His Rebel Bride

by Helen Dickson

  ‘Yes, you will. Someone should have taught you some sense and beat that wilful pride out of you years ago,’ Marcus fumed, anger pouring through his veins like acid at her taunting mention of Harry Stapleton. He chose to ignore it, but his fury made him carelessly cruel. ‘Defy me at your peril.’

  To her consternation and fury, all of a sudden Catherine felt infuriatingly close to tears. Rather than let him see her flagging courage and refusing to be humbled, she raised her chin and assumed an expression of remote indifference. ‘And if I do?’ she ground out in a low voice.

  In the face of her defiance, Marcus moved closer and leaned forward until brown eyes stared into green from little more than a foot apart. His eyes were hard, yet when it came his voice was soft and slow, his words careful and distinct.

  ‘Defy me and you will rue the day. Heed me and heed me well, Catherine. As my wife you will conduct yourself with proper decorum and never discredit the name you now bear. I have never been an abuser of women, but if you tempt me enough, I might change my mind. I become very unreasonable when I am angry.’

  ‘You are a loathsome, overbearing, despicable monster, Marcus Reresby—’

  ‘Yes, I think I have the picture,’ he drawled.

  ‘Then I needn’t go on—but how I wish I’d never come here. I wish I’d never met you. I want to be free of you. I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t ask for it.’ She breathed as if she couldn’t inhale enough air. ‘Don’t you understand that I hate you?’

  Marcus looked at the proud beauty that was glaring at him like an enraged angel of retribution and realized that she was on the brink of tears. He felt a twinge of conscience, which he quickly thrust away. ‘I know you do,’ he said coldly. ‘And you will hate me a good deal more before I’m finished with you.’

  To Catherine’s utter disbelief, he lifted his brows and gazed at her with enigmatic dark eyes and an impassive expression for several endless, uneasy moments. Her brushed hair lay on her shoulders like a gleaming black cape. His cool gaze warmed as it rested on her. She was wearing a white linen shift. The candlelight behind her exposed the shadowy outline of her limbs through the thin material. She was very lovely, this obstinate, spirited young woman he had married. So lovely, in fact, he could almost forgive her for her outspokenness in front of their guests.

  ‘Do you know, Catherine, you are one of the very few women who does not like me? The majority of your contemporaries usually find me quite charming. I might even say that some have a great affection for me.’

  ‘Perhaps that is because they have not had the pleasure of being married to you. Given the choice, any woman would be stupid to attach herself to the likes of you.’

  With an amused quirk to his lips, standing straight, Marcus stepped back. ‘Nevertheless, many have tried.’ He moved away from her. ‘Goodnight, Catherine. I trust such an outburst will not occur again.’

  Marcus seemed to hesitate, then he turned on his heel and left the room, his face set in such lines of implacability that left Catherine feeling thoroughly chastened, stupid, and what little fight she had left within her drained away.

  Marcus’s fury died the moment he left Catherine’s chamber. He could not find words to describe his defiant young wife. He was enraged by her attitude, yet at the same time he could not help but admire her courage. She had spirit—too much damned spirit, he thought. He didn’t know another woman who would stand up to his wrath as she did. She had stood up to him on the night he’d married her, and then angered him by running off to The Hague with young Stapleton.

  Catherine lived in his house, ate at his table, he had made love to her, yet he did not know her. She wasn’t a woman he could wrap around his finger and charm with that usually irresistible smile. With her back straight, head held high, her hair hanging to her waist in a black sheath and her eyes flashing a desperate green, she would face up to him. He was intrigued by her eyes, for they would glow with the fervour of her belief that one day she would be reunited with Harry Stapleton, and at others they were quiet, looking inward and sad, and it mattered to him.

  Folding his arms across his chest, he propped a shoulder against the window and stared out into the dark, thinking about everything she had said, how vehemently she had expressed her hatred of himself. For a long time he stood there, knowing he must try and make amends for all the wrongs he caused her, before her hurt really did harden into hatred.

