The Accidental Bride (14 page)

Something must have happened since Phoebe’s visit to Meg’s cottage the previous morning. Ordinarily she would have heard of anything untoward, but the blizzard had kept her and the household, her usual source of rumor and gossip, within doors.

Meg should be in church, Phoebe thought. Meg knew full well how the village was suspicious of and swift to censure anyone who didn’t obey the unwritten rules, but she persisted in flying in the face of convention. And her absence from the altar of God gave credence to these wild accusations.

Cato grew increasingly angry as the vicar’s invective continued. The fire-and-brimstone kind of sermon was becoming
ever more popular as the strong Puritan element in Cromwell’s New Model Army took hold over the looser morality of the royalist Cavaliers, encouraging a rabble-rousing fanaticism that did little good and had much potential for harm.

When the service was over, he said rather curtly to Phoebe, “Stay here with Olivia. It’s too cold to wait outside and I wish to talk with the vicar.”

Phoebe buried her gloved hands in the deep pockets of her cloak and slumped down in the pew, huddling for warmth. She needed to go and find Meg, but it would have to wait until after dinner.

“It’s as c-cold inside as outside,” Olivia stated glumly. “What a dreadful sermon.” She was right about the cold. The two small braziers in the nave did nothing to relieve the icy dampness.

“He was talking about Meg,” Phoebe stated.

“Oh, but he c-couldn’t be!” Olivia exclaimed. “She’s never done any harm to anyone.”

“It had to be her, there’s no one else in the village it could be. I’m going to see her this afternoon. Will you come with me?”

“Yes, of c-course.” Olivia often accompanied Phoebe on her visits to the herbalist, although despite her fascination she regarded Meg with a faint degree of alarm.

“Come,” Cato called from the door. There was an edge to his voice that brought them hurrying to join him. His expression was dark, his mouth thin, his jaw set.

“What did you say to the vicar?” Phoebe asked.

“Watch your step,” Cato said shortly instead of answering her question. “You don’t want to slip again.”

“Why did you wish to talk to him?” Phoebe persisted, lifting her feet with exaggerated care on the path.

“I don’t like all that fire and brimstone. If the man gets a sense of power out of stirring the crowd . . . For God’s sake, Phoebe!” He grabbed at her arm as she stepped knee-deep into a snowdrift.

“Oh!” Chagrined, she dragged herself out of the snow. It had gone into her boots and soaked the hem of her cloak and gown. “I didn’t see it.”

“Why didn’t you look where you were going?” he snapped.

“I don’t think it’s just,” Phoebe stated, “to be cross with me simply because you’re cross with the vicar.” She looked down at her sodden feet with a grimace. “It’s bad enough as it is.”

“What a ragged robin you are! I’d better carry you home.”

“No, thank you,” Phoebe said. “And anyway I’m too heavy.” She stalked ahead, trying to ignore the horrid cold squelching of the snow in her boots.

Cato forgot his annoyance with the vicar. In two paces he came up with Phoebe, swung her around, lowered his shoulder, and hoisted her up and over. “Not in the least heavy,” he said cheerfully, patting her upturned bottom in reassurance. “Keep still, and we’ll be back in the warm and the dry in no time.”

“You can’t carry me through the village like this!” Phoebe squawked.

“Oh, no one will think anything of it,” he assured her, striding out. “Besides, everyone’s gone home to fires and Sunday dinners.”

Behind them, Olivia gazed at the sight of Phoebe disappearing around the corner over her husband’s broad shoulder. She’d never seen her father do anything quite like that before. Of course, it would ensure Phoebe didn’t fall into another snowdrift. Olivia hurried in her father’s footsteps.

At the front door Cato eased Phoebe off his shoulder. Games were all very well in their place, but Lady Granville couldn’t appear before the servants in her present position.

“Ugh!” Phoebe said, shaking out a foot. “I’m sure I’m frostbitten.” She moved through the door that Bisset now held open and said mischievously over her shoulder, “My thanks for the ride, sir.”

