‘When were you going to tell me?’ he demanded. ‘When, Catherine?’
He continued to fix her with his gaze, demanding an answer. Catherine shook her head, turning her face away once more, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him. He took her chin in his fingers and forced her to face him, her eyes full of mournful sadness.
‘Look at me, Catherine. Come—tell me the truth. What did you intend by keeping such an important matter from me? Was it some kind of test you were putting me through? A test of my love?’ He shook his head slowly, in disbelief and disappointment when she didn’t answer. ‘Oh, Catherine—I think you take your independence too far. What if I hadn’t come across you today in London? What would you have done? Would you have gone to Wilsden tomorrow and let me live out my life ignorant of the fact that I had a child somewhere?’
When she refused to answer, in his outrage John flung himself away from her, unable to believe she would have done anything as cruel as that. Then, with a calm, business like manner he strode to the door.
‘John—where are you going? You can’t leave me like this...’
‘I’m going out. You’ll find out where when I return shortly. You must understand that I had a right to know about this. From now on we shall make any decisions regarding our child together. Is that understood, Catherine?’
* * *
An hour later when John had not returned, Catherine went to her bedchamber, tired and despondent, with the intention of going to bed. She was wrapped in her robe when he walked in, having escaped the watchful eyes of Mrs Coleman. Catherine’s face was pale and tense, evidence of the nervous strain she had been under since his departure. She had no idea where he had gone to in such a hurry or if he would return. She only knew that she had never felt so miserable before in her life. She had been foolish to think she could keep a matter of such importance from him—not that she would have done. Had she gone to Wilsden, she would have written to him, telling him about the child, hoping he would come to her.
When he entered she hurried to him. ‘John, where have you been? I thought you weren’t coming back.’
‘Of course I was coming back. Since we are to have a child together then I have a responsibility to both you and the child. I’ve been to pay a call on the minister of your local church to arrange our wedding.’
Catherine’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. ‘Wedding?’
He smiled down at her. ‘We are getting married in two days’ time. You will marry me, won’t you, Catherine?’
Catherine flung herself into his arms, not knowing whether to laugh or cry with happiness. ‘I’ve already said yes,’ she said softly. ‘You don’t know how happy that makes me.’ She leaned back in his arms and looked at him. ‘I’m glad it will be soon.’
‘I love you so much. I do want you—with or without a child—although knowing you carry my child makes me extremely happy. And it’s no good thinking you can flee to Wilsden. I would come after you. It’s no good fighting me, you should know that by now. I will have you one way or another.’
Placing his hands on her shoulders, he drew her close, kissing her lips tenderly. ‘Much as I would like to, I can’t stay. There’s much to be done in the coming days. Hopefully the King’s trial won’t last long. Afterwards I will leave the army and go to Sussex. We will go there together—as husband and wife.’
‘I ask for nothing more. I’m sorry you have to leave tonight.’
‘So am I.’ With a final kiss he left her.
* * *
John and Catherine were married in the same church where her parents were buried in the church yard. The ceremony was brief. Apart from two of John’s fellow soldiers, Mrs Coleman and a few servants from Oakdene House, there were no other guests. There had been no time to inform John’s mother of the wedding, but he intended taking Catherine down to Sussex very soon. They made their vows to each other. John’s heart was full of love as he looked at his bride and Catherine was so overcome with emotion and love that she wept.
When they were declared to be man and wife, John took Catherine in his arms and held her close. ‘You are mine at last, Catherine, and legally bound. There was never a more beautiful bride.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Your status has been elevated to Countess, too, my love. You are now Countess Fitzroy of Inglewood in Sussex.’
Catherine’s eyes opened wide. ‘Goodness, I had not thought about it—although I know I should. How grand it sounds.’
‘And deserving.’
Afterwards they returned to Oakdene, where Mrs Coleman had laid out a spread fit for a king. When everyone had eaten their fill, raised their glasses in toasts to a happy and fruitful marriage, Catherine and John found themselves alone at last.
* * *
John watched his wife as she prepared for bed. She was both exquisite and unforgettable. She was utterly irresistible and he felt his bones melt when he saw the soft flush in her cheeks, the gentle curve of her neck, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the way her body swayed when she walked across a room, vibrant and strong. He found himself wanting to kiss her senseless, to feel her melt in his arms, to taste those lips once more. Heat burned in his blood. This was madness. Why was Catherine different from any other woman he had known? Why did he feel different? Why was he tormenting himself like this when she was his for the taking?
He smiled at her. ‘You have a peculiar look in your eyes, my love,’ he murmured. ‘One would think you were in an amorous mood.’
‘Well, considering this is my wedding night, perhaps I am,’ she replied, settling herself more comfortably on the bed.
‘Would you like to do something about it? It could be arranged,’ he said in suggestive tones.
‘Then perhaps you should.’ Getting off the bed, she padded across to him and, reaching up, she drew his head down to hers and kissed his lips. Of their own volition her fingers curved around his neck, sliding into the soft, thick hair at his nape.
