The Accidental Bride (26 page)

“It didn’t suit me to do so,” Phoebe said frankly.

Cato shook his head but there was a laugh in his voice. “What a devious ragged robin I’ve taken to wife.”

“Well, when you won’t include me or confide in me, then I have to take matters into my own hands,” Phoebe responded, and now there was a distinctly martial light in her eye.

Cato frowned at this. “I give you much more rein than most wives have, Phoebe. You must know that.”

“I don’t want rein,” Phoebe flashed. “I’m not a horse. I want to be a wife in every respect. Not just in bed, or arranging your household, or—”

“I hadn’t noticed you did too much of that,” Cato interrupted dryly.

He had her there. Phoebe conceded ruefully, “Mistress
Bisset is better at it than I am. And besides, I have other important things to do.”

“Yes, like being taken up for a witch and meddling in my affairs with my snake of a stepson!”

“Oh, that’s so unjust!” she fired.

He caught her chin on his palm, lifting her face so she had to meet his eye. “I do my best to accommodate your eccentricities, Phoebe. But there are areas of my life that I have no wish to share . . . with you or with anyone. You have to understand that.”

“I don’t wish to intrude,” Phoebe said in a low voice. “But I love you.” She hadn’t meant to say it but it was done now.

Cato regarded her, an arrested look in his eye. A
woman bound in love . . .
Love. Such a wild, unruly passion.

Something hovered on the periphery of his mind. Something amorphous and warm and unnameable. “You’re very precious to me, my sweet,” he said, and kissed her. “Now, why don’t I have them heat the water in the washhouse and you can have a long soak in a tub. Then you get into bed and I’ll have a maid bring up your supper.”

Phoebe moved away from him, averting her eyes so he wouldn’t see the sheen of tears. Of course Cato wouldn’t pretend to something he didn’t feel. “A bath would help,” she said. “Then I’ll be ready for tomorrow.”

“Phoebe, you can’t seriously intend—”

“I am coming,” she stated. “Could you please ask someone to bring up the valise I had strapped to Sorrel’s saddle? It has a few necessities.”

Cato shrugged. Her obstinacy carried its own penalty. “Very well. But don’t expect any concessions.”

“I don’t!” she said with such ferocity he was taken aback. “I thought I’d made that clear, my lord.”

She was exhausted, Cato reminded himself. He turned to the door, saying over his shoulder, “You were right. I needed to know about Brian. But you have no need to worry. I have matters well in hand.”

Phoebe made no response to this confidence, and after a second, Cato left her.

W
hen Cato came to bed some considerable time later
, Phoebe seemed to be sleeping soundly. He undressed, snuffed the candle, and climbed in beside her.

With a sleepy little murmur she rolled over and reached for him as she always did when he joined her in bed.

“I see you’ve been raiding my kit,” Cato observed with some amusement. Phoebe was enfolded in one of his own crisp cambric shirts.

“My shift was sweaty and I wanted to stay fresh after my bath,” she murmured, pressing her lips to the hollow of his throat. “I wished to be fresh for you.”

“You always are,” he said with perfect truth. Fresh, surprising, beautiful. Infuriating, eccentric, stubborn . . . delightful.

He drew her beneath him.

T
he next morning Phoebe emerged from the inn just after
daybreak, her expression that of one about to face the torture chamber.

Cato was already mounted and talking with Giles Crampton and one of the troopers. Sorrel was standing at a mounting block, her rein held by one of the inn’s grooms.

Phoebe set her teeth and climbed into the saddle. It wasn’t at first too bad. Witch hazel, the hot bath, and a good night’s rest had had some benefit. She nudged the mare into a walk and came up with Cato.

“Ah, there you are.” Cato gave her a slightly distracted smile. “I thought to let you have your sleep out, so didn’t wake you when I rose myself. Did you break your fast?”

“The goodwife made me some porridge,” Phoebe answered. “How far will we ride today?”

