Alice looked at her, appalled. ‘Harry? Harry Stapleton is here?’
‘Yes, Alice, he is a fugitive. I can’t let him be taken. Please, I am begging you to take a look at his wound. I dare not leave the house. Marcus is home and he mustn’t suspect a thing.’
‘Catherine, you have to tell him. You cannot keep something as important as this from your husband. It isn’t right.’
‘I can’t tell him.’
‘Don’t you trust him?’
‘Yes, of course I do, but under the circumstances I believe it is expedient not to say anything for the time being. It’s better to be safe and not raise undue suspicion until Harry is well enough to go on his way—hoping the hue and cry will have died down by then.’ Gone was her youthful candour, her adherence to the absolutes of right and wrong. She was too desperate to save Harry’s life without involving her husband.
‘How bad is Harry?’ Alice asked as she hurriedly began putting everything she might need into a basket.
‘He’s been shot. The musket ball is still in his side. He’s lost a lot of blood and he’s exhausted. Take some food as well, Alice.’
‘I’ll see to it. Now, get yourself out of that dress and go back to your husband,’ Alice ordered, not wasting another moment on enquiries.
Marcus watched Catherine climb the stairs before walking slowly to the fire. He looked into the flames with deep concentration. His wife was behaving extremely oddly. He sensed danger. What was going on?
Some time later, out of curiosity he left the house and went to the stables, just in time to see a woman hurrying away in the opposite direction. She was clad in a black robe and carrying a basket, and he recognised her as Alice. His puzzlement deepened. What was Alice doing at the stables? His suspicions roused, he was determined to get to the bottom of it.
The light was beginning to fade as he stood thoughtfully surveying the stables. For a moment he could imagine how they had once look, filled with some of the finest bloodstock in Somerset. When an owl flew out of a barn and screeched as it flew into the woods beyond, his vision faded. Since the horses had been stolen he had wondered despairingly a thousand times what had become of them. Had they been slain at Sedgemoor? He almost dreaded to discover the truth.
He noted that now only one of the stalls was occupied. It was Catherine’s horse, Melody, its head looking out over the top of the stable door. So she had told the truth about that. Archie, bringing fresh water, placed the pail on the ground and stroked the horse’s neck.
Marcus crossed towards him. If Archie was surprised to see him he didn’t show it. ‘How is the horse, Archie?’
‘Welcome home, Lord Reresby. Glad to see you’re none the worse after Sedgemoor—though the same can’t be said about the rebels who took up arms against the King.’ He looked at Melody. ‘Wherever the horse has been for the past weeks, she appears to be in good condition, apart from a nasty gash to her front leg. She isn’t lame, thank the Lord. I’ve cleaned it and bound it, so it should be all right.’
‘My wife tells me the horse wandered home by herself.’
‘It seems like that,’ Archie replied truthfully, for the horse had been riderless when he’d found her. ‘Pity she didn’t bring the rest of them back with her.’
‘Yes, a pity. Thank you, Archie.’
Marcus strode away, pausing and looking around in the gathering gloom in frustration. Everything looked as it should be, but somehow it wasn’t, and Catherine knew why. The silence was ominous, the shadows concealing. It was this that roused a feeling of anger in him. He frowned and made his way back to the house.
Catherine had changed into a gown of russet and gold and draped a thin shawl casually over her shoulders, which partly covered the low, square-cut bodice that revealed a display of tantalising flesh. As she gazed into the fire and felt its warmth on her face, her thoughts turned to the child she was to bear. Now that Marcus was home she would have to tell him of his impending fatherhood. How would he react when she told him? she wondered. Would he be happy about being a father? She hoped so. She wanted so much to see his white smile gleaming in his swarthy face, to see his dark eyes flash with joy.
Smiling softly, she turned around when he stalked into the parlour. The smile on her lips faded as she beheld the hardness of his taut jaw and the cold glitter in his eyes. Her instinct told her that now was not the moment to tell him about the child.
‘Is—something wrong, Marcus?’
‘Wrong?’ he repeated cynically.
