by Jane Feather
“I’ll introduce you to Mistress Bisset. She’ll take care of you until I return.”
The bells from the village church had already begun to, peal when Cato, Olivia, and Phoebe left the house.
From a window in the front bedchamber allotted to him, Brian watched them go. Cato walked a little behind the girls, his cloak blowing back in the wind revealing the somber richness of his doublet and britches. His high-crowned black felt hat had no adornment, and the fur-edged collar of his cloak was turned up at the back, covering his ears. Brian knew that the serviceable elegance, the casual richness of his stepfather’s dress were merely an extension of the man himself. The marquis of Granville was assured, commanding, powerful, and he looked every inch of it. Every inch as formidable as Brian remembered. He would not be an easy victim.
As Brian watched, Phoebe slipped on an icy patch. Cato seemed to have predicted it and moved almost before it had happened, an arm around her waist, steadying her. She looked up at him with a rueful smile, catching her bottom lip with her teeth. Cato shook his head, straightened her bonnet that seemed to have gone askew beneath the capacious hood of her cloak, and tucked her hand into his arm.
Interesting, Brian thought, remembering the almost automatic way Cato had adjusted his wife’s rucked sleeve earlier. It seemed to bode an easy familiarity that was unlike Cato.
Brian frowned, pulling at his chin. It had been easy enough to dispose of Diana. She’d been all too willing to accept the gifts he sent her in secret, and he guessed she had enjoyed the thought of her clandestine correspondence with an admirer.
Poison was such a versatile weapon, Brian reflected. It could be administered at a distance and in any number of ways. The gloves had been the most elegant trick, he thought. They had been of the softest doeskin, lace-edged and studded with tiny seed pearls. Very beautiful, and quite deadly. Every time she wore them, the poison would seep into her skin.
There had been silk stockings too—the kind of intimate loverly gift that would excite a woman as susceptible to flattery and courtly gestures as Diana. And the little boxes of comfits. Little jeweled boxes of lethal sweetmeats.
He had been in no hurry and it had taken about eight months before she died. The poison had mimicked a wasting disease and the bloody flux, symptoms too common to arouse the suspicion of foul play, particularly when there was no obvious reason for it.
Brian smiled to himself. The refinements of Diana’s death had pleased him almost as much as the fact itself. And then, of course, Cato had to marry her sister and undo all his good work.
Well, he might have to be a bit cruder in his methods this time, but that should pose no problems . . . now that he was firmly established under Cato’s roof.
All but the sick were straggling down the village street, wrapped against the cold, shuffling booted feet through the drifts. No God-fearing soul would neglect Sunday service, even for the snow, and the lord of the manor, if he was in residence, would never neglect the observance for fear of setting a bad example.
The congregation in Woodstock, as in so many other villages across the land, was mostly women, old men, and small children. The able-bodied men for the most part had been pressed into the army regardless of their views on the civil strife. The women bobbed little curtsies, the old men touched forelocks as the manor party walked up the path to the church door. Phoebe greeted them by name and would have stopped to chat if Cato hadn’t been holding her arm so securely, propelling her inexorably to the church door, where he moved his gloved hand to her shoulder, easing her in front of him.
Cato was thinking about Brian Morse. What was the real reason for this visit? A change of allegiance seemed unlikely. He didn’t want the man under his roof, but without good cause he couldn’t refuse to shelter his adopted son and heir. Well, he would play a waiting game. Brian would reveal his hand soon enough.
The vicar’s sonorous boom broke abruptly into Cato’s reverie.
“The arm of the devil has a long reach. His servants are to be found everywhere. And, my people, they are to be found among us now. Here in the very bosom of our village lurks evil, a follower of the devil. Her vile hand has fallen upon the innocent and the weak and we must cast her out.”
Here the vicar paused and raised his eyes to heaven, his arms flailing as if in ecstasies of prayer. “You have taken your children to this woman, in times of trouble; in times of weakness you have sought her help. And she has preyed upon your sorrows with the devil’s art.”
