The Accidental Bride (25 page)

Cato would be interested to know of his stepson’s nasty little plan. And it would give her every excuse for surprising him.

Phoebe crushed the ball of wax in her hand, kneading it once more into an amorphous shape. She dropped it into the saucer and climbed back into bed.

B
rian strode into the house the next morning and found
it abuzz. “Lord Granville is going away, sir,” Bisset informed him. “For quite some time, as I understand it.”

“Where to?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.” Bisset moved off with an air of importance.

Brian stood frowning. How was this going to affect his own plans? And why hadn’t Cato told him himself?

“Is Lady Granville in?”

“She went to the stables, I believe, sir.”

Brian headed back to the stables. Phoebe, with an expression of grim determination, was stroking the nose of a rather pretty mare.

“Ah, there you are. I was looking for you,” Brian said, dropping his voice as he came up to her. “Bisset says your husband’s going away.”

“Yes.” Phoebe nodded.

“Where to?”

“You had better ask Cato,” she replied, her tone cool as she forced herself to stroke the length of the mare’s neck. Cato hadn’t said his destination was a secret, but she had no intention of ever again confiding anything to Mr. Morse.

Brian frowned. Something was amiss. “I have the document to show you,” he said, keeping his voice low. “When does Cato leave?”

“He said in two days.” Experimentally Phoebe moved her hand up onto the horse’s withers. Sorrel turned and nuzzled her neck.

Phoebe controlled the urge to jump back and stood very still. “I wish they didn’t have such big yellow teeth,” she muttered.

Brian was growing impatient, but he continued to keep his voice at a low pitch although with an edge of urgency. “You’ll have to get the keys before he leaves. I imagine, if they’re sending him off on some mission, they’re trying to get rid of him. If they distrust him, they won’t want him around during their debates over the king’s future.”

He paused for a minute, then added softly, “They might even intend that he not return from this mission. Of course, Cato’s so stubborn he wouldn’t consider such a possibility.”

This had not occurred to Phoebe. Her hand stilled on the mare’s neck. Could Parliament be deliberately putting Cato in danger?

“It’s even more important now that you get the keys without delay.” Brian’s low insidious voice flowed over her. “We must convince Cromwell and his peers of Cato’s loyalty before it’s too late.”

What he said made sense, but Phoebe was beyond Brian’s seduction now. Somehow she would persuade Cato to listen to reason, persuade him to defend himself against these charges. Somehow she would manage to convince him that she knew what she was talking about.

“No, I’m not going to get the keys,” she said, from the
other side of the mare where she was continuing her getting-to-know-you journey.

Brian was suddenly very still. He couldn’t have lost her. Yesterday he would have sworn he had her in the palm of his hand. “What do you mean?”

Phoebe reappeared, ducking beneath Sorrel’s neck, impressed with the confidence with which she accomplished the maneuver. “It’s too dishonest,” she stated with devastating candor. “It’s a nasty, devious trick. I can’t think why I ever thought I could do it. It may be something that you could do without conscience, but I can’t. I’m not in the habit of it.”

Brian could not believe his ears. He had lost her. Without her cooperation his carefully constructed plans were in ruins. How had it happened? What had he missed? What possible mistake could he have made?

“Why, you stupid little ninny!”
he exploded in an undertone, unable to take in the depths of his disappointment. “You think you can prate ethics at
me!
What do you know of anything? You’re a pathetic, infantile fool!”

Instinctively he found the words that would hurt the most. “Look at you . . . a walking disaster, a disgrace to your sex. I tried to help you, but it’s hopeless. It would take a miracle to turn you into anything remotely approaching a
woman!
And you, you pitiable scrap of flotsam! You dare to preach to me! Who the hell do you think you are?”

Phoebe stared at him, shrinking from the ugly, twisted viciousness of his countenance. All civility, all grace, had been stripped away, and she knew she was seeing the real Brian. The Brian Meg had seen beneath the urbane surface. The Brian Olivia knew. And it was a terrifying sight. This was a man who knew no boundaries.

“You would ruin everything with your stupid childishness,” Brian raged softly. “You think for one moment that you know better than I do? Do you?” He pushed his face close to hers, spittle flying with each word.

Phoebe could find nothing to say. She felt sick. She told
herself that they were in the middle of the stable yard, surrounded by grooms and troopers. Brian might look as if he would hurt her, but he couldn’t do so, not here, not now.

“I cannot do it,” she repeated, keeping her voice steady even as she took a step back from him. “Deceit is no way to gain someone’s trust. You must surely see that.”

