The Accidental Bride (17 page)

“Well, where do I put my hands if I don’t hold the pommel?”

“You hold the reins loosely, fingers like this.” He reached up and grabbed her hands, roughly adjusting her fingers. “The reins have to lie just so. D’you see?”

Sorrel, taking advantage of the break in the proceedings, bent her head to crop the grass, and Phoebe grabbed the pommel again with another cry of alarm as the mare’s neck offered a glossy slide to the ground.

“Pull her head up,” Cato said tautly.

“It won’t come,” Phoebe said as she gave a little tug on the reins. “She’s not going to take any notice of me.”

“No, of course she’s not if you sit there like a blancmange. You have no more backbone than a vanilla custard.” Cato put his hand against her spine. “Sit up straight!”

Grimly Phoebe straightened her spine against his hand.

“Now take a firm hold of the reins and pull her head up. She needs to know who’s master.”

“Oh, I think she knows that already,” Phoebe muttered
again, giving a tentative tug on the reins. To her relief, Sorrel had decided she’d had enough of the icy grass and lifted her head apparently to order.

“That’s better. Now we’ll try a trot.” Cato stepped back again, paying out the leading rein. “You have to rise up in the stirrups . . . no, for heaven’s sake. What’s the matter with you? Feel the rhythm of the horse. Can’t you
feel
it?”

Phoebe could feel it in her teeth. She couldn’t imagine a more uncomfortable, unnatural motion for a human to be involved in.

“This is just ridiculous,” Cato declared, drawing Sorrel to a halt again. He came back towards her. “I have never seen anyone so completely at odds with a horse. I have been trying to explain—”

“No, you haven’t. You’ve been shouting at me!” Phoebe cried, now pushed beyond bearing. “I’m doing the best I can, but I take leave to tell you, my lord, that you’re a horrid teacher! You have no patience at all! No one could learn anything from you.”

Cato was taken aback. He had always been the soul of patience, an impeccably understanding teacher. “That’s nonsense,” he said. “You’re just not concentrating.”

“Oh, I
am!
And it’s not nonsense.” Phoebe’s eyes were filled with angry tears. “If I must do this, I want someone else to teach me.” Impulsively she kicked her feet free of the stirrups and tumbled from the mare’s back.

Cato caught her as she half fell, half scrambled from the saddle. “For God’s sake, girl! What the devil d’you think you’re doing? That’s no way to dismount. If you slip, the horse might accidentally kick you or trample you.”

“Oh!”
It was too much. Phoebe planted her hands on his chest and pushed him away with all her strength. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said!” she exclaimed. “Why must you scold and command all the time? You’re just a damned tyrant!” She glared at him, her eyes still sheened with furious tears.

Cato was reduced to astonished silence. He could still feel the pressure of her hands on his chest as she’d thrust him from her.

As he stood trying to make sense of her outburst, Phoebe turned and marched towards the paddock gate.

“Phoebe!” He dropped the leading rein and went after her. “Just where do you think you’re going?” He caught her, spinning her round to face him. He cupped her chin on his palm and tilted her face up so she had to look at him. “You don’t swear at me and shove me away, and then stomp off without a word of explanation.”

Phoebe’s temper was rarely aroused and always short-lived. “You made me so angry,” she said, swiping the back of her gloved hand over her damp nose. “I was doing the best I could, and you know how scared I am. And all you could do was criticize and command. You didn’t give me one word of encouragement. I don’t know how you can expect anyone to learn anything like that.”

“That’s beside the point! How dare you swear at me?”

“You were doing everything but swearing at
me,”
Phoebe pointed out, the fire still in her eyes.

Cato hesitated, looking down into her upturned countenance. He hated leaving things half done, but Phoebe’s expression was thoroughly unyielding. Reluctantly he said, “Very well, we’ll stop for today. You’ve obviously had enough for the first lesson. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

“Must we?” Phoebe groaned. “Can’t you see it’s pointless?”

“No, I can’t,” he said shortly, releasing her chin. “You will learn to ride, if it takes me a year.”

“Then you owe me a riding habit,” Phoebe declared. “A riding habit for a riding lesson is what you said. And if I’ve got to go on with this torture, then you have to keep your promise.”

Cato would never renege on a debt. “Very well. We will ride into Witney and you may have your habit.” He turned from her and went over to fetch the mare, once more placidly
cropping the grass where it poked through the thin crust of snow, all that remained of the earlier storm.

