Puritan Bride

by Anne O'Brien

  Kate shrank from him, afraid of further violence from a cousin whom she no longer recognised. There was no escape.

  ‘If you have any more illuminating observations on the nature and inclinations of the female sex, I suggest that you address them to me!’

  Marlbrooke stood unobserved until that moment in the doorway. In the emotionally charged atmosphere no one had heard him enter. There was temper in his face, all the more deadly because of his icy control. He had not been present to see the attack on Kate but he sensed the uncontrolled violence in Richard’s stance. His voice was low, calm, but there was no doubting the lash of command.

  Silence fell on the room as he walked forward with deceptive languor. He went first to Kate, removing her without difficulty from Richard’s grasp, pushing her back into a chair with determined gentleness and a brief caress to her hair. His smile, for her alone, reassured her, but she was aware of the tangible aura of danger that shimmered around him. He laid a reassuring hand on his mother’s shoulder, and then turned to his guests with an elegant Court bow.

  ‘I dislike your behaviour towards my family in my house, and I particularly dislike your actions and words towards my betrothed wife.’ He might have been discussing the weather or the value of a horse. ‘How unfortunate that I was not at home earlier. So much unpleasantness could have been avoided. It amazes me that, as gentlemen, you should feel the need to threaten these ladies with physical coercion.’

  ‘She destroyed the will!’ Richard was still rigid with fury, face flushed, hands clenched into fists, but now watchful, impressed, despite himself, by Marlbrooke’s arrogant mastery of the situation. He ran a finger between the lace and his throat where his cravat suddenly seemed too tight for comfort.

  ‘Since it was Mistress Harley’s property, I suggest that she had that right.’

  ‘It is my right—’

  ‘You have no rights here. I call you to account for your conduct. To lay hands on a lady in such a fashion is unwarrantable. You will answer to me for this, sir.’

  ‘If I had my youth and health, I would make you pay for this interference in our affairs, my lord Marlbrooke,’ Simon raged, in his impotence of age and infirmity.

  ‘But you cannot.’ Marlbrooke inclined his head courteously, his desire to react, to destroy, to demand recompense in blood for Richard’s treatment of Kate held in check. ‘Therefore your son must answer to me for your sins.’

  ‘Gladly.’ Richard’s anger carried him on into uncharted waters.

  ‘Then there is no better time than here and now, I suggest.’ The deadly glint in the Viscount’s eyes made his intent clear to all.

  ‘No. You must not!’ A silent witness of events until this moment, Elizabeth pushed herself to her feet in distress. ‘You must not prolong the battles of the war. It should have all been buried long ago. Violence will solve nothing—merely cause more pain.’

  Marlbrooke shook his head, the pleasant smile on his lips at odds with the expression in his eyes. ‘There is really no choice in the matter, madam. As I am sure Mr Hotham will concur.’ He stripped off his coat and waistcoat, tucked up the lace ruffles at his cuffs.

  ‘I await your pleasure, Mr Hotham.’ He drew his sword with a deadly hiss as the steel left the scabbard—and waited.

  Without hesitation, driven by a deadly combination of intense disappointment and a keen sense of failure, Richard stripped off his coat likewise and drew his sword. The two men faced each other, worthy adversaries, of similar height and build. Perhaps Marlbrooke was a little taller, but neither man had a true advantage in either reach or weight. Both had experience of swordplay. As the son of a notable soldier, Richard had been well groomed by his father, who had accepted nothing but his son’s best efforts to master the military skills worthy of a gentleman. Marlbrooke’s experience was more varied. As a young man he had seen action in the final years of the Civil War, albeit very young, and later at Worcester. In more recent years at Court he had been able to indulge his skills and pleasure in fencing in more light-hearted contests.

  But this clash of interest was real, no sham for the entertainment of idle courtiers. Both men now recognised the inevitability of this meeting. A sudden shaft of sun glanced through a window to touch Richard’s fair hair and regular features with flame as in a blessing. But Kate’s eyes were all for Marlbrooke’s dark magnificence as he stretched and flexed the muscles in his shoulders and sword arm. The blood seemed to be congealing sluggishly in her own veins and she had to remind herself to breathe when the potential for untimely death hovered so close to them.

