His grip tightened, resisting all her efforts to escape. “Did you do that on purpose?” he demanded incredulously as the eloquent tirade of her fury continued to break over him.

“What if I did?” she threw at him, breathless and seething.

There was an instant of silence. Portia saw his eyes narrow, something leap into them, something dangerous and yet it sent a thrill of excitement to jolt the pit of her stomach. The silence seemed to expand until it contained them, suspended, waiting…

Then his hands loosed their encircling grip of her body. He grasped her head between both hands, his fingers twisting in the tangled orange curls around her ears. He shifted his body slightly, his legs scissoring hers, so he was holding her pinned to the ground beneath him. She could feel every line of his powerful frame pressing against her, imprinting himself upon her. She could feel his heat, the warmth of his breath.

“There is such a thing as retribution, Mistress Worth,” he murmured, and then he took her mouth with his. This was no light brushing kiss to tease. It was a hard possessive statement. Without volition, her mouth opened for the insistent demand of his tongue, and she felt the sinuous muscular presence plundering the warm, soft cave, tasting her. And then their tongues danced and she was tasting him back, exploring the contours of his mouth, running her own tongue over his teeth, into the hollows of his cheeks. Her eyes were closed on a red darkness and her blood raced with excitement. She could feel the hard jut of his erection pressing against her loins; her hands went around his back, kneading his taut buttocks. His fingers curled deeper into her hair, gripping her yet more firmly, and then slowly he raised his head.

Rufus gazed down into her flushed face, taking in her reddened lips, the dazed look in her eye. He still held her with his body and his hands in her hair, and for a minute he didn’t move. “Whatever made me do that? I wonder.” The smile that played over his mouth contained both surprise and a degree of bemusement. “It was not at all what I intended to do.”

Portia touched her swollen lips with her tongue. “What did you intend doing?”

“Something rather less pleasant,” he responded, still with the same smile. “But for some reason, in my dealings with you, you unruly gosling, I keep taking myself by surprise.”

He released his grip on her hair and swung himself off her. He stood up, brushing off his cloak and britches. “Get up now.” He leaned down to take her hands and haul her to her feet.

Portia pushed back her hair with both hands, trying to subdue the tangled halo, trying to order her senses. The world seemed to have tilted off its axis, and she seemed to be having difficulty standing straight against the steep pitch of the hillside.

Rufus’s gaze was still somewhat perplexed as he looked at her. “You really are a gosling,” he murmured. “All leggy and ruffled feathers.” He glanced up the hill, wondering if anyone had witnessed that mad moment, and as he did so a trumpet blast from the northern hilltop resounded through the valley.

All thoughts of dalliance, all vestiges of perplexity, were instantly banished. The call meant only one thing. Something of more than ordinary interest had been spied by a sentry. He set off at a rapid pace, climbing back up the hillside.

Portia stood on the path for a minute, still trying to order her senses. Then the trumpet shrilled again and without further thought she began to clamber up after Rufus. There was something so urgent, so elemental, about that call that it couldn’t be resisted.

Will, terse with excitement, handed Rufus a spyglass as the master reached him. “Troop of soldiers, to the north, at four o’clock.”

“Granville men?” Rufus wiped the glass with his gloved thumb before putting it to his eye. Neither man acknowledged Portia’s swift and silent arrival.

“Don’t reckon so. They’re not flying the Granville standard.”

Rufus examined the troop of horsemen moving across the barren landscape some five miles distant. “Looks like Leven’s standard,” he said. “Cavalry-fifteen or twenty of ‘em. Wonder where they’re going?”

“We going to stop ‘em getting wherever that is?” Will was grinning ear to ear as he asked what was clearly a rhetorical question.

Rufus lowered the spyglass. “Well, now,” he teased. “I’m not sure about that.”

Will’s grin widened. “How many of us?”

“Thirty. Pikes and muskets. Breastplates and gauntlets, but tell ‘em to keep their cloaks tight. We’ll keep our warlike aspect hidden until we’re upon them.”

“Right. Shall I sound the call to arms?”

“By all means.” Rufus turned and seemed to see Portia for the first time. “Don’t get in the way,” he commanded, as crisply authoritative as if that moment on the path had never taken place. Then he set off down the hill, without undue haste this time, while behind him the trumpet shrilled two notes that sent another shiver of excitement down Portia’s spine.

Portia followed, keeping back so as not to draw attention to herself, and if Rufus was aware she was following him he gave no sign. He strode through the village where men were crowding the lane, strapping on breastplates, shouldering muskets, as they hurried to muster on the bank of the river.

Will appeared as if from nowhere, moving among the men, sending some of them back to work, ordering the others to form a group beneath a bare willow tree.

Rufus walked up to the group of thirty men, and their excited chatter died down. They regarded him expectantly. Portia hung back, fascinated.

“Who’s for a foray against Leven’s men?” Rufus inquired genially, standing feet apart, hands resting on his hips. His eyes were electric and Portia could feel the energy pulsing from him in waves that drew the men toward him even as they yelled an exuberant affirmative.

“We’ll prick his tail a little,” Rufus said. “We’ll take the More battle track and circle them, meeting them head-on this side of Yetholm, Any questions?”

“We takin‘ prisoners, m’lord?”

“All prisoners will be escorted to royalist headquarters at Newcastle,” Rufus stated crisply. “Anything else?”

There were headshakes in response. “Right, gentlemen, let’s get moving.”

The men broke up, heading for the stables at a run, barely hampered by their armor and weapons. Rufus turned and saw Portia, who was half hiding behind another willow tree. He beckoned her across and there was no sign now of the man who had kissed her with such passion such a short time ago.

“You’ll stay here. You know where the mess is; they’ll feed you there. You have the use of my cottage.” He caught her chin on a gloved hand and said with unmistakable menace, “If you cause any trouble while I’m gone, Mistress Worth, I promise you will regret it. Do I make myself clear?”

“As crystal,” Portia said, refusing to lower her eyes.

He still held her chin in silence for a minute, then he released her and strode home. Portia kept pace with him.

In the cottage she stood leaning against the door, watching as he lifted a massive sword, sheathed in leather, from a hook on the far wall. He buckled it to his thick swordbelt, and strapped on a steel breastplate over his buff jerkin. He ran a gloved finger over the blade of a wickedly curved dagger before sheathing it, then slung his cloak over his shoulders, clasping it at the neck.

“Remember what I’ve said.” He gave her a short nod, then moved her aside and left, taking some current of energy with him, leaving the kitchen feeling deserted and lifeless.

Portia huddled deeper into her cloak, gazing sightlessly at the glowing coals in the hearth. With a sudden unplanned movement, she drew the hood up to cover her blazing hair. She left the cottage, not sure exactly what she intended doing but infused with a sense of excitement and daring that seemed to propel her along a path of its own choosing.