The Accidental Bride

Chapter 12

The shot crossed the bay’s withers just as they were approaching the village of Eynsham. It was so close it almost ruffled the animal’s mane, but the charger was accustomed to the fire of a battlefield and didn’t so much as start in alarm.

Phoebe didn’t immediately realize what had happened. She heard the crack and the whine but for a minute couldn’t place the sound. Then there came a bloodcurdling shriek of triumph, and a party of men broke from the trees on the path just behind them.

“What is it? Is it the deserters?” Phoebe gasped, swiveling to look over her shoulder.

“I imagine so,” Cato said, sounding utterly calm. “I’ve been expecting them these last two miles. Hold on tight now, because we’re going to outrun them.”

Phoebe circled his narrow waist and clung on as the bay broke into a gallop. Another musket shot whistled close to Phoebe’s ear, and she couldn’t hold back a little scream.

“There’s nothing to be alarmed about,” Cato said, as coolly as before, over the thundering of the bay’s hooves on the lane.

“There isn’t?” Phoebe found that hard to believe, but Cato’s calm was infectious. She glanced over her shoulder again. “Some of them have gone off into the field at the side.”

“I was afraid of that. They’re going to try to cut us off at the corner.” Cato abruptly swung the bay to the left.

Phoebe stared at the massive hedge looming up before them. There was no way through it. And then she understood. They were going over it.

“Oh God!” she whispered, closing her eyes tightly, burying her face against Cato’s back, her hands gripping his belt at the front so that she felt as if her body was an extension of his.

The bay rose into the air. Phoebe’s stomach dropped, her gut turned to water. She bit her lip and tasted blood. The hedge scraped the bay’s belly as he soared over. His back hooves caught the top and then he thundered down into a stream the other side of the hedge. Icy water flew upward, soaking the hem of Phoebe’s skirt as the animal stumbled to his knees.

Cato hauled him up and the bay struggled onto the bank. Cato swore when he realized the horse was limping. There were shouts from the far side of the hedge, but their pursuers were clearly not going to follow them over the jump.

Cato glanced around. There was a copse at the back of the field. Their attackers might well give up, assuming their quarry would be well away by now, but then again they might seek a way around the hedge. From the copse he’d be able to hold them off. The bay could walk, but nothing faster.

Cato dismounted, took the bridle, and led the animal towards the copse.

“Should I get down too?” Phoebe asked, automatically grabbing for the pommel as she found herself unsupported atop the great horse.

“No,” he said. “I don’t want you running off.”

“But where d’you think I’d go?” Phoebe looked anxiously over her shoulder in search of pursuit.

“Knowing you… anywhere,” he said.

“That’s unjust,” Phoebe accused.

“Is it?” Cato gave a short laugh. “Just sit still. If you wriggle, it’ll aggravate his limp. When we get into the copse, I’ll have a look and see what the damage is.”

“But what if they follow us?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Cato sounded to Phoebe as if it were a matter of sublime indifference whether a pack of murdering deserters pursued them or not.

The bay limped into the gloom and concealment of the copse. Cato led him into the center and stopped. He glanced around, assessing the situation, then he looked up into the spreading branches of an old conifer. ‘“All right, now. Phoebe, I want you to climb up there.”

Phoebe looked upward. “Why? Because you’ll know where I am?”

“That too,” Cato responded with a dry smile. “But also because you’ll be safe out of the way if those bastards do follow us. And while you’re up there, if you go high enough you’ll be able to tell me if they come into the field.” He reached up to lift her to the ground.

“I knew you’d find I could be useful if you thought about it,” Phoebe remarked. She looked up at the tree. “I just wish I was wearing one of my old dresses, though.” She brushed at her new riding habit. “My skirts are all wet from the stream, and now they’re going to get dirty up the tree.” She gave a philosophical shrug.

She took off her hat and cloak and laid them on the ground, then surveyed the tree again a mite dubiously. The bottom branch was a long way off the ground. “You’ll have to boost me up. If I can reach that bottom branch, I think I can climb up the rest of the way.”

“Get on my shoulders.” Cato knelt and held up his hands so that she could hold them as she clambered onto his shoulders.

“Aren’t I hurting you?”

“No.” He stood up slowly, transferring his hands to her waist to balance her. When he was standing, Phoebe could reach the bottom branch easily. She scrambled into the tree and went on up, heedless of the fir tree’s prickly greenery.

