His Rebel Bride

by Helen Dickson

  Slapping the horse’s flank appreciatively, a half-smile curving his lips, Marcus’s passion for horses shone in his eyes. ‘She is a beauty, isn’t she?’

  ‘It’s a pity you are not as gifted at choosing a wife as you are at selecting horses,’ Catherine quipped on a teasing note, unable to resist the taunt.

  A mildly tolerantly smile touched Marcus’s handsome visage, but the glint in the dark eyes was as hard as steel. ‘That remains to be seen. Saddle her up, Bobby.’ His gaze rested on Catherine’s enraptured face. ‘The best way of getting to know each other is to ride her.’

  When the horse was saddled, Marcus locked his hands together to accept Catherine’s slender booted foot and was amazed at the agility she displayed as she sprang into the saddle.

  With Marcus mounted on Lightning, his large, beautifully muscled gleaming black stallion, together they rode out of the stable yard, through the tall double gates and into the park. The mare was so quick to the touch of the crop that Catherine only had to think of a canter and she responded. With a watchful Marcus by her side she rode over the green turf, breathing deeply, exhilarating in the wonderful fresh breeze on her face and the strong spirited mount beneath her. Overwhelmed by her husband’s generosity, she was unable to deny the warm gratitude she felt towards him for his gift.

  At last, with Marcus’s permission, she gave her horse its head, gently cracking her silky flanks with her crop. The horse gave a delighted squeal and broke into a brisk gallop, deftly clearing a shallow ditch.

  Marcus rode beside her with unconcealed admiration. Her horsemanship was faultless. He noted her straight back and proud set of her head as she handled her horse superbly, especially when they soared effortless over a low hedge.

  After a time Catherine slowed down, restraining herself and her horse and eventually pulling her to a halt. Laughing breathlessly, her colour high and her eyes alight, she leaned forward and gave the mare an appreciative pat.

  ‘You like her?’

  Catherine met his gaze warmly. ‘She’s truly wonderful. I cannot thank you enough.’

  ‘Have you thought of a name for her?’

  ‘Yes, I have. She reminds me of a dancer, so I shall call her Melody.’

  Marcus considered the word and then nodded and smiled his approval.

  They rode slowly along a narrow path by a broad stream that fed the lake, the peace disturbed only by the water, which rippled and foamed over rocks. The lake was ahead of them, its waters still and gleaming through the contrasting foliage of the trees. Leaving the path, they threaded their way through them, the ground carpeted with a mass of vivid bluebells, their scent intoxicating. Eventually they emerged into the open, disturbing ducks and other birds, which noisily took flight in alarm. Huge willows trembled and trailed along the water’s edge.

  Dismounting, Marcus went towards Catherine. Holding out his arms, he spanned her waist, supporting her while she jumped lightly to the ground. The horses moved away, their bridles jingling as they snorted in eagerness, lowering their heads and beginning to crop the sweet, juicy grass.

  ‘Let’s walk a while,’ Marcus said.

  They strolled by the side of the lake where the water lapped the stones a few feet away, quiet for a time, content to bask in the tranquillity that surrounded them. Where a rocky promontory jutted out into the water, in a clump of reeds a heron stood absolutely motionless. Catherine came under the spell of the lake, feeling the peace and enchantment reach her innermost being, appeasing the constraint she always felt whenever she was in her husband’s company.

  Glancing at his profile as he gazed wistfully towards the house in the distance, she thought how remote he was and how much there was to him that she didn’t know. She was surprised to find at that moment how much she wanted to know. It filled her with a warm glow and a shameless longing to reach out and touch him, to push back the wayward lock of hair that dipped over his brow, to be close to him.

  Often when she lay awake at night she tried to understand the turbulent, consuming emotions he awoke in her. He broke into her thoughts against her will, and whether it was their closeness of that one night he had lain with her, the feel of his hands, his skin touching hers, his smile, she did not know, but something inside her responded to him. The very thought of him was an irritant and a stimulant at the same time. She realised that her dislike and attraction ran close together—the line between them was very thin.

