Portia listened to his voice, calm but undeniably scolding the errant puppy as he deposited her outside the door. He came back with a cloth and pail and mopped up the puddle. He looked less than pleased, Portia thought guiltily.

“Shall I do it?”

“No,” he said.

“She can’t be expected to know these things yet,” Portia pointed out, trying very hard not to hear the puppy whimpering from the snow outside the kitchen door. “She’ll have to be taught to go outside.”

“I had not expected to add housebreaking a puppy to my list of chores,” Rufus said aridly, wringing the cloth into the bucket.

“You won’t have to do it. I’ll do it.”

Rufus got off his knees. “It’ll keep you occupied, I suppose.”

Portia hauled herself up against the pillows. “Occupied? What do you mean?”

Rufus reached for his clothes on the chest at the foot of the bed. “I’ve been racking my brains trying to think what I’m going to do with you,” he said, throwing off the robe.

“Do with me?” Portia felt a faint stir of indignation at his tone. The languorous glow of after-love was disappearing rather rapidly.

Rufus pulled on his drawers and britches. He turned back to the bed. “This is a military camp, lass. There are no women, no friends or confidants for you. Everyone has their own duties… including me.” He was putting on his shirt as he talked. “I cannot be forever entertaining you or-”

“I don’t need entertaining!” Portia exclaimed. “You talk as if I’m some flighty flibberty-gibbet who’s going to be a burden to you.”

“No… no, I don’t mean that!” Rufus said, tucking his shirt into the waistband of his britches. “But the fact is, this is no place or situation for a woman. And I don’t know what to do with you… how you’re going to occupy yourself.”

“Oh, I expect I’ll sew on your buttons and clean your house and cook your meals,” Portia said dangerously. “That should keep me out of your way.”

“Josiah wouldn’t care for that,” Rufus said seriously. “He’d feel usurped.”

Portia gazed at him in disbelief. He had actually thought she was in earnest! “If this is such a problem for you, then I can’t think why you asked me to stay,” she said.

Annoyance and impatience flashed across his eyes. Then he seemed to make an effort to banish them. He came over to the bed. He bent over her. His mouth hovered, tantalizing, his eyes now teased. “Actually, I know exactly what I’m going to do with you. I’m going to keep you in my bed. The prospect of your lying here with nothing to do but wait for me to come to you is utterly delicious.”

For a moment Portia couldn’t resist the sensual promise in his voice. She responded with a low chuckle. “Pleasant dreams, my lord.” She brought up her knee, pressing it with pointed emphasis against his groin.

Rufus’s eyes darkened. His hands lightly clasped her throat, but before he could bring his mouth to hers, Portia wriggled sideways. “To be serious…”

“Oh, I am being,” he said. “Keep still.”

“No!” Portia pulled at his hands. “This is important, Rufus.”

He released her and straightened, his expression now dark with annoyance. “I haven’t time to argue over such a pointless issue. I have a host of things to do this morning.” He sat on the chest to pull on his boots.

“Pointless? It’s not pointless!” Portia couldn’t understand how he didn’t see this.

“There’s a war on, Portia,” he stated as if talking to a particularly stupid child. “I have an expedition to mount. In the light of those things, it is pointless.”

“You’re going after the treasure?”

“Of course.” He buckled his swordbelt and when he turned back to her it was clear his mind was elsewhere… once more in that dark place where Portia didn’t want to follow.

“And with any luck,” he said, almost to himself, “Cato Granville and I will meet up in his thwarted ambush.” He smiled the cold, mirthless, grim smile that Portia hated. “A neat piece of table-turning to have Cato’s head spitted on my sword, don’t you think?”

“You know what I think,” she said, biting her lip.

Rufus looked at her for a moment, with that same intimidating expression, and she returned his gaze steadily. A series of crashes sounded against the front door as Juno, frantic to be let in, hurled her small body against the oak.

“Damn dog,” Rufus said, his expression clearing. “I’ll send someone with breakfast for you. Do you want me to carry you downstairs?”

“Yes, please,” she said, hearing how dispirited she sounded. She swung her legs over the end of the bed and scrutinized her ankle. It was still swollen and it still throbbed.

Rufus handed her his robe. “Don’t let’s quarrel, gosling,” he said with clear effort. “It’s not necessary. We’ll find something for you to do.”

“I want to be a soldier,” Portia stated, pushing her arms into the robe. “I’ve always wanted to be. If you’re going to fight this war, then I’ll fight it with you.”

To her fury, Rufus burst out laughing, all his tension vanished under the supreme humor of such an idea. “There’s no place for a lass on a battlefield!” he exclaimed.

“I didn’t do too badly with Colonel Neath,” she said crossly, pulling the robe tight around her.

“No, a very creditable imitation of David and Goliath.” Rufus was still chuckling. “I don’t deny you’re very handy with a knife. But women do not make good warriors, lass.”

“Some have,” Portia said tightly. “Joan of Arc, for instance. Boadicea, for instance. The Amazons.”

“Enough!” He threw up his hands in mock despair. “You’ve windmills in your head, lass.”

Portia said no more and Rufus took her silence as agreement to let the ridiculous subject drop. He lifted her and carried her downstairs, set her on a stool at the table, kissed her, ruffled her hair with careless affection, and left, letting Juno in on his way out.

The puppy bounded ecstatically to Portia, jumping up at her lap. Portia stroked her head absently, then, grasping the side of the table, stood up gingerly, wondering if she could make it through the fresh snow to the privy. She probably should have used the chamber pot upstairs, but she didn’t like the idea of not being able to empty it herself.

She hopped to the scullery and found a pair of wooden clogs and a stout blackthorn stick by the back door. She stuck her good foot into one of the wooden clogs and with the aid of the stick hobbled out into the backyard. The blizzard had dumped close to a foot of snow, it seemed. The sun on the snow was dazzling and the air could cut glass. Someone in the last hour had shoveled the path to the privy. Someone delegated to take care of the master’s comfort, she thought. There were definite advantages to rank.

The smell of bacon greeted her when she returned to the kitchen, blowing on her bare hands to warm them, shaking snow off the hem of the robe.

“I’ve brought your breakfast.” Will turned from the table where he was setting out dishes. He blushed a little as he took in her dishabille. Rufus’s robe swamped her, but there was still something sensuous and intimate about it.

Juno bounced around Portia’s legs in greeting, as if she hadn’t seen her in months, and Will with visible relief turned his gaze upon the puppy. “The devil! What an ugly thing! Where’d it come from?”

“She came with me. She’s called Juno.” Portia hopped to the table and sat down with a hungry sniff. “Can you keep me company for a few minutes, Will? There are some questions I want to ask you.”

“Can’t Rufus answer them?” Will looked rather as if he’d wandered into a witches’ coven.

Portia took a sip of ale and broke a chunk off the loaf of bread. “What do you have to do to be a soldier in the Decatur militia?”

This was a comfortable subject and Will looked immediately more at ease.

“First, you must be able to draw a longbow of ash and hit a target at twenty-five yards.” He counted off on his fingers. “Then you must be able to handle a cavalry sword. Third, you must be able to fire and reload a musket within two minutes… and hit a target at twenty paces. Fourth, you must be able to handle a pike.”