The Accidental Bride

by Jane Feather

  Phoebe followed, threading her way through the lines of cots. “But don’t the beds belong to people?”

  Cato shook his head. “No. There’ll be folk moving in and out of them all night as the watch changes. No one lays claim to any one space.”

  “Oh.” Phoebe looked around a mite helplessly.

  “Here, this one’ll do. It’s against the wall, so you’ll only have one neighbor.” He gestured to a cot in the corner. “There’s a blanket and a pillow of sorts. Don’t strip down beyond your shift.”

  “I wasn’t about to,” Phoebe said. “Where will you sleep?”

  “I’ll decide when I come up later.” He set the oil lamp on one of the chests at the foot of the cot. “Turn down the wick when you’re in bed.”

  “Yes, but . . . but I need the privy,” Phoebe said in sudden panic. “I can’t go to bed without using it.”

  Cato swore.

  “I can’t help it,” Phoebe protested. “Everyone has to go sometimes. Even soldiers!”

  Despite himself, Cato’s lips twitched. She had a point. “There’s an outhouse at the rear of the kitchen garden. No one uses it. Take the lantern and go down that way.” He gestured to a stairway that was little more than a ladder at the rear of the loft. “You shouldn’t meet anyone, but if you do, don’t talk, just be quick.”

  He hastened away, obviously in a great hurry to get back to his cronies, Phoebe reflected acidly. She took up the lantern and went to find the outhouse.

  She returned to the long dormitory having met no one on her journey. She took off her outer garments, laying them tidily over the chest. Her shift felt very skimpy as she stood by the cot. She could hear laughter from below and lamplight showed through the spaces in the floorboards. If she listened hard, she could distinguish snatches of conversation and recognize some of the voices.

  She extinguished the lamp and lay down on the narrow cot, pulling the thin blanket over her. The pillow and mattress were stuffed with straw and crackled when she turned over. She lay listening to the sounds from below. The laughter had ceased and there was a different tenor to their voices, as if, supper over, they had returned to business. Phoebe identified the rich, mellow cadences of Cato’s voice interspersed with the sharp and unmelodious tones of Cromwell and the lighter tones of General Fairfax. It sounded as if they were in dispute.

  “If a man hasn’t the courage to take the ultimate step, then I can’t help but question his commitment,” Cromwell said, his voice nasal and strident.

  “I trust it’s not my commitment you’re questioning.” Cato’s voice was even, almost amused, as if such an idea were laughable.

  “You’d vote to depose the king?” Cromwell demanded.

  Phoebe listened, straining to catch Cato’s reply. “It’s not a step to be taken lightly,” he replied after a minute. “We force peace on our terms. I see no reason to do more.”

  “You think the king would abide by such an agreement?” The question came from General Fairfax and produced a buzz of response from the company.

  “I think we must assume that he would.” Cato’s response was firm, rising over the buzz. “I didn’t enter this war to establish a republic.”

  “Then this war has overtaken you,” Cromwell declared. “It’s no longer a gentlemanly exercise to persuade Our Sovereign Majesty to heed the wishes of his subjects.” His voice was bitter and ironic. “It’s a fight for the right to rule England. And I say the people’s rule must hold sway.”

  “You go too far for me, Oliver,” Cato said, as firmly and evenly as before. “But we can surely agree to differ on the final outcome without throwing accusations of disloyalty at one another.”

  “Aye, you have the right of it, Cato,” Fairfax said warmly. “Oliver, ’tis foolish to fall out with your friends.”

  “I said nothing about disloyalty,” Cromwell declared. “Only of a failure of commitment. But you’re right, ’tis too early to talk of such things. Let us win first.”

  This was received with a rousing cheer and stamping feet and the sound of goblets being banged upon the table in resounding approval.

  Phoebe drifted off to this lullaby.

  She awoke in darkness, faintly aware through the clinging tendrils of sleep of the sounds of breathing, of snores, the creaking of straw palliasses as men shifted in sleep. For a moment she was disoriented, then she felt the hand on her back and she remembered.

  “Cato?” she breathed.

