A Touch of Passion (19 page)

She crept back down the stairs and arranged for a dinner tray to be sent to her room. Time wasn’t on her side. They would be home in two days.

Grayson hardly tasted his food or heard Arend’s intense conversation. He was worried about Portia. She’d pleaded tiredness and had not joined them for dinner. She
had
looked unwell when he’d checked on her—not surprising, given everything that had happened to her.

“Are you listening, Grayson?”

He turned to look at Arend. “Sorry, I’m worried about Portia. Perhaps the ordeal is finally catching up with her now she’s heading home. Is there a lot of gossip?”

The other two men looked at each other, and Maitland coughed. “Her mother has tried to say she’s gone north for her health. But someone has suggested there is more to your relationship, pointed out you are also missing, and suggested it is not a coincidence.”

Grayson thumped the table. “Weston.”

“Are you sure I can’t have a few words with him?”

Grayson wished Arend would, but he’d promised Portia they would try it her way. She would put her foot down at anyone hurting Weston after she’d given her word.

“Why don’t you ride in the carriage with Weston tomorrow and try to keep the conversation polite? I’m sure we can hide a few bruises from Portia, but promise me there’ll be no blood.”

Arend chuckled mockingly. “Perhaps you’d like to accompany us to hold my hand?”

“I just might,” Grayson retorted. “If Weston opens his mouth, I don’t trust you not to retaliate.”

Maitland spoke up. “I think it wise for both of you to be in the carriage with him. If our enemy has got word of his capture, she’s likely to try to ensure that he doesn’t talk.” He stabbed a potato with his fork. “I shall accompany Portia in her carriage for her safety.” He popped the potato into his mouth.

Grayson had to admit that Maitland was correct. Weston was now a target, perhaps more so than Portia. They needed him alive in order to learn the identity of the villainess.

“It will give me time to assess Lady Portia as my future duchess,” Maitland went on. “Since you are so generous as to suggest I try to convince her that she has other options, you must allow me time to present my case.”

Grayson almost choked on a mouthful of food. “Are you serious? You obviously do not know Portia. But go ahead, plead your case. I’m not sure you’re the right man for her.”

“But you know you’re not?” Arend said, an eyebrow raised knowingly.

Grayson picked up his knife and cut into his meat, wishing it were Arend’s tongue he was slicing.

Arend continued with a grin, “Shall we decide whom Lady Portia is better suited to? Let’s list the reasons you think she’s not right for you.”

“Good idea,” agreed Maitland. “Logical and very sensible, given that she has to wed in order to save her reputation. I must admit, having met the lady, I’m stumped as to why you and she would not suit.”

Arend was trying not to laugh. Evidently he thought the situation hilarious. “I shall make a list, and each of you can decide if the issues matter or not. Then we will know who is more suited to offer for her hand, Grayson or His Grace.”

Grayson put his knife and fork down. “Don’t do this, Arend.”

“Do what? You were the one who said you were not suited. You even suggested Maitland try to woo Portia—”

“
Lady
Portia to you. I said he could try, as I am certain she will not be interested.”

Arend’s smile widened. “She bade me call her by her given name. My, you’re a tad touchy for a man who earlier stated quite categorically that he was not pleased to be betrothed to said lady. I’m but trying to help.”

“Bollocks. You’re meddling.” Grayson’s temper was fraying.

“Now, what is point number one?”

Grayson refused to speak, but Maitland offered, “She’s too independent.”

Grayson jumped to her defense. “Thank God, or else she would have fallen to pieces when she was kidnapped. Instead, she kept her head, and it made it easier to rescue her.”

“So we can strike ‘too independent’ as being a problem for Grayson.”

Arend’s words forced Grayson to take a hard look at himself. Had he just defended her independence? Perhaps, he thought, he could use this conversation to begin to understand the hold Portia had on him. So he offered another fault. “Two, she’s too opinionated.”

Maitland sat back in his chair and smiled. “I don’t mind if a woman speaks her mind as long as she’s intelligent. I think we can all agree that Lady Portia has a sharp mind. Her plan to capture Weston worked.” Maitland shrugged. “I admit she’ll challenge me, but that means I won’t get bored. I’d hate to marry a woman I dreaded going home to because all that came out of her mouth was gossip or frippery.”