‘Tonight we have all the time in the world to enjoy each other and I don’t intend to waste one minute of it.’
As he spoke he unbound her hair, letting the curls cascade to her shoulders. As her hands slid over his chest, she felt the strong grip of his arms and his warm mouth was on hers. In the darkness outside, the screech of an owl could be heard as it soared into the sky. There was nothing that was needed in her chamber, only the two of them who had waited so long for this night, impatient for each other. No words were needed for the present—there would be time for that later.
The very air bristled with the energy sparking between them. Neither of them tried to conquer their desire. The attraction between them had been denied too long. Catherine realised how tight her nipples had grown. Her body was ripe for his teasing lips. He slid the gown over her shoulders, letting the fabric drop until it caught at her waist. His hands caressed her bare flesh, rosy in the fire’s glow, cupping each breast, his fingers provoking their taut pink crowns and forcing a shameless moan from her throat before they slid down her sides, stopping at the swell of her hips where the gown still clung. With an impatient tug at its fastenings, the gown instantly dropped to her feet. His hands stroked the curve of her spine and her blood surged in eager response, until she was consumed with a need that mirrored his own. Her skin tingled where he touched it, sending quivers through the depths of her.
She was beautiful, utterly so. His eyes caressed every curve of her body, every indentation of her skin. He kissed her lightly along the slender column of her throat, trailing his lips down between the luscious swells of her naked breasts, twin mounds of perfection swollen with the ache of desire. The moment Catherine felt his arms about her, her naked body caught against the hard pressure of his manhood, her passion blazed. He kissed her throat, her cheeks, her mouth, until she forgot everything and, when they tumbled down on to the bed, she prepared to abandon herself to him completely. Her skin warmed with colour and, unable to resist him, eyes cl
osed, she kissed him as ardently as he kissed her.
His love play was agonisingly subtle and delicious, teasing her desire to the limits of endurance, feeling her writhing and panting under his touch as warm breasts, firm thighs and moist lips moulded themselves to his body. He touched her everywhere, as though to assert his possessive entitlement to every inch of her. Her neck arched backwards, eyes half-closed, her lips partly open, for the second time in her life, Catherine was experiencing heaven. Her heart beat in her ears like thunder, her excitement mounted uncontrollably and she wanted him to take her immediately.
His experienced, accomplished hands and lips drew nearer to her trembling thighs. As she writhed in intolerable bliss, they parted. Fiercely she held him to her, trying to get as close to him as she could. She watched his expression changing, making him unbelievably beautiful and sending her emotions even higher. Giving herself up to total abandon, she arced her body in hot impatience, trembling for him in frantic yearning. She had never needed anything more than this man inside her now.
He wrapped his arms more firmly around her. Cradling her body to him, he pressed a kiss to her brow and took her with skilled seduction. Never had she imagined there was such intoxicating pleasure to be had from surrendering utterly. His dark hair was tousled. Stormy passion lit his eyes, so that they glowed as he made love to her in earnest, transporting her to new heights. He gave with determined vigour as she soared and hurtled through a heaven of sensations that exploded through her.
And then there came release.
‘I love you,’ John murmured, then kissed her cheek with such tenderness.
‘And I love you, John. More than you will ever know. Never doubt it.’
He didn’t move away and she held him in her arms, cradling his head on her chest in the lingering amazement of their joining. She had never experienced anything like the tangible bond their lovemaking had wrought. For the first time in her life she felt free and believed she would be happy. She was loved by John, more deeply, more tenderly than she had ever believed possible.
* * *
Catherine had fallen asleep, having relished every driving thrust of her husband’s body against hers, bringing her to peak after peak of every emotion she was capable of. Everything that had happened to her seemed like a wonderful dream. On waking, at first she looked about her, unable to remember where she was or what she was doing here, lying naked in bed with a man beside her, his arms holding her close, the light streaming in through the windows and throwing every detail of their bodies in relief.
She must have moved, or perhaps it was only her suddenly quickened breathing that had aroused him. She felt his arms tighten and his lips brushed her forehead.
‘Good morning, my dear wife,’ he murmured, his warm lips nuzzling her ear. ‘Did you sleep well?’
Catherine met his eyes, heavy-lidded still from his slumber, and he gave her a lazy grin. She smiled back. ‘Well enough,’ she replied. ‘Considering it was an eventful night and you allowed me little sleep.’ He laughed throatily and she realised what a lovely sound it was.
‘As I recall, you gave me little chance of falling asleep myself. It would appear I have married a wanton—not that I’m complaining, my love,’ he said, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was both searching and tender, leaving Catherine hungry for more. Releasing her lips and trailing his own down the column of her throat, pausing to caress the area where a pulse beat hard beneath her flesh, he murmured, ‘It is a side to your nature I welcome. Neither of us will be bored in our marriage—quite the opposite, in fact.’
‘And you, my lord, have turned out to be a man with many conflicting sides to your character.’
‘How so?’ His mouth continued to trail a path to her breasts.