“As far as Bishop’s Stortford.” He regarded her closely.

“The landlord here has a gig that he’s prepared to sell me. Tom has to return to headquarters, and he and Adam will escort you back to Woodstock.”

Phoebe shook her head. “I’m all right, my lord.”

Cato contented himself with a raised eyebrow, before he turned back to Tom. “Very well, Tom, then you may make all speed. Make sure the dispatch goes directly to either Cromwell or Lord Fairfax.”

“Aye, sir.” The trooper patted the breast of his jerkin, where he held the document for Parliament’s headquarters detailing Brian Morse’s latest conduct. Cato had recommended that Brian should be traced and held until Cato returned from his mission and could interrogate him himself.

Cato gave the troop the signal to move out, and Phoebe, her lips set, encouraged Sorrel into a trot to keep up.

At the end of an hour Phoebe had drifted into a trance where her physical miseries seemed inseparable from herself and from each other. She could no longer distinguish between the deep muscle aches and the raw soreness of her flesh. If she allowed herself to think of the hours stretching ahead, she knew she would weep, so she let her mind drift into a realm of soft green valleys and heather-strewn hillsides, dappled streams, and the sweet scent of new-mown hay.

When Cato drew rein, she didn’t notice. Sorrel would have trotted on without signal from her rider if Cato hadn’t reached over and taken the mare’s bridle, bringing her to a halt.

The cessation of motion shocked Phoebe out of her trance. She came back to the real world and the reality of pain with a moan.

“Come, I can’t bear to see you like this,” Cato said brusquely. “I’m going to lift you up. Help me by putting your arms around my neck.”

For a moment Phoebe looked up at him in a bewilderment that was not eased by his contradictory expression. His mouth was impatient, and yet his dark eyes were filled with concern.

“Phoebe, did you hear me?” He leaned down from his saddle. “Take your feet out of the stirrups and put your arms around my neck.”

Obediently she did so, raising her arms to clasp his neck. He lifted her bodily from the saddle and onto his own in front of him. “Sit back now and take the weight off your backside. Giles, lead the mare.”

Giles had already taken Sorrel’s bridle, and the cavalcade moved forward again.

Phoebe leaned back against Cato’s broad chest. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I really didn’t want to give up.”

He looked down at her and a slight smile touched his mouth. “You did better than I expected.”

“I’ll ride tomorrow.”

He nodded. “For an hour or so. It takes time to build up endurance, particularly,” he added with pointed emphasis, “when you have such an appalling seat.”

Phoebe didn’t protest this truth. She sat sideways on the saddle, taking the weight off her bruised flesh, and began to enjoy the scenery from a perch that was as comfortable as it was secure.

“It seems to me I have the best of both worlds this way, anyway,” she observed after a while.

“How so?” He brushed away a lock of her hair that was tickling his chin.

“I can enjoy the ride from the best possible place—as close to you as it’s possible to be. I can even hear your heart beat,” she returned with a serene smile. “Oh . . . and I won’t be tired when we stop for the night, so we’ll be able to play much more than we could last night.”

“You are incorrigible,” Cato said, but he was grinning. His encircling arm tightened for a minute. His hand brushed the swell of her breast beneath her cloak and he could feel her heart beat against his palm.

Giles, riding in silence a little to one side of them, didn’t hear the exchange, but he saw the grin and marveled at it. In
all the years he’d served him, the marquis of Granville had never grinned. He smiled, he laughed even, but
grinned?
Unheard of. And to include the woman in his expedition! That was astounding. Lord Granville never allowed anything or anyone to interfere with his military concerns . . . or never had done before, Giles amended dourly.

There was just no accounting for it.

W
hen Brian Morse discovered after a little rooting around
and the disbursement of a few coins that Cato was heading for Harwich, he was immediately intrigued. Why would one journey to Italy from Harwich? It would make much better sense to take ship from one of the southern ports, Portsmouth or Southampton.