Cato shook his head at her retreating back, then, drawing
off his gloves, turned to the butler. “Bring a decanter of madeira to my study, Bisset. Ah, Brian . . . I trust you’ve been made comfortable.” He greeted Brian, who was coming down the stairs. “You’ll forgive me if I leave you to your own devices until dinner. I have to gather some papers and change my dress for the ride to headquarters this afternoon.”

“Of course, my lord.” Brian offered the rigid Olivia a half bow. “Olivia, my little sister. You do seem to have grown up since I saw you last.” He regarded her with a faint smile.

“I do hope you won’t find the c-climate in Woodstock as unhealthy as you found it in Yorkshire,” Olivia said sweetly. “You had such an uncomfortable t-time. Was it fleas . . . or lice, Brian? I don’t recall.”

A mottled flush spread across Brian’s thin, pointed countenance. Cato was already halfway across the hall and didn’t hear Olivia’s mockery.

“And as I recall, you also ate something that disagreed with you,” Olivia continued. “I do t-trust you won’t have a similar problem on this visit.”

Brian’s thin mouth flickered. The fine line of his eyebrows lifted in a supercilious question mark. “You talk in riddles, little sister. I’m sorry to see that you haven’t managed to overcome that unfortunate stammer. It makes you sound like a simpleton. I wonder you have the courage to open your mouth at all. But at the very least, you should
try
to make sense. It might lessen the unfavorable impression.”

Olivia felt the old surge of frustration and the nasty cold tremor in her belly that Brian had managed to engender as far back as she could remember.

With curled lip and mockery in his eye Brian watched her struggle. “Poor little girl,” he murmured. “But so amusing.”

Olivia’s hand closed over the friendship ring in her pocket. Portia had exorcized this demon once and for all. Now Olivia met Brian’s smile with her own and concentrated fiercely.

“Excuse me. I have to take off my cloak.” There, she’d managed the stumbling block. It was the hardest sound of
them all for her. With a little nod of satisfaction she turned to the stairs.

She was feeling so pleased with herself that she almost skipped down the passage towards Phoebe’s bedchamber.

Phoebe was sitting on the chest at the foot of the bed, wriggling her white numbed toes at the fire in an attempt to get the feeling back, when Olivia came in. “I’m sure I’m frostbitten,” she declared.

“They do look rather dead,” Olivia said, peering at Phoebe’s feet with some fascination. She hitched herself onto the edge of the bed, observing cheerfully, “It was funny to see my father c-carrying you like that.”

“My feet
were
wet,” Phoebe offered, a slight flush blooming on her cheeks.

“I’ve never seen him do anything like that before,” Olivia said. “He doesn’t tend to be spontaneous. Maybe all these surprises you k-keep giving him are having an effect.”

“What kind of effect?” Phoebe hopped off the chest to fetch clean stockings from the linen press.

Olivia considered. “Well, he laughs more,” she said finally. “He never used to laugh when Diana was around, but now he’s often amused. I like it,” she added. “I used to think he was sad a lot of the time. But he doesn’t seem so now.”

“Really?” Phoebe paused, her clean stockings in her hand. “Do you really think so?”

“Mmm.” Olivia nodded. “Haven’t you noticed how his eyes seem to gleam sometimes?”

“Yes, they do, don’t they?” Phoebe smiled to herself.

“Well, I’d better take off my c-cloak before dinner.” Olivia jumped up. “We’ll go and see Meg this afternoon.” She went to the door just as it opened to admit Cato, intent on changing into riding dress.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said with a curtsy. “I was just talking to Phoebe while she changed her stockings.”

Cato nodded a mite absently. He had rather a lot on his mind at present. He closed the door behind Olivia.

“How are your feet?”

“Warmer now.” Phoebe eased her stockings over her toes, then slowly pulled them up, stretching her leg in front of her as she did so, flexing her foot.

Cato watched her. There was something undeniably sensuous about the whole maneuver. She fastened her garters just above the knee and then looked up as if aware of his scrutiny for the first time. Her teeth closed over her bottom lip, and a smile touched her eyes, a smile where diffidence blended with invitation.

“I’ve ordered dinner for noon,” Cato said slowly. He began to unbutton his doublet. “I have to ride to headquarters this afternoon.”

