by Anne O'Brien
They rode away from Widemarsh Manor and the village of Winteringham and soon left the confines of the estate. Kate did not know the countryside, but took no heed until Marlbrooke reined in at a spot where the path they were following passed between two small rounded hills and wound down into a gentle depression. The horses blew and tossed their heads, still eager to run.
‘Do you know where you are?’ They were his first words since they had left and his expression was no more compromising than when they had cantered from the stable yard.
She shook her head and looked about her.
It was an idyllic scene. The sun shone on the small wood before them, filtering through the bright new leaves to highlight the jewel colours of new grass and shy primroses. Tree trunks of young birch gleamed white in the soft light. There was the glint and splash of running water below, beckoning them on, and through the branches to the left, where the slight valley flattened out, Kate could see the mellow golden stonework of a large house.
‘This is Glasbury Old Hall. You would not remember it. It is the inheritance—the home—of the Oxenden family—my family.’ His face was set and cold although the anger had faded. ‘I do not care to come here, but today I think it is necessary.’
She did not understand but, when he nudged the bay into a walk, followed him down the slope. But then, as they emerged from the shelter of the wood, into the parkland and formal gardens surrounding the house, she understood only too well.
The Hall was a ruin.
The setting was beautiful, a bright frame for an elegant and valuable treasure. But the jewel in the setting was a terrible outrage. The sunlit stone that Kate had seen, golden and welcoming, was simply the remains of what once had been a gracious house. Dismantled, robbed out, disfigured by cannon fire, engulfed by flames, the walls were tumbled around them. Blind windows were open to the elements, the glass long shattered, and the roof had collapsed inward to fill the interior with a hopeless mass of rubble. There were still remnants of wooden timbers and beams, but charred and rotting, like the broken ribs of a skeleton. The balustrade along the terrace had for the most part collapsed into the garden below. And as for the garden—it had reverted to wild and uncontrolled nature. Paths had disappeared, the box edging of the knot garden had grown ugly to overwhelm the delicate plants that had once thrived, the lawns were choked with weed and rank grass. The abandoned state of the orchards and kitchen gardens glimpsed behind the ruined frontage Kate could only guess at. Here was no romantic reminder of past ages, but a hopeless remnant of a once beautiful home. Desolation and sadness pressed down on her with the oppression of a thundercloud. And she had accused Marlbrooke of not understanding loss.
Marlbrooke dismounted, leaving his horse to graze on what had probably once been a well-tended flower bed, and strode up the broken steps to where a great oaken door, now lying in riven pieces on the floor, would have given access to his home. The Oxenden coat of arms was still visible above the stone lintel, the three falcons spreading their stone wings in perpetual flight. The symbol of power and dominance mocked the reality of collapse and depredation. Kate hesitated, then followed the Viscount to where he stood below the carved escutcheon.
‘This is my home. Not the Priory. It will never be the Priory.’
He leaned on the crumbling remains of the balustrade, head bent. She saw the white tension in his fingers, heard the bitterness in his voice, and her heart wept.
‘I am so sorry. I did not realise.’
‘How should you?’ He straightened, took her arm to guide her over the uneven surfaces and walked round the terrace to the side of the house, to look out over a formal parterre.
‘We should not be here.’ He looked up at the dangerous state of the walls. ‘We are probably under threat from falling masonry. It is almost twenty years since its destruction.’
The steps into a rose garden had long gone, but the Viscount jumped down and reached up to lift her beside him. His hands were firm, but gentler now about her waist; although the intense anger might have faded from his face, it had been replaced by an acceptance that was more moving to her than grief.
They walked through a wilderness, which had once been a pleasure garden, down to the landscaped banks of the tiny stream, turning to look out over the open pasture to the distant hills, now gilded in sunlight, rather than at the heart rending ruin at their back.
