“I’d best take the pup out… oh, too late.” He spotted the puddle and shook his head with annoyance. “I looked in a couple o‘ times, but you was both dead t’ the world. I’ll fetch ye a mop.”

“Can you let us out?” Portia stood up and approached the bars.

“Just the pup, George says.” Josiah unlocked the door and opened it. Juno raced out between his legs, and the old man closed the door again. “I’ll be back wi‘ that mop.” He shuffled out of the building, Juno darting ahead of him.

Portia sat down on her cot and contemplated her situation. It was better than she’d thought a few minutes ago, but it seemed she was to be kept a prisoner in this tiny space.

Josiah returned with a bucket of water and a mop, which he passed to Portia, unlocking and locking the door with great caution. “So, what ‘ave ye gone an’ done? George wouldn’t say.”

“Nothing, as it happens,” Portia said grimly, cleaning up Juno’s mess. “But Rufus thinks I have.”

“ ‘Tain’t like the master to be unfair,” Josiah stated, clearly not believing Portia’s claim. “Not in all the years I’ve known im… an’ I’ve known ‘im since ’e was nobbut a nipper.” He unlocked the bars again to take back the bucket and mop.

“There’s no need to keep locking and unlocking those bars,” Portia said wearily. “I’m not going anywhere. Where’s Juno?”

“Runnin‘ around outside.” Josiah hesitated, looking at the prisoner’s wan and battered countenance, then he turned to the table, leaving the bars unlocked. “Ye want some supper?”

As usual these days, Portia’s stomach was giving mixed signals, but she knew she needed food. “Can I come out and eat it?”

Again Josiah hesitated. Then he said, “If’n ye promise-”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Portia repeated swiftly. She stepped into the main room. “What did George tell you?”

“Just that the master’s ordered that y’are to be kept in prison until ‘e says otherwise. I’m to take care of ye, since there’s only us old folk left be’ind.” He lifted the lid on the dish. “There’s a spoon fer the stew.”

Portia ate standing up because there was no chair. And with the first spoonful she found she was ravenous. “Could you bring me some warm water to wash, d’you think?”

“Aye, I’m to give you anything you need,” Josiah said with a nod. “Empty the bucket an‘ such like… bring ’ot water and food. I’ll bring ye wine, or ale, when I comes in the mornin‘.”

Portia set down the empty bowl and returned to her cell. “Can you bring me something to do? Paper, a quill and ink, perhaps, and one of Rufus’s books? Any one will do.”

Josiah looked doubtful. “Take things from ‘is cottage when ’e’s not there? I dunno.”

“I don’t think he’d mind,” Portia said. “And if he does, he won’t blame you, he’ll blame me.”

Josiah frowned, his weak, faded eyes examining his charge. She looked desperate in her unhappiness and he could think only of how vibrant and happy and exuberant she had always been. Whatever she’d done, this imprisonment in the near-deserted village was harsh enough without adding to its severity.

“I s’pose I could,” he said after a minute. “An‘ it’ll get awful tedious sittin’ in ‘ere on yer tod.”

“Thank you.” Portia managed a stiff but grateful smile.

But when Josiah had returned Juno and left, and the bar fell heavily across the outside door, Portia lay down on the cot, assailed by misery.

She could see Rufus’s cold eyes, hear the bitter contempt in his voice, and it was unendurable that he should believe what he did of her. She loved him and she had dared to think that he loved her. But he believed her false, and if he had loved her, he would have known she could not have betrayed him. If he had loved her, he would have accepted her… accepted who and what she was, and none of this dreadful confusion and wretchedness would have happened.

She was so very tired of steering a path through the obstacle course of his vendetta. So very tired of denying some part of herself in order to satisfy Rufus. It was too high a price to pay for his… his what?

Regard? Love? Passion?

Oh, what did it matter anymore? Everything was dust and ashes. Portia curled herself up in the blankets, and sleep brought temporary end to misery.

Chapter 22

“How far gone are you, then?”

Portia raised her head from the bucket and sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with her handkerchief. “How did you guess?”

Josiah shrugged. “Not ‘ard, when a lassie’s pukin’ every mornin‘. So, ’ow far gone are you?”

Portia struggled to her feet. Josiah was the only person she saw these days and the only person in whom she could confide. “It’s embarrassing, but I’m not sure. I can’t remember when I had my last terms.”

Josiah placed the pot of porridge on the table. “Pukin‘ usually stops after the first three months.”

“You mean I won’t be heaving up my guts forever?” Portia was more than ready to accept that Josiah had some knowledge of these things.

“Most don’t,” Josiah replied. “But some lassies do.”

“I’ll probably be one of those who do,” Portia said glumly. She stretched in the cramped space, envying Juno, who was running free outside. Josiah made sure the puppy had three good runs a day. But then, Juno couldn’t use a bucket, Portia reflected wryly.

“Does t’master know?” Josiah asked, unlocking Portia’s cell.

“By the time I was sure, the right moment never arose to tell him.” Portia came out of the cell with a little sigh of relief. Five days of this confinement was becoming tedious. Her legs jumped with the need to walk; her body, filled with suppressed energy, refused to settle into sleep; her mind seethed with “if onlys.”

“Josiah, could I just walk a little along the riverbank? I give you my word -my parole -that I’ll come back.”

Josiah looked uncomfortable. “I knows ye won’t be goin‘ anywhere, but I ’aven’t ‘ad orders.”

Portia was stumped. The Rufus she thought she knew would not have condemned her to this kind of confinement. It made sense to think that in the intensity of those last moments in the camp, he’d given his orders and simply missed specifying the details of her imprisonment. But perhaps not. Perhaps this was what he’d intended. He’d saved her from a spy’s punishment, but his own was another matter. Ultimately more merciful, but still dreadful.

“Mebbe I could send-” Josiah’s musing was cut off by the shrilling of pipes. The cottage was set away from the village, but they could hear the commotion -racing footsteps, shouts.

“What is it?” Portia moved swiftly to the barred window, her blood racing. She knew the answer in every bone and sinew. Rufus was back.

“I’ll go an‘ see. Eat yer porridge an’ I’ll be back.” Josiah’s shuffle was faster than usual as he went to the door, releasing a breath of early-morning-fresh summer air that filled Portia with an aching need to leave her prison.

The door banged shut behind him, and Portia heard the heavy bar drop into place.

She ate her porridge, without enthusiasm or appetite. Inaction dulled appetite anyway, and the diet lacked the kind of variety that might stimulate it. But she was conscious of the life growing within her. A life that had somehow become intrinsic to her own. She lived for this child. Her blood flowed for the child. Her mind thought for it. Her lungs breathed for it. It was as if her body was devoting itself without conscious instruction to the nurturing of a life that had not yet discovered its own importance, or its own needs. She was the child within her womb as that child was her own self.

The simple task of eating also calmed her. The sounds beyond her prison had now changed. Now she could hear the pipes and drums of an army, the marching feet, all the concomitants of a conventional military discipline that subsumed the martial encampment of an erstwhile outlaw.