“Will you ride home today when you’ve completed your business, sir?” Phoebe remained perched on the bed, her skirt still hitched up above her knees.

They were very prettily rounded knees. Cato’s fingers were now on the waistband of his velvet britches. “I had not thought to be absent this night,” he said.

Had the previous night really happened? Had it just been a trick, an artful pretense? He had a sudden mad impulse to test the waters.

“Come here,” he said, crooking a finger at her.

Phoebe slid off the bed, her rich velvet skirts sweeping once more to her ankles. She came slowly towards him, her eyes as brilliant as a sun-filled midsummer sky.

C
ato stood very still, making no attempt to touch her. He
wanted to see what she would do.

Phoebe looked a little puzzled at the lack of a lead. She hesitated, then as if of their own accord, her hands went to his waist, to the fastening of his britches. She pressed her hand against the hard bulge at the apex of his thighs, feeling it stir beneath the rich dark velvet. Her face was upturned to his and Cato watched her, his eyes glittering with an almost predatory light that flooded her with excitement, set her loins pulsing, her stomach tightening.

Slowly she lowered her eyes and unfastened his britches, button by button. She slipped her hands into the opened waist to hold the slim hips, before sliding behind to the taut muscular slopes of his buttocks. She was breathing fast, her hands operating as if without instruction from her brain. Slowly she peeled his britches and drawers away from his hips, slipping to her knees in almost the same movement.

The turgid shaft of flesh jutted from its bush of black curling hair. Phoebe placed her palms flat against his hips and her face against his belly. The earthy fragrance of his arousal filled her nostrils, sending her senses spinning. She licked the column of dark hair running down from his navel, enjoying the rasp on her tongue as taste mingled with scent. Her hand slipped between his thighs to grasp the tender globes. She felt their weight, the softness of the taut skin.

She ran her hand up the shaft of flesh, enclosing it in her palm, feeling the blood pulse strong against her hand. Her
tongue darted, to lick the dew clustering at the dark swollen tip. The salty taste of him entranced her. Taking him fully within her mouth now, she drew her lips up the length of the stem as her hands continued to stroke and knead between his thighs.

Cato was lost. He had been pleasured thus by women for whom sex was both a toy and a commodity, but this young woman with her flawlessly knowing touch was unlike any other he had experienced. There was a paradoxical innocence to the instinctive deftness of her touch, to the clear delight she was taking in pleasuring him. When she looked up at him, her blue eyes were sparkling with her own excitement, her cheeks delicately flushed, her parted lips offering a near irresistible invitation.

He grew closer to the brink and then with a sudden movement caught her head, moving her mouth away from him. “You will share this with me,” he rasped, his voice sounding oddly harsh with the effort of restraint. He bent and caught her up beneath his arms and toppled her backward onto the bed.

Phoebe writhed, her entire body suffused with need. His hands were rough on her thighs as he pushed up her skirts. He seized her ankles and lifted her legs onto his shoulders, kneeling between her thighs, his eyes fierce as he drove deep within her.

He leaned over her and pushed her gown off her shoulders, catching her full breasts in his hands. She moaned and bucked beneath him as he played with her nipples. The corded muscles in his neck stood out as he held himself on the brink for as long as he could. Then, when he could wait no longer, he ran his hands down the backs of her thighs, grasped her buttocks with hard fingers, pulling her closer against him. Phoebe’s eyes flew open, pure wonderment in their depths. Then her back arced off the bed and her body convulsed around him.

Cato fell forward with a groan, gathering her against him
in a tangle of skirts and petticoats, his mouth buried against the softness of her throat. Phoebe quivered beneath him.

And into this dark and sweat-tangled world of their own came a knock on the door.

Cato pulled himself up. “What is it?”

“Me, m’lord.” Giles Crampton’s robust tones called through the oak. “You ordered me ’ere fer dinner at noon, sir. We’re to set off after, you said.”

Cato uttered a barnyard expletive and got off the bed. “I’ll be down in five minutes, Giles.”

“Right y’are, m’lord. I’ll tell Bisset to put the meat back in the warmin’ oven, shall I?”

Cato glanced at the cloak on the mantel. It was a quarter past noon. “Damn his impertinence!” Cato muttered, stripping off his disordered clothing. Giles always found a way to make his point.

