Puritan Bride

So there it was. Kate felt the blood run cold in her veins. A business deal expressed in a voice totally devoid of emotion. But what else had she expected? She snatched her hand away from the Viscount’s light control.

‘How fortunate that such intricate matters can be settled so easily.’ She failed to control the scorn in her voice. ‘If it is also the King’s wish, then how can I possibly refuse? I should certainly never receive another such flattering offer. I perceive that I should be honoured that anyone of your standing should wish to enter into an alliance with my family in the present political climate.’

‘Indeed, madam. After all,’ he reminded her in the smoothest of tones, ‘your uncle was one of Cromwell’s closest henchmen. Hardly the best qualification for advancement in the circumstances.’

Kate accepted the implied rebuke—indeed, she had no choice. ‘Very well. You have persuaded me where my family could not. I accused my uncle of misreading the situation. He obviously had not.’

‘I am afraid not. So? Your decision?’

Again she turned her face away. And then, ‘I accept your offer, my lord. I will agree to the marriage. I must thank you for your … condescension.’

Marlbrooke ignored the barb and bowed slightly. ‘I am most gratified. Perhaps I should have added that I shall also acquire a most beautiful wife?’

Kate looked up. In the evening light his face was still clear. She searched his eyes and fine-featured face. And such splendid eyes, she thought inconsequentially, dark grey and thickly fringed with black lashes. But there was no warmth or encouragement here for her in her distress, merely a cold, calculating strength of will.

‘Thank you, my lord.’ She could think of nothing else to say. She kept her voice as colourless as his. ‘I hope that I shall prove to be a conformable wife.’

‘I am relieved to hear it.’ Did she detect a flicker of amusement for the first time, the slightest twitch of his lips? But then it was gone, to be replaced by dry cynicism. ‘I am certain that we shall deal well together, madam. I will inform Sir Henry of your compliance. I believe that he will be greatly relieved. I will also inform you of the necessary arrangements in due course when the legalities are complete.’

He turned on his heel and walked to the door, halting to look back once more to where Kate stood motionless before the leaded window. The evening sun gave her dark curls a halo of gold, but left her face in shadow. Marlbrooke hesitated, his hand on the latch, appeared to change his mind and calmly, deliberately, retraced his steps until he was standing close before her. Kate’s immediate reaction was to retreat, but before she could do so she found herself held fast by the Viscount’s arm around her waist. She caught her breath in utmost surprise and was considering the most effective way to regain her freedom when his free hand wound itself into her tangled hair to pull her even closer.

‘Look at me,’ he demanded and when she automatically obeyed, his lips sought hers. It was a brief, cool caress, a fleeting touch of mouth against mouth, as insubstantial as a butterfly’s wing, but when Marlbrooke lifted his head his expression was not one of total disinterest. Kate could not read the fleeting emotion in his eyes, but was aware that his grasp showed no evidence of loosening.

‘Well, Mistress Harley? Nothing to say?’

‘No. I …’

‘Despite my admittedly short acquaintance with your delightful self, I would wager that you are rarely lost for words. Am I correct?’

A flare of anger lit Kate’s eyes. ‘I can think of any number of things to say, my lord. But good manners prevent me from expressing them.’ How dare he mock me!

Her confusion obviously amused Marlbrooke for he laughed, a gleam of white teeth in the dusk, tightened his hold further and bent his head to kiss her once more. But this was different. His mouth was demanding and urgent, melting the ice in Kate’s blood whether she wished it or no. It was as if he was determined to extract some reaction from her beyond her previous resentment and reluctant acceptance—and she was horrified at his success. Her instinct was to resist him with all her strength, but she was far too aware of the lean hardness of his body against hers beneath its velvet and lacing. His hands caressed her hair, her shoulders, sweeping down her back to her waist, but all the time holding her captive.

Her mouth opened beneath the insistent pressure of his and she found herself responding to a surge of emotion that spread through every limb as he used the tip of his tongue with devastating effect to trace the outline of her lips. A strange fire threatened to engulf her, at odds with her inner fury at so intimate an invasion. In the ensuing war between mind and senses, Kate was horrified that her senses should be so easily victorious. Her hands seemed to move of their own accord to grasp his shoulders more tightly, to savour their strength … when suddenly she was free. As quickly as Marlbrooke had taken possession of her, he released her and stepped back. Kate found herself standing alone, her breath tight within her laced bodice, the only certain thought in her mind that this experience bore no resemblance to the one in the garden in Richard’s arms.

