His Rebel Bride

by Helen Dickson

  Catherine tilted her face to his, gripping her floundering emotions with a tight rein of determination. ‘You have done your best, Marcus. No one could have done more, but I do not believe Mr Fenton will expose Harry.’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘I don’t know how—instinct, perhaps.’ She did not reveal Fenton’s parting words. Dear God, let him have meant what he said, she prayed silently. ‘Wait until the soldiers have gone, then have Harry come aboard.’

  Fenton’s arrest created a great deal of interest, and as everyone crowded round to watch him being taken away by the military, Marcus calmly took Harry on board. Captain Erskine asked no questions and, impatient to set sail, when Lord Reresby and his charming wife had bade the young man farewell, he saw them off his vessel and weighed anchor.

  Not until Marcus and Catherine were satisfied that the vessel would not be apprehended and saw it disappear down the Thames, did they return to the coach. Marcus had watched Catherine apprehensively as she had said goodbye to Harry, carefully noting her expressions. Before they climbed inside the coach he took her hand, seeing tears glistening in her eyes.

  ‘Tell me you no longer love him, Catherine.’ There was an edge to his voice, but his expression revealed nothing of his thoughts and his dark eyes were carefully guarded.

  Brushing aside her tears, she gazed up at his handsome face, her eyes tender. ‘If you cast your mind back, you will recall that I have told you on numerous occasions that my love for Harry is in the past. What we had was special to both of us. I am relieved that he is safe and I know he will find someone else to love him in time, but there will always be good memories and no regrets. I am your wife, Marcus, and that is all I shall ever want to be.’ Her teary smile was so dazzling that she had no idea how it swelled her husband’s heart. ‘All this trouble with Harry and the rebellion has kept us apart for far too long. Now take me home—I’ve no wish to spoil your pleasure a moment longer.’

  ‘I haven’t had you to myself since our marriage, and the idea rather appeals to me.’

  ‘It appeals to me, too.’

  ‘I’m gratified to know that,’ he replied. ‘And tonight, you will sleep in my bed where you belong.’

  A slow smile lighted Catherine’s eyes, reflecting her joy. ‘I am happy to know you do not mean to avoid me any longer. I thought you didn’t want me.’

  Marcus’s brows drew together in a frown. ‘You little fool. Of course I wanted you—and all the more because I had already experienced making love to you. Do you have any idea what torment I endured night after night, sleeping apart from you, knowing you were so close?’

  ‘I wanted you too, Marcus, and from now on things will be so very different. Now, help me inside. It has been a long night and Elizabeth will be waiting for us to explain ourselves—but…’ she paused and looked up at him, a serious light in her eyes, ‘…I don’t think I want to go back to that house again, Marcus. I know you are undecided about selling it—but I wish you would.’

  ‘I intend to. We’ll buy something else, to the north of the city, where the air is cleaner—something new, close to Elizabeth.’

  She smiled, thankful. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

  With an enormous burden lifted from his shoulders, Marcus was content to sit and gaze across at his wife as the coach travelled north. Her hands were elegantly folded and resting on the deep pink satin folds of her skirt. Relief that it was over and that his wife was entirely his at last overwhelmed him.

  ‘You are very quiet, Catherine,’ Marcus commented softly after travelling in silence for a while, his curiosity aroused. ‘It is most unusual in one who normally has so much to say. What are you looking at that occupies your attention?’

  ‘Since you were so engrossed in your thoughts, I have generally behaved as though I were quite invisible. I have been thinking and admiring the scenery.’

  ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘Oh, nothing in particular.’

  Marcus sighed, his face thoughtful. ‘Though you can be a troublesome wench, I will condescend to speak to you,’ he teased.

  A little smile dimpled her cheeks. ‘Do not trouble yourself. I am quite happy in my solitude.’

  ‘Are you, by God,’ he chuckled. The bright buttons on his coat caught the sun and flashed as he leaned forward and pulled her across to sit beside him. ‘That is treasonable talk and deserving of severe punishment. Come now, confess you are more comfortable seated beside me.’

  ‘I will do nothing of the sort,’ Catherine said, avoiding his smiling dark eyes. She reached up to straighten her hat, which he had knocked awry. The moment it was back in place he immediately removed it.

  ‘That’s better. You have beautiful hair. I like to see it exposed.’

  She settled against him, basking in his praise. ‘Very well, I shall leave it off and allow you to disarrange my hair—if you don’t mind me arriving on your sister’s doorstep looking like a gypsy.’

  ‘I like gypsies.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. I like their nomadic way of life, and I like people who behave and look like gypsies—which puts me in mind of you, my love.’

  Catherine sighed. She liked to hear him call her his love. It gave her a warm glow. Resting her head against his shoulder, she closed her eyes. ‘Then I shall be more than happy to be a gypsy wench.’ They were silent for a few minutes, content in this new closeness that was developing between them.

  Marcus could feel the heat of her reaching out to him, and his heart and body ached for her. ‘Despite everything that has happened in these past weeks, my darling, in all that time I never stopped loving you.’