“I don’t think I can get up,” Phoebe murmured, stretching languidly. “I seem to be dissolved.”

Cato looked down at her as she lay in an abandoned sprawl on the bed, her skirts pushed up, exposing the sweet white plumpness of her thighs and the small curve of her belly. The dark bush at the base of her belly glistened with the juices of their loving. Clearly her responses the previous night had been no artful pretense.

“Where did it come from?” he muttered.

“Where did what come from?” Unconsciously Phoebe passed her hands in a long caress over her body.

“Your wantonness,” he said, tapping his mouth reflectively with his fingertips. “I’ve never come across it before in a woman of your breeding.”

There was a note in his voice that made Phoebe sit up, pushing down her skirts. “Is it wrong, then?”

Cato hesitated for a minute too long before he shook his head. “No . . . no, of course not.” He gave a half laugh that didn’t sound particularly mirthful and went to the armoire for his leather riding britches and woolen jerkin.

Phoebe dragged herself off the bed. Why had he hesitated?

Cato dressed swiftly, saying as he strode from the room, “Hurry, Phoebe, I don’t relish any more of Giles’s veiled impertinence.”

Phoebe dipped the washcloth into the basin and wrung it out. He’d been as eager for that passionate lust as she had. So why did she feel this unease? Thoughtfully she tidied herself and hurried down to the dining parlor.

Everyone was already at table when she came in. Giles Crampton cast her a knowing sidelong glance which infuriatingly made her blush. She took her seat with a somewhat incoherent apology for having kept them waiting and hastily reached for her wine goblet.

“Have you decided to play Gloriana, Phoebe?” Olivia inquired, helping herself to roast mutton and onion sauce. She studiously ignored Brian Morse, who sat opposite her.

“I’m thinking about it.” Relieved at this ordinary turn of conversation, Phoebe looked over at Cato, “Do you think, sir, that some of your soldiers would be willing to take part? I’m writing the scene where Elizabeth addresses the troops and says those things about having the heart of a man in the weak body of a woman, and it would make a better spectacle if there were some real troops for her to address.”

Giles snorted. “Over my dead body, m’lady! They’re soldiers, not play actors.”

Phoebe was too used to Giles to take offense, but she could mount her own spirited defense. “I thought a midsummer pageant might cheer people up,” she said. “Life’s so gloomy and hard for everyone with the war, and it’s been going on for so long. Raising morale is an honorable enough task for a soldier, I would have thought.”

“You’re writing a play, Lady Granville?” Brian sounded amused.

“A pageant,” she corrected.

“Oh, I do trust you’ll find a part for me,” he said in the same tone.

“Surely you won’t still b-be here at midsummer?” Olivia said in undisguised horror, looking at him for the first time since the meal began. “That’s
months
away!”

Phoebe broke in as she saw Cato’s expression. “I’m sure I can find a part for you, Mr. Morse, if you’re still here. But what about the soldiers, my lord? Real ones would be much more effective than villagers dressed up, don’t you think?”

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed, quelling Olivia with a glare. “But I have to agree with Giles that the men have better things to do than play at amateur dramatics, however worthy the motive.”

“So, you’re an amateur playwright?” Brian pressed, before Phoebe could respond to Cato’s careless dismissal of her enterprise. “It was always quite a popular activity at court before the war. But not too many ladies indulged in the pursuit, as I recall.” He offered a humoring smile and sipped his wine.

“Phoebe is a very accomplished poet,” Olivia declared. “I dare swear no c-court poet would be ashamed to acknowledge her writing.”

“Indeed.” Brian’s eyebrows rose. “I hadn’t realized you had frequented court circles.”

“Phoebe has and she told me about the empty-headed courtiers,” Olivia said.

Brian ignored this. “Maybe you would show me some of your work, Lady Granville. I have, after all, some experience of what’s considered good poetry at court. And, of course, you must please the court if you are to succeed.”

“I write to please myself, sir,” Phoebe said with unconscious hauteur. “I have no particular desire to shine at court, if indeed the court is ever reinstated. Indeed, as Olivia said, my few visits there at the beginning of the war gave me a great dislike for its posturing and pretensions.”

