The Accidental Bride (6 page)

His first wife, Brian Morse’s mother, had been a widow, and the wedding night had been notable mostly because of his own inexperience. At seventeen he’d had relatively few sexual encounters, and all of those had been mere fleeting grapples leading to a short burst of satisfaction. He had had no idea of how to please a woman.

Olivia’s mother and then Diana had both been virgin on their wedding night. And both nights had brought little satisfaction to any of them. On both occasions he’d tried without success to please them. Olivia’s mother, Nan, had tried to disguise her dislike of the conjugal bed. Their marriage had been a deeply affectionate one, but Nan had never enjoyed the hungry grapplings of sex. Diana had never even tried. She had simply performed her duty.

It seemed that women of breeding, the women who became wives, disliked bedsport, and Cato had learned not to expect the uninhibited responses he enjoyed on occasion with women for whom lusty sex was both profession and pleasure. He had learned not to linger.

He turned away and eased off his boots against the bootjack.

Phoebe felt the first wash of disappointment. He hadn’t said anything to her. He’d just looked at her in that speculative,
almost cold manner, as if sizing her up. Then he’d turned from her as if finding her wanting.

She watched as he removed the emerald green doublet and threw it carelessly onto a chair. He wore no sword, only a small dagger sheathed at his belt. He unfastened the belt and tossed it onto the chair. His long, full britches of the same velvet as the doublet were fastened below the knee with wide black ribbons. She watched as he unbuttoned them at the waist, bent to unfasten the ribbons, and pushed them off his hips, stepping out of them in one fluid movement.

And now Phoebe was holding her breath. He glanced over at her as he stood in his knee-length drawers, stockings, and white silk shirt with its full lace-edged sleeves. Phoebe’s gaze was riveted on his throat, on the pulse beating at its base. She was aware of the expanse of his chest beneath the thin silk. Her eyes slid timorously down to his hips, to the bulge clearly visible beneath the drawers. She bit her lip.

Cato moved swiftly and blew out the candles, plunging the chamber into darkness lit only by the fire. Then he threw off the rest of his clothes. His body was in deep shadow as he approached the bed. Reaching out, he drew the bed curtains tight, so that no chink of light entered the enclosed space.

The thick feather mattress yielded to his weight. Phoebe could make out nothing in the darkness. She wished she could see him. She’d wanted to know what he looked like without his clothes. But it seemed these couplings took place in the dark.

She could feel him above her now, though. Could feel the warmth emanating from his body. She could distinguish the dark shape looming in the darker shadows as he knelt over her. She wanted to touch him. Tentatively she raised her hand, laid it on his chest.

Cato didn’t even notice the fluttering caress. “It will be over soon,” he murmured. “I don’t want to hurt you, but it’s inevitable the first time. Lie still and try to relax.”

He didn’t want her to touch him. He didn’t want to touch
her except where it was strictly necessary. Surely that wasn’t right. It just couldn’t be! Confusion and protest welled deep within Phoebe even as he moved her thighs apart.

The sharp pain of penetration made her cry out. He whispered to her, promising that it would be over in a minute. He moved once or twice within her, then withdrew with a clear and obvious sigh of relief. He rolled away from her and there was silence.

That was it!
Phoebe lay still in shocked dismay. That was all there was to it . . . to this happening she’d imagined, fantasized about, dreaded, longed for. Just that in and out and then
nothing!
It wasn’t supposed to be like that. She knew with every fiber of her being that it wasn’t. Was it that he found her so unappealing, so unattractive, this man who’d had Diana in his bed, that he obviously couldn’t endure to spend more than the necessary seconds with her? And once she conceived, he wouldn’t even want to do that.

She lay rigid under the wash of outraged frustration. She wasn’t Diana, but she had so much to give . . . so much more than her sister had ever offered anyone! But Cato was blind to what lay beneath what he saw.

Cato lay beside her rigid frame feeling like a brute. He heard the outrage in her silence. The act had obviously shocked her. Had no one prepared her? He felt as if he’d violated her . . . raped her . . . and yet such a concept was ridiculous in the marriage bed.

His mouth set in a thin line as he lay in the darkness. It was done now. And this union, distasteful though it was to both of them, would bring him a son. As soon as that was achieved, he would leave his wife alone.