Obviously Cato had been less than frank with him. Not that that surprised Brian in the least. It was a fair guess that Lord Granville was heading for Holland from Harwich. Most of the shipping from that port went to the Low Countries. And that raised a great many interesting possibilities. If he was intending to make contact with Walter Strickland, then it was Brian’s bounden duty to prevent it.

The king’s own agents in Rotterdam had managed to do away with two of Parliament’s envoys before they’d met up with Strickland. But they had been men of no real importance. The marquis of Granville, on the other hand, was one of the most influential members of Parliament’s high command. To get rid of him while he was on this mission would be a coup indeed.

It was a coup Brian was going to engineer. It was a gift from the devil and Brian was not about to turn it down. And to make matters even simpler, Cato was apparently not intending to take any of his own men to Holland with him, not even Giles Crampton. It was almost too good to be true.

There was something deeply pleasing about the prospect of killing two birds with one stone. By assassinating Cato,
Brian would achieve kudos among his own leaders. And he himself would then inherit the Granville title and estates. He would then bring the wealth and influence of the Granville name to the king’s side, a loss that Parliament could ill afford.

If he played his cards right, there would be a dukedom in it for Brian, once the king was restored to his throne.

And Brian would play his cards right. The only possible flaw was Phoebe. If she was breeding, he would have to get rid of her. And that, he thought, would be rather a shame. True, she’d made him lose his temper with her prissy refusal to cooperate, but he’d recovered from that now. Now he could see the possibilities. The new marquis of Granville would need a wife. Why not the present marchioness? He could knock her into shape, he was sure. And there were distinct possibilities in that voluptuous form.

Brian set off for Harwich a couple of hours after Cato. He took a different route, however, having no desire to run into his quarry. He reached Harwich on the afternoon of the third day, put up at the Pelican on the harbor, and set out on foot to discover whether Cato and his cavalcade had arrived at another of the town’s numerous inns.

A man traveling with eight troopers couldn’t arrive inconspicuously in this small port, and Brian was confident he’d run them to ground quickly.

He was in the taproom of the Ship, drinking ale and casually making inquiries, when he heard Giles Crampton’s rough Yorkshire burr in the hallway.

“Eh, goodwife, we’ve need of a decent privy chamber fer Lord Granville. The rest of us’ll settle neat enou’ in the loft, or above the stables.”

“I don’t know as Ow I’ve got a privy chamber,” the good-wife was saying as Brian slipped unobtrusively into the vast inglenook. “If’n ’is lordship wouldn’t mind sharin’ though, there’s a nice big chamber at the front. I let it out to three gentlemen at a time. Most don’t mind bundlin’.”

“Well, my wife and I do mind.” Cato’s authoritative tones chimed into the goodwife’s speech. “I’ll take that chamber and pay you well for it, mistress.”

There was a chink of coin and the goodwife said with some satisfaction, “Well, I daresay I’ll be able to move the other gentlemen, then, sir. Will ’er ladyship be wantin’ a maid to ’elp ’er?”

“No, I don’t believe so,” Cato said. “But we’re sharp set and looking forward to our supper.”

“Oh, I’ll be puttin’ a goodly supper on the table fer ye, m’lord. Tripe an’ onions, an’ a nice piece of brawn.”

“I don’t suppose you have a roast chicken? We had tripe yesterday.”

Brian listened to Phoebe’s wistful tones in astonishment. What on earth was she doing here? Cato couldn’t be intending to take her to Holland with him.

He moved further back into the inglenook. Phoebe’s presence would make no difference. Once he discovered where Cato was going, he intended to take passage on the next ship going to the same port.

When he returned from Holland, it would be with Cato’s blood on his knife.

A smile flickered over Brian’s thin mouth.

P
hoebe stood on the harbor at Harwich, drawing the
hood of her cloak closer around her face against the freshening evening breeze. It was close to seven o’clock and the sky was already darkening.