Ultimately the decision of what to say, of what to do next, was made for her. Marlbrooke executed a perfect Court bow with impeccable elegance and grace and a flourish of his plumed hat which he had recovered from the oak side table. ‘Adieu, Mistress Kate,’ he said. ‘Until our marriage.’ Then he walked towards the door, giving Kate the opportunity to recover sufficient dignity to respond with a deep curtsy and an echo of the ‘adieu.’

‘I had almost forgot,’ said Marlbrooke suddenly from the doorway. He halted and turned in one fluent movement, the folds of his velvet coat gleaming softly in the dying light. He watched her where she stood in the shadows and was surprised by the shadow of guilt that touched his heart. Hers was indeed an unenviable position after all, as his mother had intimated. She was very young and would be a mere pawn in the vicious game of politics and power being played out in this time of transition from one regime to another. And he was as much to blame for her present predicament as was her uncle. But he had to admire her spirit. He suppressed a smile as he remembered her defiance towards her family and himself. And remembered with pleasure the softness of her mouth beneath his when she had recovered from the initial shock of his touch, the clear translucence of her skin under his fingers. The memory of the scent of her damp hair, the sweetness of lavender with the sharper overtones of rosemary, tugged at his senses, surprising him with a tightening of his muscles in thighs and belly. He frowned a little at the unexpected response. Perhaps their marriage need not be as bleak and fraught with tensions as he had feared. Beneath the solemn exterior he might discover a bride of surprising qualities. If only he could make her laugh a little.

From the pocket of his velvet coat he produced a small package, wrapped in linen. ‘I had brought you this, to seal our bargain. Perhaps you would like to unwrap it when I have gone. I hope that you will like it. It belonged to my mother, you see, and she considered it to be suitable for a young bride. She treasured it when she was a girl, but sadly she can no longer wear it.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘I believe that she will like you.’

He bowed again with a final flourish of lace at his cuffs.

‘The stones will, I believe, compliment your eyes.’ His mouth curved with genuine humour. ‘A gift from the painted popinjay! Your servant, Mistress Harley.’

Upon which, he opened the door and left the room. She heard his footsteps die away in the direction of the library. As in a dream, she listened to the distant ebb and flow of a conversation, but remained where he had left her. Finally she heard more footsteps, then the slam of the front door followed by the beat of a horse’s hooves on the gravel drive. She stood at the window to watch the powerful figure of her future husband spur the gleaming bay thoroughbred into a controlled canter towards the gate. She watched until he had disappeared into the dusk and the sound of the hooves lapsed into silence.

Only then did Kate walk slowly to the table. She picked up the package and unwrapped the linen to disclose a small velvet box. Opening it, she studied the enclosed jewel—a ring, a fragile flower of tiny sapphires and pearls mounted on a gold band. She caressed the delightful ornament with one finger. It was beautiful. But then Kate shut the box with a snap. She had had quite enough of love and emotion and romantic gestures for one day. Perhaps Viscount Marlbrooke’s mother was a romantic lady, but she had certainly misread this planned union between her son and the enemy. And yet he had said that Lady Elizabeth Oxenden would like her. He had given her much to think about.

On impulse, Kate reopened the box and pushed the pretty ring defiantly on to her finger, watching the sapphires as they caught the final gleams of the day. You have committed yourself to this marriage, she told herself sternly. You will wear the ring. You will forget Richard and become a loyal wife. But you would be wise not to lower your guard before Viscount Marlbrooke. She closed her mind to the sudden vivid memory that rose, unbidden, of the possessive touch of his hands on her arms and shoulders, the imprint of his lips on hers.

She took a deep breath against the ripple of reaction that feathered over her skin. Choking down the sob that rose in her throat, she left the silent privacy of the parlour and prepared to accept the felicitations of her family on her good fortune.

