‘You come armed, I see,’ Marcus remarked, seeing the glint of steel protruding from Fenton’s cloak at waist height. ‘Just to bolster one’s courage, ’tis wise to carry a pistol to defend oneself, I always think,’ he drawled sarcastically.
‘It is a precaution I considered necessary—in view of our last encounter.’ Fenton stepped closer, seeming to be sure of himself. ‘I’m sorry if I delay you.’
‘Delay me?’ Marcus’s voice was carefully controlled.
‘You were about to check on the rebel your wife has concealed in the stable, were you not?’ He smiled thinly. ‘I came across him on the Bridgwater to Taunton road. I suspected he might make for here, so I followed him and observed how tenderly your wife received him.’
Marcus read the mockery on Fenton’s face, but the steadiness of his gaze did not falter. ‘Must I remind you that you too are a fugitive,’ he countered sardonically. ‘I credited you with more sense. I thought you’d be well away from here while you had the chance. Already it is almost impossible to stir with the whole county seething with militia men and Captain Kirke’s troops searching for fugitives.’
‘In which case we may as well talk business.’
Marcus arched a brow, his lips twisting with distaste. ‘Business? With you? I think not.’
Fenton shrugged. ‘I see you still bear some prejudice against me.’
‘What I feel is neither here nor there. However, I will say that, where you are concerned, I have not changed my mind.’
‘As you so rightly say,’ Fenton agreed smoothly, ‘it is neither here nor there.’
‘Enough,’ Marcus said coldly. ‘What do you want?’
‘Thirty thousand pounds.’ He gave a twisted smile. ‘I have expensive tastes.’
The sum was astronomical, but Marcus’s expression didn’t alter. Pure greed glittered in Fenton’s eyes, almost as brightly as the moon glinting on the barrel of his pistol, and for a naked moment his smile betrayed the workings of his grasping mind.
‘And I have a feeling this is going to cost you a good deal more,’ Marcus said.
‘Call it compensation for my dismissal if you like.’
‘You can go to the devil, Fenton. What is to prevent me from handing you over to the authorities?’
‘This pistol—and your wife. For one thing, it will do no good to denounce me, for should I release the name of the fugitive who is dear to your wife’s heart—and whom, I might add, has a fifty-pound reward on his head—she will be arrested for harbouring a fugitive. Another thing is that she is Henry Barrington’s daughter, and I am certain the King would like to hear what I have to say—should I decide to turn King’s evidence, that is. He is relentless where those who concocted The Rye House Plot, those who conspired to kill himself and his brother, are concerned. I doubt she will be granted clemency. Being Barrington’s daughter will not stand in her favour.’
The sneering tones of Fenton acted as a goad to Marcus’s thoughts. ‘You want me to pay for your silence.’
‘Something like that.’
‘I doubt the King would be interested in my wife since she was not directly involved in the plot and her father is deceased. You should worry about your own skin, Fenton. You may not have taken up arms, but it is no secret that you were active in the planning of James Scott’s rebellion. While we speak, the constables of each parish in the area of the rebellion have been ordered to produce a list of all those suspected of being involved. Your name is certain to be included.’
Fenton smiled ironically. ‘Lists? I think we both know that many of the parish authorities compiling the lists are open to corruption, and the scope for error and dishonesty is enormous. What a chance to settle old scores, to write down the name of an enemy, to leave off other names—for love or money.’
‘In your case money, which you hope to obtain from me, so that when your name is left off the list you will not be defined in official eyes as a traitor. Who do you intend to bribe, Fenton—Captain Kirke?’
‘I think we both know what Captain Kirke is capable of. I have heard that he fought many a bloody skirmish in the Moroccan hinterland, in which every form of atrocity was casually perpetrated. As commander of operations here in the western counties, he will rule as despotically as he did in Tangier—already he has put to death close on one hundred captured rebels since Sedgemoor. You must have seen for yourself some of the victims at Taunton he has strung up from the signpost of the White Hart Inn. By the time he’s finished he’ll become the most ardently reviled man in the British army.’
