It put Catherine in mind of a shrine. ‘I can’t say,’ she answered, not wishing to give offence at this early stage by telling him that she didn’t like the house in the least. Time enough to voice her opinion when she was away from this place.
Marcus gave her a rueful smile. ‘The atmosphere leaves a lot to be desired when the house is empty like this. But we mustn’t be foolish or fanciful. My rational mind tells me there is nothing to fear.’
‘I’m sure you are right. It’s very fine, very attractive, yet I feel a sadness here—as if the house has lost its soul.’
Marcus glanced towards the study. ‘My father loved this house. He was its soul.’
‘It means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Marcus?’
‘A great deal, but I don’t know if I could live here. However, I would like it restored to the state in which it was before my father died, and then decide.’
‘Your father is dead, Marcus. You cannot recreate the past.’ She slipped her arm in his. ‘Come. Let’s go and find Harry. We can discuss this later with Elizabeth.’
Catherine didn’t relish the prospect of saying goodbye to Harry, but it was time, and for the best. No longer would she dream and yearn for the love of her childhood, but embrace a new life with her husband, the man she now loved above any other, and not until they were free of Harry’s presence would they be able to emerge from the nightmare that had overtaken them with the Duke of Monmouth’s arrival in Somerset and its aftermath. Nevertheless her throat was suddenly stopped with tears as she faced Harry; as she looked at his familiar features, a sweet wave of memories flowed between them.
‘I pray that God keeps you safe, Harry,’ she said with a genuine ache in her heart. ‘I shall miss you. More than I can say.’
‘And I you, Catherine, but you are a married woman now—the wife of a good man.’ Turning his head, he looked across the hall and met the eyes of the man who had usurped him in Catherine’s affections and befriended him. ‘Your place is with your husband. I hope he knows how fortunate he is.’
‘What will you do when you reach Holland?’
‘I have friends there I will stay with. I am impatient to leave England and I shall not return until we have shaken off James’s rule. There are troubled times ahead, but already the Protestant wind has begun to blow. With the Duke of Monmouth captured, royalists will look towards Prince William and Princess Mary in Holland. I shall work to that end and serve them as best I can.’
There was a solemn expression on Harry’s face that made him look extremely sad. Catherine wanted to take one of his long slender hands and press it to her cheek, but those days were gone—and she was acutely aware of Marcus’s presence. He stood in the gloom, his face a brooding mask, his eyes two narrow ebony slits between glowering brows. Motionless save for the steady movement of his breathing, he stood with his shoulders resting against the dark panelling, his arms folded across his chest.
Thinking Catherine’s farewell had gone on long enough, feeling a pang of jealousy that was becoming all too familiar every time he watched these two together, Marcus moved closer to put an end to it. He pulled out a leather bag. From within sounded the metallic clink of coins. He handed it to Harry.
‘Take this. You will need funds when you reach Holland.’
‘Thank you. You are generous, sir. I am in your debt.’
Marcus cleared his throat. ‘It is a debt I do not acknowledge.’
‘You might not acknowledge it, but I do. You took me in when I needed shelter—knowing you could have died for it. It renewed my faith in my fellow man, and for that I shall be eternally grateful.’
Marcus nodded, his expression thoughtful. ‘It is my belief that we cannot truly be happy unless our debts we owe have been paid. Is that not so?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I am indebted to you. I wronged you when I made Catherine my wife without a thought to what her feelings might be for you, and for that I ask your pardon.’
‘You have it, gladly given in return for my life, which you saved, and for the woman Catherine has become. It is difficult for me to acknowledge that she has transferred her affections to someone else, and if I could see that she were not truly happy, then I would not do so. I am glad to be going to Holland, and I am not proud of my eagerness that drove me to take part in the rebellion.’
‘No?’
‘It was never what I wanted, but I was too much of a fool to realise that rebellion is never a justifiable instrument of policy.’
Marcus nodded, smiling slightly. ‘Now you’re talking sense.’
