The Accidental Bride (20 page)

Cato listened to this breathless explanation in astounded fury. “Bound on the village green?” he demanded in something akin to a bellow. His wife bound on the village green! He dropped Olivia’s hands and swung around on Phoebe.

“Please . . . it wasn’t for long,” Phoebe said, wincing at his tone. She didn’t think she could bear his anger . . . not now. She was shivering and her knees seemed to have turned to water now that the need for action was passed.

“Really it wasn’t,” she said, hearing the plea in her voice. “I must go and tend Meg.” She turned to follow the trooper into the house.

Cato caught her arm in a steely grip. “You are going
nowhere until you’ve explained what’s going on here. None of it makes any sense to me at all.”

“It wasn’t Phoebe’s fault, sir,” Olivia broke in passionately. “Indeed you c-can’t blame her. She was so brave. They just took her up because she tried to defend Meg.”

“They took you up
for a witch!”
At last Cato grasped the reality. His hands moved to Phoebe’s shoulders and for a dreadful minute she thought he was going to shake her, there on the drive, in front of everyone.

“I
told
you it was going to happen. I
told
you if you didn’t do something . . .” Her voice choked on a lump of tears and she massaged her throat, glaring up at him with unnaturally bright eyes.

“Come with me!” He released her and marched into the house. Phoebe hesitated, then followed her husband in. He stalked to his study and held the door for her, gesturing she should precede him.

Rage rode him like a jockey. The door shivered in its frame as he slammed it shut behind him.

“So, what have you to say?” he demanded, striding to the big desk.

“I told you it was going to happen. I told you about the rumors and that Meg was unjustly accused. If you’d stepped in earlier, it would not have gone so far. If you’d listened to me instead of talking about justice and unsavory reputations, none of this would have happened.” Her voice shook, and there was a hard nut of nausea in her belly. “You
cannot
blame me!” she cried, her hand going to her throat again as if she could ease the tightness that was making it difficult to breathe.

Cato stared at her in disbelief. “You are blaming
me
for that shambles!” He was still carrying his riding whip, and he slashed it across the desk in livid emphasis.

“Yes, because you wouldn’t listen to me! You’re the Justice of the Peace; no one disobeys you. I told you they were
going to bring that . . . that
devil incarnate
into the village, and you wouldn’t listen.
You just wouldn’t listen.”

“I forbade you absolutely to have anything to do with the woman.”

“And you really thought I would take notice?” Phoebe threw at him. “When you were so
wrong’.
How could you possibly expect me to abandon my friend? You wouldn’t do so yourself!”

Cato’s voice was suddenly quiet and cold. “Do you think I will tolerate having my wife cast into the same mold as a village woman with an unsavory reputation? Look what you’ve done to yourself!” He gestured contemptuously at her torn and filthy raiment. “You expose yourself to the filthy hands and public mortification of the village green! You are
my wife!
Have you no pride? Look at you. I’ve never seen such an appalling sight! And not satisfied with disgracing yourself, you dragged Olivia into the mire with you.”

Each staccato sentence was punctuated with a slash of his whip across the desk.

Phoebe didn’t need to look at herself. She had a very good idea of what she looked like. “Olivia made her own decisions,” she stated. “And I had no choice but to do what I did, and I don’t understand why you can’t see that. I
had
to defend Meg. They accused her of wearing the serpent’s tooth, but it was the same tooth I’d drawn for her a few days ago. I
told
you about it. Meg was wearing it in jest. Like a talisman against another toothache. And the cat isn’t a familiar, it’s a perfectly ordinary black cat.”

This was the first Cato had heard about cats, although he did remember something about a tooth. But none of it made any difference.

“I have no interest in your excuses. I do not know what to do with you. You refuse to honor my requests; you ignore my express orders; you rush headlong into whatever situation crops up. You never think before you act, before you speak.
You sweep everyone up in your impulses. I cannot imagine whatever could have led me to think you would make a suitable wife. How you could be so unlike your sister is a complete mystery. You shared the same parents. But you have none of Diana’s poise, her grace, her innate sense of propriety. You have not the least vestige of a fine feeling, a sense of what’s appropriate. Can you imagine your sister doing anything so disgraceful?”

And so it went on. Phoebe stood numbly and when it was over she turned and ran from his study.

