on the frozen moat, a beer keg being rolled across the drawbridge by a group of exuberant youths. “So it would seem,” he murmured again.
Will glanced sideways, his expression immediately alert. He knew that tone. And when Rufus turned his vivid bluegaze toward him, Will’s heart sank. Pure mischief raced across those serenely smiling orbs, and the full-lipped mouth within the red-gold beard had a curve to it that filled Will with familiar foreboding.
“What are you thinking, Rufus?” he inquired uneasily.
Rufus’s smile broadened. “Oh, I thought maybe we should beg a little hospitality from our friend Granville. It’s been a long time since breakfast, and that meat certainly sets a man’s juices running.”
“You’re goin’ along there, m’lord?” George sounded more resigned than horrified. “Reckon you can get lost in the crowd?”
“Why not?” Rufus shrugged carelessly, kicking his chestnut into motion. The others followed as he rode down into the valley and halfway up the hill topped by Castle Granville.
Rufus drew rein behind a screen of holly bushes, observing, “This is about as close as we can get.”
“You’re mad!” Will exclaimed. “Granville will hang you from the highest battlement.”
“He might if he knew I was there,” Rufus agreed amiably. He swung from his horse and unstrapped a blanket roll from his saddle. “Give me a hand with this, George.”
George dismounted. He knew exactly what was required of him. Rufus Decatur, among other talents, was a master of disguise.
Rufus shrugged off his cloak and fashioned a pad out of the blanket. With George’s help, he fastened the pad to his shoulder as Will watched with resignation.
“Now, how does it look?” Rufus slung his cloak of dark homespun over his shoulder, drawing the hood up, clasping it tightly at his throat. He was transformed. His tall, powerful frame was suddenly frail, bent, one shoulder higher than the other, a hump disfiguring the straight lines of his back.
“You’ll pass,” Will said with a reluctant grin. He’d seen the disguise many times, but it still astonished him. It was so simple—a transformation of the very features, his height and commanding presence, that made Rufus Decatur so distinctive. Without those features, the name of Decatur would never spring to mind.
George cut a stout stick from a sapling and handed it to the master of Decatur, and the transformation was complete. Bent and supported by his stick, in his homespun country garments of cloak, jerkin, and britches, the hood pulled low over his eyes, Rufus had become a local villager.
“I’m going in alone,” he said, waving away Wills immediate protests. “One interloper is less risky than three.”
“Why?”
Will demanded. “What can you possibly hope to gain from taking such a risk?”
“I thought you were hungry,” Rufus said in mock surprise. “I certainly am. I’m going to forage at Cato Granville’s feast—what else?”
“What else indeed?” Will muttered, watching as Rufus moved discreetly from the concealment of the bushes. “He’s up to something else, isn’t he, George?”
“Reckon so,” George agreed phlegmatically. “But I could still use some o’ that meat. Smells powerful good from ’ere.” He gave an appreciative sniff as the wind brought the rich aromas of roasting meat mingled with wood smoke to tantalize his taste buds.
Rufus moved alone for no more than five minutes, then blended in with the stream of people climbing the hill from the village at its base, and Will had difficulty keeping him in sight as he shambled upward, leaning heavily on his stick. When the crowd reached the drawbridge, Rufus disappeared from view and Will was left to chew his nails in anxiety.
Rufus glanced sideways down into the moat as he crossed the drawbridge. The two figures he had seen earlier were still skating. He was not prepared for the strange jolt of recognition in the pit of his belly when Portia Worth
Will glanced sideways, his expression immediately alert. He knew that tone. And when Rufus turned his vivid bluegaze toward him, Will’s heart sank. Pure mischief raced across those serenely smiling orbs, and the full-lipped mouth within the red-gold beard had a curve to it that filled Will with familiar foreboding.
“What are you thinking, Rufus?” he inquired uneasily.
Rufus’s smile broadened. “Oh, I thought maybe we should beg a little hospitality from our friend Granville. It’s been a long time since breakfast, and that meat certainly sets a man’s juices running.”
“You’re goin’ along there, m’lord?” George sounded more resigned than horrified. “Reckon you can get lost in the crowd?”
“Why not?” Rufus shrugged carelessly, kicking his chestnut into motion. The others followed as he rode down into the valley and halfway up the hill topped by Castle Granville.
Rufus drew rein behind a screen of holly bushes, observing, “This is about as close as we can get.”
“You’re mad!” Will exclaimed. “Granville will hang you from the highest battlement.”
“He might if he knew I was there,” Rufus agreed amiably. He swung from his horse and unstrapped a blanket roll from his saddle. “Give me a hand with this, George.”
George dismounted. He knew exactly what was required of him. Rufus Decatur, among other talents, was a master of disguise.
Rufus shrugged off his cloak and fashioned a pad out of the blanket. With George’s help, he fastened the pad to his shoulder as Will watched with resignation.
“Now, how does it look?” Rufus slung his cloak of dark homespun over his shoulder, drawing the hood up, clasping it tightly at his throat. He was transformed. His tall, powerful frame was suddenly frail, bent, one shoulder higher than the other, a hump disfiguring the straight lines of his back.
“You’ll pass,” Will said with a reluctant grin. He’d seen the disguise many times, but it still astonished him. It was so simple—a transformation of the very features, his height and commanding presence, that made Rufus Decatur so distinctive. Without those features, the name of Decatur would never spring to mind.
George cut a stout stick from a sapling and handed it to the master of Decatur, and the transformation was complete. Bent and supported by his stick, in his homespun country garments of cloak, jerkin, and britches, the hood pulled low over his eyes, Rufus had become a local villager.
“I’m going in alone,” he said, waving away Wills immediate protests. “One interloper is less risky than three.”
“Why?”
Will demanded. “What can you possibly hope to gain from taking such a risk?”
“I thought you were hungry,” Rufus said in mock surprise. “I certainly am. I’m going to forage at Cato Granville’s feast—what else?”
“What else indeed?” Will muttered, watching as Rufus moved discreetly from the concealment of the bushes. “He’s up to something else, isn’t he, George?”
“Reckon so,” George agreed phlegmatically. “But I could still use some o’ that meat. Smells powerful good from ’ere.” He gave an appreciative sniff as the wind brought the rich aromas of roasting meat mingled with wood smoke to tantalize his taste buds.
Rufus moved alone for no more than five minutes, then blended in with the stream of people climbing the hill from the village at its base, and Will had difficulty keeping him in sight as he shambled upward, leaning heavily on his stick. When the crowd reached the drawbridge, Rufus disappeared from view and Will was left to chew his nails in anxiety.
Rufus glanced sideways down into the moat as he crossed the drawbridge. The two figures he had seen earlier were still skating. He was not prepared for the strange jolt of recognition in the pit of his belly when Portia Worth
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