Chapter Three

The coach shuddered, jerked, stopped. The moon, bright in a clear, frosty sky, illuminated the coat of arms on the door panel. Three silver falcons, more grey than silver in the refining light, wings spread in flight on a sable field. A device instantly recognisable in the vicinity as that of the Royalist family, the Oxendens. Then the coach lurched forward again at a faster pace than was sensible for the icy conditions, only to be hauled once more to a precarious standstill. The voice of Jenks, the coachman, could be heard bellowing instructions, spewing out curses and oaths as Viscount Marlbrooke leaned from the window. The horses were plunging, snorting, eyes wild, manes tossing, a danger to themselves and anyone who might venture near. Jenks hauled on the reins, uncomfortably aware of their volatile temper.

Foot pads?

Marlbrooke could see no one in the fitful moonlight, but it was always possible. Thieves and robbers, quick to prey on unwary travellers, had spread in the lawless months between the death of the Lord Protector and the return of the King, months when local government had lost its grip in many local areas and it was taking time to rid the countryside of this scourge. But he could see no one in the deep shadows cast by the stand of trees or on the open road before them.

‘What’s amiss, Jenks?’

‘Can’t rightly say, my lord. But something spooked ‘em for sure.’ Jenks was too preoccupied for long explanations. ‘God preserve us! Don’t just sit there, Tom. Get down! But watch that devil at the front. He’s got one of his forelegs over the traces. If you don’t hold him, he’ll have ‘em all down—and then where’ll we all be?’

He pulled hard on the reins, bracing his feet, but the horses continued to sidle and plunge on a knife edge of control.

Viscount Marlbrooke sighed, removed his gloves and shrugged off his heavy cloak and coat in anticipation of some intense physical action. Shirtsleeves would freeze him to the marrow, but they would be far more serviceable than braided velvet. It had been a long day of travel over poor roads and ice-edged ruts, but now he was almost home and he had been anticipating a warm fire and hot food, allowing his thoughts to wander. The moon had enabled him to recognise some of the local landmarks: a small copse, the old oak by the bridge, now missing many of its branches, the Wyvern brook. Soon they would reach the crossroads. If they turned left, Marlbrooke knew that Glasbury Old Hall was within an hour’s journey. But now there was no reason to travel in that direction. Nothing of value or comfort remained there. He had brooded in silence, eyes veiled by heavy lids, wedged into a corner of the coach. If they turned right, as they would, he would be at the Priory within fifteen minutes. Only Winteringham Common to cover with the village in the distance and he would be home. It was still difficult to think of the Priory as home. But he would work on it. The coach had slowed even more as it began its descent of a small hill to the parting of the ways. Marlbrooke had stretched his limbs in impatience to reach the end of the journey. Perhaps his mother would still be awake, certainly if the pain was bad. She would be keen to know of his visit to Downham Hall. To hear of his assessment of his prospective bride. What would he tell her? As little as possible other than that she was young and not totally unwilling. Indeed, there was little more that he could tell her, other than that the lady had dark hair. And a somewhat confrontational manner. And any number of decided opinions, one of them a devastatingly cynical view of the motive behind his offer of marriage! He had smiled a little at the vivid picture that came to mind, sighed and stretched again in growing discomfort.

Then he had been shocked into alert wakefulness.

Now as he watched Tom leap to obey Jenks’s orders, the Viscount jumped from the carriage to help the young groom.

‘What in hell’s name got them in this state?’ he shouted up to Jenks, who still wrestled with the reins. He grabbed hold of the head of one of the lead pair, preventing it from snatching at the bit.

‘Couldn’t make it out, my lord. Somethin’ over there, at the edge of the trees. One minute we was travellin’ sweetly enough—next, two dark shapes bolted across the road under our very noses, and then all ‘ell broke loose as if the devil ‘imself was after us. Begging your pardon, my lord.’

The horses began to quieten, enough for Marlbrooke to give his attention to the young lad—Jed, he thought—sitting next to Jenks on the box. His face was bone white in the moonlight, his eyes glazed, wide with shock, and his mouth dropped open. He was paying no heed to the crisis at hand, but had his gaze fixed on the group of elms next to the signpost. In his rigid fingers he grasped an old pistol, which Jenks had ordered him to take up at the first sign of trouble. His whole body was paralysed with terror.

‘What is it, lad?’ Marlbrooke shouted. ‘What did you see?’

