The Rebel and the Redcoat

by Jan Constant

  “I - would leifer far be wed at your home,” she ventured, hopeful of winning a few days’ respite during which anything might happen.

  The soldier shook his head and called over his shoulder to the landlord. “Pray ask Mr. Ford to call back tomorrow—”

  “No!” In her agitation she plucked at his buttons, pulling and twisting at his jacket with nervous fingers. He waited with eyebrows raised. “What, then?”

  “Please, James...” Sensing the implacability in his still figure, she faltered into silence. “Very well,” she went on after some minutes during which he waited, unmoved by her inward struggle against capitulation. “I will marry you tonight, but first you must allow me time to attend to my toilet,” she added hastily, still eager to win a reprieve, however slight.

  “My dear,” he said softly against her hair, “I have known you too long to be taken in by such soft words. As soon as I left the room you would be climbing out of the window. No, Anstey, we will be wed at once - if that is your wish, of course.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes bright with frustration. “You know full well that the last thing I wish for is you as a husband!”

  “As soon as our nursery is full, you may go your own way,” he promised, releasing her abruptly, only to take a grip on her arm above the elbow and urge her towards the door, calling to the waiting innkeeper to retain the obliging clergyman a little longer as he did so.

  The Reverend Mr. Ford awaited them in the parlour; a tall, thin man in the dark garb and white bands of a village clergyman. Turning to Anstey, he bowed with a singularly sweet smile which was at once saintly and absent.

  “I am James Ward of Wrexford Manor in Lincolnshire, and this is my bride-to-be, Mistress Anstey Frazer,” announced the soldier.

  The clergyman took Anstey’s hand. “We meet upon a joyous occasion,” he said, happily.

  As she took a deep breath preparatory to making her situation known to the Reverend Mr. Ford, Captain Ward’s fingers bit warningly into her upper arm and, considering the consequences to herself should she refuse a wedding, Anstey remained silent, railing inwardly against the perfidy of the man beside her.

  “... where can we find a bridesmaid?” asked the clergyman, who appeared totally unaware of the agitation that beset the bride-to-be. “And you, Captain Ward, have forgot to provide yourself with a best man.”

  “If I must have one, the landlord will serve,” the soldier replied carelessly, “and I dare say his wife or a maid will support my bride.”

  At last all was arranged; the landlord’s rosy daughter was called from her usual duties and the innkeeper himself removed his apron and, donning a snuff-coloured coat, professed himself ready and willing to act the part of friend to the bridegroom. Almost at the last minute, his daughter exclaimed and left the room suddenly, to reappear a short time later and thrust a bunch of hastily-gathered flowers into Anstey’s hands.

  Touching her hot cheek to the cool petals of the full-blown roses, Anstey thought that ever afterwards the heady perfume would remind her of her wedding day, recalling the sadness she felt as she stood beside the man whom she had foolishly imagined loved her.

  Mr. Ford’s voice droned on and she gave her responses automatically, scarcely needing the tightness of her captor’s grip as the clergyman paused. At last the ceremony was over and a heavy gold signet ring encircled her finger, feeling strange and unfamiliar.

  “You may kiss the bride,” said the minister indulgently, closing his Bible.

  The Redcoat’s hands were on Anstey’s shoulders, turning her to face him. A knuckle tipped up her chin and for a long moment James Ward stared into her eyes before bending his head. He kissed her gently, his lips lingering on hers.

  As he turned from her to pay the clergyman and dispense largesse to the witnesses, Anstey’s hand crept to her mouth, her eyes watching the tall uniformed figure with something like bewilderment in their depths; the caress she had just received had been totally unexpected. Since she had made up her mind to his dislike of herself, his action, which was almost tender, had taken her by surprise, filling her with disquiet and upsetting her carefully controlled emotions.

  Unwilling to have her hopes dashed again, she refused to consider the possibility that James Ward might feel affection for her, and resolutely turned her mind to means of frustrating his plans - not even to herself would she admit that in reality she only half-wanted to escape from the bridegroom forced upon her. Part of her longed for his touch and was excited by his presence, while her pride fought against such weakness, willing to barter any chance of happiness in exchange for freedom.

  As though aware of her scrutiny, the Redcoat turned and met her gaze across the room. One mobile eyebrow rose, his grey eyes so full of meaning that she looked away in confusion, burying her nose in her bouquet in the hope that the action would calm her nerves.

  Intent upon studying the voluptuous blooms in her hands, she did not see him join her, and yet the touch upon her shoulder was so familiar that she was aware of whose hand it was as if by some instinct.

  “Come and thank the Reverend Mr. Ford for his services,” was all he said, but his hand slid slowly down from her shoulder, making her heartbeat quicken with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

  Moving quickly away from his touch before any should notice his gesture, she allowed herself to be led to the clergyman and said all that was right and proper.

  “Remember - be loving and dutiful, my child,” he advised sanctimoniously, unaware of the seething emotions his words aroused in their recipient. “Woman was made to obey, as man was wrought to command.”