  The following morning, the desire to atone for his sharp words and win her forgiveness prompted him to go and look for her. He found her along one of the passages leading to the kitchens talking to Mrs Garfield. With some concern he saw dark smudges beneath her eyes. This is not good, he thought, despairing. We can’t go on behaving like enemies. So he smiled at her, well aware of the effect his smile had on females of all ages.

  Looking towards him as he approached, booted and spurred and carrying his large cavalier hat, Catherine observed that he was dressed for riding. She stood stony-faced, waiting for him to speak. Considering their bitter altercation of last night, he seemed surprisingly cheerful and at ease.

  Marcus’s gaze rested warmly on his wife. ‘I’ve come to rescue you from household duties, Catherine. Mrs Garfield won’t mind if I whisk you away on what I hope will be a more pleasurable pursuit.’

  Immediately Mrs Garfield disappeared down the passage, leaving them alone.

  ‘What you consider pleasurable might not appeal to me, Marcus.’

  Determined not to be deterred, he said, ‘I thought you might like a change of scene. It’s about time I showed you something of the estate before I leave tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Catherine uttered quickly, experiencing a sharp stab of something she did not understand. ‘You are going to London?’

  ‘I cannot delay any longer. Now—you do ride, I take it?’ His suggestion obviously appealed to her, for a smile broke out on her lovely lips.

  ‘Of course I do. I learned to ride almost before I could walk.’

  Seeing the ice melt briefly—she had smiled with genuine feeling that lit up her eyes—he knew that he had reached her at last. ‘Good, then off you go and change—and hurry, for I’ve a surprise for you. A pleasant one, I hope,’ he said with a merry twinkle in his eyes. ‘I’ll be at the stables.’

  As though she had wings on her heels, Catherine flew up the stairs, only to come to a halt on encountering Mr Fenton coming down. She watched him approach her, doing her best to conceal her dislike of him. On reaching her, he stood before her in a deferential attitude. Instinctively she took a step to one side as she fought to hold his impenetrable stare, determined that she would not be driven over by her husband’s bailiff. He didn’t like her—it was apparent in his demeanour, and the way he looked her up and down as if she were something unpleasant that had entered the house.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Fenton,’ she said, sounding more cordial than she felt. ‘I am in rather a hurry, so if you will be so kind as to step aside. My husband is to show me more of his estate before he leaves for London and I do not want to keep him waiting.’

  ‘He goes tomorrow, I understand,’ Fenton stated smugly, a sharp gleam in his eyes.

  ‘That is so—although he must feel reassured knowing Saxton Court will be managed efficiently in your capable hands while he is away.’

  ‘I do my best. He has never had cause for complaint in the past—let us hope he won’t in the future.’

  The hint of sarcasm in his tone was not lost on Catherine or the hidden meaning behind his words.

  ‘I have no wish to make you my enemy, Mr Fenton.’

  ‘Enemy?’ His smile was blatantly smug. ‘After airing your views so vociferously—and courageously, I might add—in front of your guests last night? Yes,’ he said at her look of enquiry, ‘servants do talk. So how can you even think such a thing? Why, I am your ally, not your enemy. Do we not both desire the same thing?’

  ‘For the Duke of Monmouth to lay claim to the throne?’

  ‘Not quite, but it
would be a start. And with such influential people as yourself behind the cause, how can we fail?’

  Catherine’s head lifted, her eyes flashing with indignation. ‘I do not care for your words, Mr Fenton.’ Colour flared into her face. ‘Is it for such as you to tell me what to do?’

  ‘Aye, madam, when the Protestant cause is at stake.’

  She stared at him in genuine amazement. ‘You are impertinent, Mr Fenton.’

  ‘I wish to make quite sure you understand me. As you know, many in these parts speak their discontent. Some are even beginning to utter the name of Monmouth. Hearing them, those who have held their peace from fear or prudence—or apathy—are beginning to find their voices. The atmosphere is changing, becoming charged, expectant. I hold Monmouth in esteem because he is a Protestant. But not even he would I allow to lead me from the path of my sworn duty. I have no wish to see any king in England. I care nothing for kings and princes, for royalty and its selfish pleasures.’

