Portia wanted to argue, but what was the point? She went to the fire to warm her hands, and to put distance between them. She wish the heat could penetrate deeper, into the icy core of fear and pain.
She kept fighting, fighting against her terrible suspicions, but he kept reinforcing them.
He knew that her mother and sister had gone to Manchester. How did he know that unless he had agents down in Dorset? She had realized soon after her request that no messenger could get to Dorset and back in time for the wedding.
Now he was being unreasonably stubborn in his refusal to go to Overstead.
She was sure Bryght was never unreasonable, and she feared she knew what his reasons were.
She thought briefly of telling him everything in the hope that there was an innocent explanation, but if the worst was true he was capable of anything. She certainly doubted that he would give her the chance to flee, to run off alone and find out the truth.
And that was what she was going to have to do. She didn’t know how she was going to escape, but she had to.
She didn’t hear him approach, so she started when he slid his hands over her exposed shoulders. “We can do better than this, Portia. Can we not at least try?”
Portia wanted nothing more, but had lost faith. She didn’t resist, however, when he freed her hair from its pins and spread it around her shoulders, turning her to face him. “Your hair is like flame, and could warm my soul. Can you not tell me what stands between us?”
His fingers traced the swell of her breasts. She watched those long clever fingers, remembering other pleasures and trying to hold back any response.
“I know you better,” he said, “than to think you mindlessly demanding…”
Portia made herself see his gentle words as a trick, a trap, designed to pry free her secrets.
He sighed and raised her chin. “Could you perhaps say something?”
At the blend of desire and anger in him, her heart began to race and her mouth went dry. She said the first neutral thing that occurred to her. “Where’s Zeno?”
He laughed, bitterly. “Surprisingly to the point. Enjoying his mate, or thinking of it constantly. Boudicca has come into heat.”
Portia knew she was red. “We humans have no need of heat.”
“Some warmth is pleasant, however.”
She flinched at the edge in his voice. “I’m sorry if you find me cold. But we are married. You do not need my consent.”
“Do I not?” After a dangerous moment, he asked, “Are you by any chance thinking to withhold your warmth until I do as you wish and take you to your home?”
The thought hadn’t occurred to her, but now she grasped it. “Yes.”
After a moment he let her go. He picked up her velvet cloak and the pouch of money. “Come.” He was leading the way into the bedroom.
Portia almost refused, but what good would it do? She would not respond, she vowed, no matter what pressure or skills he brought to bear. She would not.
But he led her through his bedroom, through a small dressing room, and into another bedchamber where a fire glowed in the hearth, and a warming pan protruded from the big bed.
Portia looked at him in total bewilderment.
“Your bedchamber,” he said. “As you see, the servants have followed the fiction that it will be used. Do you need help with your gown?”
“N—no.”
“Then I will say good night.”
“But…”
He turned in polite, distant query.
“But it’s only seven in the evening.”
