“Portia has returned,” Cato said. “A most extraordinary thing… but until she can tell me what happened, I can tell you nothing, my dear.” He closed the door firmly at his back. In almost the same movement, he swept Portia ahead of him down the corridor toward the bastion room, Giles marching a step behind.

Inside, with the door firmly closed, Cato surveyed Portia with the same puzzled astonishment. “What happened?”

“I wasn’t the right hostage,” she said. “But I expect you knew that.”

“Yes, I gathered the bastard Decatur was after Olivia.” His eyes narrowed. “You were not molested in any way?”

Portia shook her head. “The abduction itself was rough, but I had nothing to complain of in my treatment once we reached Decatur village.” She met his gaze steadily.

“She said she escaped, m’lord.” Giles was regarding her sharply.

Portia hesitated and Cato’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right,” she said. How could she possibly have explained the truth?

“She was ridin‘ a blood mare, m’lord,” Giles commented. He was still looking at Portia, and it was with clear suspicion.

“A Decatur horse?”

“Yes.” It was Portia who answered.

“Did you steal it?”

“I suppose you could say that.” She swayed slightly and grabbed the back of a chair. She wasn’t up to this interrogation. Not tonight. “I thought of it as merely borrowing.”

“Escapin‘ from Decatur village ain’t easy,” Giles put in. “Mebbe they was lookin’ the other way.”

Portia looked at him in confusion. What was he implying?

“The horse must go back,” Cato declared. “I’ll not give Decatur the opportunity to accuse me of theft.”

“We could lead ‘er most o’ the way there, then let ‘er find ’er own way back, sir.”

“Yes, together with a message for friend Decatur,” Cato said grimly. He turned back to Portia. “What happened to your clothes?”

Portia glanced down at her unorthodox attire. “My own were ruined during the abduction,” she explained. “These were all that were available in Decatur village. There aren’t any women there,” she added.

Cato nodded. “I had heard that.” He regarded her closely. “Did you learn anything useful while you were there?”

“I don’t know what you would consider useful, my lord.”

“Did you have the sense of a military encampment?”

“A very efficient one, sir. And they’re flying the king’s standard.”

Cato stood frowning at Portia in her indecorous garb, her hair a wind-whipped tangle. Was she telling him the truth about her escape? There had been that telltale hesitation. Could this surprising return be part of some deeper plan of Decatur’s? How could a slip of a girl manage to escape the Decatur stronghold? And steal a Decatur blood mare. He couldn’t fathom the girl. She was his brother’s child, and she looked at him now with his brother’s eyes. Could he trust her? He didn’t know.

He noticed her white knuckles as she gripped the back of the chair, and the great dark rings beneath her eyes. Whatever had brought her back, she was utterly exhausted.

“We’ll talk at length later,” he said, waving her to the door. “Olivia will be glad to see you. She’s been worried about you, and I understand from Lady Granville that she’s been ailing and is keeping to her bed. Why don’t you go to her now.”

“Certainly, sir.” Portia, unable to curtsy in her britches, offered a slightly awkward bow.

The minute she opened Olivia’s door, she forgot her own unhappiness.

Olivia lay with her eyes closed, her face whiter than the pillow, the sheet pulled neatly up to her chin. She was as still as if she were laid out in her coffin, and Portia’s heart missed a beat. Cato had said she was ailing. But she looked at death’s door.

“Olivia?”

“Portia!” Olivia shot up in bed and Portia’s anxiety receded. Olivia was clearly not at death’s door.

“Is it you? Is it really you?” Olivia’s eyes widened as she took in Portia’s unconventional costume. “You’re wearing britches!”

“Yes, it’s me… and yes, I’m wearing britches.” Portia closed the door and came over to the bed. “Why are you in bed? Your father said you were ailing.”

“I am.” Olivia reached for Portia’s hands and clutched them painfully. “Oh, I am so g-glad to see you. What happened to you? Why are you in those clothes?” Her black eyes were now bright with interest, and her cheeks had pinkened.

Portia perched on the end of the bed. “It’s a long story, duckie.”

“Tell me!” Olivia demanded, squeezing her hands even tighter.

Portia was silent for a minute. The urge to pour out her heart and her misery was suddenly overwhelming. Then Olivia repeated, “Tell me,” and Portia found herself speaking.

She tried to make light of it, but Olivia heard the unhappiness beneath the self-mockery and the ironic tone. And she realized that Portia, whom she’d always thought of as so strong, so funny, so fiercely independent, was wounded. The girl who had been such a steadfast friend to Olivia now needed a friend of her own.

Olivia felt a rush of warmth, of purpose. “D-do you love him?” she asked as Portia fell silent.

Portia’s laugh was mirthless. “Love? I don’t know what that is, Olivia. I suppose I loved Jack… but maybe I just depended upon him because he was all I had. No, I don’t think love came into my brief encounter with Rufus Decatur.”

“Then what was it?” Olivia persisted, still holding Portia’s hands tightly.

Portia gazed into the middle distance, aware of the warmth and strength of Olivia’s grip and wordlessly comforted by it. What had it been? Passion, excitement, curiosity? All of those things. And if there had been something else, if she had felt the beginnings of something deeper-the possibility of something deeper-it was clear that Rufus had not. She would always be the enemy. Always tainted by her blood.

“It certainly wasn’t love, duckie,” she said with a little shrug. “I don’t think love of any kind has a place in my life.”

“I love you,” Olivia said fiercely, leaning forward to hug Portia’s thin frame. “I love you.”

“Oh, Olivia!” Portia swiped at her eyes as tears began to spill down her cheeks. “Now look what you’ve done!”

“It’s good to c-cry sometimes,” Olivia said through her own tears.

Portia yielded for a minute and then drew out of Olivia’s embrace. “I’m just tired and hungry,” she said with a pallid smile. “I don’t cry.”

“You just d-did,” Olivia pointed out with her own wan smile.

“What a pair we are.” Portia laughed, this time with a hint of her old self. She examined the contents of the tray that lay neglected on a side table. “Is this your dinner? Can we share it?”

“I’m not hungry,” Olivia said, pushing the tray toward Portia.

“Are you sure?” Portia broke a drumstick off a roasted pigeon. She cast a shrewd glance at Olivia. “I’ve told you my tale of woe; now you have to tell me why you’re hiding in here, pretending to be ill.”

“B-Brian,” Olivia said, falling back against the pillows. “He’s here.”

“What’s the matter with him?” Portia stripped the flesh from the drumstick with her teeth, discarded the bone, and selected a wing, waiting patiently as Olivia stared sightlessly into the middle distance.

Olivia struggled to find something concrete with which to answer Portia’s question. But it was the same as always. There was only this disgust and terror at the mere thought of him. And as always when she tried to penetrate the confusion, she shrank away from it. It wasn’t something she wanted to know.

She shook her head. “I can’t tell you. I d-don’t know. All I know is that I’d like to kill him.” She looked helplessly at Portia, who did not seem at all shocked by her sentiments. There was something so solid about Portia. Nothing seemed to surprise her.

Without noticing what she was doing, Olivia reached out and took a piece of manchet bread from the tray.