“What can you see?” Cato called softly.

“Nothing… oh, yes, I can. There’s two of them in the field.”

“Well, tell me if they come in this direction.” Cato turned to the bay and began to run his hands down the animal’s forelegs. He could feel nothing there and turned to the rear limbs. The right fetlock was hot to the touch, and he swore under his breath. The bay wouldn’t make it home to Woodstock with such a strain.

He straightened and looked around the darkening copse. They could hardly spend the night here. He could see but one option and it wasn’t one that appealed. “What’s happening, Phoebe?”

“There’s about six of them in the field now, but they’re just milling around. It’s getting quite dark.”

“Mmm.” Cato took a brace of pistols from the straps buckled to his saddle. “Stay right where you are. I’m going to get rid of them.”

“But there’s six of them and only one of you,” Phoebe pointed out.

“I assure you that I’m more than a match for that rabble,” Cato told her with some considerable scorn. He walked away towards the outskirts of the copse.

For some reason Phoebe had little doubt that despite the odds her husband would make short work of the opposition. She watched from her perch, interested rather than frightened. Then came the sharp crack of a pistol. One of the men in the field dropped to his knees with a cry, a hand pressed to his shoulder. The others gazed around in confusion. There was a second shot, and another fell.

The remaining four took to their heels and ran as if all the devils in hell were in pursuit.

Phoebe applauded and scrambled back down the tree, reaching the ground just as Cato reappeared, the still-smoking pistols hanging casually from his hands.

“What cowards they were! But you’re a wonderful shot,” Phoebe said in awe.

Cato looked surprised rather than gratified by the compliment. “Did you doubt it?”

“Well, no, not really. But I’ve never seen you in battle before.” She gathered up her hat and cloak.

“That was hardly a battle,” Cato corrected. He stood for a minute in thought, whistling idly through his teeth. There really wasn’t an alternative.

“I think the bay will be able to carry you. It’s only about a mile.”

“What is?”

“Cromwell’s headquarters. We’ll spend the night there. It’s a damnable nuisance, but I don’t see any option tonight. The bay will need to rest that fetlock for at least a week, so I’ll pick up another horse in the camp to get us home tomorrow.” He slid his pistols back into the saddle straps.

Phoebe absorbed this information. “Are there any women in the camp?”

“None that you’ll be consorting with,” Cato said shortly. “Mount up, now.” He cupped his palm for her foot.

“Whores, are they?” Phoebe hauled herself inelegantly into the bay’s saddle. With only one rider, there was no need to use the pillion pad.

“Camp followers,” Cato agreed, taking hold of the bridle at the bit. “And,” he continued with some force, “you will steer clear of them and speak only to those people to whom I present you. Indeed, it would please me if you didn’t speak at all unless you’re in my company. Do you think you could manage that?”

“But why?” Phoebe was bewildered at this abrupt and rather harsh turn to the conversation.

“Because, my dear girl, you have the most exasperating habit of getting involved in unsavory situations,” he informed her. “I am beginning to understand that you don’t seem to be able to help it, but I dread to think what you could get up to in an army camp. I’m not even sure what I’m going to do with you… where I’m going to put you.”

Phoebe didn’t bother to defend herself. It seemed he was thinking of Meg, and she had no desire to reopen that subject. When someone was so patently wrong, you didn’t argue with them. “But won’t I stay with you?” she asked mildly.

“You’ll have to, I suppose. But we live a communal existence in the house. It’s not arranged for privacy.” He led the bay out of the copse, in the opposite direction from the field and the wounded men.

Phoebe said no more. She found the idea of spending the night in an army camp intensely interesting, but if Cato realized that, he’d probably be even more disagreeable.

It was almost full dark when they turned through the gates of the Cotswold stone farmhouse that served as Cromwell’s headquarters. The tented camp spread out across the surrounding farmland, and lamps and fires sparked through the trees. The strains of a fife and the martial beat of a drum drifted on the frosty air.

Phoebe looked around curiously from her high perch. She was no longer gritting her teeth in fear and was sitting quite relaxed as the bay limped slowly up the driveway. He seemed to know where he was, and raised his head and whickered hopefully.

Cato patted his neck. “Not long now, old boy.”

The animal turned and nuzzled into Cato’s shoulder before picking up his pace a little.

