The Rebel Bride (10 page)

H
er ingenuous question, so ridiculous to anyone with even the slightest knowledge of the earl of March, left him speechless for a moment.

She misread his silence and said in a voice so filled with sympathy that he could only stare at her, “I can truly commiserate with you, for we are forever short in the pocket.”

“Kate, how dare you so insult my importance? You unman me, you pauperize me, in short, you reduce me to laughter.”

Words of apology died in her mouth. She kicked several small stones with the toe of her slipper, and he wondered if she wished she could be kicking him instead. “I might have known you’re disgustingly wealthy. As if you would care about buying a new hunter. It would mean nothing to you, less than nothing.”

“Before I’m forced to give you a full reckoning of my holdings, curious Kate, let’s go for a gallop.”

She shot him a grin, dimples dancing on her cheeks.

As was her custom, she patted Astarte’s silky nose and whispered endearments that were quite unintelligible to Julien but not, apparently, to his mare. Astarte nodded her great head in seeming agreement with the compliments and gave a snort of impatience.

“She’s such a beautiful creature.” She sighed, turning to mount her own mare, a docile swaybacked bay that was known to all at Brandon Hall as the Ladies’ Hack.

Julien cupped his hand and tossed her into the saddle. He looked forward with great anticipation to the day he could provide a suitable mount for her. His own Astarte,
he thought, would suit her to perfection. He pictured her fleetingly in a rust-colored velvet habit and a riding hat with gauzy veils to float behind her in the wind.

“Come, my lord, Astarte grows impatient. As to poor old Carrot here, why she’s growing older by the minute, and the good Lord knows, she’s already a relic.”

He spoke without thought. “What, Katharine, a shrew already?”

She blinked at him, then said, “Why, how dare you call me a shrew. A shrew, as in a termagant or a fishwife? Really, my lord, it isn’t what I’m used to. No, not at all. I am quite used to being toadied and complimented until my eyes cross.”

He appeared to consider the matter with great seriousness as he turned Astarte about. There was laughter in her voice and it pleased him, even if her jest against herself didn’t. He said, grave as a bishop, “My apologies, ma’am, I fear that I’ve read my Shakespeare quite recently and was unjustly influenced. In the future I will contrive to compliment your fingernails rather than comment on your character.”

She puzzled over this for a minute, mentally dusting off the bard’s innumerable plays. Then her eyes widened and she declared, very much incensed, “It isn’t gallant of you to compare me to Shakespeare’s Kate. Furthermore, I did not like at all the way she ended up. Can you really imagine her falling at her husband’s feet and vowing that she lives only for him? It quite makes my stomach turn.”

“Being irreparably a male, I must confess that I don’t find the idea entirely repulsive.” He flicked Carrot’s rump with his riding crop, and both horses broke into a comfortable canter.

As they turned their horses into the country lane just beyond the park to Brandon Hall, he shot her a sideways glance. Much to his relief, her attention was drawn to the brilliant riot of leaves. She seemed not to have noticed that his comment to her had given away his amorous intentions, for which he was profoundly grateful.

He was painfully aware that it was far too soon for
him to propose marriage to her. He was quite certain that when he entered the drawing room that morning that her eyes lit up at the sight of him, but he could not be sure that her obvious joy denoted a more serious sign of affection or merely relief at no longer being alone with Bleddoes. Just the day before, when they sat fishing on the soft grass beside St. Clair lake, she’d confided to him in her open, unaffected way, “It’s so very nice to have a friend. You know, someone you can feel perfectly at ease with and say whatever comes to mind without worrying that the other person will think less of you or become angry or bored.”

He didn’t say a word, and she’d continued, happy as a lark and just as oblivious, “You’re the only person that I can laugh with, save, of course, for Harry. But he’s different, of course. He’s only a brother, and alas, I am just a little sister.”