The scene on the quay was hectic as ships prepared to leave on the evening tide and light spilled from the open doors and unshuttered windows of the taverns opening onto the cobbled, fishy-smelling landing stage.

Phoebe could see no sign of Cato. He’d supped with her earlier, made gentle love to her in farewell, and had then left her at the Ship inn, saying he was going to share a final pot of ale with Giles and his men at a tavern on the quay before boarding the
White Lady
en route for Italy.

Phoebe jumped out of the way as a pair of stevedores jogged past her, laboring under their load of flour sacks piled upon their backs. The lights of the ships riding at anchor further out in the harbor cast a pale glow over the dark water.

Phoebe felt bereft and utterly alone in this purposeful bustle. She had come on impulse, wanting—no, needing—to see Cato’s ship finally depart, so that she could say one final farewell. She looked forlornly towards the taverns where Cato was presumably laughing and jesting with his men, having put aside all thoughts of the wife he’d left behind in safety in the inn. The wife who was to return with Giles Crampton to Woodstock on the morrow and await her husband’s return as patiently as any Penelope.

She looked around and saw him. Brian Morse. He was deep in discussion with two men some twenty yards away,
standing at the gangway of a small sloop. She stared at him, for a moment unable to believe her eyes. What could Brian possibly be doing here? As she gazed across at him, something changed hands, then Brian moved away from the two men. He raised his head and for one dreadful instant his eyes met Phoebe’s across the distance that separated them.

Phoebe’s stomach seemed to plunge into her boots. Had he recognized her? A cold wave of nameless panic crept up the back of her neck, shivered her scalp, brought a light dew of icy perspiration to her forehead. She felt the same terror she’d felt in the stable yard, when she’d had a glimpse of his true character beneath the urbane facade. Now she could almost fancy she could see the aura of malevolence emanating from him. It was fanciful, Phoebe knew, but she had a deep and absolute conviction of evil. Meg was always right.

Her hand instinctively went into the pocket of her cloak, closing comfortingly over the leather purse that lay heavily against her thigh. Without conscious intention she swung around to the gangway behind her leading onto the
White Lady.
It was for the moment deserted.

Phoebe darted up it, aware only of the overpowering need to get away from Brian before he saw her, if he hadn’t already done so. She told herself he couldn’t have recognized her, huddled in her cloak as she was. It wasn’t as if he could have been expecting to see her.

Once she had felt that he was within an inch of hurting her; had felt that he was absolutely capable of cold, ruthless hurting if it suited him. And just then she’d seen that same look in his eyes, despite the distance between them. Maybe he hadn’t seen her. Maybe it it wasn’t directed at her. But it terrified her nevertheless.

She reached the deck and plunged into the shadow of the deck rail. Her heart was beating far too fast, her palms clammy.

“Eh, an’ jest who might you be?”

Phoebe spun around at the voice at her elbow and found
herself face to face with a fresh-faced lad of about her own age. He stared at her curiously.

“What’s it to you?” Phoebe demanded, unconsciously lifting her chin, her voice taking on the slight chill of hauteur.

“I’m a sailor,” the lad said proudly. “An’ I works the
White Lady. An
it’s my business to watch who comes on an’ who goes off in port, see.”

Phoebe regarded him closely. “You don’t look much like a sailor to me,” she said, gesturing to his ragged britches fastened at the waist with string, his bare feet, and the threadbare shirt. “You look more like a vagabond than a sailor.”

The lad’s grimy face took on a slightly crestfallen expression. “I’m the cabin boy,” he stated. “An’ it’s my business to watch the gangplank in port.”

Phoebe considered this. Once again her hand closed over the purse in her pocket. Something was taking shape in the back of her mind, something so audacious, so exciting, she hardly dared admit it to full consciousness.

Slowly she said, “I’m Lady Granville. Lord Granville has taken passage on this ship.”

The lad’s eyes sharpened. He said, “Aye, that ’e has. But nobody’s said nothin’ about a Lady Granville.”

