The Rebel Bride (36 page)

She sneered at him, her hands balled into fists on her hips. “For
me
? Dear God, how you lie to yourself, just as you’ve always lied. There weren’t any nightmares until you forced me to wed you. There weren’t any ghosts until you resurrected them. Did I play my part well, my lord?”

“Damnation, you’re being ridiculous. You know I love you. You will listen to me.”

“No, I won’t. I have your full measure now, my lord. Do you intend a second visit to my father to tell him he was correct about his harlot of a daughter? Don’t think he’ll take me back. Or do you still believe my innocence? Do but recall how very passionate and abandoned I was in your bed last night. Come, Julien, was your precious Sarah ever more eager for your mouth caressing her body than I was?”

“That’s quite enough. By God, you will stop this damned nonsense.” He moved quickly forward to grab her, to shake some sense into her, but she evaded his outstretched arms and rushed to Astarte. She tugged the reins from the withered branch and threw herself onto her horse’s back.

“Stop! Damnation, don’t be a fool!” He yelled even as he was running toward her. He lunged forward to grab the bridle, but Kate jerked up on the reins and Astarte snorted in surprise and plunged backward. Kate wheeled the startled horse about and dug in her heels.

Cold, desperate fear gripped him. The child, dear God, she had to remember the child.

Astarte was galloping erratically, crashing through the undergrowth of the woods, naked winter branches ripping at both horse and rider. Kate’s riding hat was torn from her head, drifting gently earthward, buoyed by the vivid blue ostrich feather, until it lay stark and helpless
on the mossy floor of the woods, ground but an instant later into bright shreds by Thunderer’s pounding hooves.

The woods ended, and both horses cannoned onto a narrow lane, beset with deep, treacherous ruts, gaping wide, an arm’s length, many of them. Astarte veered off the road, as if sensing herself the dangers of those yawning holes, into a barren field.

Agonizing minutes passed as Thunderer strained to close the distance.

A long, low stone wall, for many years a meaningless boundary between properties, cut across the field to either side, its cold gray edges stark against the clouded sky. Surely now Kate would stop, she must stop.

“Kate, no! Astarte doesn’t jump without command!” His yell filled the empty space. He made a last desperate attempt to reach her, but she evaded his outstretched arm.

“A
starte, over!”

The futile command hung about him, muting his hearing, a command shouted too late, perhaps a command Astarte wouldn’t have obeyed in any case, for Astarte had been her horse since the moment she’d patted her nose and crooned words to her that he hadn’t begun to understand. He watched in helpless despair as Astarte reached the stone wall, gave a frightened snort, and veered sharply, grazing the jagged stone edges.

Kate cried out as she lost her hold and was thrown, strangely huddled and small, across the wall to the ground beyond.

Julien whipped Thunderer forward, and the horse sailed gracefully over the stone wall. Julien leaped off his back and ran to where she lay motionless, on her back, the velvet cloak fanned out about her, a soft blanket of deep blue against the hard, rocky earth.

He fell to his knees beside her and quickly felt for the pulse that was beating steadily in the hollow of her throat. Thank God. He felt her arms and legs, then gently eased her into his arms.

Her lashes fluttered and she opened her eyes, filled with dumb fear. “Julien, the child.”

He acted without conscious thought and quickly slipped his hand up underneath her riding habit to the soft shift that covered her belly. He had no practical notion of what he should do, but instinctively he gently pressed his hand against her belly. She was soft and smooth to the touch. “Do you feel any pain? Is there
any cramping?” He continued to probe gently with his fingers.

“No, no pain.” She sucked in her breath and gazed at him in consternation. In a voice devoid of emotion she said, “You knew of the child.”

“Yes.” He knew now that he couldn’t keep the truth from her any longer. For better or worse, it was over now. “You remember when you were ill, the morning we left for St. Clair. The landlady at the inn where you rested told me.”

“Ah, Mrs. Micklesfield. Then you also know that the child isn’t yours.” Her words were low and dull. The hopelessness in her voice wrenched at his heart.

“No, sweetheart. The child is mine.”

“Damn you, no more mocking, do you hear me? Is there nothing you don’t know?”

He gently shook her shoulders. “You must listen to me now. I know this will seem incredible to you, but it’s true, I swear it. I was the wild German lord who drugged you, who abducted you. It was I who forced you. I had foolishly thought to teach you pleasure, to make you admit to yourself that you cared for me, indeed, that you wanted me as your husband in every way.”

