Long after the covers had been removed by the unobtrusive Mrs. Crayton, Julien sat alone in brooding silence. He held a glass of claret in his hand and stared vaguely into its depths. It was smooth, deeply red, and it warmed his stomach. Unfortunately, it hadn’t yet spread its mellowing warmth to his mind or his groin. He wanted a woman. He hurt with need. It wasn’t something he was used to, this enforced celibacy, this absurd denial. He was a man, dammit, and a man released his passion in a woman regularly and it was the way it was meant to be. And now he was even married—a wife belonged to her husband, and surely a husband could have his wife whenever and however it pleased him to have her, and yet, here she was, still a damned virgin after day upon day of marriage, and he’d allowed it to go on and on and on, because he liked her. He admired her spirit and her independence, her differentness, which had drawn him to her in the first place, like a moth to a flame. He’d seen Sir Oliver and spoken to the wretched, perverted creature; he knew that he’d beaten her regularly, for whatever reason he couldn’t begin to fathom, had guessed at what her life had been like under that despicable tyrant’s hand, and was trying desperately to understand her, because, dammit, he loved her, and he wanted her to be happy.
Dear God, he hated the situation. He hurt. He felt a cold, impotent frustration. She seemed farther out of his reach than ever before, even though she was now his wife. Certainly he understood that Harry’s admonishments galled her. But Harry’s commission was another matter entirely. Why couldn’t she accept the fact that Harry was ready for freedom? Wasn’t he entering his manhood? Wasn’t he ready and entitled for the adventures he wanted so badly?
He rose from the table and walked slowly and thoughtfully to the fireplace. He leaned his elbows on the mantel and gazed into the dying flames. In that instant he cursed the woman who had so changed his life, the red-haired witch who had woven her web so completely around him that he no longer desired any other woman. He wanted her, no other woman, curse her white hide. It wasn’t fair. If he had stayed in London, he never would have met her. But he had met her, dying in her duel with Harry, falling dramatically at his feet. Then she pulled off her boy’s cap and he saw her as the girl she was, as the girl he wanted, the girl he desired more than life itself. Damn her stubborn eyes. He wanted to beat her, perhaps strangle her just a bit. No, he wanted her naked and he wanted to kiss her and caress her and—
He strode quickly from the dining room and flung out of the villa into the dark night. Without really realizing what he was doing, he found himself walking to the side of the villa, to where her bedchamber was located. Almost against his will he looked up at her windows. The curtains were open. She was standing in the middle of her room, clad only in her chemise. He sucked in his breath at the sight of her, knew his hands were fisted at his sides, knew that his member was swelling as hard as a rock, knew that his heart was pounding faster and harder and harder still. He stood rooted to the spot and watched her after a long moment pull the straps of the chemise off her white shoulders. The ache in his groin became nearly intolerable as she let the chemise slip over her breasts to her narrow waist. God, he’d pictured her breasts in his mind, filled his hands with her breasts, at least in his fantasies. She was glorious, her breasts as beautiful as he’d imagined, more beautiful than any woman’s he’d ever seen, ever caressed, ever fondled, full and high, the nipples a dark pink, oh, God, so lovely, he wanted to touch her, to take each of her nipples in his mouth and suckle her and bring her such pleasure that she wouldn’t be able to bear it and she’d moan and whisper how much she wanted him and please, please, give her more pleasure, and more and more.
He forced himself to turn away, cursing his own weakness, cursing his vivid imagination, which wasn’t really imagination, for he knew well her flesh would be soft and warm and there would be her scent, only hers, and he would breathe in that scent and it would drive him mad.
Still, he saw even as he was turning, the silken material fall below her waist and he glimpsed her white belly, white as a saint’s brow, white as the body of a virgin, which she was. Oh, Jesus. Despite the coldness of the night, he was sweating. With a growl he broke away, forcing himself not to look back. He knew he couldn’t look back and see the rest of her, the thatch of auburn hair covering her, the long, white thighs, sleek with muscle, for she was a country girl used to walking and thus fit and strong. He remained outside, until finally, shivering violently from the cold, he was forced to go back into the villa.