He had looked at her searchingly for a moment, hoping to see something more in her words. A friend . . . He was momentarily taken aback, but upon brief reflection he found, much to his own surprise, that she’d spoken the truth. Indeed, she was also his friend, an experience that he hadn’t known with a woman until now, with Kate.

“It’s a new experience for me as well,” he said, carefully choosing his words. “You see, I’ve never before met a woman with whom I didn’t have to . . .” He paused, biting his tongue, for he had been on the point of saying “offer absurd compliments in exchange for her favors.”

Kate, having no idea why he’d faltered, waited patiently for him to finish. Somehow she wanted very much for him to agree wholeheartedly with her.

He looked at her, and his mouth curved into a twisted grin. She was gazing at him expectantly, like a child waiting for a long-treasured treat. He said simply, “I’ve never met a woman who is so excellent a companion. You’re a treasure.”

Her eyes sparkled happily. She took his words at their face value and was quite pleased at his response. It didn’t occur to her that no other woman in the earl’s
acquaintance would be too pleased to be called an “excellent companion.”

Now, as they rode for a time side by side in comfortable silence, each thinking private thoughts, Julien chanced to look up and gaze around him, unsure of where they were.

“Let’s go down this path, Kate,” he said, giving Astarte a gentle tug on her reins.

She nodded her agreement, and their horses continued in an easy canter for some time until they emerged in a small meadow, bordered on one side by a wooded copse. The full, lush green foliage gave Julien the inclination to spend some time exploring.

He dismounted and called to her, “Come, this is a lovely spot. Let’s commune with nature for a while, perhaps contemplate the glory of all those bees buzzing about those hydrangeas, and discuss Squire Bleddoes’s immense charm.”

It was several moments before he realized she hadn’t moved to dismount.

“Kate . . . ?” He stopped abruptly at the sight of her face. She sat rigid in the saddle, her face suddenly gone very pale. Her eyes were riveted on the small copse.

He strode quickly to her. “Good God, what the devil is the matter?”

Her lips moved, but there was no sound. As if with great effort she tore her gaze away from the copse. “I don’t like this place.”

Her voice was so low that he could barely make out her words. She was trembling visibly, and she looked at once frightened and bewildered. “I don’t like this place,” she said again.

Before he could say anything, she whirled poor Carrot about and dug in her heels fiercely. Carrot gave a snort of surprise and plunged into an erratic gallop. Kate didn’t look back.

Julien swung himself into the saddle in one swift motion and urged Astarte forward. Good God, what had upset her so? Had she seen something that he hadn’t? He felt at once perplexed and fearful for her. In but a
few moments he drew alongside her panting horse. She seemed not to see him; her eyes were fixed on the road ahead.

His first thought was to grab her reins and forcibly pull the horse to a halt. But she appeared to have her mount well in control. Thus he contented himself with keeping pace with her.

She swung off to the left to another path that Julien hadn’t noticed on their ride. Without hesitation she soon veered from the path and skirted a large meadow. Several minutes later, Julien saw that they were quite near to Brandon Hall. He would never have thought they could return so quickly.

The instant her horse’s hooves touched the gravel of the drive, she pulled to a halt and blinked rapidly, as if awakening from a dream.

He reined in beside her, his arm stretched out to touch her shoulder. “What the devil is the matter? What did you see back there?”

She turned a pathetically white face to him. It was a moment longer before she answered him. “I don’t know. It’s simply a place that makes me very uncomfortable.” Her voice was surprisingly calm, almost devoid of emotion.

“Don’t tell such bald-faced lies, ma’am. If that is your notion of discomfort, you have need of verbal education. You were terrified back there. That or you saw something. What did you see?”

She flinched at his harshness, and he eyed her with mounting frustration. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I didn’t mean to shout at you. But I would like to know what upset you so. I saw nothing out of the ordinary, nothing at all. Please speak to me.”

“No, it’s really nothing, my lord. I’ve behaved quite foolishly. Indeed, I was more of a ninny than I was three years ago when I managed to fall from an apple tree right on my head. It wasn’t anything, truly. If you wouldn’t mind, I would like to forget it.”

