The Rebel Bride (28 page)

He smiled at her and said lightly, “I fear, my dear, that if the Craytons were to witness the countess and earl of March in such a state of disarray, our consequence would be in dire straits.” He ran a hand through his own messed hair. “Do you feel like a bath?”

She mustered a tentative smile. She raised her hand to her tangled hair and said, “Oh, dear, it will take Mrs. Crayton at least thirty minutes to brush out the knots.”

He admired her greatly in that moment. Without thought, he pulled her against him again, gently brushed his lips to hers, and released her. She didn’t recoil from him, but rather stood silently gazing at him, with a confused look on her face.

“Would you have breakfast with me? In an hour?”

“Yes, my lord, I should like that very much.”

She stood unmoving for some moments after he had left her room. She thought of his kindness and of his gentle, undemanding kiss before leaving her. It touched her deeply.

Julien found that his fondest hope, that Kate would learn to trust him and willingly wish to be in his company, was granted. In the days that followed, she became like a shadow, not allowing him out of her sight. On several occasions he found himself ruefully explaining to her that he had to leave her, for but an instant, to relieve his physical needs. Her face would flame with color, but she remained where he left her, doggedly awaiting his return.

It didn’t occur to her that Julien would think her behavior odd, for her constant fear prevented her from
understanding how much she had changed toward her husband. Somehow it didn’t even seem strange to her when, the night following her riding accident, Julien gently informed her that he would no longer pressure her to consummate their marriage, that he wanted her to have as much time as she wished. From that evening on, she no longer wished to escape her husband’s company as the hour grew later. Her bedroom was no longer a solace against him, but an empty, lonely place where her guilt and fear mingled with terrifying clarity, keeping her from sleep.

A week had passed when, near dawn one night, she awoke to the sound of her own cries. Vague, menacing shadows crowded about her; hands tried to grab at her, and ugly, crude voices dinned in her ears. In panic she threw off the tangled covers and ran terror-stricken to Julien’s room.

He heard her screams and had just thrown on his dressing gown when she burst into the room, looking like a white apparition, her hair streaming about her face and down her back. He caught her up in his arms and held her fast against him, feeling her heart hammer against his chest. “There, it’s all right. There’s nothing to fear. I’m here, and I’ll always be here for you.”

“It was so awful, Julien, yet I can’t seem to remember. Why can’t I remember? It must be the same nightmare as before. I’m sure of it. I just can’t grasp it and hold it, it slips away from me, but it’s horrible, horrible—”

“You must trust me. Everything will be all right. I give you my promise.”

She looked up at him, a small frown furrowing her brow, as she weighed his words. “Please let me stay with you, Julien. I can’t bear to be alone.”

E
ven a week ago he would have been gape-mouthed with surprise to hear her say that, but now, no, he wasn’t shocked or surprised at all. He cupped her face in his palms. “Of course you’ll stay with me. I won’t leave you. You’re safe with me. Do you believe that, Kate?”

She nodded slowly. He picked her up in his arms and placed her in his bed. He lay down beside her, pulled the covers over them, and gathered her to him. He felt a long sigh pass through her body, and in but a moment she was asleep, her head on his chest.

Sleep didn’t come so easily to Julien, and he lay staring at the ceiling even as gray shafts of dawn filtered into the room. His promise to her to keep her safe rang hollow in his ears. How could he protect her from her own fears, fears that emerged to terrify her at night, fears she didn’t begin to understand? During the day, she was living the guilt that he had forced upon her, and the misery in her eyes made him writhe with self-loathing.

Try as he would, he could think of no way to separate her rape as a child from his own rape of her. That’s what it had been, despite his bringing her to pleasure. Rape, pure and simple rape. Only rape wasn’t ever simple. God, he’d been a fool, a conceited ass, so confident in himself and his ability to seduce his wife and then calm her into accepting him. Had he been utterly mad?

And thus he too had to remain silent. He couldn’t speak to her of one because that could only result in her learning of the other. He had no doubt that if he told her now that he had been the man who raped her, he
would lose her. And he feared she would lose herself, even more than she was now lost to what she was and who she was.

He closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth and softness of her body. He stroked her thick hair, feeling the soft waves spring in his hand, as if alive.

When he awoke some hours later, she was gone. He wasn’t the least bit surprised. He could easily picture her embarrassment upon waking in his bed. Nor was he overly surprised to find her pacing outside his bedroom door, waiting for him to emerge, dressed in her breeches for their daily fencing lesson. Neither of them mentioned her wild flight to his room the previous night.

There were changes Julien saw in Kate that day. She hurled herself into physical activity, extending their fencing lesson until finally Julien dropped his foil, seeing her face white with fatigue. In their riding in the afternoon, she pushed Gabriella to a frenetic pace, until again Julien was forced to pull her up so that her horse would not drop under her with exhaustion.