Cato stalked after her, shouting for Giles Crampton, who appeared on the instant. He’d been expecting a summons once he’d pieced together the astonishing reason for that equally astonishing scene at the front door. Lord Granville wouldn’t tolerate mob rule in his bailiwick.

“Arrest that charlatan and have him whipped five miles from the village boundary. And make damn sure the entire village sees it. Then bring me the vicar. This is his work too. And if there are any obvious ringleaders, arrest them and throw them in the stocks.”

“Aye, sir. Right away, sir.” Giles saluted crisply and strode off to do his master’s bidding.

P
hoebe had flown up the stairs, praying that Olivia
wouldn’t be waiting for her. She couldn’t bear to see anyone. She couldn’t even bring herself to go to Meg. She had no resources left to tend anyone’s hurts but her own. She slammed the door of the bedchamber behind her and threw herself onto the bed.

She was sprawled facedown when someone knocked at the door. “Go away!” she called, her voice scratchy.

But the latch was lifted and the door swung open. “Forgive me, but I thought perhaps I might be able to help.”

Brian stepped into the room, leaving the door wide open
behind him. If anyone did come along, he didn’t want to risk the appearance of secrecy. “May I come in?”

“You seem to be in already,” Phoebe said, sitting up. Her face was tear streaked, her eyes red and swollen, the once fashionable riding habit disheveled and dirty. “But please go away.”

“You were very brave this morning,” Brian said, ignoring this. “And I know that Lord Granville can be harsh. He wouldn’t understand what you did for your friend. Believe me, I can sympathize. I’ve experienced the rough edge of his tongue on many occasions.”

He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Unfortunately, he has not a forgiving nature.”

“He will understand when I can explain it to him . . . when he’s not so angry,” Phoebe said, shrugging his hand from her shoulder.

“Perhaps there’s some way to win back his approval,” Brian mused. “Some way to make him forget this morning . . . to forget such a terrible blow to his pride.”

Phoebe winced but said nothing. She scrabbled for her handkerchief up her sleeve and, when she failed to find it, roughly swiped the back of her hand across her damp nose.

“May I?” Brian handed her his own pristine square of lace-edged linen.

“Thank you.” Phoebe blew her nose with great vigor.

“No . . . no, keep it, I insist,” Brian said hastily when she made to return his now soggy property.

“If you’re sure.” Phoebe scrunched it into a ball and shoved it up her sleeve.

She regarded him consideringly, her tears well and truly dried. He had done sterling service himself that morning. His rescue of Meg had been nothing short of heroic. “What do you suggest?”

Brian frowned, stroking his mouth with his fingertips. “I don’t know, but there is something that I heard . . .
something that could cause trouble for Cato with his own high command if he doesn’t avert it. I don’t know if there’s any way . . . But, no, how could you possibly do anything to help him there?”

“I can’t tell if you don’t tell me more,” she said acerbicly. “What could you possibly know about Parliament’s high command anyway?”

“You’d be surprised,” he said dryly. “But if you don’t want my help . . .” He turned to go.

“I didn’t say that,” Phoebe said. “I’m just not sure what kind of help you can give me.”

He turned back to her. “Well, for a start, soak some pads in witch hazel and hold them over your eyes until the swelling goes down. Then put on one of your elegant gowns, dress your hair the way I showed you, and greet your husband as if nothing had happened. If you look guilty, he’ll continue to treat you as such. You have to brazen it out.”

Phoebe listened to this with her head on one side. It struck her as very sound advice. She wasn’t ashamed of what she’d done.

“Perhaps,” she said.

Brian bowed with an ironic glint in his eyes. “Any time I can be of further service. . .” The door closed softly behind him.

Phoebe sat down on the bed, frowning down into her lap, snuffling to clear her blocked nose. What Brian had said made sense. But how could things ever be right again? Cato’s contemptuous words buzzed in her head like a swarm of angry hornets.

He didn’t love her. He didn’t even like her. He couldn’t tolerate her. She disgusted him. He had said nothing so brutal and yet Phoebe knew that that truth lay beneath the tirade, beneath the scathing comparison with Diana.

Tears started anew and she bit her bottom lip hard. She would not cry again.