Catherine’s mouth went dry and her heart began to beat in heavy, terrifying dread as she sensed that Marcus had withdrawn from her. ‘Why,’ she asked cautiously, ‘are you looking at me like that?’
‘Suppose you tell me why,’ he countered, pacing the room with frustrated strides. ‘I have just seen Alice coming from the stables. Perhaps you can tell me her reason for being there. It cannot be that she has an interest in horses, since they have been stolen. Perhaps she went to see Melody to welcome her back—or then she might have developed a penchant for stable hands, for Archie, even, but somehow I don’t think so, do you, Catherine?’ He stopped pacing just inches from her and looked at her, his eyes like dagger thrusts. ‘Tell me. And lie to me just one more time,’ he said silkily, ‘and you will wish you hadn’t.’
Her heart and mind ravaged by divided loyalty, Catherine knew she would be unable to keep Harry’s presence at Saxton Court from him. Deciding it was time to be honest with him she dredged up her courage and said quietly, ‘You—you aren’t going to like what I have to tell you.’
‘Try me,’ he said in clipped tones.
‘All right. Melody didn’t return alone. She—she was brought back—by one of Monmouth’s soldiers.’
Marcus’s brows snapped together. ‘Do you possibly think you could be a bit more specific?’
‘The—the soldier was Harry.’
For a fraction of a second Marcus froze in total disbelief, unable to decipher what she had said and send the message to his stunned brain. Moving away from her, he turned and stared at her, his eyes darkening until they were almost black, his scorching anger burning a flame in the centre of each one.
Belatedly registering the thunderous expression on his face, Catherine jerked her gaze from his and stared at his shoulder. Never in all her life had she witnessed such controlled, menacing fury. ‘I’m so sorry, Marcus,’ she whispered. ‘I—I wanted to tell you—but—but I couldn’t.’
She braced herself for a verbal blasting, and after an ominous silence, he said, ‘Harry Stapleton. And where is he now, Catherine?’ His voice had a dangerous edge.
‘He—he’s injured. I—I hid him in the stables—in the old tack room. I sent Alice to tend his wound.’
Marcus strode back to her, bringing his snarling anger with him until they were face to face, but Catherine did not step back. ‘And is Archie party to this subterfuge?’
She nodded.
‘You idiot! You are playing with fire. Have you any idea of the enormity of what you have done? There will be no room for mercy—not for fugitives or those who harbour them—in the aftermath of Sedgemoor. Stapleton came over with Monmouth. He played a key part in the rebellion and will be high on the wanted list. The reward offered for the captive of such a prominent man will ensure that he is hunted down.’
‘Please allow him to stay here until the period of search and watchfulness is past. He is in no condition to go anywhere until he has recovered from his wound. Marcus—I am begging you.’
His eyes sliced through her. ‘It galls me beyond measure to have him at Saxton Court. I do not want him here. I do not want him in my house, in my stables, or anywhere on my property. And I do not want him talking to my wife. Why did he come here, if not to see you?’
The tone, aggressive and deliberately offensive, would normally have provoked Catherine to an equally stinging reply. But she knew if she wanted to help Harry she must cast off her pride and humble herself. ‘He came to bring me back my horse,’
she answered quietly.
‘And how did he acquire your horse? I know they were in short supply in Monmouth’s army.’ His eyes hardened. ‘Did you give it to him?’
Catherine stared at him, offended and hurt that he should think she would do such a thing. ‘No, of course I didn’t. Melody was your gift to me. I would never part with her willingly. She was stolen along with the rest of the horses. When I saw Harry in Taunton I told him about the theft and he said he would keep a look-out for her. He recognised her at Sedgemoor from the description I gave him. I never thought I would see her again and I’m so grateful to him for bringing her back.’
‘Stapleton must have been a fool to come here. With the cavalry hot on his heels he must have known the danger—that he was placing all our lives in jeopardy by coming here.’
