The Rebel Bride

by Catherine Coulter

  “One of her favorite haunts, that copse.” Sir Oliver’s voice rose suddenly. “It was her own private kingdom, I would hear her say to her mother. But I know why she went there, yes, to traffic with the devil, to learn the evilness of her body, to let those men come to her and play with her and defile her.”

  Oh, God, it was enough, too much. Julien pushed away from the mantel. He wanted now nothing more than to leave this suffocating room that held only twisted hatred. “I have no more to ask you. You have provided me with all the information I need.”

  Julien straightened and walked quickly to the door. He added softly as he turned the knob, “Of course you will understand that Katharine won’t be paying you a visit. Indeed, I doubt you will ever see either of us again. And don’t you, Sir Oliver, attempt to see her. What you’ve done to your own daughter—Never mind. You’re beyond help, twisted and perverted. It’s too late for you. But not for her. I won’t allow it ever to be too late for her.”

  As he pulled the doors closed firmly behind him, he saw Sir Oliver gazing blankly down at his hands. He found that he didn’t want to kill the man or even strike him. He just wanted to get away from him and his venom.

  “Your coat and hat, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Filber.” Julien shrugged himself into his greatcoat and moved rapidly to the front doors.

  “Is Lady Katharine well, my lord?” Filber asked, his voice softening.

  “She will be much better soon, Filber.” He couldn’t prevent his eyes from straying momentarily to the closed drawing-room doors.

  “If you pardon my saying so, my lord, all of us here wish Lady Katharine the very best. If you would be so kind, my lord, as to give her our regards.”

  Julien strode down the front steps and without a backward glance mounted his horse.

  It was late in the afternoon when the sound of Julien’s voice reached Kate through the half-open door of her bedchamber. She heard his sure stride on the staircase, the sound of his Hessian boots, and she stood rubbing her sweaty palms on her skirt, in an agony of indecision. Oh, dear God, she couldn’t see him, not yet.

  Her instincts for survival drove her into action. “Milly, quickly, go to the door and tell his lordship that I’m not well, no, that I wasn’t well, but I am well now. Yes, now I’m asleep. Go, now, hurry.”

  She tugged off her dressing gown, threw it to the floor, and scrambled into her bed.

  “Yes, my lady,” Milly said, moving as quickly as her plump figure would allow to the door of the countess’s bedchamber. She shot a furtive glance over her shoulder at her young mistress, now burrowed beneath mounds of covers, her eyes tightly closed. Milly gulped and stepped into the hallway, her nervous fingers closing the door behind her. Like most of the newer members of the St. Clair household, she was completely in awe of the earl, and as he approached nearer and nearer to her, she began to feel almost incoherent, her tongue lying thick in her mouth. She couldn’t lie to him, she couldn’t. But what choice did she have?

  “Good afternoon, Milly,” the earl said politely. She bobbed in front of him, not once but at least three times. He motioned with an elegant gloved hand to the closed door. “Is the countess in her room?”

  “Yes, my lord.” As the earl made to move past her, she rushed into desperate speech. “Ah, but her ladyship isn’t well, my lord, that’s it, she’s quite ill, at least she was a few minutes ago, but now she’s sleeping, soundly, my lord, very soundly.” Milly bore up rather well, she thought later, under the earl’s close scrutiny, but at that moment she was aware only that her stays were much too tight. She shifted her weight to her other booted foot and looked at him hopefully.

  “Very well,” he said.

  Milly breathed a sigh of relief, but to her consternation, the earl moved to the door and quietly opened it. She wondered frantically whether she would be able to secure another such excellent position as this.