  Their swords hissed together in an initial kiss of steel against steel. Then Marlbrooke lowered his and stepped back as if he had come to a difficult decision. ‘I believe, Mr Hotham, that this challenge is also in retribution for the death of Gilliver Adams.’

  Richard also drew back, his expression carefully controlled; no hint of either guilt or regret. ‘You have no proof for such an accusation.’ His voice was clear and steady.

  ‘No?’

  ‘We know that no one was present when Gilliver died.’

  ‘Mason was,’ Marlbrooke reminded him quietly. ‘Mason knows who killed her.’

  ‘But she will not speak.’ Richard was confident now, a triumphant smile on his lips. ‘I repeat, you have no proof. You cannot set yourself up as my executioner for a crime that you are unable to prove that I committed. If you kill me, it is murder, my lord.’

  ‘Mason may not speak—but she can write.’ Marlbrooke raised a quizzical brow.

  ‘I do not believe you!’ But Richard’s fair brows drew together.

  ‘Kate, if you would oblige me.’ The Viscount never took his eyes from Richard. ‘Search in the pocket of my coat. You will find a document.’

  Kate hastened to do as instructed, fingers suddenly clumsy. She searched the pockets and brought out a folded sheet of parchment.

  ‘That is the proof,’ Marlbrooke explained in conversational tones. ‘Mason wrote down the name of the murderer. She was there and saw who struck Gilliver down—a cowardly act against a defenceless old woman—when she refused to hand over the documents.’

  Kate opened the folded document, looked briefly at the contents, and placed it folded again on the table at Elizabeth’s elbow.

  Richard looked towards the document; the possible repercussions of such evidence slapped at him. His previous control wavered and disintegrated at the prospect and he snarled at Marlbrooke, his face contorted in anger. ‘Gilliver was an interfering old witch. She knew all about the will. She had it all along. She was manipulating us all, pulling the strings to make us dance to her tune. She enjoyed every minute of it and laughed in my face. She had no intention of doing right by the family, and when I asked to look at the letters she refused. She did not know the meaning of truth—all she wanted was to weave her own little plots and schemes like a spider in a web. Well, I was not willing to play the fly who was caught up in her sticky spinnings merely for her own entertainment. Yes, I killed her! And I have no regrets.’

  It was an outpouring as revealing as it was shocking to those listening, who thought they had known this well-mannered, moderate young man whose hands now shook with violent intent and whose words burned with vitriol.

  ‘Enough, Richard!’ Simon broke into the silence, harsh and grim. ‘The old woman is dead. Let us get this over with.’

  ‘By all means. I call you to account for the blood of Gilliver Adams. I am at your service.’ Marlbrooke saluted with easy grace and took guard.

  They circled each other, watchful, wary. Elizabeth sat in silence, anguish in her eyes, hands clenched in her lap, ignoring the sharp complaint from ill-used knuckles. Kate took up a position behind her, hand lightly on her shoulder in mutual support. Even Felicity left the spinet to stand irresolutely on the edge of the scene, her eyes darting from one to another of the major players in the drama. Simon sat forward, willing on his son, wishing that he had the physical strength to have taken on the responsibility him
self, eyes never leaving the conflict before him.

  They came together in a rush of adrenaline-fired action. Quick thrust and parry, boots thudding on the oak boards where Kate and the Viscount had trod the measures of the pavane. But now it was a deadly dance of death. Cut. Parry. Slice. The blades swept low then high, sparks glinting blue as their edges scraped and clashed. They fought with controlled agility, eyes locked, their skills honed and polished and now used to such murderous intent. They circled, blades testing for any weakness. Richard was the first to see an opening and lunged. Although Marlbrooke reacted within the blink of an eye, the sword whispered along his ribs to be followed by a crimson line that seeped through his shirt and into the sash around his waist.

  Richard lowered his sword, point to the ground, and stepped back. ‘You are hit, my lord. Are you now satisfied?’

  ‘It is of no account.’ Marlbrooke’s response was clipped. ‘Gilliver’s death will not be so easily avenged.’ He wiped the sweat from his eyes with his sleeve and renewed the attack.

