didn’t answer the question. “Are you abducting us? Or is it murder you have in mind?”
“Tell you what,” Rufus said amiably, catching her mount’s bridle just below the bit. “We’ll trade questions. But let’s continue this fascinating but so far uninformative exchange somewhere a little less exposed to this ball-breaking cold.”
3
P ortia reacted without thought. Her whip hand rose and
she slashed at Decatur’s wrist, using all her force so that the blow cut through the leather gauntlet. He gave a shout of surprise, his hand falling from the bridle, and Portia had gathered the reins, kicked at the animal’s flanks, and was racing down the track, neither knowing nor caring in which direction, before Rufus fully realized what had happened.
Portia heard him behind her, the chestnut’s pounding hooves cracking the thin ice that had formed over the wet mud between the ridges on the track. She urged her horse to greater speed, and the animal, still panicked from the earlier melee, threw up his head and plunged forward. If she had given him his head, he would have bolted, but she hung on, maintaining some semblance of control, crouched low over his neck, half expecting a musket shot from behind.
But she knew this was a race she wasn’t going to win. Her horse was a neat, sprightly young gelding, but he hadn’t the stride or the deep chest of the pursuing animal. Unless Rufus Decatur decided for some reason to give up the chase, she was going to be overtaken within minutes. And then she realized that her pursuer was not overtaking her, he was keeping an even distance between them, and for some reason this infuriated Portia. It was as if he were playing with her, cat with mouse, allowing her to think she was escaping even as he waited to pounce in his own good time.
She slipped her hand into her boot, her fingers closing over the hilt of the wickedly sharp dagger Jack had insisted she carry from the moment he had judged her mature enough to attract unwelcome attention. Maturity rather than physical appeal had clearly been the issue. She’d learnedrapidly that men didn’t seem to care if their female prey was ragged, poxed, and looked like the back end of a beer keg when they had sex on their minds.
By degrees, Portia drew back on the reins, slowing the horse’s mad progress even as she straightened in the saddle. The hooves behind her were closer now. She waited, wanting him to be too close to stop easily. Her mind was cold and clear, her heart steady, her breathing easy. But she was ready to do murder.
With a swift jerk, she pulled up her horse, swinging round in the saddle in the same moment, the dagger in her hand, the weight of the hilt balanced between her index and forefingers, steadied by her thumb.
Rufus Decatur was good and close, and as she’d hoped his horse was going fast enough to carry him right past her before he could pull it up. She saw his startled expression as for a minute he was facing her head-on. She threw the dagger, straight for his heart.
It lodged in his chest, piercing his thick cloak. The hilt quivered. Portia, mesmerized, stared at it, for the moment unable to kick her horse into motion again. She had never killed a man before.
“Jesus, Mary, and sainted Joseph!” Rufus Decatur exclaimed in a voice far too vigorous for that of a dead man. He pulled the dagger free and looked down at it in astonishment. “Mother of God!” He regarded the girl on her horse in astonishment. “You were trying to stab me!”
Portia was as astonished as he was, but for different reasons. She could see no blood on the blade. And then the mystery was explained. Her intended victim moved aside his cloak to reveal a thickly padded
Portia didn’t answer the question. “Are you abducting us? Or is it murder you have in mind?”
“Tell you what,” Rufus said amiably, catching her mount’s bridle just below the bit. “We’ll trade questions. But let’s continue this fascinating but so far uninformative exchange somewhere a little less exposed to this ball-breaking cold.”
3
P ortia reacted without thought. Her whip hand rose and
she slashed at Decatur’s wrist, using all her force so that the blow cut through the leather gauntlet. He gave a shout of surprise, his hand falling from the bridle, and Portia had gathered the reins, kicked at the animal’s flanks, and was racing down the track, neither knowing nor caring in which direction, before Rufus fully realized what had happened.
Portia heard him behind her, the chestnut’s pounding hooves cracking the thin ice that had formed over the wet mud between the ridges on the track. She urged her horse to greater speed, and the animal, still panicked from the earlier melee, threw up his head and plunged forward. If she had given him his head, he would have bolted, but she hung on, maintaining some semblance of control, crouched low over his neck, half expecting a musket shot from behind.
But she knew this was a race she wasn’t going to win. Her horse was a neat, sprightly young gelding, but he hadn’t the stride or the deep chest of the pursuing animal. Unless Rufus Decatur decided for some reason to give up the chase, she was going to be overtaken within minutes. And then she realized that her pursuer was not overtaking her, he was keeping an even distance between them, and for some reason this infuriated Portia. It was as if he were playing with her, cat with mouse, allowing her to think she was escaping even as he waited to pounce in his own good time.
She slipped her hand into her boot, her fingers closing over the hilt of the wickedly sharp dagger Jack had insisted she carry from the moment he had judged her mature enough to attract unwelcome attention. Maturity rather than physical appeal had clearly been the issue. She’d learnedrapidly that men didn’t seem to care if their female prey was ragged, poxed, and looked like the back end of a beer keg when they had sex on their minds.
By degrees, Portia drew back on the reins, slowing the horse’s mad progress even as she straightened in the saddle. The hooves behind her were closer now. She waited, wanting him to be too close to stop easily. Her mind was cold and clear, her heart steady, her breathing easy. But she was ready to do murder.
With a swift jerk, she pulled up her horse, swinging round in the saddle in the same moment, the dagger in her hand, the weight of the hilt balanced between her index and forefingers, steadied by her thumb.
Rufus Decatur was good and close, and as she’d hoped his horse was going fast enough to carry him right past her before he could pull it up. She saw his startled expression as for a minute he was facing her head-on. She threw the dagger, straight for his heart.
It lodged in his chest, piercing his thick cloak. The hilt quivered. Portia, mesmerized, stared at it, for the moment unable to kick her horse into motion again. She had never killed a man before.
“Jesus, Mary, and sainted Joseph!” Rufus Decatur exclaimed in a voice far too vigorous for that of a dead man. He pulled the dagger free and looked down at it in astonishment. “Mother of God!” He regarded the girl on her horse in astonishment. “You were trying to stab me!”
Portia was as astonished as he was, but for different reasons. She could see no blood on the blade. And then the mystery was explained. Her intended victim moved aside his cloak to reveal a thickly padded
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