“You ninny! You utter fool!” he said again, but he was regaining control of himself, and biting scorn replaced the savagery of before. “I offered you a golden opportunity . . .. I should have guessed you wouldn’t have the courage or the intelligence to take it.” He spun on his heel and stalked away.

Phoebe was shaking. Maybe she’d been a little tactless but nothing she’d said warranted such a violent response.

She found she was stroking Sorrel’s neck and discovered that she was gaining some steadying comfort from the animal’s placid nuzzling. Brian Morse had had a lot more invested in his nasty little plan than he’d let on; that much was clear. So just what was it that he’d hoped to achieve with her cooperation? Cato would definitely be interested.

“Have I kept you waiting, Phoebe?” Olivia came hurrying across the cobbles. “I was saying goodbye to Meg. She says she’s going home today.”

“Yes, I know,” Phoebe said, sounding distracted. “I tried to persuade her to stay longer, but she wouldn’t.”

“So, why are we going into Witney?” Olivia turned to mount her own pony, held by a groom.

Phoebe didn’t reply immediately as she concentrated on mounting Sorrel with at least an air of confidence. She took up the reins, trying to remember Cato’s instructions.

“I need to pawn my rings again,” she said when the groom had moved away.

“Are you going to buy more c-clothes?”

“No, I need money for a journey.”

Olivia’s eyes widened. “Where are you going?”

Phoebe put a finger to her lips as their escort trotted across the yard towards them.

“Are you ready, Lady Granville?”

“Yes, indeed. Ride ahead of us if you please.”

“Two in front and two behind, m’lady,” the sergeant said. “Those are our orders. There’s no knowing what we might meet on the roads.”

Phoebe remembered the ambush on the Eynsham road and made no demur. The troopers fell into place and she urged Sorrel into a walk.

Olivia brought her pony alongside. “So, where are you going?” she prompted quietly.

“To Harwich, with Cato.”

“But why do you need money?”

“Because he doesn’t know I’m going to go with him,” Phoebe returned, a sparkle in her eyes. “And I wish to be independent for once.”

Olivia could understand this but she looked dubious nevertheless. “You’re going to surprise him again?”

“Yes,” Phoebe said firmly. “I’m going to give him the surprise of his life.”

C
ato looked up at the sound of a soft tap on the open
door of his study. “Good day, Mistress Meg.” He half rose from his chair, gesturing that she should come in.

“I’ll not keep you above a minute, Lord Granville.” Meg came towards him with brisk step. “I wish to thank you for your hospitality. I’m sure it’s not what you would have chosen to offer.” Her eyes had a twinkle that took any potential sting out of the words. “Phoebe has some of the characteristics of an avalanche on occasion.”

“Pray be seated, mistress.” Cato indicated the chair. “You’re quite recovered?”

“Oh, yes, quite, I thank you.”

Cato leaned back in his chair, turning his quill in his hand, regarding the woman keenly. “How do you think you’ll be received in the village?”

“There’ll be fences to mend,” Meg replied. “But as I told Phoebe, you don’t fight superstition by running from it. They’re ignorant folk but perhaps I can teach them something.”

“You’re a brave woman.”

Meg smiled at that. “Hardly, when I have the might of Lord Granville behind me as a protection. They’ll not touch me again.”

Cato could detect irony in both smile and tone, but he wasn’t sure how to answer it. “Then should I say you’re a forgiving woman?”

Meg inclined her head. “Maybe.” She rose from her chair. “I’ll be leaving now, my lord.”

“Just one minute.” Cato rose too. He pulled at his chin for a minute while Meg, politely patient, waited for him to gather his thoughts.

Finally he said, “I have to go on a journey. Probably of some months. Would you keep an eye on Phoebe while I’m gone? She trusts and respects you. I can think of no one else who might be able to steer her clear of pitfalls.”

Meg regarded him steadily. “Phoebe is her own woman, Lord Granville. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll give her more credit than you do. She doesn’t lack for sense.”

“I worry about her,” Cato said with a hint of desperation.

Meg paused. “I will have a care for my friend, you may rest assured.”

“I thank you,” Cato said to her retreating back. Strangely, he felt comforted. The woman had a power about her.

He pulled the bellrope and sat down again, reaching for the small knife he used to sharpen his pens.

“My lord?” Bisset bowed in the doorway.

“Ask Mr. Morse to come to me, if he’s in the house.” Cato didn’t look up from his task.

“I believe he’s abovestairs, my lord.” Bisset left with stately tread to deliver the summons.