Marcus knew this to be true. He’d had dealings with Captain Kirke in Tangier, an English possession relinquished in the reign of Charles II. Kirke’s taste for plunder and violence had known no bounds, and he could not abide the man. It was a heavy irony that Kirke’s regimental flag bore the emblem of the paschal lamb, for the men under his command—thugs who raped, pillaged and bullied—were known as Kirke’s Lambs.
‘Kirke will exact satisfaction from the local populace by waging a campaign of terror and extortion—how else is a serving officer to make money out of a rebellion that yields so little worthwhile plunder? He can be bought, for the right price.’
‘You’re right,’ Marcus agreed, ‘but not with my money.’
‘It may not come to that—if I escape safely. Come now, be sensible, Reresby, and be satisfied with your own power and what you have—Saxton Court, where prosperity abounds and your peasants are content, and your beautiful wife. It would be foolish to throw it all away for the sake of a few thousand pounds. I know your wealth is considerable—I have made it my business to find out. Your father’s loyalty to Charles the First throughout the Civil War paid off. The Reresby fortunes were greatly advanced after the restoration of Charles the Second.’
‘And you will not get a penny piece, Fenton. I will not fill the pockets of the man I suspect of killing my father. He showed you every favour, and you exploited that favour to the full. If I find proof that you had a hand in his death I will kill you. There will be no hiding place. I shall hound you to hell like the scum you are and show you no mercy. Take heed. I don’t make empty threats.’
Fenton stepped back and raised his gun in salute. ‘Spoken like a true Reresby.’ He spoke the name with contempt.
Marcus took a step towards him, fixing him with his fathomless black eyes. His hand shot out and he grasped the pistol, flinging it aside. ‘Don’t bait me, Fenton. I am only inches from murder.’
Fenton, a man who could kill a man without a dent to his conscience, was surprised to feel a chill go down his spine.
‘Marcus.’
Marcus turned in the direction of his wife’s voice. She emerged from the opposite end of the terrace and walked quickly towards him. Her face was strained and pale in the dim light.
‘Who were you talking to? Who was that?’
Marcus spun round to where Fenton had stood. He had left as quickly as he had appeared, and retrieved his pistol. The man was as slippery as an eel.
‘Marcus, I—I wanted to say—’
‘Not now,’ he snapped curtly, not feeling entirely safe with Fenton loitering in the dark with a pistol pointing at him. And with fugitives all over the place and soldiers in hot pursuit, how many other pairs of eyes were out there, watching from the darkness? ‘Come back inside the house.’
Marcus marched her with unseemly haste back along the terrace and into the house, not stopping until they reached the privacy of the dining room, neither of them speaking a word until the door was closed.
Catherine’s frayed nerves stretched taut as she faced her husband. The hard, stubborn line that had settled disquietingly between his black brows earlier was still there. Aware of his still smouldering anger, she said, ‘Please don’t look at me like that, Marcus. I know you’re angry, but you shouldn’t be.’ Reaching out, she placed her hand on his arm, trying somehow to gentle him.
The gesture failed. Marcus jerked his arm away. ‘Do not try to distract me. It will no
t work.’
‘I realise,’ she began again, ‘that you must despise me for what I’ve done.’
‘Not quite, but close,’ he bit back. ‘This is not a game we’re playing, Catherine.’
‘I’m not playing games,’ she whispered bravely, her voice trembling with emotion while she tried to think of how to begin to diffuse his wrath. She was stung by Marcus’s tone, especially as she was beginning to feel slightly guiltier and a trifle less nostalgic about Harry, who she was beginning to see as a source of discord between Marcus and herself. ‘If I wanted to play games with you, I would not have told you about Harry. Who—who were you talking to?’
‘No one important,’ he snapped, ‘and the next time I tell you not to leave the house, you will do as I say.’
‘It was Fenton, wasn’t it?’ she persisted, ignoring his chastisement. The dark look Marcus gave her confirmed it. ‘What did he want—and why did you hurry me inside?’
‘Because he was carrying a pistol and would probably have shot one of us or both if he had a mind to.’
