A Touch of Passion (23 page)

She didn’t hesitate to reassure him. “I will do anything and everything you say as long as it does not stifle who I am. However, I’ve too much to live for to be careless or to be the topic of gossip.” She patted her stomach. “I may have children to think about.”

He pulled her roughly against him and took her lips in a branding kiss. Finally she was his. While his body roared with possession, he couldn’t help the edge of fear worming its way inside. He determined to do anything necessary to ensure that she would be safe.

The kisses deepened, igniting the fiery need that consumed him whenever Portia was near. He wanted her again, and he wished they weren’t in the rocking carriage but in his bed at Fairfield Manor, his estate in Somerset. He tried to bank the fires of their passion, but her hands found his erection and rubbed it through his breeches.

Just when he was about to give in, the carriage started to slow and he realized they were stopping at a coaching inn for the night.

He quickly took her lips in a sensual, slow kiss.
I love you with every breath I take, Portia.
He drew back when the carriage door swung open. Maitland.

“She’s marrying me, so no more flirting unless you want a sound thrashing,” Grayson said as he exited the carriage and held out his hand for Portia.

The men secured three rooms for the night. Neither Maitland nor Arend raised an eyebrow at Grayson’s insistence that Portia be with him. Weston was chained in Arend’s room; Arend would guard him through the night and sleep in the carriage the next day. They would all dine in Grayson’s room, which had a small private dining room off the bedroom.

Grayson watched Portia enter their bedroom and close the door. She wanted to freshen up before joining the men for dinner. The driver of Arend’s coach would watch Weston while they all ate.

Arend coughed discreetly. “She’ll be back soon. If you could drag your eyes from her door for a few moments, I wanted to discuss the missive I’m going to send to Christian and Hadley.”

Grayson refused to take offense at Arend’s taunting tone. Instead he took a seat where he could watch Portia’s bedroom door—
their
bedroom door, he thought with a thrill—and took the letter Arend had just finished writing from his hand.

He was busy reading the contents when Maitland entered the room and extended his hand. “Well done, my man. She will make you an excellent wife.”

He took Maitland’s hand and shook it hard, squeezing tightly. “When I escorted Portia to her room, she confessed to me of your plan to stir my jealousy. Really, Maitland, I would not have expected such inane behavior from you.”

“When she told me you’d bedded her, I surmised there was more to your feelings. It seemed expedient to hurry things along given her circumstances. I like the gal.”

Arend raised an eyebrow. “Grayson has bedded her? I knew he was lovesick.”

“Arend, keep your voice down.” He looked to the closed door. “This conversation is not seemly, and I am not lovesick.”
God, I bloody am.
He would not be leaving Portia’s side until the enemy was destroyed, and maybe not even after that….

Arend and Maitland chuckled.

“I think he does protest too much. This calls for drinks all around.” Arend poked his head into the corridor and called for a bottle of brandy.

Portia chose that moment to rejoin the men. “A
bottle
of brandy? What are we celebrating? We are not in London yet, nor do we have a name.”

Arend swept her a bow. “We are celebrating your upcoming nuptials.” He took her hand while looking at Grayson and kissed it. “Robert knew the way of it. A better match I cannot think of.”

Maitland stood. “A toast to the happy couple. May your union be blessed.”

Portia’s smile took Grayson’s breath away. She looked so content, and he took pride in the fact he’d made her happy. She said, “I shall drink to that. I’d like a brandy too.”

Maitland raised an eyebrow at Grayson.

“Don’t look at me. The lady is quite capable of deciding what she drinks.”

“This marriage is going to take the
ton
by storm and be very interesting,” Arend observed.

“I don’t care what the
ton
thinks,” said Portia as she took a sip from her glass.

She turned and smiled at him, and something unfurled inside Grayson’s chest. So this was love.
Love
—it warmed him, embraced him. A feeling of rightness flooded through him. “To marriage,” he whispered under his breath to no one but himself.

The meal was a jovial one even given their worrying circumstances. Weston still refused to give them the enemy’s name, and Grayson thought that later tonight, after some loving, he might try to get Portia to agree that Arend could try before they reached London.