Phoebe felt the first icy shaft of premonition. It was something she had always feared, something that Meg risked with every act of healing. And it had to be Meg. She had been called a witch before, but before it had been almost an affectionate description, never accusation. There was no other member of this community who would fit the vicar’s diatribe. She glanced around. There were nods and whispers and grim faces. She glanced up at Cato, sitting beside her in the Granville pew, and saw that the vicar now had his full attention.
Something must have happened since Phoebe’s visit to Meg’s cottage the previous morning. Ordinarily she would have heard of anything untoward, but the blizzard had kept her and the household, her usual source of rumor and gossip, within doors.
Meg should be in church, Phoebe thought. Meg knew full well how the village was suspicious of and swift to censure anyone who didn’t obey the unwritten rules, but she persisted in flying in the face of convention. And her absence from the altar of God gave credence to these wild accusations.
Cato grew increasingly angry as the vicar’s invective continued. The fire-and-brimstone kind of sermon was becoming ever more popular as the strong Puritan element in Cromwell’s New Model Army took hold over the looser morality of the royalist Cavaliers, encouraging a rabble-rousing fanaticism that did little good and had much potential for harm.
When the service was over, he said rather curtly to Phoebe, “Stay here with Olivia. It’s too cold to wait outside and I wish to talk with the vicar.”
Phoebe buried her gloved hands in the deep pockets of her cloak and slumped down in the pew, huddling for warmth. She needed to go and find Meg, but it would have to wait until after dinner.
“It’s as c-cold inside as outside,” Olivia stated glumly. “What a dreadful sermon.” She was right about the cold. The two small braziers in the nave did nothing to relieve the icy dampness.
“He was talking about Meg,” Phoebe stated.
“Oh, but he c-couldn’t be!” Olivia exclaimed. “She’s never done any harm to anyone.”
“It had to be her, there’s no one else in the village it could be. I’m going to see her this afternoon. Will you come with me?”
“Yes, of c-course.” Olivia often accompanied Phoebe on her visits to the herbalist, although despite her fascination she regarded Meg with a faint degree of alarm.
“Come,” Cato called from the door. There was an edge to his voice that brought them hurrying to join him. His expression was dark, his mouth thin, his jaw set.
“What did you say to the vicar?” Phoebe asked.
“Watch your step,” Cato said shortly instead of answering her question. “You don’t want to slip again.”
“Why did you wish to talk to him?” Phoebe persisted, lifting her feet with exaggerated care on the path.
“I don’t like all that fire and brimstone. If the man gets a sense of power out of stirring the crowd . . . For God’s sake, Phoebe!” He grabbed at her arm as she stepped knee-deep into a snowdrift.
“Oh!” Chagrined, she dragged herself out of the snow. It had gone into her boots and soaked the hem of her cloak and gown. “I didn’t see it.”
“Why didn’t you look where you were going?” he snapped.
“I don’t think it’s just,” Phoebe stated, “to be cross with me simply because you’re cross with the vicar.” She looked down at her sodden feet with a grimace. “It’s bad enough as it is.”
“What a ragged robin you are! I’d better carry you home.”
&n
bsp; “No, thank you,” Phoebe said. “And anyway I’m too heavy.” She stalked ahead, trying to ignore the horrid cold squelching of the snow in her boots.
Cato forgot his annoyance with the vicar. In two paces he came up with Phoebe, swung her around, lowered his shoulder, and hoisted her up and over. “Not in the least heavy,” he said cheerfully, patting her upturned bottom in reassurance. “Keep still, and we’ll be back in the warm and the dry in no time.”
“You can’t carry me through the village like this!” Phoebe squawked.
“Oh, no one will think anything of it,” he assured her, striding out. “Besides, everyone’s gone home to fires and Sunday dinners.”
Behind them, Olivia gazed at the sight of Phoebe disappearing around the corner over her husband’s broad shoulder. She’d never seen her father do anything quite like that before. Of course, it would ensure Phoebe didn’t fall into another snowdrift. Olivia hurried in her father’s footsteps.
At the front door Cato eased Phoebe off his shoulder. Games were all very well in their place, but Lady Granville couldn’t appear before the servants in her present position.