“His lordship isn’t here?”
“No, my lady. ’Twas quite early his lordship left this morning to go into the village. He said he’ll be returning for dinner.”
Mrs. Crayton thought it strange that his lordship hadn’t informed his countess of his plans. Indeed, she wondered at her ladyship’s puffy eyes and remembered the crumpled gown she’d picked up from the floor. She decided that they must have had a lovers’ quarrel the previous evening, surely unfortunate, but not unusual for a man and wife newly wed. She remembered the arguments during those early years when she and James had screamed at each other, yelling the most ridiculously horrid things, not meaning them of course, at least not ten minutes later.
“I see,” Kate said, slipping into a wrapper. Perversely, she felt slighted that he hadn’t told her, but then, of course, she’d not given him the opportunity. She’d left both him and that delicious lamb chop quite alone.
She managed to keep herself busy throughout the morning poking her head in and out of the elegant rooms in the villa. After a light luncheon, she donned a shawl and strolled out into the grounds. It delighted her that there were no formal gardens, for she had never enjoyed her mother’s pastime of pulling up weeds and putting in her favorite flowers, particularly the rose plants she’d brought from Scotland, carrying them on her elopement. The vast wilderness of forest and mountains here gave her a feeling of unrestrained freedom. From the edge of a cliff to the left of the villa she could make out the small village nestled in the valley below. She sat down near the edge and wrapped her skirt about her legs. Although she had gotten used to being alone, particularly after Harry left for Eton, she found that now she didn’t enjoy her solitude. She didn’t understand herself. It was disconcerting.
She wandered back to the villa, selected a small volume of Lord Byron’s poems from the shelf in the well-stocked library, and curled up in the window seat. But her attention wasn’t long held by the poet’s bold, haunting words, for she couldn’t help remembering Julien’s telling her with laughter and a touch of regret in his voice of Lady Caroline Lamb and her flaunted affair with the quixotic Byron.
She had thought then of the excitement of belonging to such a world, of meeting people who cut such a romantic dash through London society. She sighed and leaned back on her elbows and allowed the thin vellum volume to drop to the floor. Somehow she still felt like the provincial Kate Brandon. She wondered when she would feel like a countess. Julien had said she was a countess, that whatever she did, it was all right, because she was a countess. She couldn’t begin to understand him.
Later in the afternoon, bored with her inactivity, she sallied forth, and without any particular destination in mind, began to walk down the single winding road that led to the village. Being used to country life, she found the exercise invigorating and maintained a brisk pace. She didn’t see a single soul. She allowed herself to be drawn into the quiet serenity of the ageless forest. She had bent down to stroke a soft fern that had wound itself around a tree trunk when she was startled to her feet by a shrill cry. She wheeled around and, seeing nothing, hurried around a bend in the road. She pulled up short, not believing what she saw. A peasant stood in the middle of the road, flailing a mare with a knobby stick. The horse whinnied and shied, blowing hard, trembling, her flanks rippling, but the man held her firmly, cursing as he rained blows on her head and back.
She picked up her skirts and ran toward the man. He didn’t notice her until she grabbed his arm and shouted at him, “Stop it, you fool! Ho
w dare you strike that poor animal? By all that’s holy, you should be thrown off a cliff. You should be gutted like a trout, you miserable beast, er, fish.”
The peasant jerked around, baring blackened teeth in an astonished grimace at the sight of a well-dressed young lady, her face red with fury.
Realizing that she’d spoken in English, she paused and gathered suitable blighting words in French. “Whatever are you doing, you wretched creature? I demand that you stop beating this poor animal.”
“You demand, my pretty young lady?”
“Just look what you’ve done.” Flecks of foam dropped from the mare’s mouth, and ugly red blood streaks crisscrossed on her head and neck. Kate moved to the horse to quiet her, but the peasant blocked her way and shook the stick in her face. “It’s my horse, Missie, and I’ll give the beast the beating she deserves. Kicked me, she did, the mangy creature.”