“No,” Phoebe said. “I don’t imagine they have.” She drew out the purse, hefting it thoughtfully in her hand. “Lord Granville isn’t exactly expecting me, but I’ll give you a guinea if you’ll show me to his cabin so I can leave a letter for him when he comes on board.”

“A guinea?” The cabin boy stared at her in wide-eyed astonishment. “An ’ole guinea.”

Phoebe nodded and loosened the purse strings. She extracted a coin and held it up so that the light from the stern lamps caught the gleam of gold. “Show me to Lord Granville’s cabin and don’t tell a soul before he comes on board, and I’ll give you this.”

The boy gazed at the coin. He licked his lips. It was more money than he’d ever seen, let alone possessed. “This
a-way.” He jerked his head towards the companionway and darted forward.

Phoebe followed him in the grip of a compulsion that made her shiver even as it enthralled her. She climbed down the narrow companionway in the wake of the lad and along a short, dark passage.

“In ere.” The lad opened a door halfway down the passage, adding helpfully, “Mind the step.”

Phoebe stepped over the high threshold into a small, cramped space. An oil lamp hung from a hook in the ceiling, throwing a shadowy light over the two narrow bunks set one atop the other in the bulwark, and illuminating the table and stool that were bolted to the floor beneath a round porthole. Cato’s portmanteau stood on the floor beneath the table.

Phoebe put the coin into the lad’s eager palm. “Just a minute,” she said, laying a hand on his scrawny arm as he made for the door again. “There’ll be another one, if you don’t say a word of this to anyone until we’re . . . we’re . . .”

She considered for an instant, then said determinedly, “Until we’re in the middle of the sea.” Phoebe had but a hazy notion of what the middle of the sea might be like, but it sounded suitably far away for her purposes.

“I thought you said you was jest goin’ to leave ’is lordship a letter.” The cabin boy frowned at her even as he clutched the coin tightly in his palm.

“Well, I’ve just changed my mind. I’m going to stay,” Phoebe said. “How long does it take to get to Italy?”

The lad shrugged. “ ’Ow should I know, never been there . . . don’t ’spect I ever will.”

“But the ship is going there now,” Phoebe said, bewildered.

He laughed raucously, as if at some trick of a fairground freak. “We’re goin’ to Rotterdam, in ’Olland, ye daft apoth!” He doubled over with a gust of exaggerated mirth.

Phoebe, however, was too incensed at this piece of information to take immediate exception to his mockery. Cato had
lied
to her. An out-and-out lie.

“The
White Lady
always goes to the Low Countries from ere,” the cabin boy continued with a most infuriating air of superiority. “We got to cross the North Sea. Can’t get to no Italy from there.”

Phoebe was silent. Geography had never been her strong suit. But
why
had Cato lied to her? He had lied to everyone, except, presumably, Giles Crampton, she thought bitterly. It was yet another example of his refusal to trust his wife, to take her into his confidence. Did he think she’d betray his secrets if he asked her to keep them? Oh, he was impossible! Infuriating! She’d done nothing to deserve such lack of confidence.

Well, that was about to change. She repeated decidedly, “Another guinea if you don’t say anything about me being here until we’re in the middle of the sea.”

The boy looked a little doubtful. “Aye,” he said slowly. “That’s all very well. But if the bosun gets to ’ear of it, I’ll get the rope’s end, I will.”

Phoebe said persuasively, “If anyone asks, I’ll say I came on board while you were looking the other way, and found my own way to my husband’s cabin.”

The boy gazed down at the coin winking in the lamplight on his palm. He put it to his mouth and bit it. The gold was hard and metallic tasting. He examined it carefully. It was round and smooth, no sign of clipped edges.

“Another one?” He raised his eyes to Phoebe’s

She nodded. “Just like that one.”