The lad shook his head, witless, unable to speak beyond a croak. When the moon suddenly disappeared behind a rogue cloud, plunging them all into black darkness, it was too much. Jed shrieked and raised the pistol in a wild swing, causing Jenks to haul heavily on the reins, jabbing at the horses’ mouths.

The lead horse began to plunge again, pulling its harness out of Marlbrooke’s grasp. He cursed and momentarily stepped aside out of the range of the flailing hooves, dragged Tom to his feet away from any obvious danger.

‘Put the gun down, lad,’ Marlbrooke ordered, but was given no time to see the result of his command. The horse trembled beneath his calming hands and sidled in a frenzy of panic. The Viscount braced his legs, clenched his hands, now slippery with sweat, on the loose reins and hung on. There was nothing here of the effete courtier who had earned Mistress Harley’s censure at Downham Hall. The muscles in his shoulders and thighs strained as Tom risked life and limb to untangle the traces from beneath the deadly hooves. Sinews corded in his forearms and sweat broke out on his forehead as he fought to prevent them making a dash for freedom. Jenks continued to handle the reins with all the skill born of thirty years’ experience. Then their combined efforts prevailed. The horses steadied. Marlbrooke focused again on the source of Jed’s terror.

‘What did you see?’

‘Take no heed of the boy, m’lord. His granddad’s been telling him the tale of the highwayman, Black Tom, hung in chains at this very crossroads twenty years ago—until his eyes was pecked out by the crows and his flesh rotted on his bones. Jed thinks that he’s still hanging there, creaking and rattling. Or his ghost is lurking in the bushes.’ Jenks clipped Jed on the back of the head with a large hand and ignored the squawk of pained surprise. ‘And his granddad’s a fool for filling his head with such stuff.’

Marlbrooke released the lead horse with a final gentling caress down a sweat-slicked shoulder.

‘Ghosts and skeletons, is it? Now. Hand me down a lantern and let’s see what the problem is.’

‘Take care, m’lord.’

He took the lantern handed down by Jenks, lit it, and went towards the shadowed verge. He would wager he would find no footpads lying in wait. Or decomposing skeletons. And it was as he thought. He returned to the coach, handing back the lantern.

‘Nothing to alarm you, Jed. Just a night kill. A young deer who did not run fast enough. And the shadows you saw under the horses’ feet would be foxes, I expect, as we interrupted their feast. The horses would have smelt the fresh blood and panicked. Far more prosaic than a chained skeleton, I’m afraid. Take us home, Jenks.’

Just as he made to swing up into the coach again his attention was caught by a distant sound, carrying clearly in the frosty air.

‘Horseman approaching fast, my lord,’ Jenks confirmed. ‘From the south.’

‘And travelling too fast for such conditions,’ the Viscount agreed grimly. ‘We had better stay and warn him.’

They waited as the rattle of hooves drew nearer, saw a dark shape emerge from the darker surroundings and Jenks called out, either a greeting or a warning. The rider reacted and began to rein to a halt beside the coach. No one could have foreseen the outcome as the moon emerged once more to bathe the road in its stark and unforgiving light. Disturbed by the commotion, a hunting barn owl lifted from its perch in the elms to glide across the road, large and shadowless, its white shape and soundlessly flapping wings ghostly in the moon’s illumination. In a return of mindless terror, without waiting for any orders, Jed raised and fired the pistol.

Chaos erupted around them once again. The ridden horse shied, reared, plunging as its feet came into contact with an icy patch on the road’s surface. Caught without warning, the rider cried out and was instantly flung to the ground with bone-shattering force. The horse made off, maddened, coat flecked with foam, the moon glinting on the whites of its eyes as it determined on putting distance between itself and the source of its terror, but the rider remained slumped on the floor, a dark shadow, motionless. Jenks once again, with renewed oaths, became engaged in a struggle for control of his restless team as they reacted to the sharp crack of the pistol above their heads, ordering Tom to look lively whilst berating Jed in colourful terms for his gormless stupidity.

