His Rebel Bride

by Helen Dickson

  ‘Marcus? Is—is something wrong?’ What had she done, she wondered, to make him look at her like that? Marcus stood before her, yet somehow it was as if he had removed himself a great distance. His eyes were remote.

  Turning from her he moved towards the hearth. ‘The entire western counties are in upheaval, with God knows how many unsavoury characters roaming all over the place, and far from staying at home like any decent, respectable woman, you flaunt yourself in a town seething with rebels.’

  ‘I did not flaunt myself,’ Catherine flung back at him, her cheeks flaming with indignation at being spoken to so harshly. She knew he was referring to her visit to Taunton to enquire after her horse. He half-turned and looked at her, and she almost withered before the blast of those cold dark eyes. His face might have been carved out of stone, and there was a saturnine twist to his mouth. ‘Why, to hear you anyone would think I’d gone there to prostitute myself.’

  Marcus looked at her with obvious displeasure. ‘Catherine, have you no shame?’ he rebuked coldly. ‘I know why you went there. While you were obliged to marry me and fought against it, I conceded that you had right on your side, and I admired you for it—and was ashamed of my own behaviour. However, it is done and there is no going back. You are my wife and bear my name, and I demand that you at least show some respect for that name.’

  ‘And how have I failed to respect it?’

  ‘By seeing and speaking to Harry Stapleton.’

  ‘Harry? Why—yes, I have seen him.’ Utterly perplexed, Catherine stared at her husband’s rigid features. ‘Marcus, do you have a problem with that?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I do, Catherine. Why did you not tell me you had been into Taunton?’

  ‘Why? Because it slipped my mind.’

  He began striding up and down the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Catherine forced herself to keep calm. Above all she must not let him see the small nagging fear within her or the unnerving effect his anger tended to have on her. Suddenly he came to a halt across the room and pierced her with his gaze.

  ‘You went into a town heaving with undisciplined rebel soldiers, you saw a man you were once almost betrothed to, a man you swore you would love for ever, and you are telling me that it slipped your mind?’

  The gentle drift of happiness Catherine had felt since his departure earlier shattered away and her heart, that which had been stirred and beat faster in sweet anticipation of the night to come, hardened and her face turned mutinous.

  ‘As a matter of fact, it did. Oh, a plague on you, Marcus,’ she cried, tossing her head in frustration. ‘Am I to be condemned out of hand? And what right have you to look at me like that? One would think me to be guilty of murder. I cannot for the life of me imagine why you are making such a fuss.’

  ‘Can you not?’ he remarked in a contemptuous drawl. ‘It doesn’t take much imagination to guess what you went for.’

  The insinuation stung Catherine at a moment when she was most vulnerable. No hint of softness or affection showed in the marble severity of his face. ‘If you believe I made an assignation with Harry, then you are wrong, Marcus. After the raid I was angry. I went to look for the horses—for my horse—your gift to me. And, yes, I knew Harry would be with Monmouth, but it never entered my head that we would meet. I was so incensed by what had happened here that I never gave Harry a second thought. I encountered him quite by chance.’

  ‘Indeed. It is the intriguing parts of what happened between the two of you when you did meet that interests me. Did he take you in his arms? Did he declare his undying love for you? What?’

  Stung by the contempt in his voice, Catherine stared at him white-faced. Her green eyes met his, flashing a greater defiance than she knew. ‘You are in error, Marcus. I am a married woman. Harry would not have taken me in his arms—it is I who would have taken him in mine.’

  Marcus’s face grew so deathly pale that Catherine found herself exulting unashamedly in her power to hurt him. Disregarding the menacing look he gave her, she stood her ground as he bore down on her, eyeing her relentlessly.

  ‘Do you dare to tell me you would do that?’

  ‘Why not?’ she flared angrily. ‘You want the truth. I have told it to you. Harry was an important part of my life for a long time—he was my life. Nothing can erase that. He has done me no harm, it is you that harmed him, and harmed me, too,’ she reminded him, her voice like steel, knowing how aggravated he would be by this. Her face was set in stiff lines of her unsparing will, that which had brought her from the pain of losing Harry into this man’s life. ‘And, yes, Marcus, I would have taken him in my arms—to comfort a man in his grief who finds the woman he loves, only to realise she is lost to him for ever.’