  Suddenly she found the unease of being near him replaced by a stirring anticipation, an uncharacteristic desire to talk. When she stopped walking he did likewise, looking down at her enquiringly.

  ‘Marcus, there is something I must say. I—I want to apologise for being so outspoken last night and for the embarrassment I caused you and those present. I was carried away—arrogant and extremely offensive and very rude. What I said was imprudent and unjust. I am very sorry and I ask your forgiveness.’

  There was no doubting the sincerity of her tone. Of all the things she could have said, that was what Marcus least expected, and the most he wanted to hear. ‘Granted,’ he said gently, his eyes locked on hers.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said simply. ‘No doubt George thinks I’m some kind of ranting fanatic.’ She looked up at him, mischief dancing in her eyes. ‘You don’t really think he’ll have me arrested, do you?’

  Marcus grinned. ‘He wouldn’t dare—not if he values my friendship,’ he said as they resumed their steady walk.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Catherine ventured presently, breaking in upon his thoughts.

  Marcus was smiling, a quiet, secretive smile as he looked with longing at the calm waters. ‘That the more I am away from Saxton Court then the more I miss it. I hanker after having the time to hunt again on my land, and to catch fish here in the lake.’

  ‘You like fishing?’

  He nodded. Picking up a handful of stones, as a small boy would do he started to throw them, one by one, into the water, the ripples he created widening until they travelled out of sight and the surface of the lake returned to its mirror-like calm.

  ‘When I was a boy I could often be found out on the lake in a boat with rod and line, sometimes with my father, who taught me how to fish. Afterwards we would cook our catch here on the bank over an open fire. I remember how good it smelled, how the air never failed to give me an appetite so that the fish always tasted doubly delicious. You know, Catherine, the lake is positively teeming with fish.’ He paused and looked down to where she stood by his side, her face upturned to his. ‘Have you ever been fishing?’

  ‘No—never.’

  ‘Then when I am done with the army I shall teach you and we shall cook what we catch here on an open fire, as I used to.’

  ‘Yes,’ Catherine murmured, meeting his gaze, trying to imagine him as a boy eagerly cooking his fish over an open fire. ‘I would like that. But why do you spend so much time away, feeling as you do for Saxton Court? I find it strange for an only son of an esteemed family, with an estate as grand as this, to make the regular army his life. Did your father never try to dissuade you, fearful lest you were killed?’

  ‘I could as easily be killed falling from my horse in the hunt.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘My father understood my desire for a military career, for he himself commanded a troop of horse during the Civil War. However, it was not a situation he sought. It was forced on him by circumstance. He fully expected me to take over the running of Saxton Court in time.’ He smiled. ‘He was disappointed when I told him I wanted to be a soldier, but he understood my need to rebel a little—slip the traces, test myself in the world. Then I would return home. He gave me his blessing.’

  ‘He must have been very understanding.’

  A soft, remembering look came over Marcus’s face as he spoke of his father. ‘He was. There was no one finer. Should anything happen to me then Elizabeth’s sons would inherit Saxton Court. However,’ he said, gently tipping her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze, ‘things have
changed with my marriage to you. Our marriage is highly irregular, I know, but I grow impatient to begin performing my husbandly duties, Catherine. I hope for sons of my own one day. Will you give the matter some thought?’

  The quietly spoken words carried a wealth of meaning, and the intimate implications of how that would come about made Catherine’s face burn. She tried to ignore the intensity of his steady gaze, but she could not sustain her animosity when she was in such beautiful surroundings and her husband was behaving in this odd, almost tender fashion.

  ‘Very well. I—I shall consider it while you are away.’

  ‘You do that,’ he urged.

  They walked on a bit further. Coming to a patch of soft grass, Marcus sat on it. Patting the space beside him, he invited Catherine to do the same.

