Rufus stood in front of her without touching her. He leaned around and pulled the door closed, the latch clicking like a statement in the fire-warmed, candlelit silence. He was so close to her he could almost feel her heart beating, and the scent of her skin filled his nostrils-it was a rich earthy scent where sweat and horseflesh and fresh air mingled with her own particular fragrance, a fragrance he didn’t think he could ever tire of. It was youthful, delicate, and yet abundantly healthy, and it went with the exquisite softness of her skin and the wild, unruly strength of her hair and the living light in her eyes.
He raised a hand and pulled off her cap. The bright orange mass of curls sprang free with a life of their own, and the pale face was surrounded by a flaming halo. She had a smudge of dirt on her cheek.
Negligently almost, he traced the line of her cheek with his forefinger, lightly pressed the jutting tip of her chin, ran the pad of his thumb over her mouth. All the while she stood still, her eyes never leaving his face, her lips slightly parted as if she had been about to speak but something had prevented the words from issuing forth.
He unclasped her cloak, tossing it aside, then pulled off her gloves, one at a time. They joined the cloak. He unfastened her swordbelt, hanging the rapier up beside his own heavy cavalry sword. Then he lifted her, and sat her on the edge of the table to pull off her boots and stockings.
Portia fell back on the hard flat surface of the table. She raised her hips so that he could pull off her britches and drawers, lifting her hands way over her head to grasp the far edge of the table. Rufus, without taking his eyes from hers, unfastened his britches.
Guessing what he wanted of her, Portia wrapped her legs around his waist. The jutting spike of flesh slid into her body with the ease of temptation. She gripped the table edge even tighter, lifting her hips, moving against him as he stood, holding her ankles at his back, watching her with that deep smile in his eyes. Portia laughed with pure exultation and the sound was almost shocking, breaking as it did the powerful intensity of their silence.
Rufus chuckled, transferred his grip on her ankles to one hand and brought the other hand around. He ran his thumb in a long, leisurely rubbing caress over the moist and heated opened core of her body, and the hot fire of pleasure made her cry out. Her hips arced on the hard surface beneath her, her eyes closed as the wave of pleasure curled ever closer, and her breath was swift and ragged.
Rufus held her on the edge, feeling the little ripples of her muscles around his flesh buried so deep within her. He watched her face, loving the wonderful translucence of her skin as her climax approached. Her eyes shot open, meeting his intent gaze, and then she was lost. She reached up, pulling him tight against her, feeling the throbbing pulse of his flesh against her womb. Her fingers tugged urgently at the dusting of red curls on his back, as his soft groans of delight were muffled against her shoulder.
“Welcome home, gosling,” Rufus murmured, slowly bringing himself upright again. “I give you good evening.”
“And I you, Lord Rothbury,” she returned with an impish grin, sitting up on the table. “I wasn’t expecting such a vigorous welcome, I must say.”
“Learning from experience is a sign of intelligence,” he observed, refastening his britches.
“Ah, but when I’m with you I forget everything I’ve ever learned,” she said, sliding to the floor. “I’m sure I’m not very nice to know at the moment… I must reek of horseflesh and sweat.”
In just her shirt, she went to the pantry to fetch a basin. She filled it with hot water from the kettle and, discarding the shirt, set to washing herself with matter-of-fact efficiency.
Rufus leaned against the mantelpiece and watched her. She was as thin as ever, despite a regular and more than ample diet, but he loved the angularities of her body, the sharp bones of her hips, the narrowness of her clearly delineated rib cage, the hollow of her throat within the necklace of her collarbone, the shape of her shoulder blades moving beneath the white skin.
“You had quite an adventure today, I gather,” he observed.
Portia paused in her ablutions, the washcloth suspended beneath one raised arm. “What did Will say?”
“Oh, that you and Paul had pursued the couriers alone and had succeeded in lifting their documents… vital documents, as I’m sure you realized.”
“Of course I did,” she said, resuming her washing. “Paul and I set up a neat little ambush for them. Paul pretended that his horse had thrown a shoe in the middle of the lane, and he was positioned across it so they had to stop…” She handed him a washcloth and turned her back.
Rufus obliged while she continued. “And he engaged them in the most wonderfully inane discussion, in the broadest Yorkshire you could imagine, so they could hardly understand a word, and while they were distracted, I came at ‘em!”
“Part your legs.”
She did so and he drew the cloth down between the cleft of her buttocks, along the inner reaches of her thigh. Her voice faltered.
“You were saying?” Rufus prompted, draping the washcloth over her shoulder and returning to his indolent position against the mantelpiece.
“I fired a shot from my musket which spooked both their horses. And as they reared, Paul jumped up and grabbed both bridles. They were still trying to get their swords out when I rode down on them, took one of them with my rapier and the other with my knife.”
“Did you kill them?”
“No… it would have been in cold blood. We couldn’t have done that,” she said flatly. She shrugged on her shirt again, buttoning it swiftly. “We disarmed them and tied them up in a henhouse, which we’d found earlier, and set their horses loose.”
“Sounds very neat.” Rufus bent and picked up her drawers and britches, tossing them across to her. “And was that your only adventure?”
Portia had her head lowered as she climbed into her britches. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Paul and I waited for Will and the others, and we all rode home together.” She fastened her waistband, aware that her fingers were suddenly all thumbs.
“I’m starving. Paul ate all the chicken and I’ve had nothing but bread and cheese.”
“We’ll go to the mess presently. Will said you weren’t at the rendezvous when he arrived.” He was watching her very closely, watching the clumsy fumble of her fingers, although his voice was casual, his posture still indolent, as he leaned against the mantelpiece, one arm stretched along its length, fingers curled loosely around the handle of his tankard.
“And did he also tell you that my stomach was upset and while Paul slept the sleep of the just, I spent most of the afternoon behind a bush?” she demanded, combing her fingers through her hair, her face slightly averted.
“No, he didn’t mention that.” He took a sip of ale, but his eyes never left her face. Pink tinged the pallor of her high cheekbones, and her mouth was unusually taut. “The rendezvous was very close to Castle Granville,” he continued casually. “Did you manage to see anything of interest while you were waiting?”
Portia shook her head, still keeping her face averted. “Nothing out of the ordinary. The drawbridge was down and there were detachments of troops coming and going. It all looked very busy, as usual.”
Rufus knew with absolute clarity that she was not telling him the truth. He had been perplexed when Will had told him of Portia’s unexplained absence so close to Castle Granville. He had thought to press her a little for an explanation, but immediately his puzzlement gave way to unease. Something was not true in her responses. And he was not interested in confronting the issue with finesse. “You’re lying,” he stated baldly.
The pink flooded her cheeks. “I don’t know why you would say that.”