His Rebel Bride

by Helen Dickson

  Settling herself opposite, Catherine bowed her head, hoping to hide her amusement. How she liked him to display such frantic anxiety on her behalf. Across from her, he stretched his legs out and stared out of the window as the coach set off, leaving a whirling cloud of dust in its wake.

  They were apprehended from time to time by soldiers in search of rebels, who hardly gave the dark-haired, good-looking young man on the driver’s seat a second glance, since he was a member of Lord Reresby’s household and therefore beyond suspicion. The roads were deplorable, making the occupants of the coaches feel as if they were inside perpetual motion machines; the inns they stopped at for the night tolerable; and apart from these discomforts, the journey was uneventful.

  At first, on finding herself alone with her husband for long periods and delighting at this closeness, Catherine’s heart began to beat faster, but the tedium of the time they were confined to the coach, and Harry’s constant presence, made Marcus frustrated and irritable. His ill humour, all his grievances, discord and unpleasant memories were reasserted.

  To Catherine, his stilted conversation punctuated with long silences became unbearable and insulting. There was nothing lover-like in his look or his tone, and brought instantly down to earth from her dreaming heights, she could not repress a sigh. Marcus was seated a little sideways, his legs negligently stretched out in front of him. Having discarded his waistcoat and neckcloth on account of the heat, his white linen shirt was open at the neck to reveal a firm, strongly muscled throat. A lock of dark hair had fallen forward over his brow.

  ‘Why do you sit with me if you can find nothing interesting to say to me?’

  ‘Because it happens to be more comfortable than sitting on top,’ he answered coolly.

  ‘And because the company is better?’

  ‘Infinitely.’

  The curtness in his voice stung Catherine to reply with sarcasm, ‘I am flattered.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  She sighed. ‘Marcus, this is difficult for you, I know, with Harry’s constant attendance. You really do dislike him, don’t you?’

  ‘On the contrary, which makes this more difficult for me. He believes he has right on his side, and I admire him for it. I want to despise him, but I can’t.’

  ‘And do you still condemn me for befriending him at his time of need, when I have made my feelings where Harry is concerned plain to you?’

  ‘No. I would have done the same. But your concern for Stapleton, whom you profess now fills such a negligible place in your life, I find irritating to say the least.’

  And so a strange sort of existence began for the two of them and they found they had very little to say to each other. Impatient for this interminable journey to be over, Catherine tried hard not to let her disappointment show as Marcus sat with his lean face turned away, absorbed in the passing scenery, as if to find there the answer to the problem that made his finely drawn face look sterner than ever and brought that dark, brooding look into his eyes.

  Being constantly in the company of Marcus or Alice, Catherine had scant opportunity to speak to Harry alone, and when she did she was careful what she said about her life with Marcus. She didn’t wish to hurt him by what she might say so she always turned the conversation around to other things.

  When the journey was almost over and they had stopped to eat at a rambling, ivy-covered inn, seeing that Marcus seemed to want to linger over his ale, Catherine wandered outside to wait, content to sit on a wooden bench and watch the hostlers run forward to take charge of another coach that had pulled into the inn yard. The air was warm and fragrant with the scent of summer flowers, the pale blue sky bright with sunshine. Small fleecy clouds, pursued by a strong breeze, skittered across like playful lambs.

  Seeing her standing alone, Harry walked over to her and sat beside her. She looked at him and smiled. ‘It won’t be long now, Harry. The next stop is London. You must be relieved that the journey is almost over.’

  ‘I am—although the journey would have been more bearable had I been able to speak to you occasionally. Your husband has his eyes strictly upon us at all times.’

  ‘The situation is difficult for him, Harry. He is finding it hard. However, I’m glad he decided to help you. It means a lot to me.’