The farmhouse was a squat, square, two-story building of yellow Cotswold stone. A courtyard in front was formed by outbuildings on two sides and the house itself at the rear.

Men were moving purposefully around the courtyard, carrying sacks, loading and unloading carts, under the flickering lights of pitch torches. Cato hailed a soldier, who immediately dropped what he was doing and came hurrying over, offering a brisk salute.

“Yes, m’lord.” His eyes darted once to Phoebe, then returned to the marquis.

“My horse is lame. Take him to the stables, have them poultice the fetlock and give him a bran mash. The poultice is to be changed every hour throughout the night. Understand?”

The soldier listened to the crisp instructions and saluted again before taking the bay’s bridle from Cato, who reached up to help Phoebe to the ground. The soldier glanced at her more openly now and with unfeigned admiration.

Phoebe responded with one of her customary friendly smiles. The soldier grinned back. Cato took her elbow and said briskly, “Come.”

He hurried her across the court to the house. “It’s inevitable that you’ll draw attention, Phoebe, but there’s no need to invite it,” he said curtly.

“I didn’t realize I was,” she responded. “I didn’t speak to him. I only smiled at him after he’d started looking at me.” She paused to look around, fascinated by the scene.

“There are a lot of things you don’t realize,” Cato said. She had no idea of the effect her lushly sensual appearance was going to have in this world of an army camp.

He put a hand on the small of her back and propelled her in front of him to the front door of the house.

The man guarding it jumped to attention and flung open the door. Phoebe found herself in a beamed, stone-flagged hall that took up the entire ground floor of the house. It was filled with men, most of whom were sitting on benches along a long plank table in the center of the room. Great smoking platters of meat and leather flagons of wine were on the table.

“Cato!” someone bellowed from one end of the table. “Welcome, man! We weren’t expecting you.” A tall man pushed back the bench and stood up, coming over to them, his ale mug still in his hand.

“Aye, my horse went lame after an encounter with some deserters, and I was afraid we’d be benighted.” Cato shook the man’s hand. “We’ll seek shelter here till morning, Oliver.” He turned to Phoebe, who was unclasping her cloak. “This is General Cromwell, Phoebe. Olher, may I present my wife.”

Phoebe curtsied. So this was Oliver Cromwell. He was ill dressed, she thought, in a very plain suit of poor cut and material. His linen was grimy and there was a speck of blood on his collar band.

“Lady Granville, I bid you welcome,” he said with a short bow. He had a grating voice and his countenance was rather red and seemed swollen to Phoebe. She wondered if it was drink. He certainly cut a poor figure beside Cato. She took off her hat and stood a mite awkwardly, unsure what to do next.

“We’re ill equipped to entertain a lady,” the general continued, “but come to the table. You’ll be glad to sup, I’ll be bound.”

“Aye, we’re famished.” Cato took Phoebe’s cloak and hat and tossed them both over a settle close to the fire, before urging her towards the table. “Gentlemen, may I present my wife.” He moved her in front of him as they reached the table. The man gathered there all half rose from their benches, nodding to Phoebe, who curtsied shyly.

“Sit down, Lady Granville.” An aesthetic-looking gentleman, rather older than the others, and dressed with impeccable style, brought a stool and set it at a corner of the table. “You’ll have to forgive our rough manners, but we’re an army camp and ill used to gentle company.” He smiled as he gestured to the stool.

“This is General, Lord Fairfax,” Cato said. “Sit down, Phoebe. And when you’ve supped, I’ll find somewhere for you to sleep.”

To Phoebe’s alarm, he moved away from her as soon as he’d provided her with a platter of roast suckling pig, a mound of buttery boiled potatoes, a hunk of wheaten bread, and a pewter cup of wine. He took a place on one of the long benches some distance from her and was soon deep in conversation. No one took any notice of her after that.

Phoebe ate and listened to the buzz of voices, the occasional burst of laughter. She felt both neglected and seriously out of place. She understood now why Cato had been reluctant to bring her here, but she wished he had not abandoned her.

Cato cast her a quick glance now and again, relieved to see that for once she was behaving with perfect propriety, eating in silence and making no attempt to draw attention to herself. The men around the table were considerately ignoring her, knowing how uncomfortable she must be feeling. The main problem was where she was to sleep. He frowned, ladling vegetable soup into his bowl.