The sounds of a commotion on the gravel beneath the window was welcome distraction, and she slid off the bed to
look. Giles Crampton and a trooper stood before the front door, where a cavalcade of Cato’s militia were drawn up in a semicircle. Between Giles and the trooper stood the vicar, his black robes billowing in the breeze, his wide sleeves flapping with his violent gesticulations. He did not look a happy man, Phoebe thought with grim satisfaction.

As she watched, Cato emerged from the house in his soldier’s buff leather jerkin, his sword at his hip, a short cloak swinging from his shoulders. Despite her wretchedness Phoebe felt the familiar throb as she gazed at him. Then she caught his expression as he turned to the vicar, and her spine prickled. She would not choose to be in the vicar’s place at this moment.

She couldn’t hear what Cato said, but she could see its effect. The vicar’s self-righteous air became defensive, fearful, and then utterly crushed under the marquis’s crackling eloquence.

At least Cato was defending her in public. And he would surely have dealt harshly with the witch finder. The village would never take the law into its own hands again. Phoebe looked for comfort in the reflection, but her own sense of betrayal was as sharp as the witch finder’s pins. People she had helped, people she considered her friends, had turned on her with a blind vengeance. She could still feel their hands upon her as they’d bound her wrists. It would be a long time before she would forget . . . a long time before she would go among them with the same trust again.

Finally, with a curt order to the trooper who held the vicar, Cato mounted his horse. The vicar’s shoulders drooped; his head was almost on his breast as the trooper led him away. Giles mounted his own horse. Cato raised a gauntleted hand in signal to move forward.

Phoebe watched the cavalcade canter up the drive, Lord Granville at its head. Her eyes stung and she turned from the window with a little gesture of defeat. So much for showing him a brave face in all her finery.

“T
his war is no longer against the king’s counsellors,”
Cromwell declared. “It began that way. Five years ago we all believed that once the king was no longer surrounded by self-serving men who gave him evil advice, then he would rule with truth and justice. But we all know that’s no longer the issue.” His words punched forth in a faint mist of spittle, and he paused to drink from his wine cup. No one interrupted him.

“The issue is the king himself,” he continued, snapping his cup on the table. “This king will never be a just ruler. He will always surround himself with men whose advice he wishes to hear. He will never back down from his belief that he has a divine right to rule and any who challenge that right are hell-bound traitors.”

He glared around the long table in the farmhouse at the somber faces gathered there. His gaze fell upon one countenance in particular.

“Granville, do you still maintain that our object in fighting this war is to return a reformed king to the throne he’s dishonored? Are we to give him the right once more to rule the subjects he treats and has always treated with such disdain?” His tone was bitter and angry.

Cato raised his head and turned his frowning eyes upon the general. “Perhaps I still have hopes that the king can be brought to reason,” he said slowly, absently almost. “Maybe it’s a fool’s hope, but I’ll maintain it until I can no longer do so.”

There was a murmur, some of agreement, some not. Cromwell’s already heightened color deepened. “If you’re not with us, you’re against us,” he stated.

Cato shook his head with a dismissive gesture. “You know better than that, Oliver, and you gain little by making enemies of your friends.”

He pushed back his stool and stood up. “I have a militia to command. If we sit around debating such questions instead of fighting the war, this damnable strife will never be ended and the country will have good reason for believing that we have no interest in its ending. There are whispers already that some of us fight it simply for the power and influence it bestows upon us.”

He snatched up his cloak and stalked from the large square room, leaving a buzz of voices in his wake.

Cato had spoken without his customary tact, and he was aware of it. Cromwell could well have taken his last comment personally, but Cato’s mood was far from patient. He had ridden to headquarters after banishing the vicar from his parish, unable to rid himself of the image of Phoebe’s face, her eyes so filled with hurt and something akin to betrayal as he’d vented his fear-fueled rage. She’d looked like a wounded fawn. He’d been savage, he knew. His anger had known no bounds, and he despised that lack of control. But who would blame him? What man could view with equanimity his wife’s part in the morning’s debacle on the village green . . . could even begin to contemplate what could have happened to her?

What man with a wife like Phoebe wouldn’t be driven to distraction? he thought grimly, swinging onto his horse in the stable yard. If she would only conceive . . . a baby might slow her down somewhat, turn her thoughts and attentions to something other than this mad and impulsive need to rattle around the countryside offering help to all and sundry.