Catherine’s eyes were filled with misery. She saw the savage, scorching fury that was emanating from her husband. His handsome jaw was taut with rage, his mouth drawn in a ruthless, forbidding line. ‘He is wounded, Marcus. He could go no further. Have you no pity?’
‘For him? None whatsoever. I am sure his feelings for you have not changed, but your circumstances have. You are my wife not only in name but in fact—as I am sure you will recall,’ he ground out, his tone heavy with sarcasm. ‘You may be acting from a feeling of pity in nursing him and keeping him hidden from the King’s troops, but I cannot condone it. Until yesterday I was a soldier. I fought for the King. Harry Stapleton is a traitor and will suffer a traitor’s death if he is caught.’
The thought that Marcus would hand Harry over to the soldiers made Catherine feel violently ill. Pleadingly, she placed her hand on his arm. ‘It takes time to get used to losing what Harry and I once had, but my feelings have changed. I do still love him—only differently,’ she said quietly. ‘What I feel for you has much to do with that. But I do care for him—I care very much what happens to him.’
Feeling wrath that was beyond anything he had ever felt in his life, Marcus shrugged her hand away with distaste. ‘This is not the time to demonstrate your affection. You will have to control your passions until I have decided what to do about Stapleton, and until I see fit to receive them.’
Catherine looked at him, numb with anguish. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘What do you expect me to do? Lower the drawbridge and invite him into the house—into a feather bed where my dear, devoted wife can coddle him and nurse him back to health?’
Catherine recoiled, his wrath, and his failure to understand how difficult this situation was for her, incurring her own. ‘I’ll do anything you ask of me, Marcus, but I hope you won’t deal harshly with Harry. Please be patient until he’s well, and it’s safe for him to leave.’
‘He can stay where he is for now—until I decide what is to be done. As for you, Catherine, you will not leave the house under any circumstance without my permission. Is that clear?’
‘No, Marcus, it is not,’ she burst out, her temper rising at his injustice. She faced him without flinching. No doubt he was fearless in battle, his courage equalled only by his temper, which when roused was blistering in its fury. She saw it now, blazing red hot in his eyes. ‘You are unreasonable and mistrustful and I am sorry I told you about Harry.’
Marcus smiled sardonically. ‘That’s more like the Catherine I have come to know,’ he commented imperturbably. ‘I am aware of what you think of me—and unreasonable and mistrustful I am not. You are in deep water here, my dear, and no display of fireworks will get you out of it. You are harbouring a traitor, and I’d be failing in my duty if I did not hand him over.’
‘Duty!’ She almost spat the word at him. ‘You don’t know the meaning of the word.’
‘I assure you I do. I also know the meaning of pleasure, and your fury brings it to my recollection.’
Before Catherine could divine his intention and step out of his reach, Marcus moved fast. His strong hands drew her to his hard chest, and his lips were on hers before she knew what was happening. For a moment she swayed in his embrace, blood pounding in her ears, hating him and hating her treacherous body for responding eagerly to his touch.
Raising his head, he laughed softly, triumphantly, and released her. ‘What a pity we have no time to indulge our appetites further. Grim duty calls…No, Catherine.’ His voice cracked like a whiplash when she looked towards the door. ‘You will remain here.’ Turning from her, he crossed the room.
‘Marcus.’
He paused and looked back at her. ‘Well?’
‘Devil take it!’ she fumed, sweeping across the carpet towards him. ‘You act as though I betrayed your trust. I did not ask for any of this. I did not invite Harry to come here, but now he is I cannot, will not, turn him away. You are being unfair. Can you really ask me to betray the trust of the man who sincerely loved me and wanted to make me happy? He is relying on me. I cannot deny him this one last service. It is important to me.’
‘At what cost, Catherine?’
His dark eyes seemed to withdraw more deeply beneath the black brows and Catherine’s heart was wrung as she read the huge disappointment in them, and the underlying jealousy of Harry that still persisted. ‘All I can ask is for you to help me in this. I cannot do it alone. Afterwards we will be together. I shall be all yours, heart and soul. I will do whatever you want—but please grant me this one thing.’