Phoebe watched him take up the reins, and had a sudden awful thought. “I’m not ready to ride all that way on my own.”

“Oh, believe me,” Cato said with a short laugh, “I know that. You may ride pillion with me.”

A
n hour later Cato lifted her down from his charger in
the stable yard of the Hand and Shears. “You know your way to the dressmaker’s, I assume?” He reached into his pocket and drew out a leather pouch.

“Yes, it’s on High Street,” Phoebe replied.

Cato handed her his purse. “There’s close to thirty guineas in there. It should be sufficient.”

“Thirty guineas!” Phoebe’s jaw dropped as she felt the weight of the purse. It would buy half a dozen muskets and goodness knows how many buff leather jerkins. “May I spend all that?”

“Judiciously,” he said with a slight smile. “I doubt you’ll bankrupt me.”

Phoebe considered. There was no reason why only she should benefit from this largesse. “The dressmaker has a gown that Olivia loved,” she said. “Orange and black. It would look splendid on her.”

“Olivia wishes to wear an orange and black gown?” Cato tried to imagine his solemn and intense daughter in such a frivolous garment.

“Yes, the color suits her beautifully. I was wondering . . . well, perhaps you could buy it for her. Ellen could make adjustments to the fit. It could be her birthday present.” Phoebe was warming to her theme. “It’s her birthday next month, you know.”

“Uh . . . yes, I did know that,” Cato responded. “I’m not in the habit of forgetting important dates.”

“Oh, I wasn’t saying you were,” Phoebe assured him hastily. “I just thought to give you an idea in case you didn’t have one.

“How kind,” Cato murmured.

“May I purchase it for her?”

“You may. Just make sure that what you choose for yourself has some practical application. I’ll bespeak a private parlor in the inn here. Try not to keep me waiting too long.”

“These things can take time,” Phoebe said, but she was speaking to his back as he went in search of ale.

An hour later Phoebe returned to the Hand and Shears. “Where’s Lord Granville?” she demanded of the landlord.

“Allow me to escort you, my lady.” The man bowed low with a deference that made Phoebe grin. For once she felt like the marchioness of Granville. She tossed her head in its fine plumed new hat and followed the landlord with regal dignity.

He threw open a door on the first landing. “Lady Granville, my lord.”

Cato, deep in thought, was in a chair before the fire, his feet propped on the andirons, his hands curled around a tankard of ale. He turned his head, then rose slowly to his feet.

“Well, my lady, you’ve certainly not wasted your time.”

Phoebe glowed. “Isn’t it handsome?” She stepped into the chamber, patting the folds of the dark green broadcloth skirt. She gave a little tug to the fitted jacket as it sat on her hips. “The silver lace was very expensive, but the dressmaker said it was the height of fashion.”

“Fashion does tend to be expensive,” Cato agreed. This incarnation of his wife he could not fault. She cut an impeccably elegant figure.

“And the britches are a perfect fit. Wasn’t that lucky?” Phoebe pivoted and was about to haul up the back panel of the skirt when she realized the landlord still stood in the door, rather wide-eyed. “Thank you, mine host,” she said loftily and waited until he’d bowed himself out.

Then she scooped up the rear panel. “Do they look all right, my lord?”

Cato considered that his wife’s voluptuous curves delineated by the britches constituted a sight to be kept for his eyes only. He said repressively. “It’s more a question of how do they feel? No one’s going to see them, I trust.”

“I suppose not.” Phoebe peered over her shoulder. “Do you think my backside’s too big?”

Cato briefly closed his eyes. “There’s a time and a place for all subjects, but this is neither the time nor the place for that one.”

“Oh. I just wondered,” she said, allowing the skirt to fall back. “I’m not the same shape as Diana.”

“No,” he agreed dryly. “Come and eat.” He went to the table set with cold meat, bread, and cheese. “Shall I carve you some ham?”

“Thank you,” Phoebe said. Not a subject to be pursued, clearly, but he might have given her some kind of disclaimer. “I purchased the gown for Olivia,” she said. “But the dressmaker wished to add some more lace to the collar, so she’ll send it to the manor when it’s finished.”

“Good,” Cato said.

They were almost at the end of their meal when the landlord knocked at the door. “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord, but there’s soldiers in the taproom who’ve jest outrun a raidin’ party of deserters from the king’s army. The deserters were in search of plunder . . . well armed, they say.” He adjusted his cravat with an air of importance. “Thought you might like to know, sir.”