  Fierce, relentless, forcing each other back and forth along the extent of the Gallery, the challenge continued. Sweat dripped and blood stained. They were indeed well matched and there was no sign of weakness in either man. But the exertion was, by its very nature, beginning to take its toll on both. Muscle and sinew strained and their breath became laboured and harsh. The contest could not continue indefinitely, and both knew it. The end must come for one of them. It was a duel to the death. The watchers knew it too and were fixed with horror at the prospect.

  The contest continued along its deadly path. Thrust, parry, retreat, each protagonist concentrating on nothing but the eyes and sword of his opponent. Searching for a weakness, a hesitation, a stumble, any opportunity to allow access and claim victory. The fine steel kissed and scraped, seeking to bury itself to the hilt in blood and flesh.

  Inevitably it came. Feeling the first twinge of strength begin to drain from sword arm and wrist, Marlbrooke played his hand. He feinted to the right, as if to attack Richard’s unprotected left shoulder, only to change direction to threaten his ribs below the heart. Richard read the intention and parried, successfully beating the thrust down. Marlbrooke recovered with lightning speed, thrust again and, expecting another feint, Richard hesitated. For one fatal moment he held back, his eyes meeting the Viscount’s in horror as he read the intention there and realised that his judgement had faltered. He had fallen into the trap. Marlbrooke continued the thrust. And his sword, driven on with all the force of his body, buried itself in Richard’s chest.

  Without even a cry, Richard fell to the floor, sword arm outflung, face ashen, lips drained of all colour as his body was drained of life. The only movement was the slow spreading of bright blood to soak into his shirt and pool on the floor beneath him.

  Marlbrooke stood, head bowed, sword in hand, blood dripping from his ribs to the floor. He raised an unsteady hand to wipe the sweat from his face. An agonised groan from Simon, his dreams in shreds at his feet, struggling to his feet to reach his stricken son, went unnoticed. Kate darted forward to kneel beside her cousin, to touch his face, his hands with nervous fingers.

  ‘He is dead. So much blood.’ Her voice was soft, almost a caress, drowned in disbelief. She looked wildly round, unable to take in the tragedy beneath her hands. ‘Richard is dead!’

  There was no one to help her, to remove this second burden of death. Her immediate impulse was to escape from this deadly turn of events. She sprang to her feet, gathered her skirts in her hands, heedless of the smears of blood, and fled the room, heels clicking on the polished boards.

  ‘Kate!’ Marlbrooke knew in that moment that he must prevent her, knew that she would need some source of solace in her grief. But she gave no response, did not even turn her head, but continued her flight.

  ‘But the paper. Mason’s confession.’ Felicity had picked up and now held out the folded sheet, which she had just unfolded, and broke the ensuing silence in an uncertain voice. ‘There is no name here.’

  ‘No.’ Marlbrooke’s austere response did not encourage discussion.

  ‘So Mason did not name the killer?’

  ‘No, she did not. But she did not have to, did she?’ He looked down at the body of Richard Hotham, his expression shuttered and unreadable. ‘The culprit was perfectly willing to confess, after all. I suppose justice has been done.’

  But there was no victory in it. He would see Kate’s white face and shocked eyes in his nightmares. Just as she would undoubtedly see Richard’s blood on his hands.

  ‘Oh, Marcus! What an impossible situation this is.’ Lady Elizabeth closed the door firmly behind her when she finally ran her son to earth in the library. He had been avoiding her with some success for the past several days. She seated herself in the chair next to his desk, arranged the folds of her stiff brocade skirts to her satisfaction as if she intended to stay, and smiled innocently in answer to his raised eyebrow. He would avoid her no more. She would stay until her planned conversation with him was complete and to her liking.

  ‘I know it. It is damnable.’ Marlbrooke sat behind his desk, estate papers strewn before him, accepting the inevitable when he saw the determination in his mother’s face. He smiled ruefully and put down the quill pen, which he had not been using to any effect.

  He looks so tired, she thought. He covers it well, but the strain is beginning to show. In spite of the tragic circumstances, it amused her that her notorious son should be disturbed to any degree by the vagaries of a woman. She hid a smile at the prospect, effectively disguising her inordinate fondness for him, as she allowed her eyes to linger on his stern but handsome features.