He thought she was asleep now. The rigidity seemed to have left her, and her breathing had deepened. It had been close to two years since he’d shared his bed with a woman. Diana had been ill for many months before her death. Paradoxically in the circumstances, he found it rather pleasant to have a warm body so close to him.

He drifted to sleep while the sounds of revelry from downstairs continued until well into the night.

When Phoebe awoke in the morning, she was alone in the big bed. And when she went downstairs, there was no sign of her husband and no indication in the quiet, orderly house that she had been married the previous day.

Even her father had left without so much as a word of farewell. Gone back about the business of the war, happy to leave his daughter in the charge of her husband—in more ways than one, Phoebe thought with a bitter little smile. His daughter was no longer
his
expense.

“T
hat’s the last one, Granny!” Phoebe threw the last cabbage
from the trench into the basket and straightened her aching back. She leaned on the spade and pushed her hair out of her eyes with a gloved hand. The day was sunny, and despite the cold Phoebe had worked up quite a sweat digging up Granny Spruel’s winter cabbages from the straw-lined trench where they’d been stored in the autumn. Mud from the glove mingled with the dew on her brow and streaked down her cheek, but she didn’t notice.

“Eh, lass, you’ve got a right good heart on ye,” the elderly woman said. “With the lads at the war, there’s no one to ’elp a body these days.”

“Any news of your grandsons?” Phoebe hoisted the basket and set off up the garden path towards the kitchen door.

“Nothin’ since afore Christmas.” Granny Spruel followed Phoebe into the kitchen. “Set ’em down in the pantry, dearie . . .. A fellow what was comin’ through said he’d met up with Jeremiah down in Cornwall somewhere. Fightin’ was somethin’ awful, he said. But Jeremiah was still upstandin’ when ’e left him.”

“They’re saying there’s no support left for the Royalists in Cornwall,” Phoebe said, returning from the pantry. “They’ve practically given up. I’m sure you’ll be seeing your grandsons back again soon.”

“Aye, we can but ’ope and pray, dearie. Ye’ll have a slice of my fruitcake, now, won’t you? And a cup of cider?” Granny Spruel bustled to the dresser and lifted the lid on an earthen
crock. She took out a cloth-wrapped cake and cut a hefty wedge. “Help yourself to cider, dearie.”

Phoebe did so and took a healthy bite of cake. She knew that while her physical assistance was welcomed by Granny and the other women of the village left without a male back to aid them, her company was as important for the elderly women who craved a chat in their long, lonely days. Younger women had no time to chat, left as they were with broods of small children and all the work of house, garden, and smallholding to take care of. So in these months of civil war the elderly suffered an isolation most unusual in the close-knit community of the countryside.

The chimes of the church clock brought Phoebe to her feet with a mortified cry. “Surely it isn’t eleven-thirty already!”

“Oh, aye, that it is. That old clock never misses a minute,” Granny said as if this was somehow comforting. “We all expected you’d ’ave no time for helpin’ out the old folks after your marriage.” Granny chattered as she accompanied Phoebe to the garden gate. “Quite the grand lady we thought you’d be.” She chuckled as if at an absurdity.

“Some chance of that,” Phoebe said with a responding grin. She raised a hand in farewell as she opened the gate. “Nothing’s going to change, Granny. I’m just the same as ever.”

For some reason this statement sent Granny Spruel into a fit of laughter, her lined, weather-beaten face crinkling like a wrinkled apple. “Aye, we’ll see about that, m’dear,” she said, and still chuckling turned back indoors.

Phoebe flew down the village street, holding up her skirts to protect them from the mud, although it was already too late, she reflected ruefully. The hem of her brown stuff gown and the once-white petticoat beneath were thickly coated with the mud from the cabbage trench in Granny Spruel’s garden. Cato had said he wished to dine at noon, and unpunctuality always produced one of his sardonic comments. Now
she wouldn’t have time to change out of her muddy clothes. But when was that a novelty?

As she approached the village green she saw a small knot of people gathered around the stocks. The unmistakable figure of Cato Granville on his bay charger towered over the group.

