Cressida's Dilemma (21 page)

A few drops of rain caused a titter of concern, drawing attention from the clearly unworthy recipient—in the eyes of the crowd, at least—and galvanizing Mr. Pendleton into action as he ushered his bride across the cobblestones toward the waiting carriage.

Sir Robert, Cressida knew, had lent the handsome equipage to his niece’s husband until they were in a position to acquire a suitable conveyance. She knew, also, that his generosity had not stopped there, and that he’d decided to reside permanently in England.

As she glanced between the bride—whose naturally serious features were transformed into a picture of sheer delight—and Madame Zirelli, she could not help but note the astonishing resemblance. In their shared moment of joy, there could be no doubt that the two Castilian beauties were related, and with a spear of foreboding, Cressida glanced at Catherine, thin lipped, beside her.

It was Justin’s intuitive murmur, “What does opinion matter when one is cocooned in happiness and not rejected by one’s family?” which set Cressida’s mind at rest and reinforced the decision never to let others, particularly Catherine, cause her to question herself.

“Loyalty is a fine trait, except when it causes unnecessary pain,” Cressida remarked with a wry smile, indicating the newlyweds, weaving their way through the crowd. “Any mother would be proud to claim Miss Hardwicke for her daughter, considering how ready she was to throw away her happiness for the sake of her ailing parent.”

Justin squeezed Cressida’s waist. “And Mr. Pendleton’s astonishing persistence in persuading his young bride of the merits of a love match with an aspiring man of the courts, over security and money, has convinced me he will go far.”

Another glance in the direction of Madame Zirelli and Sir Robert made Cressida catch her breath. In the twilight of their lives, each looked as if they’d discovered the elixir of happiness. Their radiance almost eclipsed that of the newlyweds, until with a shriek the new Mrs. Pendleton was whisked into the arms of her new husband, who covered the final yards to the carriage as if he couldn’t wait to escape with her.

“My congratulations, Lady Lovett,” Justin said fondly, “for notching up such success in your first matchmaking venture. I shall not hesitate to recommend you.”

His words were overheard by Sir Robert, engaged in conversation with Annabelle Luscombe nearby, to whom he appeared to be introducing Madame Zirelli.

“I’m a strong proponent of the love match,” he remarked, turning now to smile at the three of them, “of which the happiness of my niece is clearly testament.” With a discreet, barely noticeable gesture, he encompassed Madame Zirelli more fully into their circle, weighing up his next words to Cressida, whose acquaintance he’d made the week before in Annabelle’s lavishly decorated drawing room. Cressida had liked him upon the instant. His contemplative manner was tempered by a propensity for quick humor, and he clearly meant to do his utmost in advancing the best interests of his dependents. “Congratulations, Lady Lovett, for your part in securing my niece’s happiness. I hope, too, I might be allowed a little credit for counseling Madeleine to follow her heart.” His smile broadened. “And for persuading Lord Slitherton of the advantages of knowing when to beat a graceful retreat.”

Before Cressida could respond, his attention had strayed and now encompassed only his companion’s shining face. “I’m also of the firm belief,” he said softly, as if speaking only to Madame Zirelli, “that the opinions of others should be of no account when it comes to advancing one’s own happiness.”

Cressida felt a rush of emotion, clearly not shared by her cousin, as he added tenderly, “I trust the radiant Madame Zirelli shares my sentiment.”

With another glance at Catherine, whose mouth had dropped open, Cressida returned the gentle pressure of her husband’s hand.

Awareness of him consumed her like a living thing. It had always been thus, even when she’d been unable to bridge the divide that her fears had erected between them.

Now all was right with her world, and once again that peculiar, intimate awareness she felt whenever she was near him enveloped her heart and body like tentacles of welcome enslavement. She shifted a little and wondered if her blush revealed the aching need in her lower belly and her desire to slip away from the wedding breakfast and instead spend the afternoon in wanton abandonment, wrapped in her husband’s passionate embrace.