Phoebe had finished her platter of suckling pig, but she was still hungry and the rich aroma of the soup was tantalizing. The great tureen, however, seemed to have come to a stop beside Cato. She tried casting a speaking look in his direction, but he was deep in conversation about horse breeding, a subject that clearly interested him more than the welfare of his wife.

She hesitated for a second, then lifted her chin and got up from her stool. There were a few surprised glances as she came around the table to Cato and the tureen.

“What is it?” Cato asked, with a quick displeased frown.

“May I have some soup?” She met his frown with another little tilt of her chin.

It was hardly an unreasonable request, although it had done what he’d been trying to avoid and every eye was now upon her. “Sit down, then,” Cato instructed with a crisp edge to his voice. He inched up on the bench and put an arm at her waist as she clambered over.

“There’s a shortage of bowls and spoons, so you’ll have to use mine.” He refilled his bowl and passed it to her with the spoon. “Take what you want and I’ll finish it. Then I’ll find you somewhere to sleep.”

He wanted her to hurry and Phoebe obliged. She didn’t think she could endure many more minutes in this uncomfortable situation. Even Cato’s proximity was for once no help, and the impatience he was radiating destroyed her pleasure in the soup.

She put the spoon down and said, “I’ve finished, thank you, my lord.”

“Good. Let’s go abovestairs.” He swung off the bench with alacrity and helped her to her feet.

“Good night, Lady Granville. I trust you won’t be too disturbed,” Cromwell said. “We’re not all the quietest of sleepers.” Someone guffawed at this and there were a few more muted chuckles.

Now, just what did that mean?

“I bid you good night, gentlemen,” Phoebe said with a little curtsy to the company.

She followed Cato across the room to a narrow staircase at the far end. She understood the significance of Cromwell’s comment when they got to the top of the stairs. There was one long room under the eaves. It was lined with cots and leather-bound trunks.

“Does everyone sleep up here?” Her eyes widened at the implications. “All those men?”

“I did tell you there wasn’t any privacy,” Cato reminded her, holding up the lamp he’d carried up from the hall below. “It’s the very devil of a situation!”

“I didn’t make it happen,” she pointed out, stung. “If you like, I’ll go and sleep with the horses.”

Cato shot her a swift appraising glance. “This is hardly the time for jesting,” he observed aridly. He returned to his examination of the long room. “We’ll just have to make the best of it. Over here will do as well as anywhere.” He moved to the rear of the loft.

Phoebe followed, threading her way through the lines of cots. “But don’t the beds belong to people?”

Cato shook his head. “No. There’ll be folk moving in and out of them all night as the watch changes. No one lays claim to any one space.”

“Oh.” Phoebe looked around a mite helplessly.

“Here, this one’ll do. It’s against the wall, so you’ll only have one neighbor.” He gestured to a cot in the corner. “There’s a blanket and a pillow of sorts. Don’t strip down beyond your shift.”

“I wasn’t about to,” Phoebe said. “Where will you sleep?”

“I’ll decide when I come up later.” He set the oil lamp on one of the chests at the foot of the cot. “Turn down the wick when you’re in bed.”

“Yes, but… but I need the privy,” Phoebe said in sudden panic. “I can’t go to bed without using it.”

Cato swore.

“I can’t help it,” Phoebe protested. “Everyone has to go sometimes. Even soldiers!”

Despite himself, Cato’s lips twitched. She had a point. “There’s an outhouse at the rear of the kitchen garden. No one uses it. Take the lantern and go down that way.” He gestured to a stairway that was little more than a ladder at the rear of the loft. “You shouldn’t meet anyone, but if you do, don’t talk, just be quick.”

He hastened away, obviously in a great hurry to get back to his cronies, Phoebe reflected acidly. She took up the lantern and went to find the outhouse.

She returned to the long dormitory having met no one on her journey. She took off her outer garments, laying them tidily over the chest. Her shift felt very skimpy as she stood by the cot. She could hear laughter from below and lamplight showed through the spaces in the floorboards. If she listened hard, she could distinguish snatches of conversation and recognize some of the voices.

She extinguished the lamp and lay down on the narrow cot, pulling the thin blanket over her. The pillow and mattress were stuffed with straw and crackled when she turned over. She lay listening to the sounds from below. The laughter had ceased and there was a different tenor to their voices, as if, supper over, they had returned to business. Phoebe identified the rich, mellow cadences of Cato s voice interspersed with the sharp and unmelodious tones of Cromwell and the lighter tones of General Fairfax. It sounded as if they were in dispute.