“Oh, no.” Even as she spoke, memory stirred deep within her. Memory of that man’s hands on her body, his mouth against hers, against her breasts and belly, possessing her, and Julien’s touch the night before, creating in her the same frenzy, the same urgency. That first time, it was as if her body had recognized him, but she hadn’t, she’d been too afraid, too numb with memories that blanked her mind. “I was so frightened last night. I thought I was the most horrid of women to react so wildly. Oh, God.” She pressed her fist against her mouth.

“No, love, don’t think that of yourself, for I knew, as I knew why you came to me last night. I’ve hated myself for the deception, for forcing you to live with this misery. Please, perhaps you can forgive me for what I did to you. I didn’t know what had happened to you, didn’t realize—”

She seemed not to hear his words, and she searched his face with dazed anguished eyes. “But why did you hurt me?”

He drew a deep breath, and for an instant, he couldn’t meet her gaze. The truth, he thought, it must be only the truth now. “When I entered you, I realized that you weren’t a virgin. A virgin has a maidenhead, you see, and you didn’t.

“I thought your fear of me was a sham, that you had given yourself to someone else before me. I cursed you in that moment and sought only to give you pain. I wanted to hurt you as I thought you had hurt me.

“It was only later, that night, when I realized the truth. The nightmare, Kate. My rape of you made you remember, but only in that tortured dream. You spoke in fragmented images of the men, of the cruelty of your father. You became the little girl again and I saw it all through your eyes, saw it all through your pain. You remembered nothing of it the next morning.” He saw in her eyes the gulf of misunderstanding that separated them, and he hurried to answer her unspoken question. “I wanted to tell you, but I knew I couldn’t. Suddenly, you trusted me. I feared the consequences of speaking the truth. That’s why I brought you back to London. I thought, foolishly perhaps, that you would forget.”

“You couldn’t tell me,” she repeated dully, the woman struggling with the child’s pain. She fumbled to grasp the child’s horror, to bring her through the intolerable years, to somehow make her part of herself. As she opened her lips to speak, a long, sharp pain tore through her belly, and her words, jumbled and fragmented, tore from her throat in a jagged cry. She was held in senseless surprise as the pain dissolved, freeing her mind for a brief instant, then seared again through her, its force doubling her forward.

“The child, dear God, the child. I’ve got to get you back.”

She looked at him blankly, her eyes dulled with shock and pain. He pulled her cloak closely about her and lifted her into his arms. The stabbing pain engulfed her once
again, and she clutched at his arms, her cry muffled in his greatcoat.

She became aware of her hair whipping about her face, the loud din of horse’s hooves pounding in her ears. The pain was becoming a steady rending part of her, and only dimly did she realize that she was crying aloud. If only she could ease the pain. She tried to bring her knees up to her chest, but couldn’t move against the strong arms that held her.

Julien tightened his fierce hold on her, her cries of pain making his face set and grim. “It isn’t much farther. You’ll be all right, I swear it by everything I hold sacred. You’ll be all right.”

The words had no meaning to her. All understanding plummeted into a void of pain, dissolving shreds of reason. Incredible forces were tearing her apart. She screamed her pain, thrashing wildly against the arms that held her. Voices, loud voices, coming as if from far away, shouted, babbled, incoherent sounds. Suddenly a great lassitude numbed the agonizing pain, scattering it apart from her, making her once again at one with her body. She wondered, almost inconsequentially, if she was dying. How strange that death would be like this, a creeping, paralyzing darkness that closed so gently over her mind. She whimpered softly to herself, a sense of undefined regret, a brief, shadowy flicker blending into the darkness.

Her head lolled from his shoulder as Julien carefully dismounted from Thunderer. He cradled her in one arm, freeing the other to feel for her pulse. He blinked in dazed shock at his hand; it was covered with blood, her blood.

A sharp command burst from his mouth. His groom was running ahead of him, throwing open the front doors, quickly stepping out of the way, his mouth agape.

The set-down that automatically rose to Mannering’s lips at the undignified impertinence of the groom was swallowed in consternation.

“Mannering, fetch Mrs. Cradshaw immediately,”
Julien shouted over his shoulder as he bounded up the stairs. “The groom is off for the doctor. Send him up the moment he arrives.”

“Yes, my lord, right away, my lord.” For a moment Mannering stood staring after the earl, unable to remember where to find Mrs. Cradshaw. In frustration, and for the first time in his well-ordered life, Mannering threw back his head and bellowed, “Emma! Emma!”

Julien passed the maid, Milly, on the upper landing. “The countess has suffered a miscarriage. Bring hot water and clean linen. Quickly!”