  ‘When are you going to tell me what my father did to make you hate him enough to ruin him?’ she asked suddenly, tucking her feet beneath her skirts and sitting sideways to face him. ‘I need to know, because only then shall I be able to understand why I am here now.’

  Leaning his back against the trunk of a stout tree, Marcus drew one knee up against his chest and draped his arm across it. He looked at her hard, considering her words, seeing the unmistakable desperate need to know everything there was to know in her eyes.

  ‘I intended to tell you. It is right that you should know. I am not saying that what I did to your father was right, but maybe then you will understand why I did what I did.’

  As they faced each other, for the moment all the rancour and animosity between them was gone. A deep silence fell between them as Marcus contemplated her serious face for a moment before beginning.

  ‘There is no easy way to tell you, Catherine. The reason I despised your father was because he was directly responsible for the murder of my own.’

  Catherine stared at him in stunned disbelief. The shock his statement caused her was visible in her eyes as she stared at him wordlessly, trying to digest what he’d said. Her voice was strained when she finally spoke.

  ‘Murder? No, that cannot be. My father was many things, Marcus—but to stoop to murder…Surely not. Did—did you have proof of this?’

  He nodded. ‘Following extensive enquiries I tracked down an associate of his, a weak and frightened man who, when promised he would be dealt with leniently, surrendered everything he knew.’

  ‘How did your father die—and where?’

  ‘In his house in London. His own dagger was thrust into his heart.’

  ‘But I—I don’t understand. Why would my father want to have him killed?’

  ‘As you are aware, your father held extreme radical views. He was a Republican who wanted to see the return of the Commonwealth. During the reign of King Charles he used concerted efforts to exclude his brother James, then the Duke of York and a Catholic, from the succession. He conspired to have my father killed to prevent him betraying him.’

  ‘I recall Mr Soames—my father’s lawyer—telling me when he came to Riverside House to read the will that my father was involved in a plot to assassinate King Charles and the Duke of York. The plot misfired and the conspirators who were caught were executed.’

  ‘That is correct. My own father’s death was directly connected to Barrington’s involvement in the conspiracy, which was to take place at The Rye House as the King and his brother returned from Newmarket. You see, my father was a Justice of the Peace, and he had papers in his possession incriminating your father and one other. And so your father and this other man arranged to have him removed—permanently. In doing so his fellow conspirator removed the only witness who could testify against him. You see, to sustain a charge of treason, it is necessary for the prosecutors to produce two witnesses,’ he explained. ‘The papers would have been damning proof, but they disappeared.’

  ‘And the man who killed your father?’

  His face hardened. ‘I am still searching.’

  ‘Are you any closer to finding him?’

  ‘No. But I will.’

  ‘I wish I could be of help, but like everything else, my father was always careful to keep that part of his life from me. I remember the men who came to the house—always at night—those who opposed the King, Whig lords, old Republicans from Cromwell’s time, spies, informers, men who loved the taste of conspiracy as others love fine brandy. There would be candlelight conferences and debates, smoking and drinking long into the night. I would crouch on the stairs and watch them from the dark of the upper floor, hidden from view by the sturdy banisters.’

  Marcus’s expression softened. ‘Poor Catherine. What a strange childhood you must have had—without a mother and living with a man of Barrington’s ilk. Between your father and me, you haven’t been very lucky in your men, have you?’

  ‘No,’ she said, averting her gaze. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘With hindsight I know that what I did, to exact my own personal revenge, was wrong and I have no excuse. I should have handed him over to the authorities to be tried along with his fellow conspirators. But at the time making him pay for the suffering he had caused my father, myself and my sister was paramount. My deepest regret is that I involved you. It was unworthy of me and you did not deserve it. In the beginning I thought I could strike at Barrington through you, but I now know that I should not have made you the instrument of my vengeance.’

  ‘No, that was quite wrong of you. It seems I am the one who will have to pay for that wretched card game for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Do not let it stand between us, Catherine. Until this matter of Monmouth is cleared up, military matters will keep me from home, so you will be spared my presence for the time being. No doubt you will consider my absence as something of a respite. But the time is fast approaching for my retirement.’ A sudden frown creased his brow. ‘There is something I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Is it important?’