  Marcus’s pronouncement was so unexpected, and so very welcome, that Catherine gasped and pulled back in his arms the better to see his face. ‘You love me?’ she repeated with wonder.

  The passion in his eyes was compelling and tender. ‘Aye, I love you, Catherine. Never doubt it.’ There was real agony in his reply. ‘You seem surprised.’

  ‘Because,’ she murmured brokenly, ‘until this moment, I had despaired of ever hearing you say that to me.’

  With a groan, Marcus hugged her tightly to him. ‘I think I fell in love with you the night I married you and you were so determined to stand against me. You swore to make me a cold and unwilling wife and told me with such ire that your heart was yours to give and yours to withhold.’

  ‘I withhold it no longer, Marcus. I love you, too,’ Catherine whispered, shyly laying her trembling hand against his jaw. ‘I love you very much.’

  As his arms twined round her and he sought her lips with his own, proceeding to kiss her with a tender, arousing passion, tiny shivers of joy raced through her. When he finally drew away, too dazed to move, Catherine gazed up at him, remembering that she had something important to tell him.

  ‘Shall we remain in London, Marcus?’

  ‘For the time being—until the assizes are over and things have settled down in the West Country. Somerset is not the place to be right now.’

  ‘But we will return to Saxton Court, won’t we?’

  Marcus frowned down at her flushed face. ‘What is this? Have you an aversion to London?’

  ‘No, not usually, but—it is not the place I want to bring up our child.’

  ‘When you are with child, Catherine, I shall consider returning to Somerset.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should consider it now, Marcus.’

  It took about a full ten seconds before it dawned on Marcus what she was telling him. ‘What? What are you saying? You—’ He broke off to stare at her incredulously, sitting bolt upright.

  ‘Ah, so I have captured your attention.’

  ‘Catherine, are you with child?’

  ‘I am, Marcus.’

  ‘When? When did it happen?’

  ‘The first time. At The Hague.’

  He was incredulous. ‘Why—that’s going on four months.’

  ‘You—must have known it would happen.’

 
‘The occasion was so taxing that the question of reproduction never crossed my mind.’

  She smiled. ‘It was the last thing I was thinking about, too.’

  ‘And are you happy?’

  ‘Yes, I am—more so since the baby has become active. It makes me realise there’s a little person in there,’ she said softly, placing her hands on her abdomen.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’

  She looked at his unsmiling face with dismay. ‘I was waiting for the right moment.’

  ‘And you consider that moment to be now?’

  ‘Yes. Now Harry has gone, everything will be utterly changed. I promise you. Are you not pleased?’

  Her words seemed to galvanise him into action. He caught her up in his arms. ‘Pleased? This news is most dear to my heart. Silly little fool,’ he murmured roughly but fondly. ‘You might have told me that you are with child. Although I should have seen it for myself. It’s written all over your face. But you must take care, Catherine, and rest. ’Tis a serious, hazardous business to bear a child—and had I known of this last night, I would never have taken you with me.’

  She laughed. ‘Come now, Marcus, no gloomy thoughts. I will come to no harm, I promise you. You need have no fears for me or our babe. I am strong and healthy and will recover disgustingly fast in order to plague you yet again.’

  There was an unnaturally bright glitter in his eyes as his arms tightened around her. ‘I shall hold you to that.’

  Mr Fenton died of the wound inflicted by Harry Stapleton before he could be brought to trial.

  Not until Judge Jeffreys had cleansed the West Country of its rebels and returned to London did Marcus and Catherine return to Saxton Court. The Bloody Assizes had occupied the Lord Chief Justice’s time for a mere nine days, during which almost two thousand rebels were dealt with, some receiving death sentences and hundreds more ordered for transportation and countless years of slavery working on the plantations.

  All through the autumn executions were in progress. These were most cruel days and those who had taken up arms against King James—men of conscience and brave hearts—discovered there was a high price to pay for treason. What particularly angered and sickened the population of the western counties was the manner in which the putrefying remains of so many were exhibited long after they had been hanged, drawn and quartered. The memory of Judge Jeffreys’s scourge would live vividly among the people of the West Country, its countless incidents passed on by word of mouth for generations to come.

  Marcus believed that the rebellion laid bare an extremely dangerous threat to society. It was also his belief that both the King and Judge Jeffreys believed the Bloody Assizes was a necessary and effective part of Government policy to teach the West Country its duty and all Englishmen the folly of armed rebellion.

  For three years, James carried on with his plans to turn Britain back to Catholicism, and failed dismally. When John Churchill and two of his colonels—one of them being Captain Kirke—along with four hundred of the men under them defected to William, Prince of Orange and Stadtholder of Holland, he realised that his chances of clinging to office were non-existent. William succeeded where Monmouth had failed, landing at Torbay on the fifth of November, 1688. Along with many who had been in exile in Holland, awaiting a time such as this and eager to return to their homes, was Harry Stapleton and his bride of twelve months. James fled to France, never to see England again.

