The Rebel Bride

by Catherine Coulter

  As she lay in bed each night waiting for sleep to come, she would try to shut him out of her mind. But she couldn’t. He was there, stark and real within her thoughts, waiting. With him came that coldness, and strange, unexplained images that swept through her, leaving her confused and frightened. She would stare into the darkness and whisper a simple Scottish prayer her mother had taught her.

  One day over luncheon, Julien told her that he had business concerns that afternoon in the village and would be unable to accompany her on their daily riding expedition. Her face fell.

  “It’s very likely I’ll be late returning this evening. Do go riding. You know the countryside quite well, and I believe Gabriella could outdistance the peasant if you happened to be so unfortunate as to cross paths with him again.”

  She was frankly surprised that he didn’t order her to stray no further than the front doors, but she wasn’t about to say anything about that. “So, then, my lord, you won’t be here for dinner?”

  “Were I not to be here, Kate, would you miss me?” He looked at her steadily, and although she answered him calmly enough, she wouldn’t look at him. “Of course I would miss you. If you aren’t back I’ll content myself with a tray. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine, and I promise to be careful.”

  He fiddled a moment with his fork, then looked at her straightly. “How could I ever doubt that you would miss me at night?”

  She tried to look at him, but she couldn’t. Even when he was on the point of leaving, she knew she was withdrawing from him, relieved, really, that he wouldn’t be here in the evening, to frighten her, to bring that blackness to her.

  Before he mounted, he turned to her and gently touched his hand to her cheek. Startled, she drew back. She watched in numb silence as his gray eyes hardened and turned cold, so very cold, a cold she’d never seen in his eyes before when he’d looked at her. He turned quickly away from her, and without another word between them, he mounted, wheeled his horse about, and was gone. He did not look back.

  She was still pondering his words and his abrupt departure as she carefully guided Gabriella through the thick woods to the long, open meadow beyond. Freed from the restraint she felt at his nearness, she could not but feel now that his measured words, so calmly spoken, had been meant to taunt her. But how could that be? Ah, but she saw him again in her mind’s eye, the coldness in him. Even a week ago she would have known only relief that he would be gone from her, but now, today, she felt confused and uncertain. She shook her head at herself. Nothing seemed to make much sense to her anymore. Nothing.

  The wind tugged at her riding hat when she gave Gabriella her head across the long expanse of meadowland. She had always thought it strange that nature had carved this open land, so at variance with the dense forest that surrounded it. She gave Gabriella a flick of the reins and the horse tossed her head, easing into a steady gallop. Kate was a good deal surprised when suddenly her horse pulled up short and reared back on her hind legs. She grabbed at the pommel to steady herself and wheeled around in the saddle in panic, expecting to see the peasant rushing at her. It wasn’t the peasant, but rather a man on horseback, enveloped in a long greatcoat, riding purposefully toward her. She drew Gabriella up, thinking that he was perhaps lost and in need of directions. She felt merely curiosity until he drew near and she saw that his face was masked. Kate dug her heels into Gabriella’s sides, her mouth suddenly gone dry with fear. The horse needed no further encouragement and shot forward. Too soon the meadow blended back into forest, and after a moment’s hesitation Kate realized that she couldn’t escape through the thick underbrush. She jerked Gabriella about, driving her in a wide circle, skirting the edge of the trees as closely as she dared. But the man was fast gaining on her, and she realized with a tingling fear up her spine that in a moment he would cut her off. The horse’s hooves pounded in her ears, and even as her mind refused to believe that this could possibly be happening to her, a man’s arms pulled her out of the saddle and she screamed in blind panic. She found herself held tightly, unable to struggle, so close to the man that she could hear his low, steady breathing.

  The man pulled his horse to a halt and dismounted easily, still holding her pinioned against him. She could struggle now, and she did, trying to strike his face, trying to get loose enough so she could kick him. But he just pulled her hard against him, grasped her hands, and fastened them against her sides. She kicked his shin. Her boot connected with bone and flesh, though, and he gave a cry of surprise and pain. In the next instant she was flat on her her back on the ground, the cloaked man out of reach of her flailing legs.

  She froze when he leaned close over her and said in guttural, accented English, his voice muffled by his mask, “I won’t harm you. Hold still, liebchen.”

  She forced her numbed mind to alertness, realizing that she must be calm, use her wits. The man had spoken to her, he’d spoken German. What did liebchen mean? Something about darling or beloved? Something like that, but surely that made no sense at all. She had to reason with him.

  “What do you want? Please, talk to me, tell me why you’re doing this.” He said nothing at all. “Damn you, talk to me or I will hurt you very badly!”

  He remained silent, faceless, now fumbling for something in one of the pockets of his black greatcoat. She tried to squirm away, but his other arm held her firmly. “Please,” she said, pleading now, so afraid she was shaking. “What do you want of me? I have no money and I have done you no injury.” Dear God, where was Julien? The thought of him brought her new hope. Perhaps this man didn’t know who she was.

  “Listen to me. I have a husband, he is the earl of March. He is an English nobleman and a very powerful man. You must realize that he will miss me. He will kill you if you don’t let me go this instant. Please, I don’t speak German. Tell me you understand me. Damn you, tell me!”