Phoebe’s heart did its customary erratic dance. He was bareheaded and the wind ruffled the close-cropped dark hair. As usual he wore black, except for the pristine white stock at his throat. And how it suited him! It suited the straight-backed, commanding posture of the soldier. It rendered his dark brown eyes almost black and gave his tanned complexion an almost olive tinge.

Her step slowed involuntarily as she drew closer. For all the marquis’s plain dress, everything about him bespoke wealth. He held whip and reins in hands gloved in lace-edged leather. Those hands rested on the pommel of his tooled-leather saddle. His feet were encased in boots of the finest doeskin. The black velvet folds of his cloak were pushed carelessly back from his shoulders, revealing the white shirt with its ruffled sleeves, the lace-edged stock, the great silver buttons on his black coat, and the chased-silver scabbard of the curved cavalry sword at his hip.

How could any man be so beautiful? Phoebe asked herself. Was it his power that drew her? Was it his aura of absolute command that made her knees weak? And if it was, why was it? Why should she be so swept with lust because the man held the world at his feet?

It was absurd! Incomprehensible. And yet it was a fact. A fact not in any way diminished by the vast disappointment that her marriage had brought her.

She realized that she’d been drawing ever closer to the outskirts of the group, without any clear intention of doing so. But at the same moment, she also realized that she didn’t want Cato to see her. If she hurried, she would be ahead of him at the dining table. She turned away, but a moment too late.

Cato, who in his position as Justice of the Peace was overseeing the imprisonment of a vagrant in the stocks, happened to glance up just as Phoebe edged away from the throng. What on earth could have brought her there? It wasn’t meet for a young woman of Phoebe’s position to be wandering on foot and alone through the countryside. And she certainly had no place witnessing the punishment of rogues and ruffians.

He turned his horse aside, leaving the beadle to see that justice was done, and rode after his wife.

Phoebe heard the soft clop of hooves on the damp grass. Her spine prickled and her scalp contracted. She didn’t know whether it was with anticipation or apprehension. She never knew these days whether she wanted to be in Cato’s company or not. She stopped and turned.

“Good morning, my lord.” She greeted him with solemn formality.

“What are you doing out here, Phoebe?” Cato drew rein as he spoke. He frowned down at her. There were streaks of dirt on her face, and her hair was a veritable bird’s nest.

“What’s happened to you? You look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.”

“I’ve been digging cabbages,” Phoebe explained.

“Cabbages? Did you say cabbages?”

Phoebe nodded. “They were stored in a trench to keep them from the frost, and now Granny Spruel wants to pickle them, so I dug them up for her.”

Cato stared at her. Nothing she said seemed to make any sense. He leaned down from his horse and commanded brusquely, “Give me your hand and put your foot on my boot.”

Phoebe looked up at him with large blue eyes the color of speedwells. Cato was struck by the intensity of their color as he waited impatiently for her to obey him.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Phoebe said after a hesitant moment, “but I don’t like horses. They frighten me. They
have such big yellow teeth and when I’m riding them they seem to know I can’t control them and they run off with me.”

“This horse isn’t going to run away with you,” Cato declared. “Now, do as I say. Lady Granville cannot refuse to ride, it’s absurd.” He snapped his gloved fingers impatiently.

Phoebe swallowed. She took the hand and hoisted up her leg, trying to get her foot on his boot. It seemed very high up and the length of her legs was not exactly one of her stronger features. Unlike Diana, whose legs had reached her armpits, Phoebe recollected resentfully as she hopped and finally managed to get purchase on the toe of Cato’s boot.

Cato pulled her up, catching her around the waist and settling her on the saddle in front of him. “There, see. You’re quite safe.”

Phoebe bit her lip and offered only a jerky little nod in response. Her heart was apatter again, and she couldn’t control the little quiver along her spine at the sensation of his body so close and warm at her back. Fortunately, the charger moved forward, gathering speed, and her quivering flesh had another excuse.

“Now perhaps we can discuss cabbages,” Cato said after a minute. His arm tightened around her waist as the bay jumped the narrow ditch that separated the lane from the home farm.

“Well, there are no men in the village. They’re all either killed or at the war,” Phoebe replied when she could catch her breath. “Someone has to help the old women do the things that the men would have done for them. Like digging up cabbages,” she finished with an all-encompassing gesture.

