The Accidental Bride

Chapter 9

Brian Morse rode up to the front door of Cato’s manor under a lowering sky. The snow lay thick on the ground except where a party of soldiers had cleared a narrow path along the driveway.

He looked up at the house, with its mullioned windows and gabled snow-covered roof. It was a substantial pile of stone, and he wondered how much Cato had paid for it. Not that it would have been more than a bagatelle for the marquis of Granville, whose wealth was almost legendary.

A wealth that was within Brian Morse’s grasp.

He dismounted, tethered his horse to the hitching post beside the door, and banged the great brass knocker. A well-dressed retainer opened the door. He was not one of the servants from Castle Granville whom Brian would have recognized, and he regarded the stranger with an air of polite if aloof curiosity.

“Is Lord Granville within?” inquired Brian, stamping the snow off his boots against the edge of the step.

“May I say who’s asking for him, sir?”

“Who’s at the door, Bisset?” Cato’s voice came from behind the butler. He stepped out of the dimness of the hall. His dark eyes narrowed over a flash of disquiet when he saw his visitor. But he spoke pleasantly.

“Well, Brian, this is a surprise. Come in out of the cold.”

Bisset stepped aside and Brian entered Cato’s house, drawing off his gloves. “You must indeed be surprised,” he said in somewhat ruefully apologetic tones. “I trust it won’t be an unpleasant surprise though, when I’ve explained myself.”

He extended his hand to his stepfather, who took it in a firm, cool grasp.

“Bisset, have Mr. Morse’s horse taken to the stables. Have you breakfasted, Brian?”

“Not as yet, sir. I left Oxford before dawn. I had no wish to meet any patrols and thought to travel under cover of dark and snow.”

Cato raised an eyebrow. Only something of vital importance would have sent a man out alone, even armed, on horseback and in such foul weather. “Come.” He gestured towards his study at the rear of the hall. “Bring bread and meat and ale, Bisset.”

Olivia stood at the bend of the stair looking down into the hall, hardly breathing.

“Who’s that?” Phoebe murmured behind her. She didn’t know why she was whispering, but there was something about Olivia’s posture that seemed to encourage secrecy.

“The pig,” Olivia stated.

“Who?”

“The swine… the g-guttercrawler.” Olivia’s mouth was compressed, her dark eyes flaring. “Brian Morse,” she expanded. “My father’s stepson. He’s a loathsome, belly-c-crawling snake.”

Phoebe had heard the famous story of how Portia and Olivia had squashed this particular snake back in Castle Granville two years earlier. Cato’s stepson had had the malicious habit of making fun of Olivia’s stammer.

“I wonder what he wants. Isn’t he supposed to be for the king? I’m sure Cato said so.”

Olivia shrugged. “I don’t c-care what he wants, just so long as he doesn’t stay.” She turned and ran back upstairs.

Phoebe remained where she was for a minute, then she went down to the hall. She paused outside Cato’s office, trying to think of an excuse to go in. She was most curious to make the acquaintance of her husband’s stepson. Cato had told her that he had adopted Brian Morse as a small child and the man was at present his heir. He had sounded as if he found the prospect distasteful. It would be very interesting to discover why.

Resolutely she raised her hand and knocked.

“Come in.” Cato’s tawny voice as always brought the fine hairs on her nape to life. She hadn’t seen him this morning. Would he look any different… be any different… after the glories of last night?

She opened the door and put her head around. “Forgive me for intruding, but Bisset said we have a guest. I wondered if I should have a bedchamber prepared for him.” She addressed Cato but she was looking only at the visitor with unabashed curiosity.

“Why don’t you bring the rest of yourself in here,” Cato suggested in his cool way. “And allow me to present Mr. Brian Morse, my stepson.”

Phoebe didn’t need a second invitation. She stepped into the room and offered a curtsy as Cato presented her with punctilious formality. She didn’t think she’d ever seen anyone dressed in such extravagant style. Mr. Morse’s coat and doublet were of crimson cloth edged with silver lace, and his lace collar was an elaborate fall of pleated ruffles. His hat, which he’d cast onto a chair, sported a flamboyant plume of crimson dyed ostrich feathers.

