Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

He started after her. He’d made up perhaps a quarter of the distance between them when, at last, she slowed, though she maintained a brisk pace and kept her head down. When she disappeared over the other side of the slope, he walked faster. Rain came down hard enough to pound on his hat and turn the surface of the path to mud. He lengthened his stride.

At the top of the slope, he caught sight of her again, moving rapidly toward the top of the hill that lead—eventually—to Wordless. And wasn’t that a fine joke that he should call his own home by the name Portia had given it in her letters. Wordless, because he was familiarly called Word by certain intimate friends, and he was never at Northword Hill. He’d told Magnus about that, and they’d taken to calling all manner of things Wordless.

He cupped his hands to the sides of his mouth. “Portia!”

Wind whipped away the sound of her name, but she stopped. Then, without turning to look, she darted off, skirts in her hands. Wasn’t that just like her, to be contrary and headstrong? He plunged down the hill and slid in the mud, though he managed to keep his feet. Once, she slipped, too, but as he had, she caught herself and kept going.

Water dripped from the brim of his hat onto his face and wherever the drops hit his cheeks his skin burned with cold. She slowed, and God knows she would have needed inhuman endurance to maintain her pace in these conditions.

He caught up at the stone fence that marked the border between the Grange and his property. From here, the side of Northword Hill rose up, turned a darker gray by the rain.

This time, he did not need to shout. “Portia.”

She stopped walking but did not face him. Her hands hung at her sides. Water ran down the back of her neck, making rivers of the tendrils of hair that had escaped her hairpins.

Northword took a step closer. Even if he’d been close enough to touch her, he wasn’t sure he’d dare. Never mind their difficulties, never mind the years and the chasm between them, he did not want to see her in distress. Not like this. “Portia.”

She whirled on him, eyes ablaze. Rain dripped down her face, and she shivered once. Gooseflesh pimpled her exposed skin. “What could you possibly want from me? There’s no need to humiliate me like this. Haven’t I done enough to push you away?”

“I didn’t come after you to humiliate you.”

“Well, you have. Lord Northword.” She walked away, keeping to the line of the fence, away from the Grange. The hem of her skirt was muddy for several inches, and the fabric was soaked halfway to her knees.

He followed and raised his voice to be heard over the rain and the distance she was putting between them. “Since when does my chasing after you to make sure you don’t catch your death of sleet and rain count as humiliation, I’d like to know?”

The skies opened. Unbelievable as it seemed, it was actually raining harder, and cold enough now that there were tiny pellets of ice. He thought she meant to pretend she hadn’t heard him, but then she made a rude gesture. And kept walking. This was the Portia he remembered. Passionate. Always passionate.

“Stop.” He took three long steps and caught her arm, pulling her around to face him. Her mouth was rimmed with white but there was a telltale tremor around her jaws. “We can’t stay in this downpour.”

“I don’t care.” Rain plastered her awful pink gown to her body.

“I don’t care much if you think I’ve humiliated you when I haven’t.”

She stared him down. He did not know this woman. She was not a girl. She’d lived ten years without him, and in ten years, people changed. They left behind fancies of love and passion. They married and went on to live dutiful lives.

“Thank you for telling me how I feel. Now that you are Lord Northword, of course you know all.” She pulled away. He didn’t let go of her arm, and a good thing, too, because she slipped, and it was only because he steadied her that she didn’t fall.

He brought her close and raised his voice to be heard. “It’s bloody hailing. We’re going to freeze if we stay out here much longer.”

“You needn’t have come after me.” Her chin tipped up in an expression so familiar to him he lost sight of those ten years.

“Yes, I did need.”

“You didn’t.” She tugged on her arm. “Let go.”

“You know me better than that.”

“I don’t think I do.”

“You don’t at all if you think I’d leave any lady outside in this weather, not one dressed as you are, and not when I know she’s upset and unable to think as clearly as she ought.”