  He looked into Kate’s room, now bathed in the somber gray late-afternoon light. A lone candle cast its withered light above the mantel, blending in curious patterns with the smooth orange glow of the fire. He could still picture his mother sitting on her favored spindle chair—a damned uncomfortable chair—remorselessly plying her needle into a swatch of material that never seemed to become anything. Only Kate’s collection of hairbrushes scattered across the dresser top gave proof that another now occupied the bedchamber. He stood silently, hoping to see some movement from the bed, but the blue-velvet goosedown quilt remained firmly in place. He could make out only the general outlines of her still figure, the rich hair fanning out about her face on the silk pillow giving her Kate’s identity. He stepped forward, stopped, and again retreated. Her dressing gown was on the floor. That was odd, surely. He frowned, started forward again, then halted. No, it would be better not to awaken her, he decided, pulling the door closed behind him. The maid, Milly, still stood where he had left her, like a small, plump pug, parading like a watchdog at his mistress’s door. He raised an inquiring brow.

  “Yes, Milly?”

  Milly gulped. “Nothing, my lord. That is, if you wish me to remain with her ladyship—”

  “No, let her sleep. She will undoubtedly ring if she has need of your assistance.” He nodded dismissal, turned abruptly, and walked to his own room, his greatcoat swirling about his ankles.

  Milly bobbed a curtsy to the earl’s back, cast an uncertain glance at the closed door, turned, and fled down the hall to the servants’ quarters. There was a prayer of thanks on her lips.

  35

  Although Julien forced the sniffing Timmens to go slowly in helping him to change into evening clothes, no word came from Kate that she would join him for dinner. Hunger finally drove him to the library, where Mrs. Cradshaw brought him covered trays, doubtless piled high with every imaginable dish, enough to feed a battalion.

  “Has the countess kept to her room all day, Emma?” he asked, uncovering a richly spiced lamb stew.

  “Yes, she has, my lord,” Emma said, comfortably, peering over Julien’s shoulder to make sure the kitchen maid had put a salt shaker on the tray.

  He swiveled about and looked at her sharply, but was greeted by only a bobbing of her head, for the girl hadn’t forgotten about the salt. “Everything is quite nice, isn’t it? Will that be all, my lord?” There was an odd smile on her broad face that crinkled up the wrinkles about her eyes.

  A damned disturbing smile, he thought, searching her eyes for some clue, with no idea of what he expected to find there. No, she just continued to look at him with unnerving complacency. He felt irritation as he waved her from the room and turned his attention to his dinner. The tasty stew did nothing to alleviate his mood, which was brooding, just plain black brooding. Good Lord, to be faced with his lunatic father-in-law, a smug housekeeper, and an absent wife all in one short day was enough to dampen anyone’s spirits. Still hopeful for a message from Kate, he endeavored to while away the long minutes by penning a letter to his fond parent. As no neutral phrases leaped from his quill, he gave up the attempt. With a sigh he rose and stretched, and cast an unenthusiastic eye toward the rows of leather volumes meticulously lined up on endless shelves. He finally selected a volume of Voltaire’s Candide. He made his way upstairs, pausing a moment outside Kate’s door. No light shone beneath the door, and there was no discernible movement from within. He raised a hand to the door, thought better of it, and continued slowly to his own room.

  The hands on the mantel clock moved inordinately slowly. It seemed an eternity before they softly chimed twelve strokes. He looked down at the few pages that his fingers had relentlessly turned, but couldn’t seem to recall a word he’d read. He snuffed out a gutted candle and lit a new one. At least he didn’t have to concern himself overly with his wife’s health, since he knew the cause of her illness, which wasn’t an illness at all.

  But Sir Oliver—if only he could rid himself of the distorted, leering features, the twisted, damning words. He gave up the attempt to sleep and resolutely tu
rned his wandering attention back to Voltaire.

  He didn’t know what caused him to look up, perhaps the veriest whisper of movement or a change in the soft shadows cast by the candlelight on the walls. His book dropped to the covers unnoticed.

  She stood motionless at the foot of his bed, clad in a white satin gown that shimmered in the flickering light. Her hair was unbound and cascaded about her face and her shoulders, falling in shiny deep waves nearly to her waist. Her eyes rested calmly and steadily upon his face, the pupils so enlarged in the near-darkness that they seemed black.

  “Good God, Kate? Are you all right? What’s the matter?” He sat bolt upright in bed.

  Her dark eyes widened, but she remained silent, her pale lips parted only slightly. She began to move stiffly toward him, her gown clinging to her in gentle folds, her eyes never leaving his face. If was as if she were willing him to look at her face, not at her body.