“Ugh!” Phoebe said, shaking out a foot. “I’m sure I’m frostbitten.” She moved through the door that Bisset now held open and said mischievously over her shoulder, “My thanks for the ride, sir.”
Cato shook his head at her retreating back, then, drawing off his gloves, turned to the butler. “Bring a decanter of madeira to my study, Bisset. Ah, Brian . . . I trust you’ve been made comfortable.” He greeted Brian, who was coming down the stairs. “You’ll forgive me if I leave you to your own devices until dinner. I have to gather some papers and change my dress for the ride to headquarters this afternoon.”
“Of course, my lord.” Brian offered the rigid Olivia a half bow. “Olivia, my little sister. You do seem to have grown up since I saw you last.” He regarded her with a faint smile.
“I do hope you won’t find the c-climate in Woodstock as unhealthy as you found it in Yorkshire,” Olivia said sweetly. “You had such an uncomfortable t-time. Was it fleas . . . or lice, Brian? I don’t recall.”
A mottled flush spread across Brian’s thin, pointed countenance. Cato was already halfway across the hall and didn’t hear Olivia’s mockery.
“And as I recall, you also ate something that disagreed with you,” Olivia continued. “I do t-trust you won’t have a similar problem on this visit.”
Brian’s thin mouth flickered. The fine line of his eyebrows lifted in a supercilious question mark. “You talk in riddles, little sister. I’m sorry to see that you haven’t managed to overcome that unfortunate stammer. It makes you sound like a simpleton. I wonder you have the courage to open your mouth at all. But at the very least, you should try to make sense. It might lessen the unfavorable impression.”
Olivia felt the old surge of frustration and the nasty cold tremor in her belly that Brian had managed to engender as far back as she could remember.
With curled lip and mockery in his eye Brian watched her struggle. “Poor little girl,” he murmured. “But so amusing.”
Olivia’s hand closed over the friendship ring in her pocket. Portia had exorcized this demon once and for all. Now Olivia met Brian’s smile with her own and concentrated fiercely.
“Excuse me. I have to take off my cloak.” There, she’d managed the stumbling block. It was the hardest sound of them all for her. With a little nod of satisfaction she turned to the stairs.
She was feeling so pleased with herself that she almost skipped down the passage towards Phoebe’s bedchamber.
Phoebe was sitting on the chest at the foot of the bed, wriggling her white numbed toes at the fire in an attempt to get the feeling back, when Olivia came in. “I’m sure I’m frostbitten,” she declared.
“They do look rather dead,” Olivia said, peering at Phoebe’s feet with some fascination. She hitched herself onto the edge of the bed, observing cheerfully, “It was funny to see my father c-carrying you like that.”
“My feet were wet,” Phoebe offered, a slight flush blooming on her cheeks.
“I’ve never seen him do anything like that before,” Olivia said. “He doesn’t tend to be spontaneous. Maybe all these surprises you k-keep giving him are having an effect.”
“What kind of effect?” Phoebe hopped off the chest to fetch clean stockings from the linen press.
Olivia considered. “Well, he laughs more,” she said finally. “He never used to laugh when Diana was around, but now he’s often amused. I like it,” she added. “I used to think he was sad a lot of the time. But he doesn’t seem so now.”
“Really?” Phoebe paused, her clean stockings in her hand. “Do you really think so?”
“Mmm.” Olivia nodded. “Haven’t you noticed how his eyes seem to gleam sometimes?”
“Yes, they do, don’t they?” Phoebe smiled to herself.
“Well, I’d better take off my c-cloak before dinner.” Olivia jumped up. “We’ll go and see Meg this afternoon.” She went to the door just as it opened to admit Cato, intent on changing into riding dress.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said with a curtsy. “I was just talking to Phoebe while she changed her stockings.”
Cato nodded a mite absently. He had rather a lot on his mind at present. He closed the door behind Olivia.
“How are your feet?”
“Warmer now.” Phoebe eased her stockings over her toes, then slowly pulled them up, stretching her leg in front of her as she did so, flexing her foot.