  For answer, he kissed the back of her neck. She was lying on her stomach, her shift tangled around her waist, and she could feel his length along her back, the hard throb of his erection against her bottom. She reached her arms over her head in a languid, luxuriant stretch as her body came alive, her skin began to tingle in anticipation.

  He slid a hand between her thighs, feeling for her, caressing her until she opened to him, hot and moist with her own arousal. He moved his arm beneath her, lifting her buttocks towards him, and penetrated her with one deep thrust. He was lying along her back, his skin pressed to hers, as he moved within her, long, slow movements that filled her completely. His teeth grazed her nape, the points of her shoulder blades, and with his free hand he played with her breasts.

  Phoebe buried her face in the pillow to stifle the moans of pleasure building in her throat. The sense of the men around them in the darkness seemed to increase her excitement. It was as if what they were doing on this narrow cot was forbidden, dangerous, no longer the legitimate if entrancing act of marriage. She could not move her own body, not by so much as a wriggle, for her own pleasure or for Cato’s. She was held captive by the body above her, pressed into the mattress, able only to submit to the waves of pleasure that broke over her with increasing strength.

  The ripples began deep, deep in her belly, at the very center of her being, it seemed, and spread in ever widening circles until they consumed her, every inch of her. Her body was rigid, taut, held for a moment in an exquisite vise of sensation, then everything seemed to burst and dissolve and she bit the pillow to muffle the unpreventable gasping cries of an inarticulate joy that seemed to go on for ever and ever.

  Cato pulled her buttocks hard against him and moved his other hand from her breasts to clasp the back of her head, his fingers twined in the thick, luxuriant hair as his own climax throbbed deep within her. He buried his mouth against her neck, tasting the salt on her skin, inhaling her fragrance that always reminded him of vanilla. He felt as if he had never possessed a woman as completely as he now possessed Phoebe, in this dark loft amid oblivious sleepers.

  Or were they oblivious? The thought that maybe someone was lying there listening to the muted sounds of their love-making had a strange and heady effect. It seemed to increase the power of his orgasm, and as he fell from the heights of pleasure back to reality, he wondered what on earth had happened to him. He who never lost control, would never consider making an exhibition of himself, had found something about the dark, illicit nature of that clandestine act utterly compelling and arousing.

  He disengaged slowly, reluctantly, and rolled to lie beside her, gathering her against him. She pressed back, drawing up her knees so that they lay like spoons in the narrow space. His fingers were still twined in her hair, and his other hand was at her waist, holding her.

  13

  “You’ve heard nothing further about Meg?” Phoebe asked Olivia on their return the following morning.

  “I haven’t been out,” Olivia said, “but no one’s said anything in the house, and someone would have mentioned it if anything bad had happened. They know you’re a friend of hers.”

  “Well, that’s something,” Phoebe said. “But I’ll go and see her right away. Will you come?”

  Olivia hesitated. “I’m in the middle of a very difficult translation. You go on ahead and I’ll c-catch you up.”

  Phoebe laughed. “There’s no need to tear yourself away from your books. I only wondered if you felt like the walk.”

  “Well, I do, but. . .” Olivia looke
d at the pile of books on the parlor table.

  “But another time,” Phoebe said, giving her a quick kiss.

  “I’ll c-come later,” Olivia promised.

  Phoebe stood on tiptoe to adjust the set of her new hat in the mirror above the mantel. She thought her eyes seemed heavy, languorous almost, still aglow with the memory of that loving on the narrow cot among sleeping men. Never in her wildest dreams would she have expected such a thing from Cato.

  With a little smile, she left the parlor and went downstairs. She was intending to leave the house immediately, but somehow her feet took her to Cato’s closed study door. She had no real errand but she found she wanted to see him. It seemed an irresistible urge. She raised her hand to knock and then realized that there were two voices coming from the other side of the door. Brian Morse was with Cato. The small passageway at the rear of the hall was windowless. The keyhole in the study door was very large. There was no key in it and Phoebe could see the stream of light falling onto the dark oak at her feet.

  She had never listened at a door before. But now, without really knowing why, she found herself bending forward to press her ear against the keyhole. Their voices were very clear.