“You thought right,” Cato said. “My thanks.” He rose from the table. “Finish your meal, Phoebe. I need to talk to these men.” He left her as he spoke, and Phoebe looked down at her plate of ham with a moue of distaste.

She seemed to have no appetite anymore. And it wasn’t the prospect of skirmishers on the road. That held no terrible fears, at least not in Cato’s company. But why did he always
relegate her to some fuzzy nest where the hard realities of life weren’t to intrude? Had he learned nothing about her?

In the taproom, Cato listened to the troopers account. Ordinarily a party of disaffected royalist soldiers, one of the many who’d taken to the country roads around the city in search of plunder, would have caused him little concern. His bay charger could outrun almost any horse in the country. But with a pillion passenger, one who was terrified of horses, things could be a little more difficult.

He gestured to the landlord. “Have my horse saddled and ask Lady Granville to meet me in the stable yard.” He counted out coins and tossed them onto the counter. “Gentlemen, I’m in your debt.”

“Watch for them on the Eynsham road, sir.”

“Aye. And have a drink on me.” Cato raised a hand in farewell and left the taproom amid a chorus of goodwill.

Phoebe, obeying the summons, emerged into the stable yard. Cato looked her over. “In that habit, you’ll be able to ride astride the pillion pad now. We’ll be able to make more speed.”

“Because of the renegades?”

“Perhaps,” he said, helping her onto the horse. He mounted in front of her.

Phoebe slipped her hands beneath his cloak and gripped his belt. She felt much more secure riding astride, and there was something very solidly comforting about Cato’s back. She leaned forward and rested her forehead for an instant between his shoulder blades.

T
he shot crossed the bay’s withers just as they were
approaching the village of Eynsham. It was so close it almost ruffled the animal’s mane, but the charger was accustomed to the fire of a battlefield and didn’t so much as start in alarm.

Phoebe didn’t immediately realize what had happened. She heard the crack and the whine but for a minute couldn’t place the sound. Then there came a bloodcurdling shriek of triumph, and a party of men broke from the trees on the path just behind them.

“What is it? Is it the deserters?” Phoebe gasped, swiveling to look over her shoulder.

“I imagine so,” Cato said, sounding utterly calm. “I’ve been expecting them these last two miles. Hold on tight now, because we’re going to outrun them.”

Phoebe circled his narrow waist and clung on as the bay broke into a gallop. Another musket shot whistled close to Phoebe’s ear, and she couldn’t hold back a little scream.

“There’s nothing to be alarmed about,” Cato said, as coolly as before, over the thundering of the bay’s hooves on the lane.

“There isn’t?” Phoebe found that hard to believe, but Cato’s calm was infectious. She glanced over her shoulder again. “Some of them have gone off into the field at the side.”

“I was afraid of that. They’re going to try to cut us off at the corner.” Cato abruptly swung the bay to the left.

Phoebe stared at the massive hedge looming up before them. There was no way through it. And then she understood. They were going over it.

“Oh God!” she whispered, closing her eyes tightly, burying her face against Cato’s back, her hands gripping his belt at the front so that she felt as if her body was an extension of his.

The bay rose into the air. Phoebe’s stomach dropped, her gut turned to water. She bit her lip and tasted blood. The hedge scraped the bay’s belly as he soared over. His back hooves caught the top and then he thundered down into a stream the other side of the hedge. Icy water flew upward, soaking the hem of Phoebe’s skirt as the animal stumbled to his knees.

Cato hauled him up and the bay struggled onto the bank. Cato swore when he realized the horse was limping. There were shouts from the far side of the hedge, but their pursuers were clearly not going to follow them over the jump.

Cato glanced around. There was a copse at the back of the field. Their attackers might well give up, assuming their quarry would be well away by now, but then again they might seek a way around the hedge. From the copse he’d be able to hold them off. The bay could walk, but nothing faster.

Cato dismounted, took the bridle, and led the animal towards the copse.

“Should I get down too?” Phoebe asked, automatically grabbing for the pommel as she found herself unsupported atop the great horse.

“No,” he said. “I don’t want you running off.”

“But where d’you think I’d go?” Phoebe looked anxiously over her shoulder in search of pursuit.

“Knowing you . . . anywhere,” he said.

“That’s unjust,” Phoebe accused.

“Is it?” Cato gave a short laugh. “Just sit still. If you wriggle, it’ll aggravate his limp. When we get into the copse, I’ll have a look and see what the damage is.”