Grayson’s heart began to beat a little faster. Bloody hell, Maitland was right. During the voyage from Alexandria he’d been intrigued by Portia. At dinner she’d been warm, welcoming and tantalizingly beautiful to look at, but mostly he remembered looking forward to each mealtime just so he could converse with her. She was as quick-witted and as insightful as any man.

Arend gave him a sly smile. “It would seem Grayson is beginning to appreciate some of Lady Portia’s finer points.”

“Oh, do shut up, Arend. Yes, I can admit I admire her ability to hold a conversation.”

“Then I’m struggling, old boy, to understand why you’re so opposed to a marriage with Portia.”

Arend could be a real bastard when he wanted to be. What did he want Grayson to admit? That he was in love with her and it scared him to death?

His breath left his body in one gigantic whoosh, and his mind focused into a sharp point.

He
was
in love with Portia, and he
was
scared to death.

Arend was watching him closely while Maitland tucked into his meal. He knew Arend meant well, but for a man who avoided personal entanglements and tended to keep his sexual encounters professional, Grayson couldn’t understand why Arend was fascinated by his relationship with Portia.

As if he’d read Grayson’s mind, Arend said, “You need a woman who can make you happy. Lady Portia makes you smile. You used to smile a lot, but not since Waterloo.” He hesitated before going on. “You were not responsible for Robert’s death, or Christian’s burns. Forgive yourself. Sometimes life tramples us underfoot to remind us that we are not in control, and those lessons bloody hurt.” He gave Grayson a look, challenging him to disagree.

Grayson hung his head and said, “I can’t lose anyone else.” It took a lot for him to admit that to his friend.

Arend showed no surprise. “God tests us in many ways,” he said, breaking off a piece from the loaf of bread on the table. “When my grandfather and grandmother were beheaded in the revolution and the rest of the family fled, we arrived in England with nothing. My father said we rose above because God never sends us more than we can handle.”

Grayson scoffed, but Arend continued. “True, as I reached manhood I realized God expected me to handle a lot. But I had to make this life my own. I had to take risks and test myself. Life is not fair; you and I know this well. However, it does not mean we lie down and take it up the arse.”

“You are advising me to take the risk?”

Arend shrugged and smiled. “With risk comes reward. The greater the risk, the greater the reward.”

“What’s this about a reward?” Maitland put in. “Good idea—we should offer a reward for information.”

Arend and Grayson looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“I hardly think my idea is that preposterous,” Maitland huffed.

Grayson replied, “Actually it’s not a bad idea, but we don’t know whom we need information on. Once Weston has given us a name, then—”

“Right,” said Maitland. “I shall do it then. I’ll offer a reward once we have her name.”

Once that was settled, the conversation turned to other news. Grayson learned more details about what had happened when Christian Trent, Earl of Markham, had returned from Canada and, like Sebastian Hawkestone, had been cleared of his purported crime. He was even more astounded to learn that his two friends were happily married.

Maitland handed him a letter from Christian. Grayson decided to read it later, when he was alone. But already the weight of guilt he carried over Christian’s burns eased slightly, now that he knew his friend was happy.

Grayson lay in bed that night, trying not to think of Portia sleeping mere feet from him in the other room. The knowledge he was in love with Portia weighed heavily on his mind.

He’d never considered himself a coward, but he certainly felt like one now. Portia, for instance, had demonstrated more bravery in her life than he had, bar the war. She had defied the vicious gossip and grown her cider business to become the biggest supplier in the southwest of England. She’d refused to marry simply to meet society’s expectations, she’d kept her head and hadn’t fallen to pieces when she was abducted and abused by a sultan, and she’d fought off an attempted rape by disarming a man twice her size.

But most of all, she was willing to risk her heart on him—a man who’d lost everyone he’d ever truly loved and who did not hesitate to display his distaste at her unconventional behavior. That was brave.

Grayson had learned to fear love, because caring for another person left him vulnerable. But the last few pages of Christian’s letter, which he’d read before getting into bed, had struck to the very heart of him.

