Free The Hostage Bride by Jane Feather Page A

grievance taking its place. She swallowed snow as it drove into her momentarily opened mouth. “You can’t leave them—”
    “They’re not out in this,” he said curtly. “Don’t talk, and keep your head down.”
    Portia did as she was told, since it was the only thing that made any sense. She’d expected him to turn their horses back to the cottage, but instead they kept going toward the place where the ambush had occurred. In the featureless gray-whiteness, she could recognize nothing, and the blanketing silence was eerie, even their own hoofprints muffled.
    The stand of bare trees rose up suddenly, taking her by surprise. Rufus swung his horse off the track, and Patches followed perforce. They rode into the trees, and after a few yards, Rufus drew rein.
    He pointed with his whip. “Go straight ahead until you reach a rock face. There’s a cave inside. You’ll find the Granville men in there.” Before Portia could speak, he brought his whip down on the flanks of her horse and the animal started forward.
    “Don’t forget my message to Cato!” The words came clearly for an instant and then were lost. Portia wrenched her head around against the wind. For a second she could make out a gray shape in the trees, and then it was gone too, and she was alone, and now very frightened.
    Her horse plunged through the trees and she gave him his head. There was a chance he knew where he was going. Portia certainly didn’t. The rock face sprang up out of the white-shaded gloom, but she couldn’t discern an opening. “Whoa!” She pulled back on the reins, forcing the trembling horse to a standstill as she stared fixedly at the blank wall in front of her. Then she heard it. The faint whicker of a horse. It was coming from inside the rock.
    She urged Patches forward and gradually through the blinding snow a dark shadow in the rock face appeared. Sherode straight for it, kicking Patches urgently when he shied. It was like riding through porridge, but the shadow gave way before them and they found themselves out of the snow, in a small, dark space.
    Portia wiped snow from her eyes and face. Her eyes took a minute to accustom themselves to the change in light. But while she was still blinking, a voice she recognized declared from the gloom, “Why, it’s the maid.”
    “Aye, so ’tis.” Giles Crampton appeared out of the dimness. “Lord be thanked! The filthy bastard let you go.” He reached up to help her from her horse. “Are ye all right, lass? Did he ’urt ye?” The anxiety rasped in his voice. “If he put his filthy ’ands—”
    “No, no, nothing happened!” Portia interrupted. “And he brought me back to you. But what happened?” She could make out all five men now and wondered stupidly what it was that was so different about them. Their coats were undone … had no buttons, she saw. It looked as if the buttons had been sliced off. And then she realized what was different. They had all sported some form of facial hair—beards, sideburns, mustaches. But they were now all clean shaven, faces shining pink and bare as a baby’s bottom.
    She was about to exclaim and then some deep female instinct kept her silent. Such humiliation left them naked, exposed, a prey to their own self-disgust.
    “I suppose the Decatur men robbed you?” she asked, clapping her hands together, shivering in the icy cave.
    “Aye, thieving, murderin’ swine! Took every last coin we had. Everything worth more than a groat … includin’ our weapons.” Giles turned away from her, unable to hide his mortification. “We’re lucky they left us the horses.”
    “Aye, they left ’em, but wi’out saddles or bridles,” one of the others said bitterly. “Come into the back, mistress. We’ve lit a bit o’ fire. Not much like, but better’n nothing.”
    Portia went eagerly toward the small red glow at the far back of the cave. They’d found a few sticks of kindling, and the fire, though small, was as welcome as a yule log in a