But that reflection was such a thorn in his side, he preferred
not to dwell upon it. It was bad enough having Brian Morse under his roof, reminding him every minute of the day of what the future held if Phoebe remained barren.

“We goin’ back to Woodstock, m’lord?” Giles Crampton sounded as if the prospect were less than enticing.

Cato glanced up at the sky; there were still a couple of hours of daylight left. He needed action of some kind. Something to clear his head, to restore his equilibrium. “Not immediately, Giles. We’ll do a little scouting. See if we can’t scare up a few of the king’s men.”

Giles beamed, and turned to bellow the news over his shoulder at the small troop of Granville militia who’d accompanied their lord to headquarters.

Cato raised a hand and gestured that they should move out, and the small cavalcade trotted away down the driveway to the road.

“We’ll be takin’ the Oxford road, then?” Giles drew abreast of Cato.

“Yes, but away from the city. We’ll head towards Woodstock, but keep our eyes peeled for some excitement.”

Giles muttered his assent although he would clearly have preferred to have headed towards Royalist headquarters rather than away from them. And as luck would have it, they met neither Roundhead nor Cavalier on the road until they reached the woodland outskirts of Woodstock. The evening star was showing in a clear sky, and Cato drew rein, looking around, listening intently to the beginning night sounds.

“The woman they took up fer a witch, er cottage’s in the woods,” Giles volunteered, gesturing with his whip. “Mebbe we should ’ave a look-see, make sure there’s been no lootin’ or suchlike.” In the absence of real action, Giles would manufacture his own.

Cato nodded. He was curious to see where Phoebe had been spending so much of her time. Somehow, he had to find a way to understand her better. He still couldn’t lose the image of her stricken little face, her great blue eyes filled
with tears she had fought to hold back. After what she had endured at the hands of the mob, after what she’d seen them do to her friend, he might have kept a rein on his anger, however justified.

“C
at . . . cat . . . where are you, cat?” Phoebe held up her
lantern, hoping to catch the animal’s eyes in the light, as she circled Megs cottage. She was sure he was here somewhere, and Meg was so anxious about her companion, Phoebe didn’t think she could go back without at least being able to report a sighting. She had put out food and water for him so that he wouldn’t feel abandoned, even though he was quite capable of foraging for himself among the small woodland rodents.

When he suddenly appeared, however, stealthily coming up behind her on the path and brushing against her legs, she gave a little squeal of shock and nearly dropped the lantern.

“Oh, you gave me such a fright, cat!” She bent to stroke him and he wound himself around her legs, purring as if nothing had happened to disturb the customary orderly turning of his world. He allowed her to pick him up, and she stroked his head, wondering if he would permit her to carry him back to Meg at the manor.

As if in answer to her unspoken question, he leaped suddenly from her arms and stalked in leisurely fashion to the cottage, jumping upon a windowsill and inserting himself through the narrow opening she’d left for him in case he returned after she’d left.

He was all right where he was, Phoebe decided, not relishing the prospect of carrying a squalling, scratching animal the mile or so home. She’d come back in the morning and replenish his food and keep him company for a while. Meg would be easier in her mind now.

Phoebe picked up the basket she’d left on the front step. It contained the fresh mint she would use to make dressings for
the worst of Meg’s wounds. The mint had a numbing, soothing effect. She also had mallow leaves for poultices and an assortment of herbs that Meg had listed to make the soothing drinks and jellies that would induce sleep and bring down the fever brought on by her exposure to the freezing elements.

Meg had no need of the leech, she was her own physician, and Phoebe was a competent physician’s assistant. She slung the basket over her arm, turned the key in the door and pocketed it, then set off down the path, holding her lantern high. It was growing dusk, but it was a clear, soft, early spring dusk, not threatening even in the rustling world of the woods.

As she reached the gate, however, she heard the chink of bridles, the clopping of hooves, a murmur of voices approaching through the trees. Phoebe froze, her heart hammering against her ribs, all her terror of the morning returning in full flood. Who could be coming here at this hour?

She darted back down the path to the cottage, the key in her hand, but before she could reach the door, the first horsemen appeared at the gate and a voice bellowed through the gloom, “Hold fast! Who has business here?”

Phoebe recognized the voice instantly. Giles Cramp-ton’s tones were unmistakable. She felt first relief and then dismay. If Giles was here, it was odds on that Lord Granville wouldn’t be far behind. They’d left together just before noon.