  ‘I’m grateful for your husband’s show of kindness. Where I am concerned he has acted most honourably, when he could easily have handed me over to Kirke. He must love you very much, Catherine.’ When Catherine flushed and averted her eyes, he placed his finger gently beneath her chin and turned her face back to his. ‘What’s wrong? I know there’s something. I could always tell. Has he not told you that he loves you? Is that why you’re hurting?’

  ‘I never know what Marcus is feeling from one minute to the next. His moods are so varied.’

  ‘Is that why you love him?’ Harry was unable to hide the pain in his eyes.

  ‘Yes, I do love him, Harry, and now that I realise it I feel as though I’ve betrayed you yet again.’

  ‘Don’t feel like that. There’s no need. I know exactly how you feel,’ he said gently. ‘I am willing to gamble that if you left him and came with me to Holland, I would not be able to make you forget him. You see, I no longer have any false hope. In the beginning you were put in an impossible situation, and for that you resented him and ran away with me to The Hague to avoid him. I know that I resented him myself for taking you away from me, but now I have got to know him better, I no longer feel that way.’

  Catherine laid her hand over his on the bench. ‘Oh, Harry, I’m glad. You are my dear friend,’ she whispered brokenly, ‘and I will love you for ever, but always as my friend—and I thank you for being there for me in the past, and for being all the things you are. My life is with Marcus now, I know that, and no matter what he has done, he is a good man.’

  ‘I know. He’s also a proud man. It cannot be easy having me along. I suspect he’s not sure of your feelings for him and is unsure as to whether or not you are still in love with me. Have you told him how you feel about him?’

  Catherine shook her head. ‘No.’

  Seeing Marcus emerge from the inn, Harry stood up. Before he left her, he said softly, ‘It won’t be him who declares his love first.’

  Catherine turned away. She knew Harry was right.

  Arriving on the outskirts of London, Catherine looked through the window at the passing scenery with little interest. At this time England basked in its summer glory and the countryside had been a delight. The same could not be said of this sprawling metropolis. Out of the hubbub of sound beyond the window came the clear, high-pitched cries of street vendors plying their trades, their sing-song voices echoing inside the coach. Never having been a lover of the city, already Catherine felt stifled, hot and confined and missed the calm and clean fresh air of the country, but she was glad the long journey was almost over.

  The coach halted in front of the Danbys’ town house in one of the fashionable new squares to the north of St James’s Palace, along the road that led to the village of Knightsbridge. Having observed the coach come to a halt in the street and her brother climb out, Elizabeth was already coming down the stairs to the cool dim hall to which they were admitted by a footman. A smile of welcome lifted the corners of her mouth.

  ‘Why,’ she remarked, embracing Catherine, ‘you look different—rejuvenated. What has happened to you?’

  Catherine found herself blushing. Alice was constantly pointing out that her pregnancy was beginning to show in her eyes and the healthy bloom her skin had acquired, as well as her slightly thickening waist line. If Elizabeth could see this, why couldn’t Marcus? she thought despondently.

  ‘I am surprised you should say that, Elizabeth, since the journey seemed interminable and being confined to the coach for such long periods must have made me look quite wan. I only hope the London air is as healthy as the Somerset air.’

  ‘I hope so too. I have arranged which room you shall have, and Marcus shall have the one immediately n
ext to yours. There is a connecting door, which you will find convenient.’

  ‘That is thoughtful of you,’ Catherine said, glancing directly at her husband, a glint of amusement in her eyes. ‘We like to be close.’ She was relieved to see that in place of the cool animosity that had marked his mood of late, Marcus’s expression had softened somewhat. There was an answering spark in his eyes when they rested on her face, and one corner of his mouth lifted lazily in a smile. Her stomach clenched at the thought that everything might be all right between them now they had reached London.

  ‘Naturally,’ Elizabeth said airily, not having the slightest inclination that things were not as they should be between her brother and his wife. ‘I’m so glad you decided to come to London, and you can stay with us as long as you like. The house is quiet this afternoon—the children’s nurse has taken them into the park to run off some of their energy. It’s complete bliss. They’ll be back at any time, so we must make the most of it. Come into the salon and I’ll have some refreshment brought in. I want to hear all about what is happening in Taunton.’