  “You had the nightmare again?” He pulled back the covers, realized that he was naked, and covered himself again. He had no intention of scaring her witless. But what the hell was she doing here?

  She stood quite close to him now, and his eyes were drawn to her full breasts clearly outlined by the shimmery material. He felt desire stir strong in his groin. By all that was holy, he didn’t trust himself to speak, or do anything else, for that matter. Damn her, what did she want?

  “Julien, may I stay with you tonight?” Her voice was soft, a tantalizing whisper from deep in her throat.

  He had to be dreaming, that was it. Never had he heard her speak like that. The nightmare, yes, she’d come in here afraid, that was all. He blinked away what surely must be an apparition, but the apparition that was his wife didn’t move. He felt a gentle hand on his bare shoulder. “May I, Julien? Let me stay with you.”

  He drew a deep breath, knowing he was hard as a stone, but he wouldn’t frighten her. What did she want? Why did she want to stay with him? She wasn’t acting at all like she had when she’d had the nightmare. Slowly he took her hand in his. “Sweetheart, I don’t understand you. You can talk to me, you know, about anything. Really, what’s the matter? I will help if I can, you know that.”

  Then her fingers fastened about his hand, and he forgot that he didn’t understand anything.

  Her lips curved into a smile, a gentle, tentative smile, yet one so provocative he jerked. She slipped her hand out of his and took a step back. Her white hands moved to the white ribbons about her throat. Slowly she began to pull them loose, one by one. There were six of them.

  The gown parted in the wake of her fingers and revealed to him the full curve of her breasts. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she stood motionless for what seemed an eternity to Julien. She lowered her eyes from his face and in one long fluid moment shrugged the gown from her shoulders. The soft satin floated down about her waist and rested momentarily on her hips before falling light as a feather about her feet. Almost defiantly she tossed back her head, her long hair swirling about her face, and gazed at him. “You haven’t answered my request, Julien. May I stay with you tonight?”

  Somewhere in the back of his mind Julien dimly realized that he was being seduced, not an altogether new experience, but one that could not but be ironic, given that the lady who was doing the seducing was his wife.

  What the hell did it matter? “Come, sweetheart,” he said simply. He tossed the now-meaningless novel into the dark corner of the room and moved toward the center of his bed. “I trust, my love, that the pleasure will be both of ours. I surely intend to do my damndest to please you.” He held back the covers, and without pause she slipped in beside him.

  He balanced himself on an elbow above her, not yet touching her. He needed to savor the fragile moment, one that he had awaited for so long. His wife coming to him. It was almost too much to take in. Dear God, her body, her beautiful body, all of her here now, for him.

  “You’re exquisite, do you know that?” His hand smoothed waving tendrils of hair away from her face.

  “I want to give you pleasure, my lord.”

  A discordant note sounded sharp in his mind, but dissolved as she lifted her arms and wrapped them about his neck, pulling his face down to hers. He kissed her, trying to keep it light, not demanding at all, but he couldn’t help himself, for he wanted her, had wanted her for longer than he could remember, for longer than he’d even known her, perhaps. For an instant, his lust overcame good sense, overcame the excitement, the hope he’d felt to look up to see her standing there, wanting him, peeling that nightgown off herself, standing there naked for him to look at her.

  He tasted the sweetness of her mouth and grew more demanding, probing possessively for her tongue. He felt her stiffen and slowed yet again. Damn, but it was difficult. He forced himself to release her. He came up on his elbow above her and simply looked down at her. He saw a flicker of fear in her eyes before she quickly lowered her lashes.

  “Sweetheart, if you would rather not—”

  He sensed a hesitancy in her. He gently touched his fingers to her cheek, and she raised her eyes to him again. With a fierceness that made him forget his own name, she arched her back upward, letting the covers fall from her breasts, and pressed herself against his chest. She held to him tightly, her hands sweeping down his back. “Oh, yes, Julien, please, please. This is what I want. You’re what I want. No other man, just you, only you.”