Grayson was feeling very content himself. His stomach was full of good food, Portia dazzled his friends, which allowed him time to review the changes in his life, and for once he wasn’t tearing himself up inside over the idea of opening his heart. He watched her as she debated politics with Maitland and the best way to unman an attacker with Arend.

Portia had an intelligence that was inclusive. It was obvious she relished life. Her smile was infectious. It dawned on him from the looks being thrown his way that his friends were envious, and he was filled with pride.

Suddenly he saw his future. He could see down the road to when he was old and gray. He would not be afraid of what life might throw their way between now and then, because Portia would always be with him in his heart and soul. He was no longer afraid.

The serving girl entered to clear their plates and left them with a second bottle of brandy. Grayson poured them all another drink.

“Did Grayson ever tell you about the time he stole Robert’s clothes, making Robert have to hail a hackney, wrapped in a doxy’s sheet?”

Portia giggled. “I’d rather hear about Grayson’s escapades.”

Grayson rose. “Time I checked on Weston.”

Portia’s face clouded. “If you’d rather not talk about Robert—”

“It’s not that. I love remembering Robert.” He bent his head to kiss her. “I just need some fresh air, and we do need to relieve the driver so that he may get something to eat. I’ll take the first shift.” He added in a whisper in Portia’s ear, “So I can come to your bed later and love you senseless.”

“I can’t wait,” she replied, and ran her hand over his buttocks. Luckily his friends could not see, or he’d never hear the end of it. However, he left the room with a huge smile on his face and a bulge in his groin.

He first went downstairs to order a meal for the driver who was watching Weston, then made his way out to the yard to check on the other driver and the carriages. He wanted to know if the second driver had seen or heard anything unusual. Had anyone followed them? What other guests or patrons had arrived after them?

The driver Arend had procured was sharp. He’d made a note of everyone who’d arrived after them, and had also asked the stable boy for a detailed list of those already here.

The driver had identified two groups of suspect patrons. One potential threat was from three men who’d ridden in and appeared to have no luggage with them, yet were traveling to Newmarket for the races, and the other was a married couple. The couple consisted of an older gent—a squire, he’d heard—with a very young woman accompanying him, along with her elderly maid. The driver said that if they were a married couple, then he’d eat his hat, as the young woman cringed every time the old man touched her.

Grayson thanked him and made his way back into the inn. He quickly located the three men the driver mentioned. He asked for a beer and made his way toward where they sat by the fire. He leaned against the mantel, listening to their conversation. They were talking about the field in the fifth race, and Grayson listened for some time before approaching them. He knew the owner of one of the horses mentioned. Lord Sommersmith was indeed running his horse at Newmarket this month.

“Gentlemen, may I offer a tip? I’m a friend of Lord Sommersmith’s. He told me his horse was in top form and in his last race did not finish well, as he had a bruised hoof. I’d wager on Black Prince winning in the fifth.”

The men asked him to join them, and it took Grayson about half an hour to ascertain they had no luggage because it was coming by coach. They’d been late leaving and, not wishing to miss the first day of racing, had decided to ride on ahead.

Grayson believed them. He left the men, and as he tracked through the sparsely populated taproom, he searched for the married couple or their maid; unsurprisingly, they were not there. A quick word with the barman told him they had taken rooms upstairs. He couldn’t very well confront them, but he made a note of their location, and he decided he’d ask the driver to sleep in the hall watching their rooms.

He made his way upstairs to take his turn at watching Weston. When he got to the top of the stairs and looked down the narrow corridor, he was irked to discover that the other driver had already fallen asleep. He stormed toward him, only to realize halfway there that he wasn’t sleeping but unconscious—his meal tray was upside down and the food was scattered all over the floor. With his heart rising into his throat, Grayson rushed forward. The door to Weston’s room was ajar.
If he’s bloody escaped …
He carefully pushed the door inward and looked inside.

His stomach clenched. Weston was still there but lying on his side in a pool of blood. Grayson knelt over him, feeling for a pulse. He found one, but it was very weak. He rolled Weston onto his back.

Weston tried to talk, but bubbles of blood came from his mouth. Grayson bent so his ear was near Weston’s mouth.