“You probably deserved the kicking. You probably deserve much more. And if you fed her properly she wouldn’t be mangy. You should be shot.” From long experience with facing Sir Oliver, ranting and waving his cane at her, she now felt no fear. She, quite simply, wanted to kill him.
The peasant pulled up short at this attack from the foreign lady and narrowed his eyes at her speculatively. He licked his lips and looked meaningfully at the single strand of pearls about her neck. “How strange it is that such a fine young lady is out walking by herself. Maybe I’ll not beat the beast if you give me those fine pearls.” He reached out a dirty hand, and Kate jumped back out of his reach.
“Don’t be absurd, you cruel creature. You can’t frighten me. I shall have you whipped, which is less than you deserve, if you so much as lay a hand on me. I’ll have you made into bacon, you swine.”
“On aye? And who’ll do this whipping, Missie? Who’ll do the chopping, eh?” He was advancing on her, the stick poised. He looked revoltingly pleased with himself, happy as he could be.
Without thought, she balled her hand into a fist, as Harry had taught her, and struck the man full in the face, right in his jaw, just left of his lower lip. He staggered back, more from surprise than pain. His rough features distorted with rage, he cursed her loudly in words she couldn’t begin to understand.
Now frightened, since she wasn’t a fool, she began to back away from him warily. She should have kicked him in the groin, the more extreme measure Harry had taught her to use when a man offended.
“I’ll show you, you bloody bitch!” The man rushed at her, swinging the stick in a wide arc.
In that instant the mare, now freed, reared on her hind legs and thrust her hooves at the peasant’s back, hard. He went sprawling, yelling as he went down, and landed on his face mere inches from Kate’s feet.
Kate grabbed the mare’s mane and swung onto her back. The mare snorted in surprise and reared again, her front hooves pawing the air. Kate hung on tightly to her mane, disregarding a huge rip in her skirt. She saw only that miserable man, who was rising slowly and painfully from the ground, his eyes as mean now as Sir Oliver’s at the most vicious of times. She threw herself forward on the mare’s neck and grasped the loose reins. She felt pain shoot through her leg as the peasant’s stick struck hard on her thigh. She bit back a cry, dug her heels into the mare’s sides, and hung on with all her strength as the frightened horse shot forward in an erratic gallop. She didn’t look back, just hugged herself against the mare’s neck. She realized vaguely that there was only the single mountain road and that they were heading in the direction of the village.
She heard the peasant yelling after her and looked back in sudden panic, afraid that he had another horse. He was running after her, his fists raised, screaming. She breathed only a momentary sigh of relief, for she hadn’t the foggiest notion what she was going to do. She’d stolen a horse—albeit for the purest of motives—and was fleeing toward a foreign village, where, for all she knew, the people were as vicious and uncaring as that horrible peasant.
She wanted to yell with relief when she saw in the distance two horses coming up the road at a leisurely pace. It took her but a moment to recognize Julien, with James Crayton following closely behind him. She urged the mare forward and waved wildly with one hand. As she neared, she pulled back on the reins. To her despair, the still-frightened mare gave a loud snort and plunged her head down, quickening her pace.
“Good God, Crayton, whoever the devil can that be? What foolhardiness on such a winding road. The idiot will come to grief, you can wager on it.” Julien reined in his horse. The words died in his throat as he recognized his wife’s auburn hair whipping about her surely too white face and saw her torn clothing. He felt colder than ice. He felt fury boiling his innards. Numb rage, that’s what it was. He dug in his heels, and soon they drew so close that he could see the flaring of the horse’s nostrils. She streaked past him, yelling, “I can’t stop her, Julien! Please help me!”
He wheeled his horse about, galloping after her. After what seemed an eternity to both of them, he drew up beside her and grabbed the mare’s reins. For a long moment he struggled with the terrified mare to bring her, finally, to a walk. He leaped from his horse and grasped the reins firmly and with infinite care calmed the trembling animal.
“Thank God! For a moment I didn’t think you’d catch us. The poor mare, she was so frightened. Oh, forget the mare, I’ve never been more frightened in my life. Thank you, my lord.” She slipped off the mare’s back, found that her legs had become curiously boneless, and promptly sat down hard at the side of the road.