  Marcus wanted to ask her if she was still in love with Harry Stapleton, but he dare not, for he feared the answer, yet in her eyes he saw something move and glow a little, and a small flame of triumph licked about his heart. He desperately wanted to feel her need for him, to hear his name on her lips, to know she was his. Only his. To know Harry Stapleton meant nothing to her. Turning from her, he strode towards the door.

  ‘Marcus, where are you going?’ Catherine asked in alarm. She didn’t want him to go. She didn’t want to be left alone.

  ‘I have a duty to my men.’

  All that existed in Catherine’s world just then was the presence of this man and his dark eyes upon her, but he was drawing back. Why this particular moment was the right one for them to be together, she was never to know, or even what it was that made her rush to seize it. But some instinct, perhaps an expression that seemed to linger on his face sometimes, something she was aware of but reluctant to test for fear of rejection, made her bold. Quickly she moved towards him, her senses dominated by his closeness.

  ‘Earlier we planned the evening quite differently. Please, Marcus, will you stay—or return when you’ve spoken to your men?’ There was a slight stiffening to his figure at her presumption. Her heart lurched, fearing that she might have caused affront. But affront or not, she was intent on making him stay.

  ‘That remains to be seen. I suppose it’s not outside the realms of possibility.’

  ‘Then shall I go to your room, or shall I await your pleasure in mine? You—do still want to stay?’ Her stance was brazen, the smile on her lips enticing and assured of a willing conquest.

  ‘That was before I rode into Taunton and met Fenton—who told me of your meeting with Stapleton.’

  ‘He saw us together?’

  Marcus nodded.

  ‘Forget Harry, Marcus.’

  ‘Forget him? How can I?’ he said, his voice strained. ‘He stands between us. He always will.’

  Catherine could see that his words had sprung from a bitter, yet reassuring jealousy. Tilting her head to one side, she laughed softly. Amusement twinkled in her eyes, brightening them to a dazzling brilliance. ‘Why, Marcus, I do believe you’re jealous.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Should I be?’

  She sauntered closer, and with her hands on her hips regarded him sternly. ‘No, and you can glower all you like, but you won’t impress me with your ill humour.’

  A half-frown, half-smile crossed his face. ‘No?’ He eyed her warily.

  ‘I have no knowledge where your duties call you at such a late hour, Marcus, but right now don’t you have a duty to your wife?’

  His brow raised in question. ‘How am I to resist so much temptation?’

  ‘Do you want to resist it?’ Without thinking, she lifted her hand and touched his cheek.

  Marcus tried without complete success to ignore the tender innocence of her touch. ‘I could be persuaded. Are you willing to surrender, unconditionally giving up the battle of wills that has waged between us since we met?’

  She smiled impishly. ‘Well—not quite that. I do have my pride to consider.’

  ‘To the devil with your pride. Is it in your mind to be reasonable about our marriage, and henceforth share my bed?’ he queried.


  ‘Me? Reasonable? Why, Marcus, I am never unreasonable. I accept our marriage as any wife might. I have no right to deny you any longer. In fact, I shall play the loving wife to such perfection that it will confuse you into playing the role of adoring husband.’

  Marcus felt the heat flame in his belly as he gazed down into the warm green orbs. It was easy to become mesmerised in their clear depths. ‘That will not be difficult. I well recall the one and only time I enacted that role. It was an experience I would rather forget. I know that particular aspect of our marriage can be improved, and I look forward to working on it.’

  Catherine blushed, remembering that other night with embarrassing clarity. Their coupling had been brief and without passion, leaving her confused and curious, for she was certain there was more to what went on between a husband and wife than what she had experienced with Marcus. He reached out a hand and untied the silken fasteners at her neck, plucking them free. Catherine’s breath caught in her throat as he parted her robe and slid his hands inside and round her waist, drawing her close.