  “We were discussing the situation in the West Country last even at headquarters,” Cato was saying. “Your knowledge of the king’s council’s views would be invaluable . . . even your opinion if you have no definite knowledge . . .”

  “The concern in Oxford is that the West Country is on the point of going over to Parliament,” Brian replied after a moment. “The tyranny of the king’s commander in the West has done more harm to the king’s cause than a thousand enemies.”

  “Aye, we had heard tell of some such,” Cato responded, his voice considering. “And what is the king proposing to do about it?”

  “I believe he will recall Sir Richard.”

  “And replace him with . . .?”

  Again there was a pause, then Brian said slowly, “Hopton, I believe.”

  “Ah” was Cato’s response.

  “Have I satisfied the inquisition, sir?” Brian’s voice sounded light and humorous.

  There was another short silence. Phoebe’s heart skipped a beat. She pressed her ear yet closer.

  “You will understand our hesitation,” Cato returned. “We have still to digest what you’ve given us.”

  “I’ll leave you to reflect, then, and hope most fervently that after some thought you’ll be convinced of my sincerity . . . and will be willing to convince your high command.”

  To her horror, Phoebe felt the door latch lift. She fell back into the shadows, her hand clapped to her mouth, as the door was suddenly flung open. Brian stepped out into the corridor. His eye fell on Phoebe, shrinking against the wall. He closed the door at his back.

  “Well, well, what big ears we have,” he murmured, his teeth glinting in a smile. “Hear anything interesting?”

  Phoebe, terrified that Cato might suddenly open the door, darted past him into the hall, where she could reasonably have legitimate business. She stood casually with one foot on the bottom step of the stairs, her hand on the newel post, and said in carrying tones, “Have you completed your business with my husband, sir?”

  Brian was still smiling as he approached the stair. “You’re well suited to conspiracy, Phoebe,” he said softly. “But you have no need to listen at doors. I will tell you whatever you wish to know.”

  “I wish only to know what interests my husband,” Phoebe responded, casting a quick glance around. A servant appeared from the kitchen regions and went into the dining parlor.

  “And of course he won’t tell you,” Brian said matter-of-factly. “Cato has always relied only on himself . . . oh, and on Giles Crampton,” he continued. “He follows his own path. Something extraordinary would have to happen for him to confide in anyone apart from Giles. It’s a point of principle with him.”

  “You know my husband very well, then,” Phoebe said thoughtfully.

  “Oh, aye. I’ve known him since I was in short coats.” He laughed slightly. “I understand him very well, Phoebe.”

  “I wish I did,” Phoebe said.

  Another smile flickered over his thin mouth, and his eyes glittered like hard brown diamonds. “You may not like what you understand.”

  “Oh, now you’re talking nonsense!” Phoebe declared, a flare of anger in her eyes. “And I’ll thank you not to say such things to me!”

  “My, my . . . it’s a lucky man who can inspire such loyalty,” Brian murmured. “But forgive me, Phoebe. My own experiences with Lord Granville have not given me quite such a rosy view of him as yours.”

  Phoebe regarded him doubtfully. She could understand how one might find her husband distant and intimidating. She’d found him so herself until without volition she’d tumbled so violently into love and lust with him.

  “I am his heir, Phoebe. And it pains me that we should be so constrained. It was inevitable when I took the other side in this damnable conflict, but now . . . now that I’ve seen the justice of Parliament’s cause . . .” He shrugged eloquently. “I have provided him with vital information. And still I believe he hesitates to trust me.”

  “Yes, I can see that it must be hard to understand,” Phoebe agreed. “But Cato is never unreasonable. He’ll not hold past mistakes against you. I’m certain of it.”

  “Ah, one would hope so,” Brian said. “One would hope so.” Then he smiled and reached into his pocket. “But I was forgetting. I was in Banbury yesterday and I found this in a bookshop. I thought you might like it.” He handed her a small leather-bound volume.

  “Oh, the poems of Thomas Carew!” Phoebe exclaimed. “Why, how thoughtful of you. I am most particularly fond of his elegy on John Donne.”