Brian was pacing his bedchamber, trying to calm himself
after that explosion of rage. It had been a grave error, had revealed far too much to Phoebe, and somehow he had to control the damage. His plans were in ruins, and with Cato going away, time was desperately short to come up with an alternative.

Bisset’s summons was too soon. The blood was still pounding in his head and he wasn’t sure he could show a calm exterior to Cato, but he had no choice but to obey the call. He walked casually downstairs, breathing slowly and deeply, and outside the closed study door he paused, took one more steadying breath, and knocked and opened the door.

“You wished to see me, Lord Granville?”

“Yes, come in, Brian.” Cato laid down both quill and knife. Brian looked rather pale, he thought.

“There’ve been some new developments and I’m going away for several months.”

“So I heard, my lord. May I ask where you’re going?” Brian gave a slightly self-deprecating smile. “Or is it a state secret?”

“No. I’m going to Italy.”

“On a mission for Parliament, I presume.”

“You presume correctly.” Cato gave him an agreeable nod. There was no reason for Brian to disbelieve this destination. Parliament’s agents were spread all over the continent.

“If you’ve a mind to,” Cato continued gravely, “I have a mission for you too.”

“Anything I can do to prove myself,” Brian said with eager boyish enthusiasm.

“We need someone to go to London, to spend time in the taverns and clubs. We need to gather the temper of the people. With the king on his way to Scotland, it’s imperative that we discover what attitude London will take towards a Presbyterian covenant. We need someone who can assess and judge what he hears. I believe you could do that better than anyone.”

Brian bowed low. “I’m honored by your trust, sir. I’ll go and pack up my traps. I’ll be on my way within the hour.”

He hastened from the room, his expression now hard, his eyes calculating. He was not going to London. Wherever Cato was going, Brian was going too. One plan was in ruins, but he was adaptable. Another opportunity would turn up if he was ready for it.

“I
think someone’s followin us, m’lord.” Giles eased his
mount closer to Cato’s on the lane. Frowning, he glanced over his shoulder.

“I’ve ’ad the feelin’ like fer the last five miles. A pricklin’ up me back.”

“You haven’t seen anything?”

“Nah.” Giles shook his head. “It’s jest a feelin’ like.”

Cato nodded. “Let’s get around that corner and wait for them, shall we?”

“Aye.” Giles looked happier, his frown lifting. “Mebbe nothin, but we might as well ’ave a look-see.” He dropped back to give instructions to the six troopers accompanying them.

So, why would someone be following them? Cato wondered. If it was someone interested in his movements, they would surely be a little more secretive.

The eight men rounded the corner and Cato drew rein, turning his horse in the middle of the lane. Behind him Giles and the six troopers formed a crescent.

“Hands on your weapons, but no need to draw them,” Cato instructed quietly. “We don’t want to frighten an innocent party.”

He sat his horse, the picture of relaxation, one hand holding the reins resting lightly on the pommel, the other, his whip hand, resting on his thigh. Curiously he waited to see what would appear around the bend.

Phoebe and Sorrel trotted into view. Sorrel whickered nervously at the blockade in front of her and began to dance
backwards. Phoebe clung on, pressing her knees into the saddle and praying she wouldn’t tumble ignominiously into the mud in front of this astounded audience.

Somehow she managed to bring Sorrel to a halt; either that or Sorrel of her own accord decided to stop. Phoebe was not sure which. But to her unspeakable relief, they were finally still on the lane.

“You stopped,” Phoebe said with a touch of indignation. “I didn’t expect you to stop until dinnertime.”

Cato found his tongue. “What are you doing? Or is that a stupid question?”

“There was something I had to discuss with you,” Phoebe said. “So I thought I’d ride after you. I stayed quite close, only just out of sight, in case of trouble,” she added, as if this would ease any fear he might have had for her safety.

“How reassuring,” Cato murmured. “But what were you intending to do if the mare bolted with you? As I recall, it’s a habit horses have had in the past.”

“There was no question of that,” Phoebe said righteously. “I said I would be able to ride properly in two days, my lord, and I can.”

Cato shook his head. “No,” he said consideringly. “I wouldn’t dignify your seat on the back of that mare with such a description. You look like a particularly uncomfortable sack of potatoes.”

“That’s unjust!” Phoebe fired back. “Two days ago I could never have stayed on for all these miles. And she
would
have run away with me. But she hasn’t shown the slightest inclination to do so.”

“She has a particularly amiable disposition,” Cato returned. “That was why I bought her.”

“Well, it must have had
something
to do with me,” Phoebe said, aggrieved. “I’ve been thrown off horses with backs like tables and the placidity of a half-dead cow before now.”