  ‘I am all puzzlement, Mr Fenton. What is it you do want?’ Catherine asked, reining in her temper with some considerable effort.

  He speared her with a look. ‘I am for the return of a Republican state. I would not let any man, be it the King or Monmouth, stand in the way of that. Without men such as Cromwell and Ireton to lead us, I will support Monmouth. If he is made King, his claim to the throne is so weak that he will be easily controlled.’

  ‘Then I fear you will be disappointed, Mr Fenton, and a very unhappy Republican. I am too young to remember life under the Commonwealth, but I know of it and would not want it to return. So you see, Mr Fenton, you and I are different in that. Something must be done about the desperate state England finds herself in, I agree. And you, I suppose, would like to constitute yourself leader of the opposition?’

  ‘If by opposition, Lady Reresby, you mean those who have the courage and the purity of purpose to oppose the king, then the answer is yes, right willingly. True Republicans are few in England as a whole, but they will be well represented in the rebel army, should it come to that.’

  His face was hard as flint. He would have his own way, it said, and this woman who was nothing to him would be swept away like so much discarded chaff if she opposed him.

  ‘You are shocked, I see,’ said Fenton, his eyes expressing the fire within him.

  Catherine favoured him with a freezing glance. ‘I know that should rebellion come about, the motivations of those who follow Monmouth are wide-ranging and extreme. You are a dangerous man, Mr Fenton. I do not like your purpose and I cannot help but wonder what you are doing in my husband’s employ. He shall hear of this conversation, naturally.’

  Unmoved, Fenton shrugged his shoulders. ‘As you will.’

  Let her tell her husband, it mattered not to him. He was satisfied with the impression he had made. He did not fear Reresby, and he could manage his wife. It was for the sake of England that he was here in the west. Was he not a Republican of the most freezing, implacable zeal? During the Civil War he had followed the Republican cause. The Commonwealth under Cromwell had suited him. On the death of Cromwell, when the English had seemed to run out of ideas and had no wish to return to the Puritan drabness of Cromwell’s rule, they had fallen back on the idea of monarchy. Fenton had been unable to accept the restoration of Charles II, and he truly believed that royalty in England was only for the present. Anything that had happened once could happen again, and if he could be instrumental in bringing it about then he would do it. And so he had prowled and paced through those years, mixing, for ever watchful, looking around him to see if there were someone more worth talking to, more profitable, more use—which was when he had met Henry Barrington.

  Now he turned his gaze on that man’s daughter and smiled. ‘There have been many who have aired their views, madam,’ he said, not caring that his tone was openly menacing, ‘who have paid with their heads for far less offence than you gave to his Majesty last night.’

  ‘I am no traitor, Mr Fenton.’

  ‘That is not for me to say. I would say, however, that by your own words you have so branded yourself.’

  ‘You will do well to remember, Mr Fenton, that I am not unprotected. And with such radical views as your own, I advise you to have a care for your own head.’

  Fenton smiled thinly and bowed before her, and there was mockery in his deep obeisance. ‘I managed to hold on to it during the Commonwealth while others were losing theirs. However, I will consider your advice.’

  ‘If you will excuse me,’ Catherine said as calmly as she could. ‘I have to change. I have kept my husband waiting long enough.’

  Catherine swept past Fenton and carried on up the stairs. It was clear in his manner towards her that he would not take kindly to any interference or criticism from her while Marcus was away, for if she did then there was no doubt that their mutual dislike would break into open conflict. Fenton saw her as a threat to the power that was his when left alone to play Lord of the Manor, enjoying all the privileges that went with it.

  ‘Dear me,’ Alice murmured on seeing Catherine’s troubled features. ‘You look as though you’ve lost a penny and found a farthing.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s because I’ve just encountered Mr Fenton. I cannot like him, Alice. He is a ruthless, unlikable man. In truth there is something nasty and pantherish about him. He puzzles me. He is out of the ordinary, a man who goes his own way regardless. He is also a confessed nonconformist—a true Republican. I have a feeling that he’s plotting something?’