“If a man hasn’t the courage to take the ultimate step, then I can’t help but question his commitment,” Cromwell said, his voice nasal and strident.

“I trust it’s not my commitment you’re questioning.” Cato’s voice was even, almost amused, as if such an idea were laughable.

“You’d vote to depose the king?” Cromwell demanded.

Phoebe listened, straining to catch Cato’s reply. “It’s not a step to be taken lightly,” he replied after a minute. “We force peace on our terms. I see no reason to do more.”

“You think the king would abide by such an agreement?” The question came from General Fairfax and produced a buzz of response from the company.

“I think we must assume that he would.” Cato’s response was firm, rising over the buzz. “I didn’t enter this war to establish a republic.”

“Then this war has overtaken you,” Cromwell declared. “It’s no longer a gentlemanly exercise to persuade Our Sovereign Majesty to heed the wishes of his subjects.” His voice was bitter and ironic. “It’s a fight for the right to rule England. And I say the people’s rule must hold sway.”

“You go too far for me, Oliver,” Cato said, as firmly and evenly as before. “But we can surely agree to differ on the final outcome without throwing accusations of disloyalty at one another.”

“Aye, you have the right of it, Cato,” Fairfax said warmly. “Oliver, ‘tis foolish to fall out with your friends.”

“I said nothing about disloyalty,” Cromwell declared. “Only of a failure of commitment. But you’re right, ‘tis too early to talk of such things. Let us win first.”

This was received with a rousing cheer and stamping feet and the sound of goblets being banged upon the table in resounding approval.

Phoebe drifted off to this lullaby.

She awoke in darkness, faintly aware through the clinging tendrils of sleep of the sounds of breathing, of snores, the creaking of straw palliasses as men shifted in sleep. For a moment she was disoriented, then she felt the hand on her back and she remembered.

“Cato?” she breathed.

For answer, he kissed the back of her neck. She was lying on her stomach, her shift tangled around her waist, and she could feel his length along her back, the hard throb of his erection against her bottom. She reached her arms over her head in a languid, luxuriant stretch as her body came alive, her skin began to tingle in anticipation.

He slid a hand between her thighs, feeling for her, caressing her until she opened to him, hot and moist with her own arousal. He moved his arm beneath her, lifting her buttocks towards him, and penetrated her with one deep thrust. He was lying along her back, his skin pressed to hers, as he moved within her, long, slow movements that filled her completely. His teeth grazed her nape, the points of her shoulder blades, and with his free hand he played with her breasts.

Phoebe buried her face in the pillow to stifle the moans of pleasure building in her throat. The sense of the men around them in the darkness seemed to increase her excitement. It was as if what they were doing on this narrow cot was forbidden, dangerous, no longer the legitimate if entrancing act of marriage. She could not move her own body, not by so much as a wriggle, for her own pleasure or for Cato’s. She was held captive by the body above her, pressed into the mattress, able only to submit to the waves of pleasure that broke over her with increasing strength.

The ripples began deep, deep in her belly, at the very center of her being, it seemed, and spread in ever widening circles until they consumed her, every inch of her. Her body was rigid, taut, held for a moment in an exquisite vise of sensation, then everything seemed to burst and dissolve and she bit the pillow to muffle the unpreventable gasping cries of an inarticulate joy that seemed to go on for ever and ever.

Cato pulled her buttocks hard against him and moved his other hand from her breasts to clasp the back of her head, his fingers twined in the thick, luxuriant hair as his own climax throbbed deep within her. He buried his mouth against her neck, tasting the salt on her skin, inhaling her fragrance that always reminded him of vanilla. He felt as if he had never possessed a woman as completely as he now possessed Phoebe, in this dark loft amid oblivious sleepers.

Or were they oblivious? The thought that maybe someone was lying there listening to the muted sounds of their love-making had a strange and heady effect. It seemed to increase the power of his orgasm, and as he fell from the heights of pleasure back to reality, he wondered what on earth had happened to him. He who never lost control, would never consider making an exhibition of himself, had found something about the dark, illicit nature of that clandestine act utterly compelling and arousing.

He disengaged slowly, reluctantly, and rolled to lie beside her, gathering her against him. She pressed back, drawing up her knees so that they lay like spoons in the narrow space. His fingers were still twined in her hair, and his other hand was at her waist, holding her.