‘I remember my childhood here. It was a happy time. My mother loved these gardens—they are very much her creation. My father had no interest in flowers. But they lost it in the second year of the war. A Parliamentarian siege, just as your family lost the Priory to a Royalist force. But the Hall was destroyed in the skirmishes. After that … My father was ailing and embittered after the war and rarely responded to my mother’s care. She lost a much-loved husband and a stillborn child. And for many years I was not the son she wanted. I left her in London, neglected and alone except for Felicity’s companionship, while I …’ He shrugged. ‘Well, the pleasures of the Court—in exile at first—and then here in London when Charles returned were far more exciting for a young man with time on his hands. I do not understand how she can still be so generous, so untainted with bitterness. Especially as she has been so stricken with pain and loss of independence.’ He looked down at Kate as if, for a moment, he had forgotten that she was beside him. ‘Both sides have suffered, you see—and what have any of us gained?’
‘Forgive me, Marcus. I accused you deliberately, to wound you, and I am sorry. I did not mean it and I should never have said it. I have received nothing but kindness at your hands—or Lady Elizabeth’s. I wish with all my heart that I had not stirred up all this sadness for you.’
He turned to face her, away from the lovely scene, a wry smile touching his lips. ‘You did so, very effectively. And I had come to believe that you did not hate me so much.’
She flushed at the implied question in his voice. ‘No. I do not hate you.’ Her voice was a little gruff and she could not force herself to meet his eyes.
He laughed a little. ‘Such a confession!’ and ran his hands up her arms from wrist to shoulder in one long caress to pull her close against him, enfolding her, resting his cheek against her hair.
‘I used you very badly today. We have not done well by each other, have we?’
She could only shake her head but he felt the tiny movement against his shoulder.
‘Look up.’
When she did so he lowered his lips to hers in a kiss of such compassion, such astonishing tenderness, that it all but took her breath away. He raised his head to scan her face with narrowed eyes.
‘You are quite beautiful. I once told you that but did not know it and you accused me, quite rightly, of mere flattery. I know it now and hope you will accept my words as truth.’
‘Why, yes. For you are looking at me this time.’ She smiled up at him.
‘I have been looking at you for some weeks!’ He tightened his hold and claimed her mouth with his once more, but this time the flash and heat engulfed her. Her senses remembered the urgency of his hands and body against hers, remembered her own responses to him. And this time there was no embarrassment. As he pressed her hard against him, she clung and melted, aware of the blood in her veins, from head to foot, turning to molten gold, which rivalled even the bright sunlight around them. His mouth was completely demanding, completely possessive, proving ownership of her, and she shivered with longing. Her lips opened under the pressure of his to allow his tongue to caress and explore. He changed the angle of his kiss in response, delighted by her acceptance of his lovemaking, forcing her to acknowledge her desire to surrender to his every demand. Her tongue met his, shyly but without hesitation. He felt her sigh, a purr of sheer pleasure in her throat, and tremble against him, and he wanted more.
Marlbrooke was shocked by the surge of pure lust in his gut and a responsive stirring in his loins. He was painfully ready for her and knew that she must be aware of it, so closely was she moulded to him. He would
like nothing better than to take her here in the sunlight, in a secluded patch of palest primroses, exposing her body to his gaze and his touch beneath the soft leaves. But this was not the place. Too much ruin, too many shattered hopes lay around them. It would be sacrilegious to celebrate love within sight of so much destruction. She deserved better and he made a silent promise.
He drew a slow breath and released her to press his lips to her brow. ‘Let us go back. I want you, Kate, you must know that, but there is too much sadness here.’
‘I am sorry that you will never see the Priory as your home.’ Her brow was furrowed. What would their future together be if that was so?
‘Did I say that? Perhaps. The future might change that.’ He was not to be tempted into any more disclosures.
They did not speak again until they had returned to the gentle pass between the hills where they had first halted above the Old Hall.
Kate looked across at this complex man with whom her future was now tied. He now rode in a more relaxed manner, the reins held gently, the muscles of his back and shoulders less rigid. But there was a shuttered expression, a brooding quality, in his eyes that hurt her. She did not know him well enough to know how to remove it. But she would try.
‘I have not had the opportunity to thank you properly for this lovely mare,’ she informed him. ‘I think we should try her paces.’
He glanced across, a glint of interest, an eyebrow lifted. ‘You fit well together.’
