She came across a side door and tried it. Unlocked! That wasn’t surprising in the country, but it made her feel the fates were on her side. She found herself in a passageway, and walked quickly down it by the kitchen and scullery. There were servants there, but none saw her.
Now, where would the Mallorens keep Oliver?
She wondered if this house had a cellar beneath this floor, but a quick exploration showed no sign of one. She had to slip into a corner at the bottom of some stairs to avoid one undermaid carrying a bucket, but otherwise she met no one.
Attics?
She went up the stairs, climbing them all the way to the top. She heard a door open and close lower down, but no sound of anyone near by, and no sound of pursuit.
When she reached the limit of the stairs, she went through a door into a plain corridor. Long past caution, she opened a door and found, as she’d expected, a servants’ bedroom. She checked each room and found them all the same. There was no sign of Oliver.
What now?
She would have to search the family part of the house. She didn’t want to, but she must.
She came to a second set of stairs and went down them, trying to be quiet. By now Brand must have realized she’d given him the slip. She shrugged. Cowering would do her no good, and no amount of caution would avoid the eventual confrontation with Bryght. She opened a door and entered a carpeted corridor, pausing to listen.
She thought perhaps she did hear distant voices, but was surprised not to find a hullabaloo. Since no one seemed to be nearby, she began again methodically checking rooms, opening each door. The corridors in this old house wandered, and it wasn’t easy for her to be sure she had checked everywhere.
There were suites of rooms, and she thought that perhaps each member of the family had such a set of rooms, always in readiness. In one bedroom—possibly Major Barclay’s for it seemed more recently used and yet less settled than others—she found a pistol case. She calmly loaded one of the weapons and took it with her.
Then she looked into a bedroom with a wide open window. This seemed so strange in December that she went over and peered out, thinking perhaps Oliver might have been here and escaped.
She heard aclickbehind her.
She spun around to see Bryght pocketing the key.
Chapter 25
Portia’s heart leaped into her throat and she raised her hand to cover the area, only then remembering the pistol. She pointed it at him, but with a trembling hand.
“This is where we came in, I think,” he said, walking toward her. “Put that down.”
“No. Where is Oliver?”
“Your wretched brother is perfectly safe. Put down the pistol.” He was muddy, disheveled, and very angry.
“Take me to him. I don’t trust—”
He kicked the pistol from her hand. It fired deafeningly even as he grabbed her by the gown and hauled her to him. “You don’t trust me? That’s obvious. You’d rather trust Fort Ware.”
Her hands were stinging but she was almost dizzy with fear. “I don’t trust anyone anymore!”
“Why? What didhedo?” The rage in him was terrifying, reminding her brutally of their first meeting.
“Nothing,” she whispered. “He brought me here.”
“He didn’t touch you?”
She shook her head.
“Kiss you?”
Her guilt must have shown for the fury burned brighter.
“I asked him to!” she cried. “Don’t fight him….”
He threw her aside so she stumbled.