He looked searchingly at her, trying to probe her mind. She returned his gaze almost defiantly.

“Very well, if that is what you wish.” But it wasn’t at all what he wished. However, she didn’t yet belong to him, and until she did, he had no right to demand the truth from her, in any and all things.

She fanned her hands in front of her in a helpless gesture. She realized that he wanted her to confide in him, but how could she explain something that she could not even now understand herself? She had the lingering certainty that the place was evil. Just exactly what the evil entailed, she didn’t know, for it seemed closed behind an impenetrable wall. For a moment, she’d probed at that wall, but something black and deep was behind it and she was too afraid to continue. She backed away.

Julien curbed his frustration at her silence and lifted his arms to help her down from her horse. It was a gesture he normally proffered, and one that she usually ignored, alighting unassisted, as would a man. This time she responded and touched her hands lightly on his shoulders as he circled her waist. He swung her down but didn’t immediately release her. To his infinite joy, she didn’t draw away but gazed up at him, an unfathomable expression on her pale face. Without thought and with great gentleness, he bent down and kissed her. And he knew he wasn’t mistaken in her response. She parted her lips ever so slightly. He felt her hands press against his shoulders. But the brief moment was over as quickly as it had begun. She tore herself free of his arms and jumped back, her breath coming in short, jerky gasps. She raised her hands to her lips in a protective, bewildered gesture. Her eyes grew larger and darker. Then she just stood there, staring up at him in the most innocently provocative way he’d ever seen.

He took a quick half-step forward, his hand outstretched to her. He said her name very quietly.

She seemed to snap back to attention. She backed away, shaking her head, her hands spread toward him to ward him off. “No, I don’t, I can’t . . .” She turned on her heel, grasped her riding skirt, and fled without a backward glance.

This time he didn’t attempt to follow her. He stood
motionless, watching her, feeling not at all disconcerted by her abrupt, confused flight. On the contrary, he was glad that he was obviously the first man who had kissed her. He touched his fingertips to his mouth. He could still feel her, warm and soft, so very tentative. He smiled confidently. She was an innocent girl, a virgin, and her maidenly display of confusion pleased him immensely. Surely she had to care for him now, surely. He’d wooed her slowly and easily, giving her what she wanted, what she appeared to need, and it had paid off. He had her now.

He turned to see her horse lazily chewing some errant blades of grass at the side of the drive. “Well, you old relic, you know your way to the stables.” With a lighthearted laugh he flicked the animal’s rump with his riding crop and aimed the horse in the direction of Brandon Hall.

Astarte nuzzled his shoulder with her nose, as if she were jealous of his attention. He patted her nose and swung up into the saddle.

“An excellent morning’s work, Astarte. You may offer me your congratulations.”

Obligingly, she neighed and, at the light tug on her reins, broke into a canter.

He’d not ridden far when her strange behavior at the copse came again into his mind. She’d been afraid of something, yet strangely confused. What could have bothered her? But his buoyant spirits wouldn’t let him long dwell upon the unusual incident. In all truth the experience paled beside her response to him when he’d kissed her. As her husband, he would, of course, have her trust and her confidence. She would willingly tell him whatever he wished to know. She would be his wife. She would be his, all of her.

He willingly let his mind race ahead. This very afternoon he would draw up an exceedingly handsome marriage settlement, a settlement that Sir Oliver could not refuse.

Filber tapped softly on the door and entered the small, rather airless book room where Sir Oliver spent the
greater part of his day. His master sat hunched over a large tome, oblivious to his presence.

Filber cleared his throat. “My lord.”

“Yes, yes, what is it, Filber? You know I don’t like to be disturbed.”

Sir Oliver wheeled around in his chair and glared at his butler, but to his surprise, Filber didn’t flinch or embark on a round of apologies. Sir Oliver’s bushy brows snapped together as he noted the rather smug, complacent look on Filber’s face.