  Glowering after his retreating back as he thankfully retired to the sanctity of his nearby vicarage, Anstey was aware of the amusement in the man beside her.

  “I hope you will take his advice to heart,” commented Captain Ward, “for there speaks an eminently sensible man.”

  “Pshaw!” snorted Anstey, “Any woman would tell you that the man is a fool! The Reverend Ford inhabits Cloudcuckooland, and speaks his lines parrot-fashion. If men believe themselves our masters it’s because we allow them to do so - as an indulgent nanny would a fractious child.” Glaring up at him, she made a discovery and stopped short just as she was about to muster further arguments. “I believe you are provoking me,” she said.

  He made her a small bow. “I own it’s more agreeable to have you berating my whole sex rather than being the sole object of your dislike.”

  His breath fanned her cheek as he bent his head to speak for her alone. His nearness sent a tingle of excitement, almost a thrill of anticipation, through her and something in his gaze told her that he was well aware of her reaction.

  “Let’s to our room,” he breathed softly, as his arm slid round her, drawing her close as he shielded her from the rest of the room with his body and bent to kiss her, gently but with an undercurrent of passion that left her more shaken than his previous forceful caresses had done.

  For a moment she melted against him, responding to the hinted emotion he had allowed her to glimpse, but, happening to glance up, she read the triumph at her capitulation in his eyes and at once her pride came to the fore. Releasing herself she turned away, saying coolly, her voice as indifferent as she could make it, “As you will, sir, but first I would be alone.” The glance she spared him was cold. “As a gentleman of honour, you will allow me that.”

  His arms fell to his sides and he stepped back. “Don’t think to escape me, Anstey, for you are mine now and I have a liking to hold that which I own.” Her gaze was withering with contempt.

  “You have a wife, Captain, not a slave,” she reminded him, and turning on her heel would have left him with a flurry of her tartan skirts, save that he reached out and caught her wrist in a grip that crushed her bones and swung her round to look at him.

  “You may have ten minutes,” he said between his teeth,” and then I shall join you.”

  With flaming cheeks, but with her head held high, Anstey crossed the ro
om, accepting the facetious remarks and innuendoes offered by the company as graciously as she could. Climbing the stairs to her chamber, she dismissed the landlord’s daughter who had accompanied her, and once alone in the dark room made dim by the growing dusk outside, closed the door and leaned against its stout panels, momentarily allowing the dejection she felt to show.

  Straightening her shoulders with an obvious effort, she looked up with sudden resolution and, having examined the furniture, began to drag a heavy wooden chest over the polished floorboards to the door, and then wedged it firmly in position under the drawn bolt. A heavy chair took all her strength to lift but, hot and flushed with exertion, she pushed it in place on top of the chest. Eyeing the edifice, she was struck by the obvious realization that the structure was too flimsy to keep anyone out, especially so determined a man as the Redcoat captain and, hunting feverishly around, began to pile any moveable object on to the bare surfaces of the chest and chair.

  In the midst of this wild activity she seized the little chest that had been brought in earlier from the coach and, about to toss it to join the growing pyramid, she paused, wondering what it contained. Overcome by curiosity, she put it on the floor and lifted the lid, to find herself confronted by a sea of tissue-paper.

  Tentatively, she raised one corner and peered underneath before, impatient with herself, she pulled aside the whole sheet and stared in amazement at the folds of soft silk and delicate lace that met her eyes. Almost of their own accord her fingers pulled out peignoirs and nightdresses and nightcaps, all of the most luxurious material and beautiful sewing. Sinking back on her heels, she smoothed the thin silk, running her fingers over the rich, thick lace, her expression both bewildered and thoughtful as a frown wrinkled her brow.

  The breeze stirred the curtains at the open window behind her, but she knelt on, deep in thought and speculation until, suddenly scooping up a flimsy garment, she held the cool folds to her burning cheek.

  “Did you really think that a barricaded door would keep me out?” demanded a voice behind her and, dropping the garment with an inarticulate cry, Anstey half-turned to find James Ward in the act of climbing over the window sill. “Luckily there’s ivy climbing over the wall - I’m only surprised that you didn’t make use of it yourself.”

  Brushing leaves and dust from his bright uniform he stood up, regarding her intently for a moment as he noticed the opened chest. “Well, Anstey?” he queried quietly at last.

  “I - found these.” Her hands fluttered over the expensive feminine wear.

  “You were intended to.”

  “You bought them?”

  “Yes.”

  “For- me?” Her head bowed lower over the exquisite silks, her voice so low that the watching man had difficulty hearing her words.

  Captain Ward allowed his amusement to show. “Who else?” he wondered.

  “Oh, James!” The name escaped her on a sigh and a sparkling teardrop fell on to the pastel folds on her lap.

  At once he was beside her, taking both her hands to lift her to her feet regardless of the lingerie that slid to the floor as he did so. “Crying, Anstey?” he asked softly. “Because I chose to give you a gift?”

  She hung her head and would not look at him. “Things have gone so w-wrong,” she said dolefully.