“DePalma … Madam DePalma.”

“Thank you, Weston. Thank you.” Grayson propped a pillow under his head. “Hold on, man. I’ll get help.”

Weston’s only reply was a death gurgle, and then his eyes went blank. Grayson could not feel any pity for him, but at least he’d done the right thing in the end and given them a name. He couldn’t wait to tell the others …
Christ, the others!

He leaped to his feet and raced down the corridor back toward his rooms. As he drew near all he could hear was the thumping of his heart, and when he opened the door he saw why. Portia, Arend, and Maitland were all slumped over the table.

Sheer terror gripped him. He moved as if in a nightmare toward Portia’s slumped form. With trembling fingers he touched her neck to feel for a pulse. She was warm, and her pulse was strong. Relief brought him to his knees. He shook her gently, then more firmly, then a bit roughly. She would not wake.

He turned to look at the men. Arend was snoring softly with his head on the table, while Maitland had toppled to the floor and was muttering to himself.

He went to Maitland’s side and slapped his face hard. Maitland’s eyes fluttered open, but he could not focus. Grayson stuck his head out of the door and yelled for help. A young serving girl came to his aid and dashed off to summon a doctor.

He shoved and pulled Maitland into a sitting position. His friend’s eyes were glassy, and Maitland was babbling and smiling as if he were a child. Having nursed Christian through his burns, Grayson would swear Maitland had taken opiates.

He let Maitland’s body slide gently to the floor and reached for the brandy bottle on the table. He sniffed, then he poured a small amount out and tasted it. It was sweet, sweeter than a good brandy should be. Likely it was drugged. It couldn’t have been the food, as he’d eaten and was fine. He’d left the room just as the second bottle of brandy had arrived. A ripple of relief ran through him. At least they hadn’t been poisoned.

He picked up Portia and carried her into the bedroom. He laid her gently on the bed and tried to shake her awake once more. He bent his head to her face and noticed her breaths were shallow. He felt her pulse once more; it was pounding beneath his fingertips.

Finally the doctor arrived, and Grayson dragged him into the bedroom. Dr. Rodgers examined her thoroughly, then turned to Grayson to give his report. The look on his face turned Grayson’s blood to ice.

“The brandy was laced with laudanum. How much brandy did she drink?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t in the room.”

The doctor shook his head. “Lord Lyttleton may not have drunk as much brandy as the others, but he is a large man and his body can manage the effects of the laudanum better.”

“Arend no doubt would have been knocking the brandy back. Is that why he’s deeply asleep?”

The doctor nodded. “As to Lady Portia, if she drank as much as the men …”

“Tell me.” Grayson clenched every muscle in his body.

“She is much smaller in size than the men. If she imbibed the same quantity of brandy as the rest of them, well, it could cause an overdose.”

“What are the consequences of an overdose, and how do we treat her?”

“If we cannot counteract the opiates in her blood, her heart rate will begin to slow, her breathing will falter, and her lungs will stop working.”

Grayson’s brain couldn’t process what he was saying. He looked at Portia. She seemed so peaceful. “She’ll die?”

“Yes. We have to hope that she has not drunk so much that it overpowers her will to live.”

“She has a very strong will to live. What else can we do?”

“You could try getting coffee into her. We do not know why, but the coffee seems to counteract the drug.”

Grayson swallowed his fear. “That is all we can do?” He went to the door and shouted for the serving girl to bring coffee, and lots of it, as quickly as possible.

Dr. Rodgers patted his arm. “We must wait and pray. Either her body will recover or it won’t.”

“How long before we know?”

“It could be twelve hours or three days. I can’t tell,” the doctor said. The look of pity on the doctor’s face nearly undid Grayson. “I’ll check your two companions before I go.”

“Can we move her?”

“Yes. Travel won’t make any difference. Keep giving her coffee or tea. Ensure she gets some liquids in her.”

Grayson could hear Maitland mumbling to the doctor as Rodgers checked Arend. He sank down on the bed and clasped Portia’s tiny hand.
Please, dear God, let her live.
Fear, ugly and mean, gripped his innards. If he lost her …