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“I wanted to make an occasion of it,” Arnold replied, but his eyes slid to Portia.
Marcus laughed. “No you didn’t,” he mocked. “You wanted to do it in front of Portia. You wanted to show her what a bad man you really are. You wanted to impress her. Admit it, Gillingham. You’re in love with her.”
Arnold was white with fury. The pistol was shaking so much that he had to steady it with his other hand. “You have to reduce everything to your level,” he whispered. “My aim is pure and true. The feelings you describe would contaminate me.”
But the damage was done. Lara was struggling to her feet, knocking over a wineglass, her face ugly with grief. “Arnold, oh Arnold, I thought you were better than that,” she sobbed.
“Sit down!” he shouted, but in that moment of distraction Marcus acted.
He was up out of his seat, launching himself at Arnold and reaching for the loaded pistol. He missed—Arnold moved at the last moment—but he bumped it hard and the weapon clattered onto the table, lodging in a dish of chicken pie. But Arnold was quick, too. He was around the table in an instant, snatching up a peeling knife as he ran. When he reached Portia, he fastened his arm about her throat, holding the knife blade to her cheek.
Sebastian tried to stop him but was hampered by his patient, and Arnold kicked out, knocking the chair from under him and sending him sprawling to the floor, the wounded guard on top of him. Portia cried out; a trickle of blood ran down her face where the point had nicked her.
“Get back!” Arnold ordered everyone. “I will cut her throat. I’ll do it. You can’t say she doesn’t deserve it.”
He would. Marcus read the truth in the man’s wild blue eyes. Portia whimpered, clinging to Arnold’s arm, trying to keep her balance as he pulled her back against him, dragging her across the room and edging toward the door. Her skirts tangled around her legs, threatening to trip her up, but she kicked out, freeing herself in time.
The coldness that had held Marcus in its grip until now thawed into a raging torrent. “Let her go.”
Arnold smirked. “Oh no, I don’t think so. She’s coming with me.”
He reached behind him, fumbling open the locked door and stepping outside. Portia squeaked, trying to catch hold of the jamb, but he struck violently at her hands, forcing her to let go. He slammed the door and they heard the sound of the key turning outside, and then running steps.
It took Marcus and Sebastian half a minute to smash their way through the door, and by then Arnold and Portia were gone, out into the fog and the marsh.
Portia tried to keep up. If she didn’t, Arnold dragged her by her arm or, once, by her hair. She screamed when he did that. She was bruised and shaken and frightened, and she was tired of being brave.
“I always disliked you,” she told him, her voice shaking, “but I never thought you capable of murder.”
“Well now you know. This way,” he added, pulling her along the path beside him.
She could hear the wash of water below them, and knew the tide was coming in. There was a danger of falling into the marshes and drowning in the swirl of the current, and in her heavy skirts, Portia knew she wouldn’t be able to save herself.
“The causeway will be closed,” she gasped. “You can’t escape, Arnold. Please, give yourself up.”
“No.” He looked around, but the fog was so thick they could see nothing. Sounds were distorted and muffled, and several times he had been startled by his own footsteps, echoing back at him. It was like being in another world. “Is there a boat?” he demanded.
She was too slow to deny it.
“Show me where it is,” he said, shaking her. Her hair was falling down all around her, and she pushed it back from her eyes.
“I’m not sure I can. Everything looks different.”
“Portia, you will find it or I will throw you into the water. Don’t think I won’t. To see you die would give me great pleasure.”
She looked into his eyes and knew he meant it.
“This way,” she murmured, not knowing whether it was that way or not. It didn’t matter. Her plan was to stay alive long enough for Marcus to find her. She knew he was looking. She knew he would never let her die out here alone and frightened.
The path was getting narrower, and on either side the rising water slapped against the banks. Portia held her skirts up out of her way, walking in front of Arnold now that there was no room to walk abreast. He kept glancing behind him, although there was nothing to see. Occasionally the fog warning bell rang out.
Portia tried to think. It was all very well to wait for Marcus to find her, but what if he didn’t? And if she stayed with Arnold, she would probably die by his hand or in his desperate efforts to get away. She would be better off getting away from him.
That was when she saw it, several yards in front of her and to her right, riding high in the water. Just a glimpse before the fog swirled in again, hiding it completely. The boat. A glance behind her showed that Arnold hadn’t noticed; he was too busy searching at his back for any sign of pursuit. She stumbled, pretending to fall, and picked up a heavy stone from the rubble alongside the path. Arnold cursed her, reaching for her, but she pulled away and struggled on. The next time he turned, she threw the stone as hard as she could into the fog behind them.
The rattle it made echoed all around, seeming to come from all directions at once. Arnold spun about, wild-eyed, and Portia took her chance. She flung herself to the side, sliding down the bank and into the boat.
It rocked dangerously.