  ‘It’s about Monmouth and the unrest in these parts, where people are most warmly affected by him.’

  ‘You’re really worried about it, aren’t you, Marcus?’

  ‘Extremely so. If I thought rebellion was to occur in some other part of England then it would be a different matter, but here in Somerset we’ll be in the thick of it. These western counties have been like a powder keg waiting to explode for years now. The very fact of their successful defiance during the Civil War led to harsher persecution in the Restoration period and thus hardened their resolve to rebel. And in truth, because of the vindictiveness of the loyalist justices towards the Dissenters, which cannot be matched elsewhere, it is not difficult to understand why the men of these counties should be so ready to emulate their fathers and again rise up to disperse the cavaliers—so to speak.’

  ‘But there may be no rebellion. You don’t know anything for certain.’

  Marcus looked past her to watch the sunlight dance on the water’s surface, his expression grave. ‘I know enough. From what we have been told by the King’s messengers who pass frequently between London and The Hague, preparations are already under way. I saw it for myself, don’t forget, when I was over there. My greatest fear is that Monmouth will decide to embark on his mission to dispose James of his throne when Parliament is in session.’

  ‘Why? What difference will that make?’

  ‘Many of the Lord Lieutenants and their deputies will be up in London then, which will prevent the militia being raised against him. As a deputy Lieutenant, George is to travel to London shortly. He is worried because many of the militia incline to Monmouth. Without their officers there will be wholesale defections to the rebels.’

  ‘I can see why you are concerned. Does the Duke of Monmouth have many officers—experienced officers to train an army?’

  ‘Officers are his most urgent need. There are plenty of old Cromwellians in England and Holland who would dearly like to strike at the crown, but they’re too long in the tooth now. They may prove invaluable for training, but would hardly do for company and troop officers. There are some off
icers, dismissed from English and Dutch regiments for sympathising with Monmouth, who have gone over to him, but on the whole they’re a pretty scratch lot. There will be old men and good men waiting to join Monmouth, but they are not quite the same as the disciplined soldiers in the royal army.’

  ‘But surely if it is known that Monmouth is planning to embark on such a mission as to incite rebellion here in England, then he can be stopped. Can he not be prevented from landing?’

  ‘It’s not that simple. He does run the risk of being picked up, for we do have several small ships of the Royal Navy patrolling the Channel, and he will need to go to great expense to charter a vessel large enough to get through, but I fear that this is precisely what he will do. The only consolation of him doing this is that it will drain his funds considerably, limiting him in the purchase of arms.’

  A softness came into Marcus’s eyes as again he fastened them on Catherine’s face. ‘My immediate worry is that without my presence at Saxton Court you will be relatively alone, Catherine. I know many who work both in the house and on the estate sympathise and may leave to join Monmouth. I have instructed Mr Fenton to take the utmost care of you, to see you come to no harm.’

  Catherine grimaced with distaste. ‘Mr Fenton is himself a sympathiser whose mind runs on insurrection. Can you be sure he won’t desert his post?’

  ‘I sincerely hope not. He gave me his word.’

  ‘To the limit of his restraint. If he is pressed beyond that, you may find yourself without your steward. He despises kings and princes and as a Republican wants to see England return to life as it was in Cromwell’s time.’

  ‘To want such a thing the man must either be a dangerous villain or a dangerous fool.’

  ‘Dangerous villain is how I would describe your Mr Fenton. I cannot pretend to like him, Marcus, and I do not think he likes me overmuch either.’

  ‘Then you must try to set your differences aside. Catherine, the situation is more serious than many people realise so I beg you to be cautious and vigilant, for these are dangerous times. If anything you should say against the King should fall upon the wrong ears, then it could mean disaster for all at Saxton Court. Please remember that I am an officer in the King’s army. It would not do if my wife was suspected of having inclinations towards Monmouth.’