Giles Crampton coughed. Cato glanced over his shoulder and met the open grins of the men behind him.

“Anyway,” Phoebe continued, “since I’ve come this far, I thought perhaps I would come the rest of the way. There’s something most particular I have to discuss with you, sir.”

Cato understood that he had been finessed. He could send her back with one of his men, but he realized that he had not the slightest desire to do so. Head on one side, she was regarding him with an appealing air that he could only describe as coquettish. It was a new side of Phoebe, and it entranced him. It was impossible to believe that he’d ever considered her a dull nonentity.

“We’ve ridden ten miles this morning. I intend to reach Aylesbury by noon—that’s another thirteen miles—and ride another ten miles after dinner. We will cover the same distance tomorrow and the next day.” His voice was uncompromising, revealing none of his thoughts.

Phoebe blanched. Ten miles had already left their mark. But she had made up her mind and she would not be defeated. “Do you think I can’t keep up, sir?”

“That was rather the point of my remarks,” he agreed with a cool nod.

“Well, I can,” Phoebe declared.

Cato examined her for an unnerving few minutes. She met his scrutiny steadily, and finally with a slight twitch of his lips he said, “Your friend described you as an avalanche. A remarkably accurate description.

“Gentlemen, let us continue.” Cato leaned back, took Sorrel’s bit at the bridle and drew her up beside his mount, observing almost casually, “It’s astonishing to me that in all your nineteen years, you’ve never learned to take no for an answer.”

“I really do have something very important to tell you,” Phoebe said.

“Well, it can wait until this evening.” He trotted his horse to the front of the troop, bringing Sorrel with him. “There’s no time for idle chatter now.”

Phoebe bit back a retort. He still thought he was humoring her by allowing her to come with him. It didn’t occur to him that she might have something really important and interesting to disclose. He was being an indulgent husband who, judging by the speculative gleam in his eye of a minute before, expected his indulgence to afford him some pleasure in return.

The day’s ride was a nightmare. For someone who’d never spent more than an hour on horseback, the next six hours were unrelenting torture. But Phoebe said not a word, clinging numbly to Sorrel’s reins, jouncing in the saddle when they broke out of a walk, closing her mind to the bruising soreness of her thighs and backside, and the dreadful deep ache in the small of her back.

Cato offered her neither sympathy nor an I-told-you-so exasperation. He helped her back into the saddle after the dinner break without comment, even though she was hard pressed to keep from crying out as her abused muscles were forced once again into screamingly unnatural positions.

But Cato knew exactly what she was going through. However, it was for Phoebe to say when she’d had enough; when she did, he’d arrange for her to return home with two of the troopers as escort. The journey took them through many small towns where it would be possible to acquire a gig or trap, and she could go back to Woodstock in easy stages.

He waited all afternoon for her to throw in the sponge, but she never did, merely sat in white-faced, tight-lipped endurance. He couldn’t help admiring her stubborn fortitude even though he deplored it. It was ridiculous for her to suffer like this. But when they stopped for the night, she would see reason, he was certain of it.

Phoebe fell into his arms when, just before dusk, he helped her to dismount in the stable yard of a small inn in the village of Aston Clinton. But she refused his arm and walked stiffly into the inn although every muscle shrieked in rebellion.

“I’ve a private chamber over the washroom, m’lord, if that’ll do ye,” the landlord offered. “Otherwise, it’s jest the loft above the stables. We don’t get much call for gentryfolk wantin’ beds fer the night.”

In any other circumstances the loft would have suited Cato as well as it suited his men, but Phoebe’s presence altered matters.

“I don’t mind where it is!” Phoebe declared, speaking for the first time in hours, in a tone ringing with desperate frustration. “Just show me to it.”

The landlord bowed and hastened down the passage, through the kitchen, and up a narrow wooden staircase at the rear. The small chamber was thick with the smell of lye soap from the great cauldrons boiling below, but it had a good-sized bed with a mattress stuffed with horsehair. Phoebe dismissed her escort with an inarticulate wave before falling facedown on the bed, smothering her groans in the patchwork quilt.

She had no idea how much time had passed before she heard the door open and Cato’s unmistakable steady tread on the creaking floorboards.

“I’m not asleep,” she mumbled. “I’m ready to come down for supper.”

“We’ll see about that in a minute,” he said easily. Something clinked as he set it on the floor.

Phoebe turned her head, forcing herself to open leaden eyes as she attempted to struggle upright. A hand between her shoulder blades pushed her down again.