‘Only those changes made gradually and with care last. I intend to work towards stripping James of his throne by peaceful means. It will come, you will see.’
‘I do not doubt it, but until you reach Holland your life is still in danger. You know what you must do. The vessel you must look for is the Expedience, the captain’s name Daniel Erskine. He will be expecting you. Show yourself at first light and remember you must continue to go by the name of John Oakley until you reach Holland.’ His tone was polite, impersonal and businesslike. ‘Is there anything further you wish to ask?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then I wish you good fortune. Come, Catherine. The time has come for us to leave.’
Catherine allowed her husband to lead her across the hall. In the doorway she paused and looked back, strangely uneasy about leaving Harry alone. Was there another presence in the house secreted away in some hole in the wall, and was it just her imagination when she looked up and thought she saw something melt into the shadows?
It was dark. Harry had been in the house for several hours and was thinking about making his way to the docks when he heard a footfall from up above. Frowning, he picked up a candle and climbed the stairs. Staring into the darkness, he saw an amorphous figure looming towards him. He stepped back in alarm. Then, gathering his wits and suspecting danger, he drew his knife and was ready when the shadowy figure leapt at him, pushing him backwards. Losing his footing, Harry stumbled, but before he crashed down the stairs he thrust at the figure with his knife, feeling a surge of triumph when the blade penetrated flesh and struck bone.
Harry struck the stairs like a rock, half-bouncing, and rolled, ending up on his face on the cold stone flags at the bottom of the stairs, his arms flung out. He could see nothing, feel nothing but the pain inside his head, as the formless shape that had attacked him crept away. He breathed, mechanically, one breath at a time. He didn’t quite lose consciousness. His head spun with the effort of trying to raise himself, but his stubborn body wouldn’t move.
Chapter Eleven
W hen Marcus went out to meet with friends, after saying goodnight to Elizabeth and her offspring, Catherine retired early that night. She felt tired, which Alice told her was to do with her pregnancy—and wasn’t it high time she informed his lordship that he was going to be a father? she remarked crossly. Catherine sighed and, closing her eyes, relaxed against the pillows.
‘I will, Alice, tomorrow, so don’t nag. I want to tell him when Harry is safely on his way to France, so that he can truly savour the idea of being a father. At this moment all I want to do is sleep.’
But sleep did not come easily to her that night. It was way after midnight when, with a jolt, she started to wake, ill at ease. She could not stop thinking about her visit to Westminster and Harry. There was something in that house that had instilled fear in her. What was it? She had seen something. It nagged at her mind, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember what it was.
Getting out of bed, she paced restlessly back and forth, trawling her mind methodically, going from room to room in that house, the downstairs rooms, and the upstairs, until the study remained prominent. The books, the chair pushed back from the desk as though someone had just risen from it, the disturbed dust on the surface, the open news-sheet and the headlines—something about Sedgemoor and the Duke of Monmouth. Recent news, news of interest to the person who had taken it to the house during the last few days. But who c
ould it be?
Suddenly the truth struck her with awesome finality and she froze, fighting to control the shaking that gripped her body. Fenton! Was it possible that after escaping the gallows, Fenton had somehow found his way to London and was hiding in that house in Westminster—with an unsuspecting Harry? Every shred of intuition told her that she was right and that Harry was in danger.
Panic welled up in her throat and stifled her breath. The emotions and fear for Harry sweeping through her obliterated every other thought in her head. She had to help him. She wanted only one thing now, to go to him without loss of time, to go to him that instant and warn him, to make sure he was all right. With bare feet she sped across the carpet and wrenched open the connecting door. Groping her way in the darkness to the bed, she stared down at her sleeping husband, unaware that he had only just arrived home and climbed into bed—or that he had considered waking her from her slumber and making love to her.
Pressing her hand to her heart, which was pounding as though she had been running hard, with her other hand she shook Marcus’s shoulder. ‘Marcus, please wake up.’
Trained in the ways of a soldier, Marcus was awake immediately. Peering up at the figure attired in a white nightdress bending over him, he knew her at once.