  ‘You wish to please me?’ he murmured.

  ‘As best I can.’

  ‘Never fear, Catherine. I have a thing or two to teach you in the way of pleasing me.’

  ‘You would have me do that?’ she asked sweetly. The heat of his gaze set her blood on fire and struck sparks along her flesh.

  ‘’ Tis my fondest dream.’

  Her mouth curved in a sublime smile while her eyes grew dark, the pupils dilating to obliterate the green—promising Marcus more than he had ever expected. ‘What about your men?’

  ‘With full bellies and a warm hay loft,’ he breathed, his eyes lowered and focused on her moist, softly parted lips, ‘they’ll believe they are in heaven and feel relieved they haven’t to ride towards Bridgwater until morning.’

  Catherine sighed. The smell of him, of leather and the outdoors and the faint, seductive scent of sandalwood he always used, filled her senses, and before she knew what he was about, lost in the excitement of her, Marcus lowered his head and his lips took hers in a deep and tender kiss. Her body responded—he was aware of it, and he deepened his kiss. With a long, shuddering sigh their bodies fused together. Her arms slipped and twined around his neck like the tendrils of ivy, drawing him into herself.

  The ecstasy of their union brought Catherine a wondrous awe. She had nothing but the memory of the last time with which to compare this sweet agony of passion and the merging of herself into another. This time it was so very different. She was surprised, and slightly shocked, by how much she enjoyed making love with Marcus, by the fierce, darkly unravelling sensations and the sheer wantonness of her responses. It was as if he knew her body absolutely, every piece of flesh, every curve and hollow and every movement of it, as if he had been intimate with it always. Floating in a sea of mindless pleasure, she gave herself willingly, supplicant to his mastery.

  To Marcus his wife was erotic, beautiful and tender. She was a woman he didn’t know, a creature he never dreamed existed. There was no need for reticence. They came together naked and unashamed. Never had he felt so much contentment. No woman had given him so much pleasure.

  That night seemed to be a new beginning for them both. Afterwards they lay peacefully together, listening to each other breathe, until they slept.

  The grey light of dawn crept in past the heavily draped windows, and distant sounds of the great house awakening could be heard. Marcus stirred at last. Opening his eyes, he brought the room into focus, and pleasure filled him when he felt the woman move in his arms. The snowy whiteness of her shoulders and half the smooth globes of her breasts showed above the covers. Her black hair was strewn over the pillows and across his chest like liquid jet. Her eyes were closed, the sweeping lashes making faint purple shadows on her cheeks. A slight half-smile played across her sensual lips.

  He did not move. He made no sound. He lay there with his breath caught in his chest, afraid to break the magic of the moment. It was a picture of her that captured the deep womanly essence and true soul of her, and Marcus knew it was a picture he would remember as long as he lived. At length, very quietly, without waking her, he got out of bed, pouring water out of a pitcher into a bowl to wash, but the noise made her stir.

  Catherine woke, berating herself for sleeping so long. Half-opening her eyes, she felt drowsy, disoriented, tired enough from the night’s emotion and exertions to feel light-headed. Feeling happy, languidly she stretched beneath the sheets, her body tingling and aching from so much loving.

  Hearing splashing noises, she turned on to her side and propped her head on her hand to watch her husband as he washed, marvelling at the flexing muscles across his shoulders and back and how his dark brown hair, shot through with golden lights, fell in soft waves to his shoulders. It was time for him to leave and she dreaded the moment.

  ‘’ Tis well past dawn,’ she murmured, glancing towards the light. Rain rattled on the windowpanes and the sky was dark and oppressive.

  ‘So it is,’ he answered raising his head, droplets of water running down his face, which he wiped away with a towel. ‘I must be away shortly, Catherine.’

  ‘I know. I’m afraid,’ she murmured. ‘I wish you didn’t have to leave. The thought plagues me that there will be a battle, that you will have to fight and may be wounded.’

  ‘By the grace of God, Catherine, I will prove myself better than my enemies.’ Thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his shirt and then his jerkin, he sat on the bed and gathered her to him.