She tried to maintain a flow of light, inconsequential chatter that evening, as if to prove to herself that all was well with her. But she couldn’t hide the haunted look that veiled her eyes whenever she slowed her frantic pace. Late that evening, after she had lost an imaginary two hundred pounds to him at piquet, he led her unwillingly to her room.

“I don’t really want, that is, I’m truly not tired yet, Julien. I really don’t think I can sleep.”

He himself was ready to drop, but he didn’t say anything about that. He looked down at her and smiled gently. “If you find you can’t sleep, come to my room and we’ll talk until you’re drowsy. All right?”

She turned her face away quickly, and he could feel her weighing her trust in him against her fear of being alone.

“It doesn’t matter. Whatever you wish, my dear. Why don’t you think about it? I’ll be in my bedchamber. Whatever you decide, I’ll be there for you.” He gently
pushed her into her room, not wishing to press her for an answer.

He had just eased his tired body into his bed when there was a light tap on his door and she slipped silently into his room. She stopped and stood in awkward silence, her fingers plucking nervously at her nightgown.

“Come, sweetheart.” He patted the place beside him. “I don’t want you to take a chill. Come and get into bed. We’ll have a nice talk or whatever you wish.”

She walked slowly, hesitating every few steps, and with a visible effort climbed into bed beside him. She was trembling. He made no attempt to take her into his arms; he only pulled the covers over them and lay on his back beside her. After a long moment of strained silence, she said, “I don’t wish you to think, that is, you must think it odd that—”

He could feel her embarrassment, and so he cut off her pitiful explanation. “What I think is that you wore me to a bone today. Come, my dear, let’s go to sleep.”

He stretched out his arms and touched her shoulders, his movements slow and unthreatening. She tensed for only a moment and then allowed him to pull her against his chest.

During the next weeks, Kate felt as if she were slowly suffocating from her guilt and shame. Julien’s unflagging kindness during the days and his gentle understanding each night made her all the more miserable. She could allow no excuses for herself. That her unknown captor had forcibly drugged her and ruthlessly bound her gave her no justification, no forgiveness for herself, because she had experienced pleasure at his hands and his mouth—oh, God, yes, his mouth, burning her, sending her outside herself, but making himself part of her even as she thought she’d surely die of the pleasure. Though he’d then forced her, she still thought herself guilty of betraying her husband. Her guilt ate at her relentlessly, and only her fear of losing Julien allowed her to keep her secret to herself.

Her only comfort was sleeping in her husband’s arms
each night. The terrifying nightmare had come to her two more times, but her low moans had instantly awakened Julien, and he’d shaken her to consciousness before the awful images grew strong within her mind.

She tried each time to understand the meaning of the fearful dream, but something deep within her jostled the images, as if to prevent her from grasping their significance.

She developed the habit of gazing at herself in the mirror whenever she passed one in the villa. She was certain that some change must have appeared on her face, some knowing sign, perhaps in her eyes, that would reveal her lost innocence. She felt she must see the signs before Julien did so she could hide them from him, anything so he wouldn’t know, wouldn’t guess. But each time she looked, she saw only a pale, set face, her lost innocence evidently buried in the depths of her eyes.

She thought occasionally of Harry, perfunctorily loving him, but his meaning to her was slowly changing. She was no longer his hoydenish little sister, spontaneously involving him in all her thoughts. She didn’t know whose Kate she was.

The Swiss weather remained comfortably cool during those weeks, then it changed abruptly. The temperature plummeted, and on a Thursday morning they awoke to a light snow blanketing the ground.

Julien didn’t blink an eye when Kate donned her riding habit to accompany him to the village to secure carriages for their journey back to Geneva. Upon their arrival in the village, she dogged his steps, oblivious of the curious stares cast her way by the local folk, and stayed at his side as he conducted his business at the tiny inn. Her only comment when they left was that the owner had a bulbous nose, obviously from too much drink, and years of grime under his fingernails.

Julien laughed. “Grime or not, my dear, he much admired you, and I’m convinced that I got a much better price because you were with me.”

“Perhaps, Julien, I should have conducted your
business. It is possible that I would have achieved even a cheaper price.”

Then she gave him a wonderful gift. She smiled up at him, a small smile, gone very quickly, but still it was something.

Three days later, their luggage securely strapped to the boot of their chaise, Kate and Julien took their leave of the villa. The Craytons would follow at a more sedate pace in the second carriage.

How very different was their return to Geneva. As before, they stayed at the Coeur de Lyon, but this time, by tacit agreement, Kate shared Julien’s room. Happily, it occurred to Julien to have a screen brought to their room to ensure her privacy when dressing. He willingly played her lady’s maid, buttoning and unbuttoning her gowns and helping her to brush out the tangles in her hair, teasing her, being as lighthearted as he could manage. He didn’t say a word when she whisked behind the screen to complete her dressing.