“It’s right and proper that you should involve yourself in the welfare of the tenants,” Cato responded when he’d absorbed this explanation. “Providing medicines and food for the sick and indigent, for instance. But the marchioness of Granville is not a farmhand. She does not dig up cabbages, or do any other kind of manual labor.”

“Then who’s to do it?” Phoebe asked simply.

Cato did not reply. They trotted into the stable yard and he dismounted, reaching up to lift Phoebe down. He took her face between his hands and examined her in frowning silence.

“It is not meet that my wife should go around looking like a scarecrow who’s been standing in the field too long,” he stated flatly. He wiped a smear of mud from her cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“Do you consider it meet that there are tenants in need on your farms, sir?” Phoebe’s blue eyes held a militant sparkle. “If you can find someone else to help them, then I’ll try to learn to sit at home sewing fine seams.”

“That tone ill becomes you,” Cato declared, an angry flash in his own eyes.

Phoebe took a deep breath. “Then I beg your pardon, my lord. But I would say it ill becomes a landowner to ignore the plight of his tenants.” She dropped him a curtsy and hurried from the yard.

Of all the damned impertinence!
Cato stared after her retreating figure. The hem of her gown had come down and was trailing over the muddy cobbles, picking up stray straws and other unsavory refuse common to stable yards.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord.” Giles Crampton’s broad Yorkshire vowels brought Cato swinging round. “Summat the matter, m’lord?” The marquis’s lieutenant looked askance.

“What’s the situation in the village . . . with the tenants in general?” Cato demanded abruptly.

Giles gave the question some thought, but he wasn’t quite certain to what situation exactly it referred. “Much as usual, I reckon,” he offered eventually.

“Yes, but what’s usual?” Cato sounded impatient. “Is there any particular hardship that you know of?”

“Oh, as to that, it’s same as usual, sir.” Giles shrugged. “The womenfolk are ’avin’ t’ manage as best they can. There’s
little enou’ ’elp they’ll be gettin’ from the menfolk these days.”

“How bad is it?” Cato gazed into the middle distance over the other man’s head. Giles was a good half a head shorter than his lord.

“Worse fer the old folks and the youngun’s with babbies, I reckon.”

Cato clasped the back of his neck, deep lines corrugating his brow. “Why wasn’t I told of this?”

Giles looked puzzled. “Was you interested in knowin’, then, sir?”

He hadn’t been, of course. “I am now,” Cato said shortly. “Send some men into the village to find out how they can be of help with farm labor and suchlike.”

“Right y’are, sir.” Giles raised a hand to his hat in salute. He half turned and said casually over his shoulder, “We’ll be ’eadin’ out fer the siege at Basing House soon, then, shall us, m’lord?”

Cato understood what was implicit in the question. Giles Crampton did not consider farm labor appropriate for his highly disciplined and drilled troops. He’d been kicking his heels for the four weeks since the wedding but now clearly considered that the honeymoon should be over.

“We’ll leave in the morning. Just tell the men to do what they can for today,” Cato said and was rewarded with a broad beam.

“Aye, m’lord. I’ll get right onto it.”

Cato nodded and went in for dinner.

“D
ivide and conquer.”

All eyes turned to Sir Jacob Astley, who stood beside an arched window overlooking the quadrangle of the college of Christ Church. He drummed his fingers on the thick stone sill. The ruby on one finger clicked against the stone.

“Not sure what you mean, Astley.” King Charles raised heavy-lidded eyes and turned his head towards the man at the window. The king’s fine-featured face was weary in the lamplight, his thick curling hair lank on his shoulders. He’d ridden into the city of Oxford the previous afternoon, hotly pursued by a cavalry brigade of Cromwell’s New Model Army. It had been a narrow escape and His Sovereign Majesty had still not recovered his equilibrium. To be pursued by his own subjects, to escape capture by inches, had brought home to him as almost nothing else had done, that he now reigned England in name alone.

“I mean, Sire, that if we could cause trouble among Parliament’s leaders . . . if we could somehow arrange for them to fall out among themselves, then we would find them easier to deal with.” Sir Jacob turned from the window, his eyes in his pale face ablaze with conviction.