The Libertine Scholars inform me you are suffering some absurd notion of guilt regarding my burns. That in turn makes
me
feel guilty, as you have nothing to atone for. In fact, you saved my life that day, and while I originally cursed you for that, I should have been thanking you every day since then. I survived while many of our friends did not. I now intend to make the most of each day God has seen fit to bless me with.

I have met and married the most marvelous woman, Serena, and I am about to become a father. This is the fulfillment of all the dreams I shared with you during the long, cold nights of the war.

When I lay on the battlefield in such agony, with my body on fire and delirious from the laudanum, all I could think about was the fact I had no one special in my life to mourn my passing—no wife or children who loved me. It’s a terrible fate for any man, to meet his maker without love. Love is what keeps us alive in the hearts and minds of those we leave behind. I thank God every day that I have found that with Serena.

I thank you for ensuring I didn’t die on the battlefield, I thank you for urging me to not give up and to fight to live, and I thank you most of all for being my friend.

I can’t wait to introduce you to Serena and to ask you a very special favor when we meet. Stay safe, and I hope one day you too find the love I have found with Serena, for you deserve it. Remember that love sustains us in life as it does in death.

Christian’s words resonated deep within him. He had always carried his family in his heart, as he did now with Robert. While the pain of their loss never left him, the love he had shared with them often made warm memories flood his mind. He’d smile remembering the silly hijinks Robert and he had gotten up to when they were younger, like swapping Lord Cumberland’s fine brandy for vinegar and drinking the brandy in the stables until they were both sick. The punishment the next morning had been a sermon from the vicar on the sins of overindulgence while still suffering from a hangover and the indigestion from the curried eggs Lord Cumberland had made them eat. Grayson realized that if he hadn’t opened his heart to Robert and his family after his parents died, he’d have nothing joyful to look back on.

Grayson rose from his bed, drawn like a fish on a line toward her room. He stood in the doorway of Portia’s room watching her sleep. She looked so peaceful. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d managed to sleep without waking from the nightmare of Christian burning, the smell of charred flesh like that of a pig on a spit. It had been Grayson’s reckless idea to attack the cannon, and yet he hadn’t been hurt. And in the current circumstance, it was his actions—or, rather, his father’s actions—that had put Portia in danger.

Her beautiful face was lit by the moonbeams that flooded the room, and she looked like an angel. Her eyelashes lay against pale skin, her lips slightly parted as she slept. Her cambric nightgown had slid down, exposing one creamy shoulder and the top of one ripe breast. As he watched her, he vowed that whatever happened, he would see her happy. He would try to give her what she wanted—his heart.

Suddenly she cried out and began thrashing, flinging the covers off and exposing her slender lower limbs. He understood the terror of nightmares, the inescapability of the darkness. His heart softened toward Portia. She’d hidden her fears from him and everyone else. She’d been so brave, but obviously something haunted her dreams. He wanted to shove the bad memories away.

Before he knew what he was doing he was sitting on the edge of her bed, touching her bare shoulder in an effort to dispel her demons. She came awake instantly on a cry, her arms raised as if to pummel her attacker.

“Shh, Portia, it’s all right. It’s I, Grayson. You’re safe now.”

Upon hearing his words, she flung herself into his arms, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding on for dear life.

“I dreamed I hadn’t been rescued and the sultan had me. He …”

Grayson slid his arms about her. “You are in England, with me and plenty of men for protection. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Portia pressed her face into the curve of his neck. Suddenly Grayson became aware that he was naked except for his drawers. Her fingers trailed down his bare chest almost as if she were trying to clutch him to her.

Grayson stroked her back, willing her trembling to ease.

“I dreamed you handed me back to the sultan because you didn’t want me,” she sobbed.

At the fear in her voice, Grayson’s heart clenched. “I’d never let anyone hurt you.”

She raised her tearstained eyes to look at him. “You hurt me,” she whispered before she burrowed against his chest, quietly crying.

Her words delivered such a blow he could barely catch his breath. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but he’d been frightened of letting her into his heart. He didn’t want to feel. He didn’t want her womanly softness reminding him so painfully of the people he’d lost. Plus how could he love Portia when he’d let Robert down so badly? Robert had thought they weren’t suited. He’d be turning in his grave to know Grayson was marrying his sister. He felt guilty enough without that knowledge.