“If she has reason, I’m likely to abet her.”
“’Struth, I don’t need you snarling at me, too.” He quickly explained about Barclay and the debt. “I have Oliver Upcott held in secure comfort at the Abbey and Barclay’s gone down there to make sure all is well. Portia is hell-bent on setting out for Dorset to find him. I can’t permit that until I decide what to do about him, and I do need to go north to inform Bridgewater of the new circumstances. The fact that the rest of her family are there makes a convenient excuse.”
“What do you intend to do with the brother?”
“If I knew, matters would be somewhat simpler.”
“Murder is so messy,” said Rothgar, “but few other methods cure an inveterate gamester.”
“Somehow I don’t think fratricide would enhance my marital bliss.”
“Nor would refusing to pay his debts next time he sinks deep.”
“Do you think I don’t know that? I need to woo Portia before we confront that problem. Hence the leisurely journey north.”
Rothgar looked over to where Portia stood conversing with a group of ladies. Despite the smile, she looked as stiff as an iron rod, and as cold. “I think your reputation as a mythic lover is about to be tested. Meanwhile, perhaps Brand should return to the Abbey. Having had the late Earl of Walgrave come to a messy end there not long ago, another death might raise questions.”
“You are fixed in town?” Bryght asked.
“For a little while.” Rothgar took a pinch of snuff. “I didn’t want to add to your concerns, but Fort has wind of your involvement with Bridgewater—I smell an unholy collusion with Nerissa Trelyn there—and is supporting Brooke in the opposition to the canal bill. With such weight behind them, it becomes interesting.”
“Christ! But he has no interest in the matter.”
“He has an interest in all things Malloren. I will handle it. Don’t worry.”
“I didn’t think you were much concerned about the canal.”
“I let no one act with spite against my family. Which reminds me, I really should have a word with Lady Trelyn.”
“You can’t harm her,” Bryght said with some alarm.
“I don’t suppose I can at the moment. But I can warn her.”
Bryght hoped Nerissa took the warning.
“This does mean,” said Rothgar, “that you have no pressing need to seek out Bridgewater. I’ll make sure he doesn’t founder in the next few weeks.”
“I still intend to go north. If Portia doesn’t come around, we’ll keep going up to the Highlands, perhaps even to the Arctic. It would suit the current state of our marriage.” Then he saw that the king and queen were finally preparing to take their leave and muttered, “Thank God.”
Bryght headed toward his icy bride. The sooner he had her out of here, the sooner he could start thawing her.
Despite everything, he felt a lightning of his spirit. The situation was not ideal, but he knew Portia and he were bound at the deepest levels, and he had her.
Possession, so they said, is eleven points in the law.
When he spoke her name and she turned, however, his optimism faded. She did not look hostile as much as despairing. In God’s name, what had happened to distress her so?
Should he insist on knowing about that letter?
He almost laughed aloud. If Portia didn’t want him to know, he’d need a fully-equipped torture chamber to squeeze the information out of her.
He led her to say farewell to the monarchs and stood by while the plain-faced queen kissed her cheek and wished her all joy and happiness in her marriage.
Bryght wondered wryly if such royal wishes had any mystical effect. After all, the king’s touch was supposed to heal the illness called the King’s Evil.
Then they were in the coach and he wanted very much to gather her into his arms. She looked so brittle, though, he feared she’d break.
He’d swear she was afraid, but of what? He couldn’t imagine that she was scared of the marriage bed, but if she was, didn’t she know he’d never force her?