Cato watched her. There was something undeniably sensuous about the whole maneuver. She fastened her garters just above the knee and then looked up as if aware of his scrutiny for the first time. Her teeth closed over her bottom lip, and a smile touched her eyes, a smile where diffidence blended with invitation.
“I’ve ordered dinner for noon,” Cato said slowly. He began to unbutton his doublet. “I have to ride to headquarters this afternoon.”
“Will you ride home today when you’ve completed your business, sir?” Phoebe remained perched on the bed, her skirt still hitched up above her knees.
They were very prettily rounded knees. Cato’s fingers were now on the waistband of his velvet britches. “I had not thought to be absent this night,” he said.
Had the previous night really happened? Had it just been a trick, an artful pretense? He had a sudden mad impulse to test the waters.
“Come here,” he said, crooking a finger at her.
Phoebe slid off the bed, her rich velvet skirts sweeping once more to her ankles. She came slowly towards him, her eyes as brilliant as a sun-filled midsummer sky.
10
Cato stood very still, making no attempt to touch her. He wanted to see what she would do.
Phoebe looked a little puzzled at the lack of a lead. She hesitated, then as if of their own accord, her hands went to his waist, to the fastening of his britches. She pressed her hand against the hard bulge at the apex of his thighs, feeling it stir beneath the rich dark velvet. Her face was upturned to his and Cato watched her, his eyes glittering with an almost predatory light that flooded her with excitement, set her loins pulsing, her stomach tightening.
Slowly she lowered her eyes and unfastened his britches, button by button. She slipped her hands into the opened waist to hold the slim hips, before sliding behind to the taut muscular slopes of his buttocks. She was breathing fast, her hands operating as if without instruction from her brain. Slowly she peeled his britches and drawers away from his hips, slipping to her knees in almost the same movement.
The turgid shaft of flesh jutted from its bush of black curling hair. Phoebe placed her palms flat against his hips and her face against his belly. The earthy fragrance of his arousal filled her nostrils, sending her senses spinning. She licked the column of dark hair running down from his navel, enjoying the rasp on her tongue as taste mingled with scent. Her hand slipped between his thighs to grasp the tender globes. She felt their weight, the softness of the taut sk
in.
She ran her hand up the shaft of flesh, enclosing it in her palm, feeling the blood pulse strong against her hand. Her tongue darted, to lick the dew clustering at the dark swollen tip. The salty taste of him entranced her. Taking him fully within her mouth now, she drew her lips up the length of the stem as her hands continued to stroke and knead between his thighs.
Cato was lost. He had been pleasured thus by women for whom sex was both a toy and a commodity, but this young woman with her flawlessly knowing touch was unlike any other he had experienced. There was a paradoxical innocence to the instinctive deftness of her touch, to the clear delight she was taking in pleasuring him. When she looked up at him, her blue eyes were sparkling with her own excitement, her cheeks delicately flushed, her parted lips offering a near irresistible invitation.
He grew closer to the brink and then with a sudden movement caught her head, moving her mouth away from him. “You will share this with me,” he rasped, his voice sounding oddly harsh with the effort of restraint. He bent and caught her up beneath his arms and toppled her backward onto the bed.
Phoebe writhed, her entire body suffused with need. His hands were rough on her thighs as he pushed up her skirts. He seized her ankles and lifted her legs onto his shoulders, kneeling between her thighs, his eyes fierce as he drove deep within her.
He leaned over her and pushed her gown off her shoulders, catching her full breasts in his hands. She moaned and bucked beneath him as he played with her nipples. The corded muscles in his neck stood out as he held himself on the brink for as long as he could. Then, when he could wait no longer, he ran his hands down the backs of her thighs, grasped her buttocks with hard fingers, pulling her closer against him. Phoebe’s eyes flew open, pure wonderment in their depths. Then her back arced off the bed and her body convulsed around him.
Cato fell forward with a groan, gathering her against him in a tangle of skirts and petticoats, his mouth buried against the softness of her throat. Phoebe quivered beneath him.