“Do you recall, Julien,” she said unexpectedly that evening over dinner, “when we were last here and you forced me to take that wretched walk with you to the lake? And I nearly contracted a chill because of your officious manners?”

“I find it very interesting that a female’s memory becomes so quickly distorted. Why, as I recall, it was you, my dear, who was being stubborn and willful by refusing to wear that warm cloak I bought for you.”

“Perhaps. But don’t you see? It was
your
cloak. Somehow I felt that if I wore it, I’d be selling myself, that I would no longer be me.”

He paused, an arrested look on his face. “I hadn’t thought of it like that, ever. I’m sorry for that. I wasn’t much of a good friend to you, was I?”

“Oh, yes. Never think you’re not. You’re my best friend. That is, I couldn’t—” She stopped cold and he reached out and took her hand.

“Even so, let’s forget about that now. Don’t you agree that it was something of an interesting argument?”

That did get a small smile out of her. “Yes, I suppose it was, particularly since you gained your ends in any case. Your wager in piquet was, I admit, a master stroke.”

“And you’ve shown great improvement. It’s been some three weeks now that I haven’t thrashed you quite so soundly.”

“You damnable man. You’ll see, I’m much the smarter and will serve you your just deserts.”

“I admit it’s a slim possibility, a bare glimmer of a possibility, if, in the dim future, I manage to lose my wits.”

She was suddenly as silent as a stone. She simply couldn’t imagine the future, dim or otherwise. She counted her future only in immediate days. She became aware that he was looking closely at her, and so she quickly spoke of the tastiness of the roast veal.

They journeyed slowly through France, enjoying the warmer weather, halting to explore the Roman ruins in the south—particularly in Nîmes, and making their way far to the west of Paris. When they reached Calais, Kate was surprised to find Julien’s yacht, The
Fair Maid,
moored in the harbor.

“Goodness, I’d forgotten that yacht of yours, Lord March.” There was laughter in her voice, and he warmed to it, turning a very real, very powerful smile on her.

“I hope I won’t have to sling you over my shoulder and carry you aboard.” He would have done it before if it had occurred to him. Still smiling, he turned to wave to a small, portly man, uniformed in dark blue, striding toward them.

“I don’t think you’ll have to now,” she said, looking with interest as the uniformed man bowed low to Julien.

“Aye, a pleasure to see you, my lord. The men were becoming a trifle restless.” His voice was booming. He broke into a leathery smile and bowed to Kate.

“The countess of March, Captain Marcham.”

“An honor it is, my lady,” the captain told her, thinking privately that he was indeed fortunate that he and his men weren’t left longer to kick up their heels in Calais. Lord, were he the earl, he would have extended the wedding trip another six months.

The
Fair Maid
was finely appointed, with small, elegantly furnished rooms and a deck and railing that shone to a high polish. During the nine-hour crossing, Kate spent the majority of her time contentedly bundled in fur rugs on the deck. As she sipped a cup of tea, offered by a shy young seaman, she remembered with some amusement her flight to France on the small, dingy packet.

“We’ll dock at Plymouth within the hour, my lord,” Captain Marcham informed them after what seemed to Kate an incredibly short time.

“Excellent time, Marcham. I hope you now have a better opinion of my yacht, Kate,” he added, turning to tuck the rug more closely about her legs.

“It’s quite lovely, as you well know. It’s just that we’ve come so quickly back, and I’m not certain—” Her voice trailed off, and she stared out over the whitecapped water, her mind in some confusion.

“Of what, my dear?”

She withdrew, giving a tiny shake of her head. “It’s nothing. I’m being silly, nothing more.” Suddenly he saw fear in her eyes, stark fear. She quickly added, “I promise you, it’s nothing at all. I’m fine, more than fine. I swear it.”

He would have howled at the moon if only there had been one. He felt sick with guilt and fear for her, even as he admired her more than he could say. She was brave, so damned brave, but she was hiding herself, hiding everything, and there was naught he could do about it, not yet at least.

When they stepped ashore at Plymouth, it was teeming with travelers, harried seamen, and many indigenous specimens lolling about on the dock. Somehow the touch of English soil beneath her feet and the hearty cries in
the English tongue sounding on every side of her made her feel terribly alone. Though Julien stood not six feet from her, giving instructions to Captain Marcham and to the men who were removing their luggage, she had the unaccountable feeling that the man whose life she had shared for the past two months was now drawing away from her, returning to a way of life that was alien to her. Two months ago she wouldn’t have cared—indeed, she would have welcomed it—but now she felt that what she wanted most was to return to the yacht and let Captain Marcham sail wherever he wished.