was no one left with the authority to order, bully—or, worse, ignore her. And Portia meant to keep it that way. She wanted nothing more than her independence, the chance to be in charge of her own destiny. She’d thought she had it, too, until that wretched solicitor had come calling.
But no matter. She had a grasp on the situation. One even exchange with Mateo Cardea and she would have her freedom—and her home—safe again. It only wanted a little courage and a good deal of determination. Sternly she reminded herself that she had an ample supply of both. Boldly she pushed the outer door open and let herself in, steeled to face—
Empty darkness. Silence.
‘Is anyone there?’ Some of her bravado faded a little as she stepped forwards into the gloom. Portia paused to take a good look, curious to see the place servants and villagers whispered about. The ante-room appeared perfectly ordinary at least, certainly not like she’d imagined a reputed den of debauchery and iniquity. Disappointed, she continued forwards.
A doorway sat at an angle to the right. From beneath it shone the faintest glow of light—and from behind it she caught the low murmur of voices. She crept closer.
There. Faint but unmistakable: Mateo Cardea’s wicked chuckle.
Portia stood helpless against the intense shiver of reaction that swept through her. As a young girl she’d spent hours tagging after Mateo and her brothers. She’d lurked in hallways and corners, listening for that infectious sound. Five years older than she, Mateo Cardea had been an ideal, the unsuspecting object of her first consuming love. An absent smile from him had held the power to light up her day, but it had been his rich laughter, full of mischief and exuberance, that had set her young body a-tremble.
Not that he had ever taken notice. Despite their friendship, she’d never been more than background scenery to him, a secondary character in the drama of his young life.
She was determined that things would be different now. All day she had sat, waiting for him to come, seething when he did not. Until—as the hour grew late and her temper grew short—she’d finally decided that this time she would begin with Mateo as she meant to go on. She would force him to look at her, to see her, to truly recognise her for the woman she was. Mateo, her brothers, indeed the whole world—it was time that they all took a second look at Portia Tofton.
With a purposeful and careful tread she approached the door. But he was not alone. Feminine tones mixed with his, and then both faded away. Portia’s face flamed. Etta was as notorious as the Eagle itself. Of course Mateo would be with her. Everyone else had been—including Portia’s own husband.
She was a different woman, now, though. She would not sit idly by and be ignored. She turned the latch as quietly as she could and paused once more. The manner of her entrance must lend itself to the image she wished to convey. She wished to appear a woman of self-possession and authority. A woman he could desire, whispered some deeply buried part of her. She shushed it. Above all, she would not be a supplicant.
She shifted her weight, hoping for a strategic glimpse into the room before she entered. A board creaked loudly underneath her, but Portia did not heed it.
It was he. Her stomach fluttered in recognition. How well she knew that rogue’s twist of a wry grin, the tangle of inky, wind-tousled curls, and the spark of wickedness dancing in a gaze as warm as her morning chocolate. Her pulse tumbled nearly to a stop, then rushed to a gallop as her mind made sense of the rest of the tableau before her.
Mateo Cardea at last—but perched on a stool, the infamous Etta entwined around him tighter than the Persian ivy Portia had coaxed up the walls of her arbour. She gripped the door handle until her knuckles whitened. God, but it was the old hurt all over again. How many times in a woman’s life could she withstand such a whirlwind of pain and humiliation?
One too many times. But this would be the last. She breathed deeply and willed her spine straight and her voice steady. With a flourish she swept the door open and stepped into the taproom, trampling her heart underneath each tread of her foot. ‘Ah, here you are, Mateo,’ she called. ‘As ever the scapegrace, I see, seeking pleasure when there is serious work to be done.’
A rush of anger pulled Mateo off of his stool and out of the circle of Etta’s arms. In an instinctive reaction his knees braced, his toes flexed within his boots to grip the floor and his breath quickened to match the sudden racing of his pulse. It was an old impulse, standing fast to face his enemies—except this adversary was neither a ship of the line bent on impressing his men nor a fat merchant clipper ripe for the picking. Instead it was a slip of a girl in a sky-blue pelisse.
He stared as Portia Tofton sauntered into the taproom as if it belonged to her. But this was not the shy, roundshouldered girl he recalled from his youth. From her head to her curvy figure and on to her dainty little toe, this was a woman to be reckoned with. Her stylish bonnet beautifully framed the look of cool amusement fixed on her face. Mateo’s jaw tightened even as she removed it, letting it swing by ribbons of shaded velvet.
For so long he had imagined this confrontation. In his mind he had rehearsed his collected entrance into her presence, practised the biting words with which he would consign her to the devil. Now it would seem she had connived to rob him even of that satisfaction.
His fists clenched. An air of assurance hung about her as she stepped into the candlelight. And why not? She thought she had him right where she wished. Heedless of propriety, unmindful of the great wrong she had done him or perhaps just without regard for his feelings, she stood there, all expectation, smiling up at him.
That smile made him wild. Fury set his temples to pounding, but he would be damned before he would let her see it. ‘Peeve!’ he called. ‘It is you, is it not?’
Her expression of triumph dimmed at the use of the old nickname. Relentless, he pressed his advantage. ‘But I see that much is the same with you, as well, my dear.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Still, after all these years, you are pushing yourself in where you do not belong.’
If he had hit his mark, she hid it well with a toss of her head. ‘Come, let’s not be rude, Mateo,’ she cajoled.
He nearly choked. ‘Rude? You conniving little jade! You would count yourself fortunate should I stop myself at merely rude!’
‘I don’t think the occasion warrants it.’ She cast a quick, curious gaze about them. ‘This is a place of…conviviality, is it not?’
He had not thought it possible for his anger to grow hotter. But the roiling mass of resentment inside him ignited at her words—and his control slipped further as the flames licked higher. Incredulous, he gaped at her.
He pushed away from the bar, away from her. Retreating back to the dying fire, he glared at her. ‘Conviviality,’ he scoffed. ‘Is that what you expected from me? Damn you English, and damn your deadly, dull-mannered ways,’ he said thickly. ‘And damn me if I will greet with equanimity the woman who has usurped my life’s work, and then—asif I am but her lackey—calls me to her side with a damned insulting peremptory summons!’
Her eyes narrowed and she took a step towards him. ‘Mateo—’
‘Stop,’ he ordered. ‘By God, I am not one of your reserved English gentlemen! Come within an arm’s reach of me and I won’t trust myself.’ He turned away from her and gripped the stone mantel over the fire. ‘Never in my life have I struck a woman, but you, Portia Tofton, tempt me beyond reason.’
Perhaps he had gone too far. At the bar, the innkeeper made a slight
