She made her preparations with the same detached mental efficiency that had created the plan. She exchanged picket duty with Paul, who was only too happy to relinquish the midnight-to-four shift. Rufus thought nothing of her going on duty at midnight, and nothing of her retiring to bed immediately after supper while he was still entertaining Prince Rupert and his officers.

When he came to bed at eleven o’clock, Portia feigned sleep, although she was far too keyed up to sleep. He didn’t light the lamp, relying on the dim reflection of the torch kept burning throughout the night in a sconce beyond the entrance flap. She knew he wouldn’t disturb her in the half hour before she had to be up, and lay still on her narrow cot, aware of him standing above her as he pulled off his boots, aware of his eyes on her still countenance as he listened to her breathing. Then he moved away from her and she could relax and listen to him moving about the small grass-scented space.

She could see him as clearly as if she had her eyes open… see his every gesture with the clarity of love and lust, knowing when he unbuckled his belt, unfastened the waistband of his britches, unbuttoned his shirt… see him pull the shirt from the loosened waistband of his britches with both hands in a rough, hasty motion that never varied. Behind her closed eyes, she could see his broad chest now, the small hard nipples, the line of red-gold hair creeping down to the navel in the concave belly, and then down… He was pushing off his britches, kicking them free of his feet, bending to strip off his stockings.

The ropes on his own cot creaked under his weight, and she knew as surely as if he was lying beside her that he was sleeping in his underdrawers. Not that he would be wearing them if he was lying beside her. A smile touched her lips. She found deeply pleasing the idea of his sleeping in clothed celibacy when she was not available.

Her eyes were suddenly heavy, her breathing taking up the sleeping rhythm of Rufus’s deep, even breaths. Sleep came for her, soft and caressing as swansdown…

She was jerked awake. Rufus’s hand was on her shoulder, gently shaking her, and beyond the tent flap she heard the sentry sent to wake her, calling her name in a hoarse whisper.

“You were dead to the world,” Rufus said softly. He was leaning across the small space that separated their cots.

Portia groaned. She couldn’t help it. The shock of waking from the deep currents of first sleep was too much, and immediately the waves of nausea churned in her belly.

“Go back to sleep,” Rufus said. “I’ll take your duty.”

“No… no.” She sat up, thrusting the sticky cobwebs of sleep away. “No, it’s my duty. I’ll do it.” She kicked aside the blanket and sat up, keeping her head lowered in the hope that she could master the sickness before she had to stand up.

“Portia, are you ill?” His voice was sharp with concern.

“No… no.” She shook her head gingerly. “I just don’t want to be awake at midnight.” She reached for her britches at the bottom of the cot. She had gone to bed in her clothes, except for the britches, and now had only to thrust her stockinged feet into the legs and pull them up and then step into her boots to be ready to go.

Gently she stood up. The world swung around her and her stomach swung with it. She bit the inside of her cheek until the pain made her eyes water as she fastened the waistband and buckled her belt. Rapier and knife lay ready to be sheathed. She held on to the tent post as she stepped into her boots.

Rufus was lying propped on an elbow, watching her in the dim light, his eyes narrowed. Something was amiss. Was it just the disorientation of an abrupt waking? Every instinct told him to insist that she go back to her cot. But to do that would mean denying her the respect she demanded and had earned among the men of Decatur. She expected no concessions, and on the one or two occasions they’d been offered had rejected them with vigorous indignation.

Portia thrust her rapier into its sheath and tucked her knife into her boots. She had herself in hand now and was able to smile as she blew him a kiss before ducking through the small opening.

Rufus fell back on the cot and lay with his hands linked behind his head, now fully awake, disturbed by a deep unease that had no apparent cause.

Portia nodded to the man who had woken her and made her way through the camp away from the castle to the outside perimeter, where the man she was to relieve was walking the picket line. This particular patrol was a lonely one, ideally suited to her purposes. The main activity was concentrated at the castle, but the entire bivouac had to be picketed along its outer perimeters and this stretch of territory was isolated, covering the wooded area at the rear of the camp. No one would come this way. It crossed no other picket line. No one would know if the picket on duty had slipped away from her post for an hour or two. Or only in the most unfortunate of circumstances, and Portia had decided it was a risk worth taking.

Adam greeted her with a grin of relief. “Hell’s teeth, but am I glad to see you. I thought Paul was taking the next one, though.”

“I exchanged with him. I wanted some time tomorrow afternoon.”

“Oh, aye.” Adam nodded in easy acceptance. “Well, it’s been about as exciting as a spinster’s bed. I wish ye joy of it.” He raised a hand in farewell and set off with a bounce in his stride to an ale pot in the mess.

Portia realized that she no longer felt sick. Perhaps terror was the antidote. She patrolled her route three times. No one came near her. There were no sounds but the occasional faint noises from the camp below, the usual forest rustles of small animals, and the call of a nightjar. The moon was new, a mere sliver in the dark sky, visible only occasionally when the heavy thunderclouds shifted. The evening star showed now and again, but on the whole the night was as dark as one could expect a night in June to be.

Portia slipped into the trees and found the oak tree she had selected that afternoon. She felt beneath the thick moss covering its roots and pulled out the dark cap that would cover her hair. She took off her boots and her stockings and her white shirt, burying them beneath the moss. Without a shirt, the dark wool jerkin was hot and prickly against her bare skin, but it would enable her to blend with the shadows. Her rapier joined the discarded garments under the moss. She bound the knife against her leg over her britches with a strip of linen, wrapping the sharp blade securely in several folds of material.

She thrust the fruit she had also hidden into her pockets – apples and pears. It was all she could take. Anything more substantial would be ruined by the water in the moat, but she had reasoned that if one was thirsty, the moist flesh and sweet juice of the fruit would be welcome. In final preparation, she tied a kerchief around her mouth and nose. Then, barefoot, she crept forward through the trees, around the castle until she was abreast of the ducks’ island.

She slithered down the hill on her belly. The picket was walking his line-a two-hundred-yard stretch between the posts. When he was three quarters of the way back, facing away from her, Portia slithered the last few yards and dropped over the rim of the moat. She stayed there, finding a foothold in the bank so she could hold herself above the water level, clinging to a twisted root poking through the mud just above her head.

The fires were smoldering against the walls, but the kerchief protected her from the worst of the smoke and would muffle an inconvenient cough. She waited until she heard the picket return. When he turned again and passed her, she inched forward, clinging like a mollusk to the bank, hoping to keep herself as dry as possible for as long as possible. There were three patrols between the ducks’ island and the drawbridge, and her greatest danger would come when she followed the curve of the moat to the stretch where it ran directly in front of the encampment.