‘I know.’ She laughed. ‘I think we should see what she can do.’
‘Can it be that my strictly reared Puritan wife is suggesting a race?’ The interest had changed to humour.
‘Why not? I wager I can beat you back to the stable yard. Do you accept?’
‘What will I win when the Falcon beats Goldfinch out of sight?’
‘I do not know. I will have to think. Besides, that presumes that Goldfinch cannot beat the Falcon. I do not accept that.’
‘Very well. It is not my usual practice when assessing the odds, but for love I will take your wager for an unspecified prize.’
‘But on one condition. That you do not allow me win.’
‘Never!’ The answering grin was all she could have hoped for.
The horses took no urging across the open pastures towards the estate. They flew in the bright sunlight, neck and neck, hooves striking the drying ground. It was glorious, exhilarating. It mattered not to Kate who won. She had seen the lifting of the mood from Marlbrooke’s face and that was enough. It struck her that she was becoming very manipulative—and enjoying the sensation of power where the Viscount was concerned.
Once inside the Priory estate they took to the open parkland and gave the horses freedom to extend. Kate clung tightly to Goldfinch as the mare gripped the bit and stretched into a headlong gallop. She gave Marlbrooke a run for his money. But there was no gainsaying the Falcon. Stronger and heavier, the Viscount had already dismounted at the stables when she trotted in, windswept, dishevelled but laughing, her eyes sparkling with the exercise and sheer delight.
She slid down into his waiting arms. ‘We lost, but I love her dearly and cannot thank you enough.’
‘My pleasure. And my trophy, Mistress Viola?’
Instantly she responded, on impulse, without thought. She flung her arms round his neck and pressed her lips to his. Then, still laughing at the amazed expression on the Viscount’s face at so public a display, she lifted her skirts to run on ahead into the house. He followed, aware of Jenks’s grin behind him, the cold knot of anger in his belly dissolved, his thoughts on the girl who had achieved it and her delightfully devious methods.
He did not see the still, watchful figure of Richard Hotham, behind him in the open door of the stables. Nor would he have believed the turbulent depth of emotion that swept those calm features as he witnessed the uninhibited kiss between his cousin and the Viscount.
Later in the day Kate managed the last of a number of private conversations with Jenks. The result was to the satisfaction of both and led to some minor manoeuvring between the stables and the house. An hour later there were further repercussions for the inhabitants of the Priory.
‘Why would you wish me to come in here, Kate? You are being very secretive—I suspect some deep developments.’ Lady Elizabeth glanced at the Viscount, who had chosen to accompany the two ladies out of a lively interest to see just what his intended bride had been about, but she received no enlightenment. Kate opened the door to a little-used room in a more recent wing of the house, a saloon, chill and barely furnished.
‘Do not look for any explanation from me, ma’am. I am afraid that I was foolish enough to give Viola carte blanche and now we have to bear the consequences.’
‘We haven’t used this room since we returned last year.’ Elizabeth entered the room, brow faintly furrowed. ‘I do not know why, but it never seems a very comfortable room. Perhaps it simply needs to be lived in.’
Kate had to agree, but for her present purpose it was perfect since it was one of the few rooms to give direct access to the flagged terrace through full-length windows.
‘There is something I wish you to see. I hope it will find favour with you.’ Suddenly she was attacked by nerves. What if she had misread Lady Elizabeth’s temperament? She thought not, but …
Before the window was an object, shapeless and bulky, draped in rough cloth, which had been used to wrap it on its short journey from the stables.
Kate approached it, a sparkle in her eyes. ‘This is it. I hope you will find it of use.’ She pulled at a corner of the heavy cloth so that it fell to the floor. Inside the package stood a chair.
Elizabeth approached.
There appeared to be little remarkable about it. A chair. It had been fashioned by a local craftsman under Jenks’s supervision, sturdy rather than elegant, but there was simple carving of intertwined leaves and scrolls on the arms and the struts of the back. The oak was well polished and gleamed in the sunlight that beckoned through the windows. On the seat was an embroidered cushion, commandeered from one of the Priory rooms, stitched by some long-dead Harley lady. Nothing to demand a personal inspection by the Oxenden family in the middle of the afternoon.