“But what if they follow us?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Cato sounded to Phoebe as if it were a matter of sublime indifference whether a pack of murdering deserters pursued them or not.

The bay limped into the gloom and concealment of the copse. Cato led him into the center and stopped. He glanced around, assessing the situation, then he looked up into the spreading branches of an old conifer. “All right, now. Phoebe, I want you to climb up there.”

Phoebe looked upward. “Why? Because you’ll know where I am?”

“That too,” Cato responded with a dry smile. “But also because you’ll be safe out of the way if those bastards do follow us. And while you’re up there, if you go high enough you’ll be able to tell me if they come into the field.” He reached up to lift her to the ground.

“I knew you’d find I could be useful if you thought about it,” Phoebe remarked. She looked up at the tree. “I just wish I was wearing one of my old dresses, though.” She brushed at her new riding habit. “My skirts are all wet from the stream, and now they’re going to get dirty up the tree.” She gave a philosophical shrug.

She took off her hat and cloak and laid them on the ground, then surveyed the tree again a mite dubiously. The bottom branch was a long way off the ground. “You’ll have to boost me up. If I can reach that bottom branch, I think I can climb up the rest of the way.”

“Get on my shoulders.” Cato knelt and held up his hands so that she could hold them as she clambered onto his shoulders.

“Aren’t I hurting you?”

“No.” He stood up slowly, transferring his hands to her waist to balance her. When he was standing, Phoebe could reach the bottom branch easily. She scrambled into the tree and went on up, heedless of the fir tree’s prickly greenery.

“What can you see?” Cato called softly.

“Nothing . . . oh, yes, I can. There’s two of them in the field.”

“Well, tell me if they come in this direction.” Cato turned
to the bay and began to run his hands down the animal’s forelegs. He could feel nothing there and turned to the rear limbs. The right fetlock was hot to the touch, and he swore under his breath. The bay wouldn’t make it home to Woodstock with such a strain.

He straightened and looked around the darkening copse. They could hardly spend the night here. He could see but one option and it wasn’t one that appealed. “What’s happening, Phoebe?”

“There’s about six of them in the field now, but they’re just milling around. It’s getting quite dark.”

“Mmm.” Cato took a brace of pistols from the straps buckled to his saddle. “Stay right where you are. I’m going to get rid of them.”

“But there’s six of them and only one of you,” Phoebe pointed out.

“I assure you that I’m more than a match for that rabble,” Cato told her with some considerable scorn. He walked away towards the outskirts of the copse.

For some reason Phoebe had little doubt that despite the odds her husband would make short work of the opposition. She watched from her perch, interested rather than frightened. Then came the sharp crack of a pistol. One of the men in the field dropped to his knees with a cry, a hand pressed to his shoulder. The others gazed around in confusion. There was a second shot, and another fell.

The remaining four took to their heels and ran as if all the devils in hell were in pursuit.

Phoebe applauded and scrambled back down the tree, reaching the ground just as Cato reappeared, the still-smoking pistols hanging casually from his hands.

“What cowards they were! But you’re a wonderful shot,” Phoebe said in awe.

Cato looked surprised rather than gratified by the compliment. “Did you doubt it?”

“Well, no, not really. But I’ve never seen you in battle before.” She gathered up her hat and cloak.

“That was hardly a battle,” Cato corrected. He stood for a minute in thought, whistling idly through his teeth. There really wasn’t an alternative.

“I think the bay will be able to carry you. It’s only about a mile.”

“What is?”

“Cromwell’s headquarters. We’ll spend the night there. It’s a damnable nuisance, but I don’t see any option tonight. The bay will need to rest that fetlock for at least a week, so I’ll pick up another horse in the camp to get us home tomorrow.” He slid his pistols back into the saddle straps.

Phoebe absorbed this information. “Are there any women in the camp?”

“None that you’ll be consorting with,” Cato said shortly. “Mount up, now.” He cupped his palm for her foot.

“Whores, are they?” Phoebe hauled herself inelegantly into the bay’s saddle. With only one rider, there was no need to use the pillion pad.

“Camp followers,” Cato agreed, taking hold of the bridle at the bit. “And,” he continued with some force, “you will steer clear of them and speak only to those people to whom I present you. Indeed, it would please me if you didn’t speak at all unless you’re in my company. Do you think you could manage that?”

“But why?” Phoebe was bewildered at this abrupt and rather harsh turn to the conversation.