  “None that cannot be righted.”

  Lifting her head she gazed fully at him, a question in her eyes, and he went on, clasping her hands to his red coat and speaking earnestly. “I have need of an heir if my name is not to die out. Divorce is long and difficult, but if you really feel that you cannot give me a child, then I shall see my man of business about having our marriage annulled.”

  A tear escaped and slid down her cheek while she stared up at him wordlessly, and after a while he went on again.

  “However, if you could bring yourself to live with me as my wife, I shall do all in my power to make you happy.”

  Her lip quivered. “I don’t want to be h-happy - I want to be l-loved!” she wailed, and tore her hands free to dash away the scalding tears that blinded her. “I am not an - an English aristocrat to be satisfied by a marriage of convenience. I want to be loved - and to love my husband.”

  Taking her face in both his hands, he bent to stare into her eyes. Satisfied by what he saw there, he sighed and slowly shook his head. “Anstey, Anstey,” he said softly, “how foolish we’ve been.”

  Her gaze widened. “F-foolish?” she repeated, while a wild hope began to unfold in her breast.

  “Foolish beyond measure ... we have fought and quarrelled, said and done things neither of us meant, while all the time—”

  “Yes,” she put in urgently as he paused, searching for the right words.

  “We were afraid to admit our own feelings, afraid that the other would not return them ... that we made ourselves vulnerable if we said, ‘I love you’.”

  Shyly reaching up, she laid a hand against his cheek. “How very silly, to be sure,” she murmured, her eyes alight.

  Taking her hand he turned his face against it before kissing the palm, his lips lingering in the warm hollow. The touch sent a thrill of excitement through her, quickening her breath and weakening her knees as she swayed towards him. Melting against his body, Anstey felt herself dissolve into his embrace, losing her identity as their lips met in a long caress that left them both breathless and shaken.

  “I - thought you were marrying me out of pique, because your pride was hurt,” she half-laughed, knowing now how foolish her assumption had been.

  “I wanted to marry you because I loved you, but I was so angry that I could have wrung your neck. You have a way, Anstey, of driving me to a rage which I find almost uncontrollable at times.”

  His confession gave her pause. “Will we deal well together?” she wondered.

  “Better than most,” James Ward told her firmly. “Since meeting you, my love, I find that milk-and-water misses have grown insipid. I have a liking for stronger fare which I never suspected until you came into my life. Without you, Anstey, life would be intolerably dull.”

  “Life without you, James, would be unbearable,” she returned simply, and, exultantly, he gathered her up in his arms, sweeping her off her feet to lay her back against the high-piled pillows of the four-poster bed.

  Sinking into their softness, Anstey slipped her arms round his neck and drew his head down to hers, giving herself up to the abandon of his kisses with a growing passion of her own. Their kisses deepened until each was aware only of the other’s need as their bodies clung hungrily together. Feeling his fingers at the laces of her velvet bodice, Anstey abandoned the last remnants of her reluctance in excitement at his touch, her bosom rising and falling with the fierce emotion she felt.

  Brown fingers pushed aside the lace shift she wore, his hand sliding across her smooth white shoulder in a caress that made her sigh with pleasure, and at last his lips found the soft hollow between her breasts. The touch filled her with exquisite joy and with an inarticulate murmur, Anstey shivered in his grasp, delighting in the strength and masculinity of the hard body that enveloped hers.

  Love and desire overwhelmed her, and their passion consumed them until a bursting blaze of rapture united them in shared delight. Gasping, Anstey twisted her fingers in her lover’s hair and drew his head down to her breast, unwilling to let the joyful moment pass, while she whispered sweet nonsense and soft words of love in his ear.

  Later, fulfilled and happy, she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder, to wake some time in the night. The candles had long since burned themselves away and, turning her head, she found her husband watching her by the light of the moon, which stole in at the open casement and filled the room with a silver glow.

  “James,” she murmured softly, putting out a hand to him. At once it was taken and held against his heart. The touch of his warm smooth skin sent a tingle of exquisite pleasure through her. “You won’t regret marrying me?” she asked tentatively.

  For answer he bent to kiss h
er, but reaching up she placed a hand against his lips and held him off while she spoke. “A Jacobite wife will hardly further your career.”

  “Then I’ll retire and spend my life as a country squire, devoting myself to the care of my estate and to the business of filling my nursery. With such a lusty husband, Mistress Ward, you will have no time for politics.”

  He had taken .her hand and was in the process of nibbling each fingertip in turn. For a while Anstey watched with absorption, until she managed to drag her attention away long enough to ask a question of overwhelming importance to her.

  “And you, James, what of you?”

  “I, my love, shall have time for nothing save the care of my home and its inhabitants. We shall be that most unfashionable thing - a loving wedded pair, facing the future together whatever might be, and each year growing more contented and more in love.”

  And, filled with pleasure and happiness at his words, Anstey gave herself up to his loving, knowing that in her erstwhile enemy’s arms she had found the love that she had longed for since time began.