‘Are you awake?’
He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Do you want me to be?’
‘Please be serious, Marcus. This is terribly important.’
Raising himself, he smiled provocatively as he leaned over and lit a candle, illuminating the room with a soft glow. ‘I know of no other woman who would invade the privacy of my bedchamber at this hour,’ he murmured, his gaze absorbing the glorious picture she presented. The single candle betrayed her beauty through the flimsy nightdress, showing the slender curves of her body in silhouette. ‘However, I am surprised. Why aren’t you asleep? It must have been a very potent nightmare to bring you rushing to me. Would you like me to accompany you back to your room? If any demons are still lurking there, then I will dispel them.’
‘No, it’s nothing like that. I—I couldn’t sleep.’
‘Indeed. Perhaps it was something you ate for dinner—which is surprising, for it was a well-cooked meal.’
‘No, it was nothing like that.’
Taking her hand, he pulled her down on to the bed, where she sat facing him. ‘Then dare I presume that you sought me out in my bed because you were missing me?’ he asked, coiling a lock of her hair around his finger.
Colour flared in her cheeks. ‘No, of course not.’
‘I am sorry to hear that. Never the less, now everything is resolved, I think it is time we began living together as man and wife—sleeping together. It is, after all, how heirs are made.’
To Marcus’s astonishment, a stunned look crossed Catherine’s face and she suddenly turned her head away. Placing his finger beneath her chin, he turned her face back to his. ‘What did I say?’ he asked.
‘Nothing—not really,’ she replied. Despite her fear, as Catherine looked into his mesmerising dark eyes and felt his fingers gently trace the curve of her cheek, she felt a sudden quiver run through her, a sudden quickening within, as if something came to life, something awoke that had been asleep for a very long time. She had to fight down the wanton urge to plead with him to take her, to beg him to love her with his heart, his body and his soul. She thought that now would be the perfect time to tell him about the baby, but there simply wasn’t the time if they were to help Harry.
‘I’m glad you feel so, Marcus, because that is my wish, also. It—it’s just that ever since we returned from Westminster I’ve had the strangest feeling. I can’t help worrying about Harry.’
‘Why—because he’s nursing a broken heart?’ Marcus retorted drily, irritated that even now, when he had resolved that particular problem and had her sitting on his bed in her nightdress ripe for seduction, she still insisted on thinking of Harry Stapleton.
‘Oh, stop it, Marcus. It’s got nothing to do with his heart and more to do with the danger I believe he is in from whoever is in that house.’ She spoke in a voice that strove to be natural, but succeeded only in being breathless and very afraid.
Marcus stared at her in surprise, his gaze probing hers and finding fear and distress within the translucent depths. ‘You are upset,’ he said gently. ‘Tell me what this is all about.’
‘It’s a feeling I have—an instinct. Please don’t think I’m mad, Marcus, but I am certain Mr Fenton is in that house.’
‘Fenton? Catherine, have you taken leave of your wits? How can it possibly be Fenton?’
‘Why not? He escaped being hanged. If he can do that under the oh, so superior nose of Captain Kirke, then he is capable of anything. He has many friends, so someone will have helped him get out of Somerset undetected. He must have found his way to London—it’s not impossible. He knew your house was empty—he probably had a key, which would explain the oiled lock. Think about it, Marcus. Where better for a fugitive to hide than in any empty house belonging to an esteemed peer of the realm?’
Marcus looked searchingly into her eyes at the sound of genuine panic in her voice, his mind racing. Was there some truth in what she said? Was Fenton holed up in his house at Westminster? Personally he thought it highly improbable, but Catherine had convinced herself that he was. ‘There has to be something more than that.’
‘There is, but I was so uneasy when you left me alone to investigate the noise we heard that I thought nothing of it at the time. Lying on the desk in the study I saw an open news-sheet. The headlines were about Sedgemoor and the Duke of Monmouth, so someone must have been there within the last few days—and is still there. If I am right and Fenton is inside that house, then Harry is threatened with deadly danger. We must do something—warn him.’
