The streets were mostly quiet at this dead hour, for there was an icy rain and even the skulking predators had burrowed into their hovels. A stinking night-soil cart rattled by, hauling off excrement to dump into the river. Once Bryght passed a watchman, patrolling with his bell and lantern. The man peered at him suspiciously, clearly wondering why any honest body would be out in such weather at such a time.
Bryght ignored him, but was perfectly aware that he was acting the lovesick fool. If Rothgar found out he’d die laughing, or clap him in an asylum. Even under Nerissa’s thrall Bryght had not behaved like this.
But his feelings for Nerissa had not been like this.
There was only the slightest click of claws to warn him before Zeno appeared dark, wet, and silent at his side.
“Damnation,” said Bryght. “I suppose you announced to all that I had gone out again.”
Zeno just snuffled, head down against the rain.
“If you don’t care for the weather, you could have stayed at home with your lovely mate. But I suppose she’s not in heat yet. It must be convenient to have times when you’re not pulled toward her.”
The dog ignored him.
“A taste of the fruit can be fatal, though,” Bryght mused. “Having experienced Portia’s passion, I’m addicted as madly, as insanely, as an opium eater. Will it kill me, do you think?”
Bryght laughed and abandoned the unproductive conversation, abandoned, too, unproductive speculation about the state of his heart. He was bewitched by something that could neither be explained nor controlled and he was happy to surrender.
He arrived at the house and saw candlelight in an upper room. He had rather hoped to find the place peaceful and dark, for then he would have no excuse to intrude.
Why would there be a light so many hours after Portia should have gone to bed?
He tried the door.
He expected to find it locked, but it opened, increasing his concern. He entered the dark, narrow hallway, all senses alert for trouble. Finding none, he gave Zeno a quiet command to stay by the door and moved further into the chilly house. This reminded him of his visit to Maidenhead. He hadn’t sensed trouble then, and had found a great deal—Nerissa’s letter, and a dangerous Amazon.
If he’d not met Portia there, his life would still be orderly. But if he’d not met Portia there, tonight she would have been raped by Steenholt or D’Ebercall in front of twenty salivating voyeurs.
He climbed the stairs as quietly as his boots allowed. He could not hear even a trace of conversation from the upper floor, which was strange for this house was not sturdily built. He could hear the scrabbling of mice, and the ticking of a clock in a downstairs room.
He came to the door that must lead into the lighted room and hesitated. It was more than likely that opening this door would change his life forever.
He shrugged and tried the knob. The door was latched from the inside. That was as it should be, but his nerves told him all was not well. He took out a pen-knife and inserted it through the crack where the door met the jamb. The latch flipped up easily. ’Struth, but she should have more security than this.
He pushed the door carefully in case of squeaks, but it opened silently and a guttering candle showed him Portia slumped in a chair. For a heart-stopping moment he thought she was dead. Then he saw that she was asleep there in her clothes.
Where was her damned brother?
He closed the door gently and walked over to her.
Small, light, and with a face relaxed by exhaustion, she looked like the child Mirabelle had claimed her to be, but his body was not responding to a child. Her full-skirted dress and stiff bodice disguised her figure, but he was burningly aware of the reality he had known earlier.
He moved his eyes, and found himself studying one slender hand where it lay relaxed in her lap. Delicate but strong, it matched the vision in his head of her writhing under him, tiny but ferocious.
With a shake of his head, he repelled the memory. Was he a raw youth to invade a woman with such thoughts?
But why was she alone? He doubted Cuthbertson would have harmed her brother, or that she would be quietly here if he had. The poltroon must have run off and abandoned her.
Bryght trimmed the smoky candle, then sat in a nearby chair to think. He’d like to apply his usual cool logic to the situation, but it seemed beyond him. What he really wanted was to gather Portia into his arms and carry her through the rain-swept streets to the safety of Malloren House. It was a foolish plan, but appealing all the same.
He shook his head. Presumably his brain still existed somewhere within the mass of sensation and emotion which ruled him. It was his brain that was needed if he were to help Portia.
She could not live here alone until her brother returned. It was neither proper nor safe and there was no guarantee that Upcott would return.
Especially if Bryght found him first.
She had money now, but she still needed protection. In case there was any trace of suspicion about last night, she needed a solid aura of respectability….