  ‘You must be missing Roger,’ Marcus said, following his sister into the sunlit salon, feeling his spirits beginning to lighten now the journey was over.

  ‘I am, but he has business to take care of—and you know how immersed Roger always is in his work. He appears to have little interest in anything else just now. It’s all very worrying with half the workers gone. Taunton is in upheaval, I believe.’

  ‘The whole of the West Country is in upheaval, Elizabeth. It’s not the place to be just now, which is why we decided to come to London. However, I do not intend imposing on you longer than is necessary. I shall be taking a look at the house in Westminster tomorrow,’ Marcus said.

  ‘You were thinking of selling it, as I recall,’ Elizabeth remarked, seating herself beside Catherine on the sofa.

  ‘I was. I’m still undecided. It reminds me too much of what happened there. I’ll take Catherine with me—see what she thinks to the place.’

  ‘Well, if you decided not to sell, after two years it will need more than a spring clean and will not be made habitable overnight.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. I would go and take a look later today, but there is something I have to take care of first.’

  Meeting her husband’s hard gaze, Catherine knew this had something to do with Harry. Like him, this was one problem she wanted resolved as quickly as possible.

  The following afternoon they journeyed to Westminster. Catherine was surprised when Marcus insisted on Harry accompanying them and queried this.

  ‘According to my plan, I think it best that he stays there,’ Marcus answered as the coach jostled with the heavy traffic at Charing Cross. ‘A friend of mine—a King’s man and an honest man—has a ship sailing for Holland on tomorrow’s tide and he’s agreed to take Harry.’

  ‘Can he be trusted?’

  Marcus’s lips curved into an ironic smile. ‘I would not have approached him if I thought not. The ports are being watched, but the ship and its captain are well known to the authorities and will not be suspect. Stapleton has to present himself to the captain at first light, as John Oakley. He will be able to slip away from the house in Westminster without arousing suspicion. Besides, I’m uneasy having him stay at Elizabeth’s. I have no wish to incriminate her in any way.’

  ‘You haven’t told her about Harry?’

  ‘No, and I don’t like deceiving her.’

  ‘Of course. You are right. I should have thought of that. Still, he will not have long to wait before he can leave. I only hope he makes the crossing without mishap.’

  ‘The sooner he leaves the better.’ Marcus smiled sardonically as he regarded his wife. ‘And leaves me to my amorous devices.’

  At that pronouncement, Catherine’s head rose, and she looked her husband squarely in the eye. ‘Don’t worry. I am sure everything will go in strict accordance to your wishes. Does that make you happy?’

  For answer, he leaned towards her and, taking her shoulders, pulled her towards him, placing his lips on hers. ‘Happier than you can ever imagine,’ he murmured between kisses. ‘Enough time has been wasted. When I have you to myself I shall expect nothing less than total and absolute submission.’

  ‘I’ll give you all your heart desires,’ she whispered softly. ‘Willingly.’

  The house in Westminster was old. It had been bought by Marcus’s grandfather when politicians and noblemen had wanted to live close to Whitehall and the Court. The entrance presented a dismal sight. It stood silent, lonely and neglected, contrasting strongly with its opulent, impressive neighbours. Rampant weeds sprouted from between gaps in the paving stones, and ivy had begun to climb the walls. Catherine stood back and Harry hung back even further as Marcus inserted a heavy key into the lock. He was prepared to find the lock rusty and the key difficult to turn, but it turned smoothly.

  ‘How odd,’ Marcus remarked, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. ‘The lock has been oiled recently. I wonder who can have done it?’

  ‘Perhaps Elizabeth arranged for it to be done.’

  ‘Apart from removing several of Father’s personal possessions and items of value from the house for safe keeping at the time of his death, she told me she hasn’t been near the place.’