“Lord love a duck,” he muttered. It was riches beyond imagining, worth even a painful session with the rope’s end. It wasn’t as if he was letting on board a gang of ruffians. It was only his lordship’s wife, after all. No great crime. Not one to bring down drastic punishment.

“But you mustn’t say a word,” Phoebe insisted again. “Not one single word to
anyone.
You understand.”

“All right,” he said after a minute, his fingers closing over the coin. “I’d best be off now.”

He ducked out of the cabin, leaving Phoebe to look around her surroundings and wonder whether she was quite mad. When she’d left the inn, she hadn’t intended doing anything so unimaginable.

Or had she?

She looked at the purse in her hand. Why had she brought it with her if she hadn’t had some idea that it might prove useful? Why had she pawned the rings in the first place if she hadn’t envisaged doing something outside Cato’s jurisdiction?

A tremor of excitement slid down her spine. Whether she’d intended it or not, it seemed she was now set on this adventure.

Phoebe frowned around the cabin again. She had to hide herself somewhere. Cato mustn’t find her until it was too late to turn back to port. Did the two bunks mean he was sharing the cabin? That could prove a nuisance. But the cabin boy hadn’t said anything about another passenger. Either way, there wasn’t anywhere in the cramped functional space for a fugitive.

She opened the door and peered down the passage again. The only light came from the open companionway at the end. Voices mingled with running feet on the decks above her. She thought she could detect a heightened degree of urgency, as if preparations were growing close to fruition. If so, Cato would come on board within a short while. She had to find somewhere to hide.

Phoebe ventured into the corridor, closing the door gently behind her. A very narrow door in the wall opposite caught her eye. She opened it and peered into a tiny space occupied by several thick coils of rope, a bucket, and a mop. It smelled of fish and tar, with undercurrents of a more noxious odor. However, it would have to do.

She slipped inside, pulling the door to behind her. Immediately she felt as if she couldn’t breathe; the rank stench filling her nostrils made her gag. She opened the door again
quicken, to rise and fall beneath her. She found she rather liked the motion, although when she stood up, she tottered and had to grab at the cupboard door to steady herself.

She edged out of her hiding place and stood in the passage listening. Voices still called orders from above, feet still raced across the decks, but it was an orderly sound, as if the activity had settled down into an accustomed pattern.

Phoebe opened the door to the cabin and slipped inside, closing it at her back. No one had come down during her stay in the cupboard, and everything was just as she’d left it, the oil lamp throwing a swaying glow over the sparse furnishings. The ship lurched abruptly and she nearly fell against the bulkhead.

Righting herself, she looked around with rather more attention than hitherto. To her relief, she saw a commode in the far corner. She’d been puzzling about necessary arrangements on board ship, remembering the inadequate facilities at the Cotswold farmhouse. It seemed Cato had a degree of privacy in his cabin.

She took off her cloak, boots, riding habit, and britches, laying them neatly over the stool, then climbed the ladder into the top bunk. The ceiling was so low it seemed to press down upon her as she wriggled beneath the thin blanket and lay very still, feeling her body settle into the motion of the ship.

The scratchy sheet of rough calico covered a straw-filled pallet that rustled at the slightest movement. The sound of water flowing against the bulkhead and the gentle motion of the ship had a soporific effect, so that within a very few minutes, Phoebe felt her eyes growing heavy. She wasn’t sure whether they were yet in the middle of the sea, but surely they were too far from shore now for the ship to put back to harbor. Cato was stuck with her now . . . on this journey to Holland.

How could he have told her he was going to Italy? He might never have come back to her, and she would never
them, and the
White Lady
would hit the open sea. He grimaced in anticipation.

“Grog, Lord Granville?” the captain inquired as a sailor ran up the gangway to the quarterdeck bearing two steaming pitch tankards. Captain Allan had no other passengers for this crossing; his cargo was tin from the Cornish mines for the Flemish market. Lucrative enough but not as much as the delicate Delftware, Brussels lace, and Flemish wool that he hoped to bring back to the quality English markets.