As if concerned with removing a piece of lint from the shoulder of her smart pelisse, Justin leaned toward Cressida. “And I’m of the firm belief,” he whispered, his warm breath tickling her ear, his words sending shivers of anticipation directly to her groin, “that, like myself, my beautiful wife, who has proved herself so surprisingly eager to make up for lost time, is more than ready for bed again.”

Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

Bodices and Boudoirs: The Cavalier

Beverley Oakley

Excerpt

Chapter One

On the eve of battle between King Charles’ Cavaliers and a Puritan stronghold

The acrid smell of smoke made Elizabeth’s eyes water as she shaded them against the setting sun and watched the enemy make camp on the other side of the beech wood. The chirping of sparrows preparing to nest for the evening reminded her of previous, less dangerous summers, but the beads of sweat that had gathered on her brow and upper lip were as much owing to fear as to the heat.

“They’ll attack at first light.” Silas’ hand was heavy on her shoulders as he stood beside her on the battlements. “We must get some rest while we can, for there’ll be heavy fighting tomorrow. Come to bed, wife.”

It was an order Elizabeth could not refuse, though she’d have rather remained and kept the King’s Men in her sights.

She glanced at the ravens that roosted on the stone ramparts nearby. Shivers of dread twisted themselves about her entrails. Before nightfall the following day, the ordered world she knew would be gone and the undulating patchwork of tilled and forested land over which she and Silas now gazed would be theirs no longer. Forfeited to the Crown.

As to their own fate… Well, that was in the hands of Almighty God.

Slipping her hand into the crook of her husband’s arm, Elizabeth glanced up at his harsh, uncompromising profile, his mouth hard, his eyes as cold as stones. Even as he contemplated the death and destruction ahead, Silas’ expression was not so different from his usual look, she reflected. For once, she almost envied him his lack of emotion.

She kept her voice steady. “Dorcas says you have briefed the household on what’s expected of them.” Elizabeth was glad Silas did not remark upon the trembling of her hand as he led her down the twisting stairs from the south tower. Courage was a requirement of a wife. And loyalty. Loyalty to the death, as Dorcas, her maid, had unsurprisingly told her was the master’s uncompromising dictate to his servants. It was the return Silas expected on the security he provided those who lived under his roof at Drummond Castle—his minions and his wife.

He grunted. “They’ve always known what is expected of them and they will put up a good fight. Drummond Castle is the only home they have.”

It was also the only home Elizabeth had. Although she inhabited it reluctantly, she had nowhere else to go. The King’s Men were on a mission to crush all resistance from the Parliamentarians, men like Silas who abhorred the corruption of Royal power. Not even her mother’s sister—a lapsed Puritan now married to one of the King’s courtiers—could save them, she reflected, wishing she’d spoken to her Aunt Anne of the simmering danger and her fears in greater depth when her aunt had visited the previous year.

“God is on our side.” Silas ushered her into their bedchamber. “We will fight them, wife, for God would expect nothing less.”

“And if we don’t win?” She did not look at him as she removed the linen cap that bound her long pale hair, exiting briefly into an antechamber where Dorcas was waiting to help her out of her dress. His harsh voice followed her. “If we do not win the fight, we will win the battle.”

Once Dorcas had laid aside her dark green gown with its modest trimming of lace at the collar—a fitting ensemble for a Puritan of rank who must appear sober yet distinguished from the lower orders as God ordained—Elizabeth returned, wearing her night shift.

She pulled back the counterpane and lay down, tensing as she prepared herself for what would follow.

“Their numbers are greater but we will fight to the death,” Silas snarled as he rolled on top of her, pinioning her to the mattress, hiking up the hem of her night rail as he did every night. This time, though, Elizabeth saw in the summer twilight that bathed the room that he was looking directly into her face. A fire burned in the depths of his usually cold grey eyes and she shivered, despite the heat and the stifling weight of her husband who was demanding ever yet more from her. The fact that he had access to her body had never been enough for him. She wondered how he could expect to have her heart when he had not the capacity for kindness.