  ‘Plotting, is it? Who is to say he is plotting anything? Still, these are times of plots and counterplots, of rumour and innuendo, I suppose.’

  ‘Whenever I think of Mr Fenton, I experience a feeling of familiarity and a sense of having seen him before.’

  ‘But how can that be?’

  ‘I really don’t know. Although I cannot remember seeing him before, when we first met and he looked at me, as soon as I discerned cold recognition in those pale eyes in that stone face, I knew I must have at some time. And yet, rarely leaving the confines of my home, where visitors were a rarity, as you well know, Alice, we can’t have met. Yet I cannot rid myself of the feeling that I have seen him before, and if so when—and where?’

  ‘Have you mentioned this to your husband?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Because Mr Fenton’s position at Saxton Court is a special one, and it is not for me to interfere in his concerns.’

  Pulling on her gloves, her riding crop tucked underneath her arm, Mr Fenton forgotten for the time being, Catherine arrived at the stables looking extremely fetching in her deep blue riding gown with a matching wide-brimmed plumed hat set at a rakish angle on her glossy curls. Picking up her skirts she crossed the cobbled yard. The sight of the horses’ heads peering out over the stable doors with their ears pricked forward and their soft whickering never failed to excite and cheer her. Breathing deeply, she inhaled the familiar smells. She always found the smell of leather and saddle soap, warm hay and horses an intensely masculine and restful smell, a smell that brought back childhood memories of riding with Harry.

  The yard was a hive of industry. The stable hands, having spent the morning riding out, were leading mounts back to their stalls for grooming.

  Catherine’s experienced eye told her that some of the big hunters, full of fire and blood, could readily gallop and jump, their main priority being to follow the hounds. A notable horsewoman, the sight of these magnificent beasts gladdened her heart. Horses had been a part of her life from early childhood, and she looked at them appreciatively. She admired them for their superb noble beauty and understood them. Unable to resist reaching out and stroking the neck of a big chestnut closest to her, she experienced a feeling of absolute joy when it nuzzled her arm.

  Having watched her enter the yard, Marcus observed the rapture illuminated on her face. He moved to stand beside her. ‘I can see that you like horses, which pleases me, since I also have an abiding passio
n for these noble beasts.’

  ‘I do,’ she replied, laughing delightedly when the chestnut reared and tossed its head, snorting and blowing with pleasure. ‘I loved to ride from an early age, and I do believe several horses I saw being led into the stalls were thoroughbreds.’

  ‘True. I had some of them sent down here from London—a couple of Arab mares from King Charles’s own stable.’

  ‘Will you race them?’ Catherine asked with interest.

  ‘I’d like to, when I have the time. Possessing some prime horseflesh—some of the finest in Somerset—I pride myself on my stables, although George would disagree with that. He’s a keen racing man, and considers his to be the best,’ Marcus joked good-humouredly.

  ‘They would have to be quite exceptional to compete with these.’

  ‘Come over here. I have something to show you I think you’ll like.’

  Marcus took her arm and guided her across the yard to where a young tousle-haired boy with a smattering of ginger freckles over his face emerged from the stalls leading a beautiful, silky smooth bay mare with the queenliest neck Catherine had ever seen. A star blaze between its eyes and three white socks made it quite distinguishable from any other horse.

  Catherine’s face lit up with joy as Marcus drew her towards it. Reaching out, she fondled its neck. Marcus watched her with interest. It gave him immense satisfaction to see the glow of pleasure on her face, and for the first time since she had come to Saxton Court he felt it was real, and not the polite façade she usually adopted.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ Catherine murmured. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘She is your horse,’ Marcus told her. ‘Name her what you will.’

  Catherine jerked her head round to face him with wide-eyed astonishment. ‘Mine? But—oh! I—I don’t know what to say. Thank you. It’s the most wonderful gift anyone has ever given me.’ Falling silent, she appraised the horse. ‘I have always believed a name to be about the most personal thing one can give a person or an animal, so it’s worth thinking about. I shall choose her name with care.’