This left Marlbrooke, the horses once again manageable, if it was possible to ignore their bloodshot eyes and fiery nostrils, to approach the still figure on the road. He crouched beside it. A young man, perhaps little more than a youth, as far as he could see. It was too dark to assess any real damage, but he ran gentle hands over the prone limbs to determine any obvious injuries. There seemed to be none, although one arm felt to be swelling under his searching fingers. Probably a blow to the head had caused the unconsciousness, he presumed. He pushed aside the rider’s hat and gently turned the pale waxen features to the searching moonlight. His hand came away dark with blood and there were clear signs of bruising on the temple and above the eye. Marlbrooke grimaced. If the wound had been caused by the horse’s hoof, then matters might indeed be serious. But however dangerous or life threatening the injuries, they could do nothing for the rider here.

Tom was hovering at his shoulder and moved to kneel beside the still figure. ‘Mr Jenks says we should get out of ‘ere, my lord, as soon as may be. While the horses are quiet. They’re still spooky.’

‘Very well, Tom. You’ve done well tonight. You’ll have to help me here.’ Marlbrooke rose to his feet and gave the young groom an encouraging grasp of his shoulder. ‘I think he’s sound enough apart from a bang on the head, although his arm might be broken. Help me get him into the coach as gently as we can. I doubt he’ll weigh much. We’ll deal with this at the Priory.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tom stood tall under the praise, swallowing his nerves.

They wrapped the still figure in Marlbrooke’s cloak to cushion the limbs against any further blows. Then between them they manoeuvred him into the coach where they wedged him onto the seat.

‘Right, Jenks.’ The Viscount nodded to his coachman as he pulled on his coat and gloves once more and Tom swung back into his seat on the coach. ‘Let’s get to the Priory before our young man dies on us. It’s been a long day.’ He moved to grasp the open coach door and then turned back. ‘On second thoughts—’ he held out an imperative hand ‘—give me that pistol, Jed. On balance you’re more of a danger than any ghostly highwayman or passing footpad.’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir’ The moonlight failed to hide Jed’s blushes or his sheepish smile as Tom nudged him and Jenks guffawed. The tale would not lose in its retelling in the stables over the coming months.

Marlbrooke dropped the pistol into his pocket with an answering grin. ‘The Priory, then!’

Master Oliver Verzons, steward of Winteringham Priory for as far back as any of the local families could remember, swung open the great oak door at the sound of the approaching coach. He was a stern, austere figure, clad in unrelieved black, his dignity a testimony to his position of trust and responsibility. His white collar and cuffs, seemly and precise with no hint of decoration, were as immaculate as when first donned that morning, despite the late hour.

‘Good evening, my lord. Can I be of any assistance?’ He stood back into the entrance hall as Viscount Marlbrooke carried the inert cloaked form up the shallow flight of steps.

‘Verzons!’ Marlbrooke conserved his breath until he had lowered the young man to the high-backed oak settle beside the door. He flexed the taut muscles in his back and arms with a grimace before turning to his steward, struck anew by the incongruity of the situation. Why Verzons would have been prepared to remain in service at the Priory under Royalist authority was beyond his understanding, unless loyalty to the estate took precedence over loyalty to family. Or perhaps he hoped and prayed that God would deal out justice with a fair hand and one day a Harley would return and oust the hated Oxendens. Meanwhile, he would keep faith and oversee the estate to the best of his ability, which was considerable. Whatever the reason, he had proved to be an excellent steward and Marlbrooke could see no need to trouble himself further over any dubious motives that Verzons might secretly nurture. As ever, he rose to the occasion, no matter how unusual the circumstances.

‘Is the young man badly injured? I can fetch Elspeth from the kitchen if you deem it necessary.’ Verzons bent over the settle with some concern.

‘No. I think not.’ Marlbrooke stripped off his gloves and shrugged out of his coat for the second time that night and handed them to his steward. ‘He fell from his horse at the Common crossroads and hit his head. There is no need, I think, to disturb the rest of the household at this hour. I’ll carry him up to one of the bedrooms if you would send some cloths and warm water, and some wine—for me, if not for him.’

‘Certainly, my lord. And there is food prepared when you are ready.’

Marlbrooke nodded. ‘Is my mother still awaiting me?’

‘No, my lord. Lady Elizabeth retired some little time ago. I believe she has not been well today. Mistress Felicity is, I understand, still in the parlour.’