  Her voice was breathless, somehow unnatural, but now he was aware only of her and his nearly savage need for her. Impatiently he threw back the covers and gathered her to him. He swept his hands down through her hair to her hips and pressed her hard against him. She buried her face against his shoulder, and he felt an exquisite rippling of pleasure as she dug her fingers into his back.

  “Dear God,” he whispered against her ear, “you don’t know. You can’t know. I’ve wanted you and wanted you for a very long time.” He buried his face in her hair, savoring the rich softness.

  He felt her fingers, feather light, touch his hair. “Don’t you want me, Julien? You said you did, but you’re not doing anything. Can’t we just get it done? Truly, I want to very much.”

  He smiled, cupping her chin in his hand so that he could gaze into her full face. “I think the answer to your question should be fairly obvious.” He grinned at her and moved gently on top of her.

  She paled at the feel of him, pushing against her belly, moving down now so that his sex was hard against her woman’s flesh. Her hips lifted. But he didn’t move, just continued to hold her chin firmly. He kissed her lightly. “Don’t be so impatient, sweetheart. I would give you pleasure first. That’s the way of things, you know. I want to see your pleasure very badly.”

  “Oh, no, please, Julien, don’t do that to me, please don’t. I would that you take—” Her voice trailed off, and he sensed again that something was very wrong.

  “Hush, sweetheart.” His mouth closed over hers. He remembered her pleasure, oh, yes, remembered it all too well, the heat of her, the clenching of her muscles, her urgency. He drew up, and now his hands were on her breasts, kneading them very gently, for she was carrying his babe and surely her breasts were tender; perhaps they were even fuller but he couldn’t remember. He looked down to see other signs of her pregnancy. Her waist was still slender, but there was, he saw, a slight fullness to her belly. She lay perfectly quiet in the crook of his arm as his hand moved at will over her body. She stiffened against him only when he closed his lips over a soft pink nipple. He felt exquisite delight as the nipple grew taut at the touch of his probing tongue. He willed himself to go slowly with her. He had to do this right, he had to.

  The quickness of her response surprised him, a long quiver that rippled the length of her body.

  “Oh, no, Julien, no, please don’t.”

  He looked into her eyes now, studying her. “Would you truly rather that I stopped?” She bit her lip and looked away. “Would you?”

  “No.” That single word, so great in its significance, nearly m
ade him a wild man.

  The silence of the room was broken at first by a low moan of pleasure that she couldn’t keep buried. As she arched against him, her hands moving frantically over his shoulders and through his hair, she cried out once more and he thought he’d die with the pleasure of it. His fingers changed their rhythm, now stroking her soft flesh more quickly, more deeply. It was enough and too much, for she reached her climax in that instant, twisting beneath his hand, and he held her still, his hand on her belly. He gave her that instant, intensifying her pleasure to the fullest, before moving quickly astride her. His fingers parted her and he felt himself engulfed in the warmth of her body. He didn’t hurt her, for she was ready for him and it seemed she wanted more of him, and thus he pushed deep, closing his eyes against the pleasure, feeling her arms tighten around his back.

  She repeated his name over and over, arching her hips to draw him deeper into her. He found he couldn’t control himself. It had been too long. He covered her lips with his and felt long-awaited release, moaning his own pleasure into her mouth.

  “Am I crushing you, sweetheart?” He drew himself above her on his elbows. He was still deep inside her. He felt almost absurdly happy, a sense of warmth and caring for her that rivaled his release. He was held in the curiousness of the feeling, for he’d never before experienced with any other woman such deep satisfaction following sex. Perhaps that was it. This hadn’t just been sex. This had been lovemaking.

  Her lips parted, but before she could respond to him, he closed his mouth over hers.

  “It would appear, my love, that I am quite unable to allow you conversation. Your lips are much too inviting.” He kissed the tip of her nose and smiled into her eyes. He touched a finger to the corner of her mouth. “You may smile, however, for I wish to see my favorite part of your person—your dimples. God, how I’ve missed those dimples.”

  Slowly she curved her lips into a deep smile, and the dimples appeared as if by magic. He kissed each one solemnly.