  Her voice was thin as a reed, her fright clear, but still the man didn’t say anything. She didn’t know if her words made any impression on him, or if he even understood her, for the mask and hat covered his head completely. They made him all the more terrifying, seemingly faceless.

  He withdrew a white handkerchief and with it a small vial of liquid.

  “What are you going to do?” She was hollow with fear, numb with it. Before she knew what he was about, he leaned his body over her chest and wet the handkerchief with the liquid. He straightened, grasped her shoulders firmly, and brought the cloth over her face. A strong odor filled her nostrils, and she began to struggle frantically. She thrashed her head back and forth, trying to escape the cloth.

  Without realizing it, she inhaled deeply and tasted the bitter liquid, felt it raw down the back of her throat. She began to feel light-headed, reason, fight, struggle, all deserting her. The man eased his arm around her head and held her still. She cried out then and fell into blackness.

  26

  Kate opened her eyes and blinked rapily, trying to free her mind of the terrifying remnants of her nightmare. She shuddered, for the fear was still so very real, and tried to rise, but her body wouldn’t obey her. She focused her eyes in an effort to clear away the clinging light-headedness and realized with a start that she wasn’t in her own room. She hadn’t dreamed the man, the drugged cloth pressed over her face. She made a determined effort to rise, only to find that her arms were pulled above her head and her wrists securely tied to the posts of a bed. She lifted her head from the pillow and tugged with all her strength, but she couldn’t free herself.

  She lay back, panting, and tried to calm herself. Why had the man brought her to this place? There had to be some mistake, he had to have believed she was another woman, a stranger. She realized in that instant that she wasn’t wearing her riding habit. She saw the skirt, blouse, and jacket neatly folded over a chair. Even her boots were placed next to the chair. All she was wearing was her shift. With terrifying clarity she pictured herself half-clothed, the cotton shift coming only to mid-thigh, her arms drawn away from her body. He had tied her down, sh
e was helpless. What did he want with her? Somewhere, deep within her, she knew why she was tied down, knew what he wanted with her, knew exactly what would happen, knew what this man would do to her.

  Her mind seemed to snap with the knowledge, and she was sent reeling to the edge of a yawning gulf of blackness. All she knew was lost to her as the blackness engulfed her, sucking her down farther and farther into its depths. She knew the blackness. At last it had come to her fully. She saw herself, small and cowering, then struggling frantically, trapped by she knew not what. Intense, rending pain tore through her, and above the pain she heard cruel, deep voices, and panting, raw and ugly. Then there were screaming, furious voices that somehow intensified the pain—no, just one screaming voice, and it was a man’s voice and she could see spittle flying out of his mouth, but she didn’t know who he was. But the screaming and cursing her didn’t stop.

  She couldn’t bring her hands to cover her ears, to blot out the horror of the pain and the voices. She screamed and the images and the voices faded, drawing away from her, becoming as fragments of whispers, strewn as distant echoes to the farthest reaches of another place.

  She became aware of the anguished sound of her cries and felt beads of sweat sting her eyes. She thought at that moment that perhaps she was mad, for she couldn’t understand what had happened to her. The present righted itself and she saw that nothing had changed. She was still tied down to a bed, wearing only her shift. She tried to regain her calm, forcing herself to gaze about the unfamiliar room, and found the presence of the solid pieces of furniture somehow reassuring.

  The sound of a key turning in the lock brought her eyes, fearful, yet hopeful, to the door. The man, her captor, slowly entered the room, his long cloak swirling about his ankles as he turned and grated the key in the lock. He was still enveloped in hat and mask, even wearing gloves on his hands. Kate stared at him, her eyes a darkening green, now wide with fear and the starkness of her knowledge. He stopped beside her, and before Kate could understand what he was about, he leaned over her and in a swift motion drew a length of black cloth from his pocket and folded it over her eyes. She was plunged into darkness. Like a trapped, frenzied animal, she thrashed her head from side to side as the man jerked her forward and tied the cloth in a secure knot behind her head.

  In that moment she wondered if she’d been brought to this place to die. Unbidden, Julien’s calm, handsome face rose in her mind’s eye. She saw him turn from her, felt his withdrawal from her, saw his eyes become colder than a winter dawn.

  She began to tremble violently, and the sickening, jeering voices pounded again in her head, then receded as if they had never existed. Sudden anger kindled within her and burned away her trembling with its intensity. How dare this man bind and blindfold her! She jerked up her head and screamed at him, “You filthy pig, how dare you! My husband, the earl of March, will kill you if you do not instantly release me. Do you understand me?” There was only a deadening silence, save for the harsh ugliness of her own breathing.

  She hated the silence, hated him, this unknown man, and she yelled through the darkness, through the silence, “Damn you to hell, you coward, are you afraid that I’ll see your ugliness? Damn you, let me see you!”