‘Have—have you seen Harry?’
‘I have not yet had that pleasure.’
‘I’ve just seen Alice. She said we’re not to worry. His wound is superficial—though he is exhausted. Even without the tisane she’s given him, he’ll sleep the night through.’
‘Thank you for that edifying piece of information, Catherine. No doubt I shall sleep better myself tonight knowing Stapleton is warm and snug in my stable. What made you come looking for me?’ Pouring himself a brandy he drank slowly, watching her over the glass.
Marcus’s scathing sarcasm sliced into Catherine’s highly sensitised emotions like a knife. It was not so long ago when they had been ready to melt together in the same fusion of joy, and now a curtain of incomprehension had fallen coldly into place between them. ‘I—I just want to say I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I spoke hastily earlier. Only—please try and understand what Harry’s safety means to me.’
His eyes became twin black daggers that impaled her. ‘I do understand, Catherine. Oh, I do, and you are right, none of it is your fault. You have nothing to reproach yourself with. I accept full responsibility. What I did to both you and Stapleton was reprehensible and I should repent of my past actions.’
‘Repent? That word sounds strange coming from you,’ she said with a nervous little smile, thinking his mood was beginning to improve, but the quelling look he threw her told her it wasn’t and wiped the smile from her lips.
‘I don’t see why. It is the correct word in the circumstances,’ he said, his voice coldly formal.
There was a long silence. It took all Catherine’s courage to break it, certainly to pose the question. ‘So, will you help Harry? Please, Marcus, it will mean so much to me.’
He banged his empty glass down on the table. ‘I don’t please, but I suppose I must—out of some kind of distorted duty.’ His lips twisted with ironic amusement. ‘No doubt you look upon the situation as you would a pleasant comedy—my sins have come home to roost and I must make amends,’ he hissed in self-mockery. ‘At last the time has come to stone the husband who wronged his wife and her lover.’
Catherine stiffened. He was being deliberately cruel. ‘You don’t have to sound so melodramatic about it, Marcus. Harry was not my lover.’
‘No, maybe not, but it is amusing, is it not, with the husband ending up looking like a damned fool. How does it feel, Catherine, to have your husband stand by you and promise to do everything in his power to save Stapleton’s hide?’
The hope that leapt in her heart became mirrored in her eyes. ‘You will?’
It was the first time that Marcus hadn’t paused to consider Saxton Court before making his decision. ‘You have my word that I will do everything I can to aid his escape.’
Catherine found it difficult to believe that Marcus had capitulated. He certainly didn’t look happy about it. It was some small victory, but she doubted whether he would grant her the opportunity of winning any more. He had relented, but at what cost to his pride? Pride, that terrible, unapproachable masculine pride, was still uppermost in his posture and in the hard, cold way he was looking at her. Instinct told her that while ever Harry was at Saxton Court, Marcus would avoid her like the plague.
‘It is a great favour I am asking of you. I realise that.’
‘You’re right, it is, but there is no way out of this for either of us now.’
‘Why, what do you mean?’
‘Fenton saw Stapleton come here, he saw you hide him, and has threatened to expose him if I refuse to pay him for his silence.’
Catherine’s eyes widened with horror. ‘Pay him? You—you mean he is demanding money?’
‘Thirty thousand pounds.’
‘Thirty thousand pounds?’ Catherine repeated, aghast. ‘But that is an enormous sum! It is also blackmail—and Fenton is as much a fugitive as Harry.’
‘Try telling that to our Mr Fenton. Fenton is a wanted man, and if he is apprehended he will require the means to bribe his way out of it and live in comfort on the Continent—hence the thirty thousand pounds. Without the money he will lose no time in telling his captors of Stapleton’s whereabouts.’
Catherine paled. ‘What will you do?’
‘What matters is that Stapleton is here. Because I care greatly about what may happen to us all if he is found, I cannot for the moment do anything about it. However, he cannot remain where he is. He’ll have to be moved.’
‘Where to?’
‘Leave that to me.’
‘And Mr Fenton? Are you going to give him the money?’