One day, she thought, the burden of her obligations to this man who controlled her, virtually to her last breath, would break her.

“Aye, husband. A sacrifice I will gladly make,” she whispered, closing her eyes against his harsh face, her heart doing strange things as she imagined the tiny figures she’d seen in the distance. Cavaliers. Fear was in the ascendant, naturally, but even after all these years she felt a tremor of excitement—limned with bitterness. Not all Cavaliers were the enemy…

Constancy was another matter.

She must have allowed her thoughts to get the better of her. With a grunt of irritation Silas inserted his knee between the two of hers, which were clamped tightly together, and jerked them apart. The next moment Elizabeth felt the sharp, painful thrust of his manhood as he forced himself into her—staking his claim. There was no other way to describe the brutal breaching of her tender, unwilling parts.

Noiselessly, obediently, she lay unmoving on her back and stared at the canopy of the bed, blocking her mind to this man who drove into her with the determined concentration of a rutting bull.

For eight years Silas had claimed her like this. No preliminaries. No words of love. She was his wife, his chattel. The woman whose beauty delighted him but whose temperament disappointed him. She knew it was so, though he’d admit to neither. Love was a weakness, an indulgence. Reining in his wife’s failings—the determination and softheartedness she displayed towards her children and those weaker than herself—was part of his life’s work.

Elizabeth had survived by quarantining a little piece of her mind and soul, so carefully shielded that Silas would never guess that’s where she went when he invaded her body. If he did, he’d crush her.

Tonight Silas laboured longer than usual. In the half light of the long summer evening, as Elizabeth disconnected her mind from the body she hoped her husband would soon surrender, she wondered if, like her, he was more afraid than he cared to admit.

With a grunt and a frenzied series of jerking thrusts, Silas finally came, his body a suffocating dead weight for a few moments before he rolled off her belly. To her surprise, he put his hand upon her arm and drew her closer.

“You have been a good wife.” His perfunctory praise concealed more emotion than she’d received in many a year. Elizabeth felt suddenly proud. She was a good wife. She’d not married Silas for love but she’d obeyed her father’s dictates—in the end. Once she’d made her vows she’d toiled and suffered in the execution of her wifely duties, and she’d never complained.

As for her husband, Silas had never pretended to be anything other than he was—hard, uncompromising, unforgiving. And loyal. She had to grant him that. He would risk his life to protect the castle that was home to so many. And his family.

Tomorrow, when the boiling oil spilled from the battlements and swords were drawn, shedding blood on both sides, Silas would be in the thick of it, protecting the honour, lives and livelihoods of the hundreds of peasants who depended upon him.

The brief touch of his hand across her shoulder might have been affection, for he said, almost gruffly, “Aye, Elizabeth. The children would only have complicated matters. You were right to insist they be sent away.”

The fact that Silas was endorsing a stipulation she’d made several weeks ago, which he’d been so against at the time, defied every facet of his unforgiving, unyielding character.

He went on, “They are safe and when we are gone they will be raised as godly Puritans to avenge the deaths of their parents.”

The innocent faces of little Oliver and Agnes blurred in Elizabeth’s mind, coalescing into the cold, hard-planed angles of her husband. Elizabeth had always been a hard-working wife but she was determined—a trait for which she’d been punished and for which, in this instance, she’d been prepared to suffer greatly. Last week the children had left for the protection of Silas’ kinsman, a day’s ride away.

“You think we will die, husband?” She desperately hoped not to die and wanted to be reassured. She knew it was a weakness Silas would not indulge. Silas had never indulged her, though God knew he’d desired her from the first moment she’d changed from the child of his father’s friend to a comely maid of fifteen. Foolish child that she’d been, she’d thought she could turn it to her advantage. That she’d experience more kindness at the hands of her new husband than in the household of the father who’d bartered her and laid waste her dreams of happiness with the one man she’d truly loved.