Still unconvinced, Marcus sighed. ‘Considering the publicity the rebellion and Monmouth’s capture has attracted, it is hardly surprising that it is spread over every news-sheet in London. And if there is someone hiding in the house, no doubt he will want to keep up with what is happening in the outside world, so there is nothing unusual in the news-sheet.’
Catherine was becoming increasingly frustrated with Marcus’s seeming lack of interest in what to her was an immensely important and worrying issue. Seeing his discarded clothes on a chair, she rushed to pick them up and thrust them at his chest. ‘Here—get up and get dressed. We have to go to Westminster. For Heaven’s sake, please help me to save Harry, Marcus.’
The appeal in her voice went straight to Marcus’s heart. ‘Very well. I can see you will give me no peace until I’ve been to Westminster to see for myself. But mark my words, it will be a wasted journey and our time much better spent in bed.’
‘Separate beds,’ she threatened, ‘if you do not oblige me in this one last thing for Harry. If all is well, then we can take him to the ship ourselves to ensure he gets there safely.’
Marcus sighed. ‘Very well. But I shall go alone.’
Catherine’s green eyes had begun to snap and her jaw clenched wilfully. ‘No, you will not. I’m going with you,’ she insisted. Marcus got out of bed and quickly stripped off his nightshirt to reveal his powerful masculine body, the long, muscular form, superbly proportioned with broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips and thighs. Catherine felt her cheeks grow annoyingly hot. She wanted to let her eyes linger, but hastily turned away. ‘I’ll go and get ready.’
‘Oh, no, Catherine. You will stay here. The streets of London are no place for a respectable woman to be at this hour. You will attract attention from lechers, thieves and drunkards, and any other unsavoury characters who roam the byways after dark.’
‘What? In the confines of a carriage and with my husband to protect me? I think not, Marcus. ’Tis an excuse and you know it.’
‘Have a care, Catherine. I do not expect to have my decision questioned.’
Catherine spun round and met his hard stare. There was an imperious edge to his voice that warned her that he would not tolerate her disobed
ience. However, she was determined not to be left behind. She tossed her head challengingly. ‘I am going with you, Marcus. I insist.’
‘You can insist all night if you want, but you’ll do what you’re damned well told to,’ he snapped angrily. ‘You’re safe here.’
Catherine flinched from the sting of his tone, but she carried on regardless. ‘Safe, but restrained like a prisoner. My mind is made up. If you refuse to take me, then I will follow you even if I have to walk every step of the way to Westminster. It’s up to you.’
Pulling on his breeches, Marcus tasted bitter defeat as he saw her soft lips tighten and her eyes blaze with jade fire. He watched her march into her room with her head held high, and, facing away from his observant eyes, with one careless, glorious movement she drew her nightdress over her head and flung it on to the bed. She’d had the last word and was bold in her certainty that she had won the round, but Marcus’s smile was almost lecherous as he took a moment to observe the soft white flesh exposed to his admiring, lustful gaze, the graceful curve of her spine, the gentle swell of her firm buttocks and long shapely legs.
His smile broadened to reveal teeth that glistened like pearls and his eyes held a devilish light, for he was supremely confident that when they returned, his wife wouldn’t take much persuading to share his bed.
It was still dark, with a smattering of stars in the clear sky when they reached Westminster and entered the house. The light from a single candle cast a meagre glow over the lower half of the hall, but up above the darkness was dense. The silence was intense. Catherine’s skin crawled at the nape and unconsciously she moved closer to Marcus. Her fear for Harry prodded her forward and then she saw him, lying where he had come to rest at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Oh, no,’ she moaned.
Marcus hurried towards the inert form. ‘Bring the candle close, Catherine.’ Going down on one knee, he rolled Harry’s limp form over. ‘Harry,’ he said. The light of the candle showed his face drawn and ashen. His eyes flickered up, devoid of the usual sparkle.
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