Elizabeth circled it and a smile touched her lips as she saw the purpose of it. For at the end of each leg had been attached a sturdy wheel, and attached to the front stretcher was an extra rail as a foot support for added comfort.
‘When you wish to go into the gardens,’ Kate explained the obvious, a little uncertain how her idea would be accepted, ‘but you do not wish to stand for too long or walk too far, then this is your means of transportation.’
‘Well, I had not …’
‘My uncle Simon was too proud to use such a chair,’ Kate continued anxiously before Elizabeth might refuse to consider it, ‘even on the days when the pain crippled him completely. He thought that it was beneath his dignity to have to ask a servant or Richard to help him. But I thought you would enjoy being able to oversee your gardens again—and I would willingly push you. It would never be a burden to me.’ Her fingers were clenched into fists of tension at her sides.
‘Kate. It is a lovely idea.’ Elizabeth’s eyes lit with pleasure. ‘I am not too proud. Indeed, I would value the means to escape these four walls.’
Marlbrooke laughed, delighted with her initiative. ‘So that is why you needed to converse with Jenks. I would not have guessed.’ He took his mother’s hand and helped her to sink back on to the cushion whilst Kate arranged her skirts becomingly, tucking them away from the wheels. ‘All you need now is Felicity to push you along the terrace.’
‘Oh, dear. Could you not find someone a little more—sympathetic to the occasion?’
‘I am sure we can.’
‘I will lend you Josh, my constant shadow.’ Kate smiled in relief, knowing how difficult it was for some to accept infirmity. She need not have worried. ‘I would be delighted if you could find use for him.’
‘Josh stays with you,’ Ma
rlbrooke responded immediately with a bland smile and calm voice, but a glint in his eye that made Kate once again aware of the steely determination which she could not avoid. ‘But since the sun shines and I am here to lend the muscle, let us try this ingenious contraption. And if it collapses, tipping you into a flower bed, my dear, you can blame Kate!’
For Kate, that was a moment of revelation. Emotions that had been insidiously creeping into her thoughts and dreams suddenly crystallised into something hard and bright, causing her heart to leap in her breast. The light fell on Marlbrooke as he opened the window to the terrace, illuminating him in vivid detail: the breadth of his shoulders, his dark hair falling forward in gleaming waves as he bent to unfasten the catch, the strength in his hard-muscled but graceful body. The beauty of his elegant hands on the back of the chair took her breath away. And the care and affection in those spectacular grey eyes as he joked with his mother over his ability to push the chair with any degree of safety.
Kate saw all this in the space of a heartbeat—and knew that she loved him to the depth of her soul. In spite of all her intentions to resist his charm, his physical beauty, she had fallen in love with him. And since he loved her, her world was suddenly filled with a glorious radiance that sent fire through her blood and a flush to her cheeks.
She turned away from her companions for a moment to hide her intense reaction. She needed a little time to come to terms with this devastating development.
Chapter Thirteen
It promised to be the perfect spring day and Kate’s heart was light as she waited for West to saddle Goldfinch and roust Josh from his tasks in the depths of the stables. The ride in sparkling sunshine with the gentlest of breezes would be exhilarating and would lift her spirits. And she would see Marlbrooke. She longed to see him. Since that moment in the chilly saloon her thoughts had been full of him. He disturbed her sleep, robbed her of appetite, causing Gilliver to prod and pry with sly glances and obvious comments. How could her feelings towards the Viscount have undergone such a cataclysmic change in so short a time span? She did not know, shaking her head in disbelief, aware only of her need to see him, to feel the touch of his hand on her arm, to see the soft gleam of his eyes when he looked at her. A twist of guilt ate into her happiness. Richard! What she had felt for him was not love. Her affection for him was so mild compared with the flames that engulfed her when she thought of Marlbrooke’s lips on hers. In her innocence she had not known. And Kate knew that she must put it right with Richard. But she did not know how. She had no wish to hurt him, but he would blame her—and rightly so. But for now she would ride to the Priory. And she would see Marlbrooke again. Her heart leapt.