He carried her to his bedchamber and laid her gently in the middle of the large Tudor bed. She was so deathly pale, too pale, so much blood, too much blood. He pulled off her cloak and cursed his shaking fingers as the small buttons refused to open. He ripped off her habit, his fear lending speed to his movements. There was so much blood, clots of dark purple, covering her legs, weighing down her shift and skirt. He threw the soaked clothing to the floor and stripped off her stockings and riding boots.

He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. “Emma, bring me towels. She’s still bleeding heavily.” He didn’t turn away from Kate, and only the rustle of Mrs. Cradshaw’s black skirt told him of her movement.

He could recall nothing, not a shred of information about miscarriage, a subject never spoken of in a gentleman’s presence. The bleeding was now a purple pool, stark against the pale green of the bedspread. He had to stop the bleeding, he knew that, else she’d die. He ran to his armoire and grabbed several fine lawn shirts. With all his strength he pressed the shirts against her to stem the flow of blood.

“My lord, the towels.”

“No, Emma, I don’t think it wise to lessen the pressure. Bring blankets, we must keep her warm.”

His arms were buried by the covers, and though they began to ache, he pressed his hands all the harder against her.

Mrs. Cradshaw stood away from the bed, her gaze
drawn to the bloody, torn clothing on the floor. “She lost the child. Ah, the poor lamb, she lost the child.”

“Yes,” he said, not looking up.

“I’ll remove all the clothing,” she said, leaned over, wrapped the soaked material in the towels, and rose, somewhat shakily. “Would you prefer that I remained, my lord?”

“No, Emma, it’s not necessary. Take the clothing and burn it.” The sharp command was cold, impersonal, but there was misery in his gray eyes, and she hated it, hated the finality of it.

She moved slowly to the door. “Dr. Quaille should be here shortly.”

He eased one hand from between her thighs and rested it briefly on her abdomen. It was an absurd gesture, for he had no idea of what he was probing for. He moved his hand to her breast and flattened his palm to feel her heartbeat. Though rapid, the beat seemed regular and steady.

He’d begun to despair of his actions, when the door was suddenly thrown open and the portly, red-faced Dr. Quaille bustled forward, his stark black cloth suit proclaiming his profession.

He was panting from his exertion at running up the stairs.

“She’s lost the child,” Julien said. “I wasn’t certain what to do for the bleeding. It wouldn’t stop.” He slowly pulled back the blankets. “As you see, I’ve pressed the cloth against her, hoping to stop the bleeding. There’s been so much blood. Jesus, so much blood and she had such pain.”

“Excellent, my lord, excellent.” His voice was calm, reassuring, gentle even as he drew some frightening instruments from his worn leather bag.

“You’ve done just right. Now if you’ll allow me to examine her, I’ll fix it up, I swear it to you.”

Still, the young earl didn’t move. Dr. Quaille said even more gently now, “You’ve done just as you should, my
lord. I myself couldn’t have contrived better, under the circumstances.”

Julien slowly removed his hand. His shirts were soaked through with blood. He winced and said in a voice of despair, “It seems I’ve failed, for she still bleeds too much, doesn’t she?”

“No more than I expected. Would you care to wait outside, my lord?” He saw the young man’s pain, his fear, boundless fear and helplessness, but he didn’t want him to stay and witness what he was about to do.

“No,” the earl said only.

Dr. Quaille had no choice but to proceed. He removed the shirts from between the countess’s legs. There was little new blood now. “As you see, my lord, your stratagem worked. The bleeding has nearly stopped.”

Julien watched tight-lipped as the doctor plied some of the more unpleasant-looking instruments of his trade. Thank God Kate wasn’t yet conscious.

There was a sharp, insistent rap on the door, and Julien moved swiftly to answer. Mrs. Cradshaw, Milly, and two footmen laden with tubs of hot water and mountains of clean linen stood in the corridor, their faces white and stricken. The mirror image, Julien thought, of his own.

“Ah, excellent.” Dr. Quaille looked up as Julien set the tubs on the floor beside the bed. To Julien’s relief, he tossed the instruments aside and rose. “You need worry no more, my lord, for the countess will soon be on the mend again. In large measure due to your quick thinking.”

“But the bleeding.” Julien frowned down at the scarlet cloths.

“It’s natural for the bleeding to continue, in fact, for several more days. And, I would add, my lord, that my examination indicates no internal problems. What I mean is,” he amended, seeing the questioning look on the earl’s face, “the countess is young and quite healthy. You will have as many sons and daughters as you will want. Of that I’m certain.”

“My thanks, sir,” Julien said simply.

“Now, my lord, I suggest that Mrs. Cradshaw put the countess in her nightclothes. Then we shall awaken her.”