‘Why, one minute you are like a ravenous wolf, then next a tender and considerate lover.’
‘And which do you prefer? The wolf or the lamb?’
She sighed, closing her eyes and letting him have his way. At that moment, lying in his arms in the warm cocoon of the bed, she didn’t want to think. Her body craved the erotic sensations he had aroused in her last night. Having learned the meaning of desire and fulfilment, she wanted to be transported out of herself, reassure herself that such sensations actually existed. He had learned the secrets of her body and she his. They had both learned what pleased the other, what kind of caresses they enjoyed. When she shifted her body better to accommodate him, he paused and captured her eyes.
‘What?’ he asked.
She smiled, bringing his head down to hers. ‘Don’t stop now,’ she whispered. ‘Not when I’m about to enjoy what you do to me all over again.’
Epilogue
The savage mockery of a trial was over at last. The King of England had been condemned to death. At almost two o’clock on January the thirtieth 1649, he stepped on to the scaffold which had been erected outside the Banqueting House in Whitehall. A groan went up from the onlookers as his head was separated from his body.
John looked away. It was a day to remember for ever—the day when Englishmen murdered their King.
There were those present who muttered, ‘God save King Charles the Second,’ little knowing that the young King Charles would have many years as a hunted man, with nothing ahead of him but the dark days of a fugitive.
Catherine did not go into the city for the execution. She had no wish to witness a man’s violent death, least of all a king’s.
* * *
Just one week later, Catherine and John travelled to Sussex, to his home and now her home, Inglewood House, in a landscape that was varied and beautiful and just two miles from the towering chalk cliffs overlooking the English Channel.
Inglewood House was a welcoming, red-brick mansion at the end of a tree-lined approach, the bricks having mellowed since it was built a century earlier. Built in pleasing symmetry, it stood in perfect harmony against a backdrop of woods and well-cultivated farmland. Around the house were gardens heavily planted with laurel and flowers, and tall oak trees overshadowing ponds where in the summer water lilies would strive to bloom in the gentle shade.
‘It’s a beautiful house,’ Catherine murmured on the approach. ‘It’s just as I expected it to be.’
‘I know you’ll like it here, Catherine. It’s a peaceful place—quiet, too, except for the harvest when the workers take to the fields and often raise their voices in song as they labour, and when the bells toll from the village church. My mother and Elizabeth cannot wait to meet you before they go to Kent to stay with my brother Stephen and his family. When Blanche leaves for Carlton Bray we’ll have the house to ourselves.’
‘I do so hope your mother and sister aren’t leaving on my account.’
‘No. It’s a visit long promised.’
Margaret, Dowager Countess Fitzroy, John’s mother, came out of the parlour to welcome them as soon as they arrived. She was closely followed by a young woman with dark hair and a smile stretched wide on her pretty face.
The years had not been kind to the Dowager. Her hair was grey, her once attractive face lined with past anxieties, but her eyes were sharp and intelligent and warm. John covered the distance between them and gathered her into his arms.
‘Mother, how are you?’
‘I am much better and relieved to have you home at last—to stay, I hope.’
‘I am—and, Elizabeth,’ he said, embracing his sister. ‘Why, look at you. You’ve grown at least a foot since I last saw you.’
‘Yes, John,’ she replied, unable to conceal the adoration she felt for her older brother. Her gaze went to Catherine, hovering several yards away.
John went to her. ‘There is someone I would like you to meet.’ Taking Catherine’s hand, he drew her forward. ‘Mother, Elizabeth, I would like to introduce you to Catherine, my wife and soon-to-be mother of my child.’
Catherine sank into a curtsy. With tears in her eyes
, the Dowager embraced Catherine before holding her at arm’s length and studying her closely. ‘Welcome to Inglewood. You have no idea how long I have waited for this day. I am well pleased that you and John are married. It’s time he settled down. You are very lovely, my dear—although John did write telling us of your marriage. Which, I might add,’ she said, glancing at her son with mock reproach, ‘was one of the few letters I have received from him while he’s been away.’
‘I never was one for letter writing, Mother, as well you know.’
‘I do—just a few lines scrawled on a piece of paper had to suffice. If what he has told us is true, Catherine, you are a remarkable young woman who defended Carlton Bray Castle on your own against hostile forces during the war.’
Catherine flushed. ‘I think your son exaggerates, Lady Margaret—not entirely on my own.’
‘Nevertheless, you were in an unenviable position and you acted bravely. I am proud to have you as my daughter-in-law. I know we are going to be great friends. Now come into the parlour. I am sure you would like some refreshment after your journey.’
* * *
As they partook of refreshment, listening to the constant chatter between the Dowager and Elizabeth and John, Catherine had to swallow down a lump in her throat and blink away tears in her eyes. She was unable to remember the last time she had sat with a family which was a normal everyday occurrence for most people, but it had not been for her. Not since her own mother had died. John’s mother and sister were prepared to accept her unconditionally and for that she would be eternally gratefully.
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