“My lord, whatever has happened?” Crayton dismounted and rushed toward them.
“I don’t yet know, James.” He continued to quiet the trembling horse.
“But all the blood, my lord—”
“Yes, yes, I see. Hopefully, her ladyship isn’t harmed, but rather this wretched animal. Here, James, take her reins. Keep talking to her softly, keep calming her. Yes, that’s it. Keep her soothed and quiet.”
Julien dropped to his haunches in front of his wife, gripped her shoulders, and shook her slightly. “What the damned hell happened? Are you all right? In the good Lord’s name, what have you done?”
She stared up at him, so relieved to see him that all she could to was stare at him and smile and clutch at his sleeve and pray that he would understand.
“Hello, Julien,” she said. “I really didn’t intend this, you know.”
“Before I strangle you and then shoot that poor miserable horse, tell me what happened.”
24
Julien pulled her to her feet. “All right, what did you do? Damnation, I have this awful feeling I really don’t want to know.”
“Probably not,” she said, as she brought up her hands to clutch at his shoulders. Though she knew now she was quite safe, the enormity of what she’d just done now left her quite speechless.
“Come on, spill it out. Don’t try to fob me off with something benign. You’ve never done anything benign in your bloody life. Now, what happened?” His voice was sharper than he intended, for his fear for her was great still.
Oddly, his tone steadied her, and she drew back and gave him a rather feeble smile. “I fear I’m going to have to face a magistrate, Julien, though I meant it all for the best. You see, I’ve stolen the horse.”
He just stared down at her, realizing he wasn’t really surprised. He held her while she gathered together her disordered thoughts and launched into her story. It required several questions for Julien to grasp the facts.
“You do understand, don’t you, Julien? I couldn’t let that horrid man continue to beat the mare. And he wouldn’t be reasonable about the matter, and I did try to tell him to stop, at first quite nicely, well nearly, but I was so angry at what he was doing. I had to be nice because I had to do it in French.”
“This peasant, the bastard, tried to harm you?”
“Well, yes, but, you see, I gave him great provocation by hitting him in the face. Surely that would make anyone rather angry. I should have kicked him
in the groin the way Harry showed me to do, but I forgot. The mare struck him in the back, and that saved me.”
“Where is this man?” He realized that for the first time in his life he was most willingly prepared to commit murder. Her blathering moved him not one whit. Good Lord, he could just see her trying to kick the man in the crotch.
“The last time I saw him, he was standing in the road waving his fists at me. Back up there.” She turned and pointed with a grimy finger.
Julien turned abruptly to Crayton. “Take our heroine mare here, James, and let her ladyship mount your horse. Come, Kate, we are going to settle this matter right now. Kick him in the groin? Good God.”
She started to argue, but he ignored her, took her firmly by the arm, and tossed her into the saddle. He ground his teeth at the sight of her bloodied, torn gown.
Kate found herself frightened, not now for herself but rather for Julien. That was surely odd, but nonetheless it was there. “Please, I don’t want you to particularly murder the man, even though he was vicious and a bully.”
He was white with rage. He wasn’t listening to her. She held her tongue. She’d started it all, and now it appeared that he was going to finish it.
“Can you manage the horse?”
“Of course I can. I didn’t lose my skill, just my temper.”
“Very well. Cease your advice and pay heed to not falling off. Kick him in the groin? I don’t believe it.”
Kate had not much choice in the matter, for Julien vaulted into the saddle and urged his horse into a gallop.
Julien was furious at the man who would dare try to harm her, and he wanted to box her ears for being so stupid as to walk out alone. That she’d been brave and saved the mare he stored away for future consideration. Fortunately, it was not long before his rational self reappeared and he was forced to admit that Kate had, after all, quite unlawfully interfered and stolen the man’s horse. His blood ran cold at the thought of what would have happened if she hadn’t had the quickness of wit to escape on the mare. Damnation. How could he wring the man’s neck, when, if one were logical, the fellow had had just provocation?
The Rebel Bride Page 22