“Because, my dear girl, you have the most exasperating habit of getting involved in unsavory situations,” he informed her. “I am beginning to understand that you don’t seem to be able to help it, but I dread to think what you could get up to in an army camp. I’m not even sure what I’m going to do with you . . . where I’m going to put you.”

Phoebe didn’t bother to defend herself. It seemed he was
thinking of Meg, and she had no desire to reopen that subject. When someone was so patently wrong, you didn’t argue with them. “But won’t I stay with you?” she asked mildly.

“You’ll have to, I suppose. But we live a communal existence in the house. It’s not arranged for privacy.” He led the bay out of the copse, in the opposite direction from the field and the wounded men.

Phoebe said no more. She found the idea of spending the night in an army camp intensely interesting, but if Cato realized that, he’d probably be even more disagreeable.

It was almost full dark when they turned through the gates of the Cotswold stone farmhouse that served as Cromwell’s headquarters. The tented camp spread out across the surrounding farmland, and lamps and fires sparked through the trees. The strains of a fife and the martial beat of a drum drifted on the frosty air.

Phoebe looked around curiously from her high perch. She was no longer gritting her teeth in fear and was sitting quite relaxed as the bay limped slowly up the driveway. He seemed to know where he was, and raised his head and whickered hopefully.

Cato patted his neck. “Not long now, old boy.”

The animal turned and nuzzled into Cato’s shoulder before picking up his pace a little.

The farmhouse was a squat, square, two-story building of yellow Cotswold stone. A courtyard in front was formed by outbuildings on two sides and the house itself at the rear.

Men were moving purposefully around the courtyard, carrying sacks, loading and unloading carts, under the flickering lights of pitch torches. Cato hailed a soldier, who immediately dropped what he was doing and came hurrying over, offering a brisk salute.

“Yes, m’lord.” His eyes darted once to Phoebe, then returned to the marquis.

“My horse is lame. Take him to the stables, have them
poultice the fetlock and give him a bran mash. The poultice is to be changed every hour throughout the night. Understand?”

The soldier listened to the crisp instructions and saluted again before taking the bay’s bridle from Cato, who reached up to help Phoebe to the ground. The soldier glanced at her more openly now and with unfeigned admiration.

Phoebe responded with one of her customary friendly smiles. The soldier grinned back. Cato took her elbow and said briskly, “Come.”

He hurried her across the court to the house. “It’s inevitable that you’ll draw attention, Phoebe, but there’s no need to invite it,” he said curtly.

“I didn’t realize I was,” she responded. “I didn’t speak to him. I only smiled at him after he’d started looking at me.” She paused to look around, fascinated by the scene.

“There are a lot of things you don’t realize,” Cato said. She had no idea of the effect her lushly sensual appearance was going to have in this world of an army camp.

He put a hand on the small of her back and propelled her in front of him to the front door of the house.

The man guarding it jumped to attention and flung open the door. Phoebe found herself in a beamed, stone-flagged hall that took up the entire ground floor of the house. It was filled with men, most of whom were sitting on benches along a long plank table in the center of the room. Great smoking platters of meat and leather flagons of wine were on the table.

“Cato!” someone bellowed from one end of the table. “Welcome, man! We weren’t expecting you.” A tall man pushed back the bench and stood up, coming over to them, his ale mug still in his hand.

“Aye, my horse went lame after an encounter with some deserters, and I was afraid we’d be benighted.” Cato shook the man’s hand. “We’ll seek shelter here till morning, Oliver.” He
turned to Phoebe, who was unclasping her cloak. “This is General Cromwell, Phoebe. Oliver, may I present my wife.”

Phoebe curtsied. So this was Oliver Cromwell. He was ill dressed, she thought, in a very plain suit of poor cut and material. His linen was grimy and there was a speck of blood on his collar band.

“Lady Granville, I bid you welcome,” he said with a short bow. He had a grating voice and his countenance was rather red and seemed swollen to Phoebe. She wondered if it was drink. He certainly cut a poor figure beside Cato. She took off her hat and stood a mite awkwardly, unsure what to do next.

“We’re ill equipped to entertain a lady,” the general continued, “but come to the table. You’ll be glad to sup, I’ll be bound.”

“Aye, we’re famished.” Cato took Phoebe’s cloak and hat and tossed them both over a settle close to the fire, before urging her towards the table. “Gentlemen, may I present my wife.” He moved her in front of him as they reached the table. The man gathered there all half rose from their benches, nodding to Phoebe, who curtsied shyly.