  ‘We seem to be living in a nightmare from which there is no escape.’ She folded her hands in her lap and fixed him with her clear gaze, which he had inherited. ‘I cannot believe that you actually fought a duel and killed a man, here in this house.’

  ‘It was not my obvious intention, ma’am.’ He was cool, noncommittal, any expression in his face carefully hidden from her. This was not going to be an easy interview. ‘In fact, I remember that it was a near-run thing. I have a painful scratch along my ribs to prove it. Would you perhaps have preferred that Richard had killed me?’

  ‘Of course not! You know I did not mean any such thing! I wish we were back in London.’ For an unguarded moment Elizabeth picked fretfully at the lace edging of her deep cuffs. ‘Life seemed so much more predictable there.’

  ‘I will transport you back there whenever you wish. It would probably be a good idea for you to leave this place.’ His tone was perfectly conciliatory, perfectly distant.

  ‘That was not what I meant either! You are being obtuse, Marlbrooke!’ It was time to be more direct if she wished to force her son in to any sort of personal comment or show of emotion in this duel of words. ‘Should we, do you think, have allowed Simon Hotham to return home?’

  ‘Why not? We could not have detained him. It is better that he is not here in the circumstances. Whatever his involvement in recent events, he has lost his son. He would not wish to be away from home.’

  ‘Do you really suppose he was responsible for Mistress Adams’s death?’

  ‘Simon or Richard? In all probability Simon was the instigator. Without doubt, he is a man driven by ambition, disillusioned over the past and fearful of the future. Embittered and vengeful. I remember Kate’s words and she had the right of it. All his hopes were pinned on Richard, the will and an alliance with Katherine. With Richard as the tool to carry out his devious plotting, Gilliver was an easy target if she was alone and refused to hand over the relevant papers.’ He pushed his fingers impatiently through his hair. ‘And now, with Richard dead and the will destroyed, his plans have gone awry and he will have lost his hold on the future. Nothing left to him but his pride and his declining health. I should feel compassion for his loss—but I cannot find it in my heart to do so.’

  ‘No. You should not try too hard, Marcus. Simon has brought fatal harm and d
istress to too many to deserve our sympathy. And we still have no idea where Mason is.’ Elizabeth pressed on. They would reach the nub of the problem eventually. ‘I feel in some sense responsible for her.’

  ‘There is no reason why you should—but I understand. I too feel that we should give her some protection. She is probably in hiding in the attics or cellars at Widemarsh.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  Giving in to the silent criticism that sat so elegantly before him, Marlbrooke pushed back his chair and strode to the window to look out over the drear scene of cloud and rain, which so perfectly mirrored his mood. And he knew exactly what his mother intended. With a shrug of compliance, he turned to face her, a dry and not particularly pleasant smile curving his lips.

  ‘You have not—very tactfully, if deliberately—mentioned the worst part of this débâcle, my dear mother. Perhaps you should spell it out before we both die of anticipation!’

  ‘I know.’ She sighed a little. ‘We both know. It is Kate.’

  The Viscount strode back and flung himself into his chair once more, his dark brows meeting in a heavy frown as the memory of his recent efforts to see Kate flooded through him.

  On the third abortive visit to Widemarsh Manor, having been refused entry on the two previous occasions by a firmly bolted door, there was a dangerous light in the Viscount’s eye, but he kept his temper reined in. There was, after all, he admonished himself, nothing to be gained from frustrated aggression. He dismounted in the courtyard, handed the Falcon over to a stable lad and knocked on the door. This time the door opened a merest crack; the dark eyes of an elderly servant gleamed through.

  ‘Yes, m’lord? I didn’t expect you again so soon.’

  ‘I would speak with Mistress Harley.’ Marlbrooke felt that he was reliving a nightmare. He had been here before.

  ‘Mistress Harley is not receiving visitors, m’lord.’ The door closed in confirmation.

  Marlbrooke’s patience finally snapped. He hammered on the door with the haft of his riding whip as if to wake the devil. ‘Open the door or I will surely break it down.’ His voice remained remarkably calm, but there was no denying the change in temperature.