“I should have let him buy you,” he said coldly, anger banked, but still glowing. “Perhaps guilt would have changed his mind about marrying you. Or perhaps he’d have been entranced by your charms. Either way, you’d have preferred it, wouldn’t you?”
“Fort would never—”
“Fort would have raped you on the slim chance that I might care. I wonder why he didn’t.”
Portia turned away from his bitterness and covered her mouth with a trembling hand. “Because he thinks I’ll be a greater cross for you to bear as it is.”
“Surprisingly astute of him. You’ve caused me nothing but grief from the moment we met.” She heard him unlock the door and turned.
He opened it. “Come.”
“Where?”
“Do you have the right to ask?”
“Yes, but there’s probably no purpose to it.” Portia raised her chin and walked through into the corridor.
Bryght did not touch her in any way, but led her across to the part of this floor she had not yet checked. He unlocked a door. Inside was Oliver in his shirtsleeves, sitting despondently in front of the fire.
He looked up suspiciously, then a blend of confusion and anger crossed his face. “Portia? Malloren? Why in the name of heaven have you kept me prisoner here?” By then he was standing belligerently.
Portia saw with horror that he had a virulent black eye, and was limping. “Oliver!” She ran to him. “What have they done to you? But, oh, thank heavens. I was so afraid….”
He caught her in his arms. “Afraid? Of what?” He pushed her away a little, studying her. “What have they done toyou?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly, brushing his loose hair back from a swollen temple, then the absurdity of that statement struck her and control fell away. “Oh God!” And she started to cry.
She felt other hands upon her shoulders, and heard Bryght say, “If you don’t give her to me, I’m like to kill you.”
“Why the devil should I?” Oliver demanded, holding her tight.
Portia tried to choke out an explanation but tears swamped her voice.
“Because she’s my wife,” said Bryght.
Oliver’s grasp loosened, probably through shock. Portia was turned into Bryght’s arms. “Portia, stop,” he said, holding her tight. “You’ll break my heart, crying like this.”
She tried to control herself, gulping in deep breaths, but tears started again. She tried to speak, but nothing coherent came out. He rocked her and murmured comfort, and in a while it began to help.
“I’m sorry,” she choked and found her handkerchief.
He relaxed his hold. “You have reason enough for tears,petite,but we need to talk.”
Portia pulled herself out of his arms and blew her nose. “I don’t cry,” she said truculently.
“So I see.” His tone was dry but his expression was much milder than before.
“I don’t!” she protested. “Oliver, when did I last cry?” But then she remembered that time at Mirabelle’s which Oliver knew nothing about.
“She doesn’t,” Oliver said. “When I was in the nursery, my father would berate me for crying more than a girl.”
“I was four years older than you,” Portia said. “That wasn’t fair.”
“But girls cry at any age. Everyone knows that. Look at Pru. She gushes at the sight of a pretty sunset.”
“That’s because she knows she cries prettily.”
Bryght cleared his throat and Portia suddenly recollected the disastrous state of her life. She looked at him warily, but though somber he did not seem to be in an ungovernable rage.