  The scent of summer, of water and grass and wild flowers, was trapped under a low sky. It was late afternoon and the colours of the landscape, rampant with growth, deepened. Along the banks of the lake hosted duck, moorhen and other wildfowl. Marcus had slipped the oars to let the boat drift. With his three-year-old son Charles rocking the boat in his excitement to reel in his line and proudly present his father with his first catch, Marcus tenderly covered the boy’s small hands with his own to help him.

  Dragging his gaze from the water, and his mind from the victory that was almost within his son’s grasp, he gazed at the shore, where Catherine sat on the grass, their two-month-old daughter cradled in her arms. As if she sensed that she was being observed, she looked towards the boat and then smiled and waved. Charles had captured his prize, and was filled with a sense of achievement and impatient to show it to his mother, so Marcus obliged the boy, taking up the oars and rowing towards the shore. Pushing the nose of the boat into the soft mud, they climbed ashore, Charles gleefully running up the bank holding his fish.

  Placing the baby on a blanket, Catherine admired the catch. Charles proceeded to show it to his sister, blissfully ignorant of the fact that she was only two months old and had not yet acquired the taste for fish. Catherine got to her feet, her green eyes smiling happily into those of her husband. Together they looked down at their children.

  ‘Our son is a child of many talents,’ Marcus remarked. ‘Our lives will never be dull.’

  ‘What a pity we have to eat the fish—his first catch. I think Charles would like to keep it for posterity.’

  ‘I think the stench might change his mind.’ Marcus laughed, putting his arm about her shoulders. ‘His next will be even bigger, you’ll see.’

  They stood together on the shoreline, looking out over the lake, each content with their lives and the way things had turned out for them, after such a stormy beginning.

  ‘It seems to me that this moment is a continuation of another moment—over three years ago when I first came to Saxton Court. I feel that I belong here now. Do you remember when we stood upon this same spot and we watched the sunlight dance on the water?’

  ‘As if it were yesterday.’ He looked down at her. ‘You belong with me, wherever that might be. I love you, Catherine.’

  The words echoed in the fullness of her heart, filling her with a tune too sweet to be sung, a coming together of harmony and the ever-surging tide of ecstasy, and that which defied the telling because words were inadequate and simply not enough to capture how she felt. So all she said was, ‘I love you too.’

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-0705-3

  HIS REBEL BRIDE

  Copyright © 2006 by Helen Dickson

  First North American Publication 2007

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One I t was the year 1684 at the King’s Head Tavern in Fleet Street that two men sat over a game of cards. Not an unusual occurrence, one might think, but not so for these two men. This was no ordinary game of cards. Alone in a small room, they sat opposite each other at a liquor-soaked table, the flickering flames of the candles playing on chiselled features. The atmosphere was thick and tense as each man sat with bated breath, waiting for the turn of a card—a card that would decide the fate of one of them. The older man, Henry Barrington, who sat so still he was like a figure carved in stone, had gambled and lost almost everything he owned to the other man, who watched him closely, quietly confident, and who had remained cool and perfectly calm throughout the two hours they had been playing. Marcus Reresby had at last caught up with Henry Barrington at this taver
n, which was used as a rendezvous, a rallying point for the political Green Ribbon Club, republicans and exclusioni

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two ‘W here is my wife?’ Marcus demanded of Alice on his arrival at Riverside House. He had been in London when he had learned of the death of Henry Barrington, and he was quite astonished by how unmoved he felt. No feeling of guilt or remorse assailed him, and no ghost would rise up from the grave to haunt him. However, the bitterness Marcus had felt over the manner of his father’s death eighteen months ago was as deep and strong in his blood as it had been at the time, and he would not rest until he had found the man who had conspired with Barrington to kill him. At his first opportunity he had left London. Catherine would have matured into a woman now. She’d had plenty of time to come to terms with the idea of being his wife and resign herself to her responsibilities. Marcus rose to his full six feet three inches. At first he was incredulous when Mistress Parks told him Catherine had left, and then his dark complexion turned darker. ‘What manner of nonsense is this? If my wi

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three T he inn was crowded and noisy. In every smoke-filled room men and women were eating or drinking, transacting business or discussing the news of the day. They were shown into a cosy bedchamber, in which a fire burned bright. A four-poster bed with a canopy and faced bedspread of scarlet and gold dominated the room. ‘Ah,’ Marcus said on seeing baggage other than his own stacked on the floor. ‘I see the Tippets have lost no time in having your things sent over.’ From where he stood in the doorway, seeing Catherine’s gaze sweep the room with unease, he said, ‘I can see that something disturbs you.’ ‘You might say that.’ She turned to look at him with contempt, not caring that her emotion showed plainly on her expressive face. ‘It’s the sleeping arrangements. Where are you to sleep?’ Closing the door, Marcus strode into the room and approached his wife in a misleadingly indolent manner. His dark eyes smiled, but his face gave nothing away of his thoughts. ‘With you. In this b