She would have to try to brazen it out, as Brian had suggested.

She turned back and said boldly, “It’s me, Giles.” Then she saw Cato. Her heart began to thump again despite her resolution.

“Phoebe, what in the name of the Almighty are you doing now?” Cato dismounted as he spoke. He came through the gate and down the path towards her, his step light and springing, the white collar of his shirt gleaming in the dusk against
the dark leather of his buff tunic. He reached her and placed his hands on her shoulders.

For the first time, Phoebe found herself shrinking from him as he held her. A frown crossed his eyes, dark and glowing as they rested on her pale face.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked quietly.

“You.” Phoebe forced herself to meet his eye. “Don’t you think I have good cause, my lord?”

There was something both hurt and yet indomitable lurking in the depths of her eyes. “No,” Cato said. “You have no cause to be afraid of me.”

Phoebe dropped her gaze with an almost palpable air of disbelief.

Cato’s expression grew taut, but he managed his normal calm tones as he asked, “What are you doing here at this time of night, Phoebe?”

“Meg needs her medicines and she was worried about her cat. I came to feed him and make sure he was all right. He ran off when the crowd came this morning.” A slight shudder ran through her and she half turned from him as if to hide her expression.

Instinctively Cato moved a gloved hand up to clasp the back of her neck, his fingers closing warm and firm around the slender column. “Come.”

The men of the cavalcade were grouped together on the narrow track, their horses shifting, shaking their bridles as they sniffed the evening breeze. The men carried pikes and muskets at their saddles, swords thrust into their belts.

Phoebe hesitated as they reached them. “You have no need to interrupt your business, sir,” she said, her voice sounding stiff. “I can make my own way home.”

“No,” Cato said with finality. “You cannot.” He took Phoebe’s basket and lantern and set them on the ground. “Give me your foot.” He bent and cupped his palm. “Grab the pommel as I send you up.”

Phoebe scrambled into the saddle. She was wearing one
of her old gowns and a threadbare woolen cloak missing its clasp, so had no fear of tearing anything. She settled astride, hitching her skirts up to her knees without giving a thought for exposed stockinged legs.

“We’ll head for home, Giles,” Cato instructed as he extinguished the lantern and left it behind the gate. He handed Phoebe the basket and then mounted behind her. “Let’s go, gentlemen.” He moved forward and the cavalcade followed in single file along the track.

Phoebe wanted to lean back against him, into the encircling embrace of the arm that held her. But how could she?

“There’s someone up ahead,” she whispered suddenly. Her ears were particularly acute and she’d heard what she was certain was the chink of a bridle. “Listen.”

Cato drew rein, signaling that his men should do the same. They all sat still, ears stretched into the darkness of the woods on either side of the track.

Then Cato heard it too, at the same moment that Giles raised a finger and pointed to the right. A twig cracked, then another. And then the faintest whicker of a horse. Then it was hushed and silent as the grave. Nothing stirred, not a squirrel, nor a rabbit, not a pheasant, not so much as a sparrow. And it was this silence, this total lack of ordinary sound, that told Cato they had company in the woods and it was company that didn’t wish to be discovered.

He stared frowning into the trees. If it was a royalist party, he should engage them. In ordinary circumstances he wouldn’t hesitate. He could feel Giles’s eagerness as the man drew close beside him on the narrow path.

But Cato could not do battle with Phoebe on his saddle.

Phoebe took matters into her own hands. She would not be a burden to him when it came to military decisions, whatever else he thought of her. She leaned back and mouthed against his ear, “I’ll wait up a tree. I’ve done it before.”

Cato’s teeth flashed white in the darkness. “So you have,”
he murmured. “Get down, then.” He lifted her down to the path and Giles nodded with satisfaction.

Phoebe, still clutching her basket, slid into the trees to the left of the path. Whatever was going to happen would happen on the right, so she’d be out of their way. She felt a curious exhilaration mingling with her apprehension. Cato would be all right. She’d seen him in action. She had faith. No one could get the better of him.

She set the basket at the base of an oak tree with low branches and hauled herself onto the bottom branch. Her gown ripped under the arms as she reached upward to grab a higher branch. Phoebe gave a mental shrug. The dress was too small for her anyway.