“Lie still, Phoebe. I’m no leech and can’t emulate your friend’s physician skills, but I’ve a trick or two for easing certain ills.” His voice was light, a little amused, perhaps, but Phoebe found it as soothing as a dock leaf on a nettle sting.

He pulled off her boots as she lay across the bed, then tossed up the skirts of her riding dress and expertly reached beneath her for the buttons of her britches at her waist. He peeled them down and tossed them to the floor.

Phoebe gave a soft sigh of relief as the cool air laved her sore and burning flesh.

“Dear God!” Cato exclaimed softly as he surveyed the damage. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“There wasn’t any need to say anything,” Phoebe insisted. “I was perfectly all right.”

He shook his head in disbelief as he dipped a towel in the steaming water in the pail he’d brought up with him. He wrung it out and laid it across the small of her back.

“Oh,” Phoebe mumbled in almost disbelieving relief as the heat from the towel began to unlock the tight ache.

Cato uncorked a small leather vial of witch hazel and gently smoothed it across her buttocks and down her thighs, before applying more hot towels.

“Oh, that feels wonderful.” Phoebe stretched her arms over her head, relaxing as the heat seeped into the soreness.

“Tomorrow you can rest here and then the next day Adam and Garth will escort you home. I’ll purchase a gig so—”

“No!” Phoebe turned over, scattering hot towels as she sat up. “No, I will not go home, Cato. You said I could accompany you to Harwich and I
will.
I’m just a little sore. It’ll go away when my muscles become accustomed. And I’m perfectly capable of keeping up tomorrow.”

Cato wrung out another hot towel. “Don’t be ridiculous, Phoebe. Lie down again. You’re one big bruise from the small of your back to your knees. You can’t possibly ride another yard.”

“I can and I will,” she stated flatly. “It’s not for you to say what I can manage and what I can’t.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” Cato raised an eyebrow. “Since this is a military mission, it most certainly is for me to say. Let’s have no more foolishness, Phoebe. You had your way for a day, but that’s enough now.”

Phoebe climbed gingerly off the bed, shaking down her skirts. “Brian Morse says he has a document from the king that gives conclusive evidence that the king has no intention
of agreeing to the Scots’ demands,” she stated. “That’s what I came to tell you.”

Cato stood with the towel still in his hands. “You’ve talked with Brian about this?”

“Yes. And also about why Cromwell and some others doubt your commitment . . . and . . .” she went on in a rush, seeing him about to interrupt. “And why you won’t defend yourself against those charges. Perhaps they’re sending you on this mission to get rid of you. Perhaps they don’t want you ever to come back.”

“How dare you discuss me and my concerns with Brian . . . or indeed with anyone!”

“I didn’t discuss them with Brian, he discussed them with me.” Phoebe met his gaze steadily.

Cato regarded her in frowning silence, then the anger in his eyes faded, to be replaced by something hard and bright that Phoebe thought was even more menacing than anger. He dropped the towel into the bucket and went to the door. He bellowed down the stairs, “Landlord, bring me up a pint of canary sack and two cups.”

He turned back to Phoebe. “All right. Now you may tell me exactly what went on between you and Brian. Every word, every gesture. You will leave nothing out.”

His voice and that stony light in his eyes chilled her. Carefully Phoebe sat down on the bed. “Where shall I begin?”

“At the beginning.”

Phoebe was searching for the right point when the landlord labored up the stairs with a jug of sack and two pewter cups.

“Ye’ll be wantin’ supper, sir?” Puffing, he set the jug and cups down on a rickety stool in the corner of the chamber. “The wife’s done a nice jugged hare, an’ there’s a good morsel o’ tripe.”

He wiped his brow with a soiled neckerchief. “Quite warm ’tis fer April.”

“Aye,” Cato agreed shortly. “We’ll sup anon.”

“Right y’are, sir.” The man bent his corpulent frame in the semblance of a bow and backed out.

Cato went to latch the door, then he poured sack into two cups, handed one to Phoebe, and ordered curtly, “Begin.”

Phoebe left nothing out, except for how close she had nearly come to agreeing to help with Brian’s plan. Just thinking about it brought a cold sweat to her brow. She certainly didn’t want Cato to know of it.

Cato listened for the most part in silence, occasionally interjecting a question. But Phoebe was relieved to see his demeanor change, and she sensed he was no longer angry with her.

When she’d fallen silent, he nodded thoughtfully. “So, it’s as I suspected all along.”

“What is?”

Instead of answering, Cato asked with a slightly quizzical smile, “Why did you wait until now to tell me this? You could have told me anytime in the last two days, before I left, could you not?”