  ‘Promise me you will do nothing foolhardy,’ she said, linking her fingers through his.

  ‘You have my word, my love. Now we have begun married life, I have a fancy to see where it will lead.’ He squeezed her hand with a tenacity that revealed his intent as strong as his word. ‘Though it be from hell itself, I will come back.’ He had no way of knowing, when he spoke, how much truth there was in his words. ‘I’m worried about you at Saxton Court at this time—the raid proves how vulnerable you are.’

  ‘But the rebels have moved on. I doubt they will trouble us again.’

  ‘I know, but that does not ease my worry. Roger is taking Elizabeth and the children to London until all this is over. I would feel easier if you went with them.’

  Catherine stiffened and pulled away from him. ‘You mean you wish me to live in London with Elizabeth?’

  ‘A temporary measure, that’s all.’

  ‘Then I refuse,’ she said staunchly. ‘I will not go. My place is here. I insist on it.’

  ‘Catherine, I want you to go for your own good.’

  ‘What do you mean for my own good? I am not alone here.’

  ‘You have the servants, the kitchen boys and women. But Thomas the head gardener is old—and so is Archie, and neither would be much use at fighting. All the real fighting men have joined Monmouth.’

  ‘Just what kind of nonsense is this, Marcus? And what of the servants left with no one to guide them should anything happen? In your absence I withstood the rebels and I will do so again if I have to. I will not forsake those who depend on us from any danger. I am not leaving Saxton Court, and that is final.’

  Marcus knew by the set of her jaw and the flash of her eyes that she meant exactly what she said. He raised an eyebrow with amused admiration. ‘I know you have courage, but I didn’t know your wits were addled. However, you have proved that when faced with the gravest danger you will not be daunted. So, very well, Catherine. Have it your own way,’ he conceded. ‘I’m only thankful that Monmouth will be halfway to Bristol by now, so hopefully the danger is past.’

  ‘Thank you, Marcus. I’m glad you see it my way. Now,’ she said, settling herself against him once more, ‘tell me about your encounter with Mr Fenton. You said you saw him in Taunton.’

  ‘I did. Fenton is no longer employed by me.’

  The harshness of his voice told Catherine that whatever had befallen him in Taunton had angered him. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of what
you told me—and Roger. I called on him when I left here. Fenton’s life has been one long litany of deceit and intrigue. Arrogance and insolence are the keystones of his personality, and he has too much confidence in his own opinions.’

  ‘Has he joined Monmouth?’

  ‘No. He’ll more than likely go to London or to Holland. You were right, Catherine. Fenton did know your father, but they were not friends. They were of the same persuasion, but Fenton made no secret of his dislike for your father. I suspect he may also know something about my own father’s murder.’

  Catherine saw that a new expression had crept into his eyes. It was an unsettling mixture of sorrow and rage. ‘Do you think Fenton could have been responsible for his death?’

  ‘The thought has crossed my mind. He’s capable—there’s no doubt about that. But, if he was responsible, I don’t suppose he would confess to it. I also doubt that he would kill a man to protect another.’

  ‘Unless Fenton was involved in the same plot to murder King Charles and his brother, and your father discovered this and would have exposed him.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. My intuition tells me he knows more about this issue, but intuition is only a feeling.’

  ‘If Fenton goes to Holland, it will be difficult to find him.’

  ‘If he is the murderer, there will be no hiding place.’ Marcus sighed, shifting his position. ‘And now, if I am to join Churchill, I must leave.’

  ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘There’s no knowing.’ His eyes travelled downward, following the contours of her body beneath the sheet draped around her. He wanted her again, but there wasn’t time.

  ‘I shall miss you, Marcus.’ The regret in her eyes was sincere. She pressed his hand to her lips. ‘Please come back.’

  A single tear formed on her lashes. He bent his head and kissed it away. ‘A tear, Catherine? What is it that makes you weep?’

  For a long moment she did not answer, and after swallowing with difficulty, turning her head away, she whispered hesitantly, ‘Because—because it would be so easy to fall in love with you.’