  The door opened without the least resistance, the noise of Marcus’s booted feet as he stepped into the hall awaking the sleeping echoes of the old house. He turned and took Catherine’s hand.

  ‘Come, shall we go in?’

  Strangely reluctant to enter the house, Catherine followed him inside and looked around. For no reason she could name, the house raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Despite the warmth outside, the house was cold. For a moment she stood looking round, vividly aware in some inner part of herself that this was where Marcus’s father had met a vicious death. An icy draught coming from an open door made her shiver and she clutched Marcus’s hand a little tighter. The dark panelled entrance hall was large, the furniture covered in dust, the wall hangings drab. It was readily apparent that two years had passed without the care and attention of servants in the house. It would need a magic wand to give it new life, but at least it gave no sign of having been damaged by marauders or thieves.

  As they went from room to room there were pathetic reminders of the family that had lived there—books, trinkets, a sewing basket. Pressing on, they climbed the stairs to the bedchambers while Harry went to inspect the domestic quarters. Marcus seemed to be avoiding a closed, heavy oak door, leaving it until last. When he finally opened it he stood on the threshold, seeming reluctant to enter. From his side, Catherine saw the room was a small study. It smelled musty and was cold and dank, despite the warmth of the day.

  ‘What is it, Marcus?’ she asked, her voice hardly above a whisper.

  ‘This was the room where my father was murdered,’ he said tonelessly.

  There was a great poignancy in this moment. Suddenly Catherine stiffened as from somewhere within the house a floorboard creaked and what sounded like a footfall from the floor above. They looked at each other.

  ‘Is there someone else in the house?’ Catherine asked, her voice barely audible. ‘It can’t be Harry because we left him downstairs.’

  ‘There shouldn’t be, but I’ll go and see.’

  Left alone, Catherine had the strangest feeling that this silent, desolate house, where Marcus’s father had been murdered, was none the less alive with a murky life of its own and that something threatening stalked the darkness. She had an urge to turn and run from it, to close the doors that had opened with such suspicious ease. Her eyes returned to the room, and she wondered where the unfortunate man had died. With hesitant steps she moved in further, her eyes sliding over the open news-sheet on the desk. Trailing her fingers absently over the surface, she cast her eyes down. There was no bloodstain on the carpet, nothing to suggest that a brutal act had been committed there, only a cold silence that seemed to instil itself inside her, to follow
her when she backed away and turned to go in search of her husband. She found him on the landing at the top of the stairs.

  ‘There’s no one here,’ he said, his expression telling her he was not absolutely convinced. ‘It must have been a cat or a rat.’

  Catherine shivered. ‘Or just the house creaking. Is the house haunted, do you think?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. Why, are you afraid of spirits?’

  ‘Ghosts? They don’t pose a threat. Only people do that.’

  ‘Then perhaps we do have a ghost in the house—a living ghost.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That someone hides here. There are secret hiding places, which had been constructed in many large old houses in town and country to hide priests and those fleeing persecution in the past. You must have had some of your own at Riverside House.’

  ‘Yes, two that I know of. It is possible, I suppose, that someone is hiding—but who would want to?’

  ‘Some homeless wretch, someone who knows the house is empty.’ Some instinct was telling Marcus that he was right. He had been conscious of a presence in the house from the moment he had pushed the door open. He recalled the creaking floorboard, the footfall from up above. He had told Catherine that it was probably a cat or a rat—but was it? There was some mystery here he was determined to get to the bottom of.

  ‘Shall we search?’ Catherine asked, her look telling him that she hoped he wouldn’t.

  ‘The hiding places could be anywhere—in the attics, the cellars, behind panelling.’

  ‘In that case the search could take a long time. At all events, they need to come out some time for food and water. Do you want to live here, Marcus?’

  He looked at her. ‘I don’t know. I thought I did, but now I’m not sure if I can. Do you like the house?’