Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(48)

“Well, Heath,” his grandmother drawled, “you’ll have to go after her, won’t you?”

A sound request. Logical. Except his grandmother’s eyes gleamed with a victorious light. She angled her head, her shifty blue eyes watching him, waiting.

The hair on his arms prickled. He pinched the bridge of his nose, convinced more than ever that he wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until Portia was gone. Still, losing her somewhere on his estate was not the way to rid himself of her.

Inhaling deeply through his nose, he said, “Tell me precisely where you last saw her.”

Mina’s shoulders sagged in clear relief. “You mean you’ll find her?”

He felt his lips twist. Dropping his hand from his face he met his grandmother’s triumphant gaze, asking, “Was there ever any doubt?”

Rain fell in torrents. Portia squinted against the downpour, giving up any attempt to guide her horse through the quagmire that threatened to drag them down. She let the reins fall lax in her hands and simply trusted that the animal desired shelter as much as she did.

“Come on, boy,” she muttered through chattering teeth. Crouching low, she clung to the horse’s neck as he wrestled his hooves from the marshy ground. “Take us home.”

A cottage materialized through the gray curtain of rain as if her words alone had summoned it.

Her mount, clearly no stranger to the dwelling, bypassed the cottage, trotting straight for the nearby stables. He halted at the closed doors, snorting loudly enough to be heard over the heavy thrum of rain.

“Not precisely what I had in mind,” Portia grumbled as she slid off the horse’s back and trudged through the mud to fling open the doors. Still, it was shelter, and she couldn’t begrudge the beast from delivering them safely from the storm.

Her mount needed no prodding. He barreled past her in his haste to get inside. Muttering beneath her breath, she followed after him. Her gaze swept over the interior as she tugged off her clinging gloves. A quick survey revealed no animals and little in the way of equipment. Barren stalls stared back at her. Her horse sauntered in and out of these, snuffling and devouring the hay littering the ground.

She followed the horse into one stall. Removing his saddle, she snatched a blanket that hung over one of the rails and rubbed the animal down.

Satisfied that she had tended the horse to the best of her ability, she gave his rump one last pat and darted back outside, a hand shielding her face in a feeble attempt to ward off the deluge.

After three swift raps, her hand went for the latch. Thankfully, the cottage door was unlocked.

Gasping, she stumbled inside. Closing the door behind her, she eyed the room.

This was no meager crofter’s cottage. Contrary to the humble exterior, the inside was well appointed—an elegant sanctuary.

Wringing water from her hair, she moved to the center of the single-room dwelling and turned in a small circle. Her gaze fell on the large tester bed, the type found in any fine home. An elegant dining table, accompanied with high back chairs, sat before the shuttered window. A large desk, littered with books and papers, occupied one corner. A chintz-covered sofa was angled before the fireplace, allowing room for a large sheepskin rug, the mere sight of which already made her feel warm. Her gaze landed on a stack of wood in a basket.

“Yes,” she breathed, her breath fogging the air. Already she imagined the heat of a fire soaking into her bones and ridding her of foggy breath. Hurrying forward, she arranged the logs in the fireplace. Her cold fingers stumbled several times, stinging from both cold and the abrasive wood, until at last she coaxed a fire to life.

Her trembling hands then attacked the buttons of her habit, eager to be rid of the clinging wet fabric, eager for the fire to do its work and warm her bones.

Stripped bare, she draped her clothing over the backs of the chairs. Shaking in the frigid air, she snatched the blanket off the bed and drew it around her. Wrapped tight, she sank onto the rug before the hearth, the soft lambskin a heavenly cloud beneath her chilled body.

She stared into the dancing flames, feeling rather satisfied with herself. Bathed in the warm glow of the fire, she felt at peace in the unexpected solitude. Freedom at last, even if short-lived.

She had contemplated running away before. Escape from responsibility. From the pressure of insurmountable debt. From a constant sense of inadequacy. If her mother could escape, could take leave of all expectations placed upon her, why not her?

Sighing softly, Portia rested her chin on her knees. She flexed her toes in the soft wool. Her eyelids grew heavy as she watched the flames stretch and sway in the hearth. Lethargy crept into her bones and her thoughts drifted back to her mother. Did the daughter she left behind never intrude on her thoughts? Portia gave her head a violent shake and wiped at the sudden dash of tears on her cheeks, refusing to let such thoughts rob her of this rare-found tranquility.



She snuggled onto her side, loosening the blanket so that it draped over her. With the soft wool cushioning her body, she could almost imagine she floated in the heavens. Popping sounds from the fire and the steady beat of rain lulled her. She closed her eyes and let her muscles sink and melt into deep sleep.





Chapter 18


Heath rode like a demon, calling Portia’s name over the howl of wind and rain. He lost all sense of time as he searched, scanning the horizon, his voice growing hoarse from shouting.