“She must have planned it all along!” she wailed. “The lying, devious cow. She has ruined herself, and us with her.”
Arnold had his own thoughts on who had planned Portia’s disappearance. Despite rigorously questioning the servants, he was able to extract very little from them, and nothing about any accomplice. Marcus Worthorne had done this. He was sure of it. The man was a immoral savage. The question now was where he had taken her.
Until he knew that, his own plans had been put on hold. He had chosen Portia to be his instrument, and so she would be. No, he had not given up and he never would. He’d already hired several appropriately qualified persons to hunt Portia and her lover down, and when he found out where they were, he would decide how to deal with them to best advantage. His best advantage.
Something still might be salvaged from this mess.
“What will we do?” Lara’s voice finally penetrated Arnold’s thoughts. He turned to look at her, noting her wild eyes and flushed face. She was probably picturing a flood of refusals for her latest dinner party if Portia wasn’t there.
“Deny any knowledge,” he instructed her. “Say you are certain it is just a mistake and very soon she will come home again and explain it all to everyone’s satisfaction. You are worried, naturally, but confident all will be well.”
“I don’t know if I can. I am so very angry, Arnold. I find myself wishing she would come to some dreadful harm…she and that man. How can I pretend to love her as I should when she is such an unnatural stepmother?”
“Well, you must,” he retorted coldly. “This isn’t about you, this is about the family. Remember, your father’s memory is untarnished, and it will remain so as long as you rise above any gossip to the contrary. Portia may be destroyed—in fact she seems intent on destroying herself—but not him, and not you. We may even be able to use her downfall to better ourselves in the eyes of the queen and the public.”
His wife gazed at him admiringly.
Arnold had noticed before that the more of a bastard he was, the better she liked it. Probably reminded her of her father, and the way he used to order her around as if she were one of his subalterns. Of course, if she knew his ultimate plans concerning Portia and the queen, she might not be quite so admiring. Or maybe he wronged her; maybe she would think him a hero for what he was going to do.
It wasn’t every man who changed history.
Chapter 26
Portia was limp and re
plete. She hardly had the strength to lift her hand to stroke one of Marcus’s dark curls back from his brow. He opened an eye, looked at her and smiled.
“Masterful enough for you, my lady?”
Portia smiled back. “Very masterful.”
His smile turned quizzical. “Do you know I have the strangest feeling sometimes when I look at you. As if we’ve met before.”
She lowered her eyes and pretended to smooth the bedclothes. “I can’t think why.”
“I’d like to believe it’s because we’re soul mates, but I suppose I’ve seen you at some function or other. You on the stage taking all the glory, and me on the outer reaches of the crowd, looking on.”
Did he really believe she was so far above him? Not that it seemed to bother him; he was proud of her and who she was. She could see it in his eyes, in his smile. And it certainly didn’t effect the way he made love to her, which was far more earthy than reverential, thank God.
He climbed out of bed and went to the window, naked as the day he was born. “The fog’s gone,” he said with satisfaction. “I want to try and have that sluice gate working tomorrow. We need to start thinking about planting, if we’re to make this place pay.”
We.
Portia let the word go without a fight.
He looked at her over his shoulder, a smile hovering about his handsome mouth. “Come and see.”
A little reluctantly, she climbed out of the warm bed, the floor cold against her bare feet, and joined him at the window. He drew her back against him, folding his arms about her. He was so warm, even naked, and with a smile she remembered what he had said out on the causeway about being hot-blooded.
Then she looked out of the window.
The fog had dispersed and the moon had risen. It was like a huge round ball, hanging low in the sky, shining its pale cool light over the marshes and the water. There was something ethereal about the scene, as if it were a kingdom belonging to a mythical hero.
Marcus’s kingdom.
No wonder he loved it here, Portia thought. He probably imagined himself as a king, all powerful. But that wasn’t fair. He had ideas for the future, and he was more than willing to put them into practice. This was no vain despot. Marcus was an intelligent and thinking man, and although he might be a little impetuous, and blind when it came to danger, he was admirable in so many ways, she’d struggle to list them.
She had wronged him when she thought him nothing more than a handsome man of the town, a womanizer who only knew how to drink and gamble and enjoy himself in the London fleshpots. Perhaps she’d always known, in her heart, that he was capable of far more than she credited him with. Perhaps it had just been easier for her to pretend otherwise.