  Still the man said nothing, not in English, not in German, but she heard him move away from her. She fell back against the pillow, drained, so afraid she was numb with it. As the precious minutes passed, she thought that he had understood and was going to leave her alone. Then, to her horror, she felt him sit on the side of the bed beside her. She felt his breath hot on her face. His lips came down upon hers, gentle yet demanding. He’d blindfolded her so he could take off his mask. He didn’t want her to see him. Why? She clamped her mouth firmly shut and felt his lips move to her throat, and his hands lightly caress her shoulders.

  The warmth of the room touched her skin as he slowly cut the thin straps off her shoulders, pulling the soft cotton down over her breasts. He pushed the shift to her waist, where it lay bunched about her.

  The last remnants of what she knew, of what she understood, of what she thought she was, left her in that instant. There was a blankness in her mind, as if suddenly there was a hole and there was nothing inside it, save an undefined dread that mingled with an ugliness she knew was there also—buried, but still there—and it left her nearly senseless. Tiny points of light exploded in her mind, and she realized dimly that she’d been holding her breath. She opened her mouth, and precious air flew past her constricted throat into her chest. She could feel her breasts heaving, but she couldn’t stop their deep upward and downward movement. His fingers were on her forehead, gently pushing back tendrils of hair. She tried to evade him, pulling away as far as her bonds would allow. But his fingers were tracing the line of her cheek, her lips, her throat. She wanted desperately to plead with him to stop, but she could find no words.

  The man’s hands were on her shoulders, firm, strong hands, hands that could and would hurt her, she knew it, deep down inside her, she knew hurt would come from his hands. She grew still, rigid, as his fingers moved to her breasts, now kneading her, caressing her, lifting her breasts in his hands, holding them, gently squeezing, then lightly flicking his fingertips over her nipples until they grew hard and taut. Words came from deep inside her, and she knew they were for naught, these words of hers, yet they spoke themselves anyway. “I beg of you, please don’t do this to me, please, please no, no—”

  His hands left her breasts, and in the long, silent moment that followed, she knew he was looking at her, not at her breasts but at her face. She sensed a hesitancy in him. If only she could see! Her eyes strained, but there was only blackness.

  He came down over her body and enfolded her in his arms, burying his face against her neck, holding her so tightly that she couldn’t breathe.

  She knew in that instant she had lost.

  Finally he lifted himself off her, and his hands traveled quickly, urgently, back to her breasts. She felt his mouth upon her, kissing and nibbling her throat and shoulders, until finally his lips and hands played together over her breasts. There was no pain from his hands, just something infinitely worse—warmth, strength, and a skill that knew her flesh, knew what to do and when to do it. She cried out, trying to twist free of his hands, of his mouth. His hands moved to encircle her waist, and as she tried to arch and wrench away, he eased them beneath her to stroke her back.

  Tears scalded her eyes and dampened the black cloth that blinded her. She heard her own voice, begging and pleading with him to stop, but her words broke from her mouth only as meaningless sounds, helpless sounds.

  His hands left her back and tugged at the material about her waist. In a swift motion he slipped the shift cloth from beneath her hips, stripping it down her legs, leaving her naked.

  There was a sharp intake of breath from the man, and Kate knew that he was staring at her, examining her body. She had never been so aware of her body, of its purpose and its meaning to men.

  She was rapidly growing exhausted. The futility of her struggles, her fear, were sapping her strength. She stilled, her body tensed. The damp cloth, salty from her tears, burned her eyes. She turned her head on the pillow and clamped her jaws together, waiting, waiting—for what, she didn’t know, but deep down, somehow, she did know.

  His weight came down on the bed and his naked shoulders pressed against her body. Not only had he taken off his mask, he’d also stripped off all his clothes. His flesh was hot and smooth against hers. His lips touched her waist and roved downward to her belly, his tongue scalding against her skin. She pushed her hips down into the softness of the bed, but it seemed to excite him only more. His mouth was sweet and gentle and insistent, yet it burned her, and she hated his mouth and those hands of his that seemed to know just where to touch her, where to caress her, where to press and stroke. She hated herself, for in the next instant, she felt a tiny shock of sensation that was like a pain in her belly, low and deep, but there, and she yelled against it, cursing him
, her voice giving her back to herself, but just for a moment, for he didn’t stop touching her, his fingers almost pleading with her flesh to respond to him. She cursed him and cursed him again and again, but there it was again, that shock of sensation, that near-pain so intense, so urgent, and she knew it was pleasure, a woman’s special pleasure, and she fought with everything in her to deny it, to deny him, to save herself.

  She could picture him, now balanced on his elbow gazing down at her. His fingers played over the softness of her belly, and paused, ever so slightly, before closing over the curly auburn triangle of hair. His touch was feather light, never more than feather light, but so knowing, always knowing, searching and learning her.

  Why? Why wasn’t he savaging her? She knew it was rape, yet he wasn’t acting the rapist. His gentleness, his quiet exploration, his insistence that she respond, didn’t fit, and she was lost in confusion and fear and the growing feelings he was arousing in her.

  His fingers continued their exploration, pressing and probing the softness between her thighs.

  She cried out in shock, the humiliation of it burning deep inside her, and she cursed him again, then begged him to leave her alone, please, just to leave her alone for a moment, just for a minute. But slowly and rhythmically he stroked her, his other hand roving upward to stroke and learn her breasts.