Her eyes blazed with passion and Marcus was touched by their fire. ‘And I cannot see how it can be done. What about our marriage and the damage this will do? You are pledged to me, not Harry Stapleton.’
Poised and composed, she raised her head. ‘I hold loyalty and honour to my friends higher than any marriage contract. You took from Harry something he held dear. There comes a time when we must all pay for our mistakes. You now have the chance to redeem yourself, to do something for Harry in return.’
Marcus’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘I do not like ultimatums, Catherine.’
‘It isn’t one. As your wife I am appealing to you to give Harry’s plight some thought. I was beginning to know you as being a man of honour, a man to be trusted.’
‘I am not perfect. None of us are.’
‘Nevertheless, I cannot believe you would hand a man who fought for what he thought was right over to the infamous Captain Kirke to be hanged.’
‘Don’t bet on it, Catherine.’
The finality of these words to Catherine acted like acid on a burn. ‘Then why go to all that trouble?’ she flared, her heart shrieking her resentment. ‘Why wait? You have a sword. Do it yourself. Go and kill him now and be done with it. It won’t take a minute.’
Marcus looked down at her with the furious impatience of an adult about to chastise a naughty child. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ His gaze froze on the tantalising flesh swelling over her bodice. ‘And cover yourself.’
Self-consciously, Catherine rapidly drew her shawl over her chest.
‘Thank you,’ he drawled. ‘I do not care to have you display yourself to everyone who may care to look—or should I place the fault with your gown? In the future when we have guests, whether they be invited or not, I insist that you select what you wear with more care. Such sights will be reserved for me and my pleasure.’ He smiled. ‘My generosity in that regard is limited. I will not tolerate the thought of another man having what I have claimed for myself.’
‘You mean Harry.’
‘Any man, Catherine. And one thing more. Always tell me the truth because, if you don’t, I will know.’
Marcus looked at her in silence, and then, without uttering another word, strode from the room. Catherine watched him go, her heart and mind empty. Something told her that things could never be the same again between them. She experienced a piercing stab of regret for the night before he had gone away when all their quarrels had been dissolved at last in kisses. From now on there would be a bitter taste of loneliness and renunciation.
Chapter Nine
I ntending to go and see Harry Stapleton, and in no mood to
be charitable or accommodating, Marcus paused on the terrace, putting off the moment, and stared into the darkness beyond, deeply affected by his conversation with his wife. The thought of having to deny her was becoming a growing torment. He knew that for her sake he must try to do what he could to save Stapleton’s life, for there would never be any happiness between them if he refused her this. A familiar ache appeared to strike at his heart. He didn’t want to lose Catherine, so what was to be done? Maybe she was right. He had inadvertently destroyed Harry Stapleton’s future and perhaps it was time to make amends for the wrongs he had done. His lips twisted in a cynical smile. Amends! Hadn’t that something to do with a repentant conscience—a conscience which was becoming a great deal more inconvenient than he would ever have thought possible?
The shadowy outline of a tall man clad in a long cloak and standing, feet planted wide, at the other end of the terrace cleared his mind of all else. Darkness shrouded the land, and there was little light from the house to identify the man. Marcus advanced steadily towards him. When he was close enough, as he recognised his visitor, his clear dark features were set as hard as the granite of the Cornish cliffs, and as dangerous as those rocks that appear innocent above the water, but in the hidden depths lie in wait to crush a vessel unfortunate enough to sail too close.
The two men were only six feet apart. Fenton had come unnoticed. He was smiling, but the eyes that rested on Marcus were hard as stone.
‘I’m genuinely astonished, Fenton,’ Marcus remarked, his voice pure venom. ‘I doubt you’ve come to pay your respects. I never imagined you would have the audacity to linger in these parts, let alone come here. I though you’d be on your horse and away to Lyme or some other port. To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?’
‘You owe me money,’ Fenton uttered, quite matter of factly.
‘You’ve been paid what you are owed.’
‘Not quite. I thought I’d come to settle with you on a personal basis.’
His Rebel Bride Page 20