Brian recognized a snub when he heard one. Strangely, instead of infuriating him, it piqued his interest. Little sister had nothing at all in common with big sister, it seemed. He
regarded her over the lip of his glass. Her hair was tumbling from its pins; the upstanding collar of the blue gown was rather limp. In fact, it almost looked as if she’d slept in it. It hadn’t looked quite so bad earlier that morning before the trip to church. He wondered what on earth she could have been doing in it.

“Perhaps you didn’t meet James Shirley,” he suggested. “A man of little or no pretension.”

“Oh, yes, I most particularly admire Mr. Shirley’s dramas,” Phoebe interrupted, forgetting her moment of irritation. “He has no pretension at all.”

“You’ll need music for your pageant, Phoebe,” Olivia said, refusing to be shut out of the conversation by Brian. “Have you thought about it?”

“Not really. I wish I could find a composer like Henry Lawes.” Phoebe passed Olivia a dish of buttered salsify.

“Ah, the incomparable Mr. Lawes,” Brian murmured. “I saw him at a performance of
Comus
once with John Milton.”

“Oh . . . you’ve met John Milton?” Phoebe’s fork hung neglected halfway to her mouth.

“The gentleman has a great conceit of himself,” Cato observed.

“Well, he’s a very fine poet,” Phoebe’s fork continued its journey. “That must be some excuse.”

“But I hardly think you’re aspiring to such exalted literary circles,” Cato commented with a slight smile.

“I might be,” Phoebe muttered.

Cato raised his eyebrows incredulously. “I confess my interest in this pageant grows apace. Perhaps I could persuade Henry Lawes to cast a glance over it with an eye to composing the music.”

“Do you know him, sir?” Phoebe regarded him across the table with a distinctly martial gleam in her eye. She had heard the sardonic note.

“Actually, quite well,” Cato said. “Before the war, I met
him many times at court. I also have some acquaintance with Mr. Milton these days. He is now staunchly for Parliament.”

“Well, you may rest assured, my lord, that I have no inflated sense of my own poetic abilities,” Phoebe stated, taking up her glass and drinking deeply.

Cato contented himself with a nod. He tossed his napkin to the table and pushed back his chair. Giles with clear relief followed suit. Talk of poets and composers was way outside his sphere of interest.

“We should be on our way, Brian. It’s an hour’s ride,” Cato said.

“Yes, of course.” Brian bowed his head in agreement. Things were moving swiftly but he was under no illusion that Cato trusted his change of heart. He would be interrogated this afternoon, but he had every confidence that he would convince his interrogators.

I
t was close to two o’clock that afternoon when Phoebe
and Olivia left the house. The sky was heavy, a black-edged gray that looked as if it held more snow. Phoebe, mindful of the morning’s accident, had changed into one of her old woolen gowns and armed herself with a stout stick with which to test out snowdrifts. They took the road into the village. It was longer than across the fields, but the fields were impassable.

The snow was thick in the woods and Phoebe plowed ahead, plunging her stick into the snow before each step. Olivia followed, carefully stepping into Phoebe’s footprints, until they emerged in the small clearing.

“Meg’s at home.” Phoebe pointed to the smoke curling from the cottage chimney.

“She hasn’t been out at all.” Olivia gestured to the virgin expanse of snow leading from the gate to the front door. Cat prints zigzagged among the bushes, but there was no
other indication that anyone had been around. “Although of c-course a broomstick wouldn’t leave tracks,” she added mischievously.

It was not a successful joke. Phoebe glared at her and stalked off up the path.

Olivia stumbled after her. “Oh, c-come on, Phoebe. It was in jest.”

“I didn’t think it was funny.” Phoebe raised her stick to bang on the door.

“I’m sorry,” Olivia said. “Forgive me?”

Phoebe glanced at her and then smiled. “Of course. Come on, let’s go in before we turn into icicles.” She banged on the door with her stick.

It was a minute or two before they heard the bar being lifted and the door creaked open. Meg, wrapped in a thick blanket, her head swathed in flannel, tried to smile and grimaced instead. She stood back, gesturing that they should come in.