  “I find ‘The Rapture’ most appealing,” Brian said, watching her with a glint in his eye.

  Phoebe regarded him suspiciously. “It is a very fine love poem,” she said after a slight hesitation.

  “But a trifle licentious; you’re quite right,” he said, his smile broadening. “Perhaps too much so for innocent sensibilities.”

  “I am no innocent!” Phoebe protested, feeling he was making fun of her. “I have read very widely, sir.”

  “Oh, forgive me. It was not meant as an aspersion,” Brian said hastily. “Of course, as a poet yourself you would regard the more risque literature with more sophistication than the average young woman.”

  “I do not know whether you’re mocking me or not,” Phoebe said frankly. “But you will not put me out of countenance, that much I can tell you.” She dropped him a curtsy. “I thank you for the gift, sir.”

  Brian caught her hand, bringing it to his lips. “Forgive me. I meant no insult. Perhaps I was teasing you a little, but I find you quite enchanting.”

  Phoebe blushed. “Indeed, you should not say such things. I am a married woman.” She pulled her hand free and turned to leave in some disarray.

  Brian stood watching her. Absently he scratched his head. There was something about her . . . something elusive and yet curiously appealing. It was absurd that he should find such a tangled naïf attractive. And it was very dangerous.

  His lips thinned. He was here to destroy her, not make love to her . . . much as it would amuse him to cuckold that cold fish Granville. His stepfather was not the kind of man to appreciate Phoebe’s rich and vibrant brand of sexuality. Was she even aware of it herself?

  Phoebe hurried from the house. Had he been trying to flirt with her? She gave a fastidious shudder. She could never imagine Cato flirting with her, or indeed with anyone. It was a pathetic game. So unstraightforward.

  But it wouldn’t do to alienate Mr. Morse, she decided. If she played her cards right, he could prove quite useful. His fashion sense couldn’t be faulted, for a start. And if she could get him to tell her what Cato wouldn’t, then maybe she could surprise her husband with her informed commentaries on all those matters that absorbed him.

  That conversation she’d overheard last
night, for instance. Cato and Cromwell had been at outs. The situation had been defused, but it had sounded serious. A difference of opinion on how to conclude the war. That had to be a most serious question. Perhaps Brian would have some insights if she approached him discreetly.

  Phoebe strolled through the village, surprised at how quiet it was. Usually at this hour of the morning, particularly on such a fine day, there would be folk around, working in their gardens, tending their chickens, chopping firewood. She saw a few backs as people hurried into their cottages, and as she passed the Bear a murmur of voices drifted through the open door into the street.

  They were male voices and Phoebe didn’t pause. If the village men were gathered in the taproom, they wouldn’t welcome a woman’s presence. The men who remained in the village considered womenfolk irrelevant to their own manly pursuits, which were of course of supreme importance and quite beyond the ken of a mere female.

  Phoebe gave a scornful little sniff at this reflection. She had seen too much of the way country women kept body and soul together, the sacrifices they made for their families, the selfless way they shouldered their own burdens and those of the menfolk, to have much time for the entrenched belief in the superiority of the male.

  The woods were quiet, the snow covering long melted, and Phoebe thought she could smell the first faint intimations of spring. A snowdrop raised its fragile head above the moss-covered roots of an old beech tree, and a pheasant started from a bush heavy with berries at the side of the path.

  Phoebe’s heart lifted as it always did at this time of year. It always seemed as if there was so much to look forward to.

  Meg’s front door stood open, and the black cat sat on the threshold washing himself. He gave Phoebe an incurious stare from his greeny gold eyes.

  “Meg!” She stuck her head in the door. There was no sign of Meg. “So where is she?” Phoebe demanded of the cat, who blinked and yawned, rose, stretched and arched its back, and stalked daintily away down the path, his tail aloft.

  Phoebe shrugged and followed him. The cat always knew where his mistress was to be found. Hardly mistress, Phoebe corrected herself. Companion was probably the correct word. Cats acknowledged no superior. Good examples, perhaps, she thought with the same exuberant lift of her spirits that had accompanied her walk.