‘No, I’m not. He will not get a penny out of me.’
‘If—if Harry is discovered, can you not use your influence? You know Captain Kirke. Perhaps you will be able to persuade him to be lenient.’
‘What touching faith you have in me, Catherine. Kirke and I are old acquaintances, I grant you, but it is difficult to look on him without contempt. He is brutal and dishonest—and would find a soul mate in Fenton if they weren’t on opposite sides. I have no influence whatsoever. Now, if you don’t mind, I will go and take a look at our fugitive.’
Catherine moved closer to him. ‘Can—can I come with you?’
‘You dare to ask me that? No, Catherine, you cannot. You will not go near him. Is that clear?’
Marcus’s voice rose, and he took a menacing step towards her. Catherine shrank away, for there was a look on his face that said he was driven to the end. Much as she would have liked to see Harry, she raised no objection to this. She was just enormously grateful to Marcus for taking charge of the situation.
‘Very well. I—I’m sorry for placing you in this awful predicament, Marcus—and thank you for your co-operation. It means a great deal to me, truly.’
Thinking wildly for some way to reach him before he took irrevocable steps to banish her from his heart and mind, she stretched out a hand to him in a gesture of mute appeal, letting it fall to her side when her touching move got nothing from him but a blast of contempt from his eyes. Then he turned and strode to the door and went out, the noise of it closing echoing in the depths of Catherine’s heart.
When Mr Fenton slipped away from Marcus, his face was devoid of emotion. Inwardly he seethed. Reresby was right. He had inveigled himself into his household, and safe in the knowledge that Marcus Reresby was away on the King’s business and determined to profit from his exalted position at Saxton Court, he had made himself invaluable to the old Lord Reresby. And then, when he was out of the way, his son had returned home and brought havoc to his life.
As he urged his horse on, his eyes held a feral glitter in their depths. If Reresby did not give him the money, his own impatience would turn to vindictiveness. And only he knew just how malicious that vindictiveness might be. His thoughts were bent upon revenge. But the revenge he set his heart upon was halted when he heard a jangle of harness and stamp of horses’ hooves. His hatred of Marcus Reresby was fierce and powerful, but it
wasn’t powerful enough to keep him from what happened next. Before he knew what was happening, soldiers appeared out of the darkness and he was surrounded.
On entering Harry’s hiding place, Marcus took random stock of the shadowy old tack room in the light of a lantern Archie had left hanging from a hook on an overhead beam. There was a platter of uneaten food and a jug of water on an overturned box. Old bridles and ropes hung on the walls festooned with cobwebs. The fugitive was sleeping like the proverbial babe, his head pillowed on a mound of straw and snoring softly. Marcus left him to his slumber, deciding to return the following morning.
Harry was sitting hunched on the straw, his arms wrapped about his knees, his head bent in thought. His head came up when Marcus entered, his body tense, alert. Seeing who it was, clutching his injured side and clenching his teeth when a wrenching pain shot through him, he scrambled to his feet, his look wary.
Leaning against the wooden doorframe with his arms folded, Marcus calmly studied him in silence. The lantern threw a yellow flicker upward, carving the young man’s face from the shadows behind. Marcus had to admit that Harry Stapleton was well made—long legs and good breadth about the shoulders, and he’d have a fair reach with a sword.
‘I am sorry to disappoint you,’ Marcus said at length. ‘No doubt you were expecting my wife, but I have forbidden her to visit you. You will understand why.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Harry was quick to answer, with politeness and an inbred courtesy that he always directed towards those of Lord Reresby’s station, and those older than himself. ‘I am sorry to have put you in this predicament, sir. It was not my intention to put Catherine in any danger—’
‘I am glad to hear it.’
‘But when I found her horse I knew I had to bring it back to her. When I saw her in Taunton, she was clearly distressed that it had been stolen. I give you my word that I shall leave at the earliest opportunity and no one will be any the wiser.’
Marcus nodded slightly. He could see regret in Harry’s eyes quite clearly. The man was genuinely worried that he had endangered Catherine’s life by coming here.
His Rebel Bride Page 21