“Lady Granville.” Brian bowed, his small brown eyes assessing her. She looked a little different from the last time he’d seen her, a dumpy unfashionably clad creature, hurrying through the village. In a fashionable gown of blue velvet, she was more voluptuous than plump, he amended. But there was still something awry about her appearance; he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

Cato, however, saw the problem immediately. The three-tiered lace ruffles on her right sleeve were all rucked up inside the bottom of the sleeve instead of falling smoothly over her forearms. She must have dressed in haste, thrusting her arms into the gown anyhow. He took her right arm and patiently released the lace, smoothing it down. “It’s all creased,” he said. “You had better take off the gown and…”

The vivid image of Phoebe’s naked body rose with stirring effect to his mind.

“Yes, my lord?” Phoebe prompted softly.

Cato blinked in an effort to dispel the image. “Tell your maid to use the flatiron on those ruffles,” he finished firmly.

“Yes, my lord.” Phoebe curtsied, her gaze turned up to him. “But maybe there won’t be time before church.”

Time to… His own gaze drifted to the seductive swell of her bosom and then back to her smiling countenance.

Dear God, her eyes were the most amazing color.

“Go,” he said. “The bells will be ringing soon.”

“Oh… yes… very well.” The radiance of her smile remained undimmed, her gaze unfaltering. For a minute she didn’t move. She was thinking that Cato, in his somber black velvet and pristine white shirt with its plain lace collar, was so much more elegant than Brian Morse for all his rich garments.

Cato went to the door and pointedly opened it for her.

“Uh… yes, right away,” Phoebe said and hurried past him.

Cato closed the door firmly and with a certain sense of relief. He turned back to Brian.

“These documents you’ve brought are very interesting.” He picked up a sheaf of waxed papers from his desk. “This list of munitions from the king of Orange, for instance. But…” He shuffled through the papers. “To be frank, I’m not sure how much new information is in here. We’ve known about the munitions for several weeks now.”

“I thought you probably had,” Brian said with a tentative little smile. “But I don’t suppose you knew the exact figures that I supplied?”

“No,” Cato agreed, his eyes on the documents.

“I’m sure you must understand that I didn’t dare risk too much. If you refused to trust me… have faith in my conversion, as it were…” Here Brian laughed a little self-consciously. “Then I couldn’t risk giving up truly vital information. This is just an earnest of my intent.”

Cato raised his eyes and examined his stepson thoughtfully. “Careful as ever, Brian?” he murmured. “Don’t risk too much until you’re sure it’s safe.”

Brian flushed darkly. “Do you blame me, my lord?”

Cato stroked his chin, still thoughtful. “It argues a less than wholehearted conversion,” he observed. “However, I can see your point, if it’s any comfort. But by the same token, I assume you’ll not accompany us to church? It’s probably not in your best interests to advertise your presence here just yet.”

Brian had no choice but to agree. His stepfather had always seen through him… had always had the ability to cut the ground from beneath his feet.

Cato nodded briefly. “This afternoon we’ll ride to headquarters, where you may present your case to the high command. This is not a decision I can make alone, and I’m sure they’ll have a great many questions for you.” He gestured that Brian should precede him from the study and then locked the door, dropping the key into his coat pocket.

“I’ll introduce you to Mistress Bisset. She’ll take care of you until I return.”

The bells from the village church had already begun to peal when Cato, Olivia, and Phoebe left the house.

From a window in the front bedchamber allotted to him, Brian watched them go. Cato walked a little behind the girls, his cloak blowing back in the wind revealing the somber richness of his doublet and britches. His high-crowned black felt hat had no adornment, and the fur-edged collar of his cloak was turned up at the back, covering his ears. Brian knew that the serviceable elegance, the casual richness of his stepfather’s dress were merely an extension of the man himself. The marquis of Granville was assured, commanding, powerful, and he looked every inch of it. Every inch as formidable as Brian remembered. He would not be an easy victim.

As Brian watched, Phoebe slipped on an icy patch. Cato seemed to have predicted it and moved almost before it had happened, an arm around her waist, steadying her. She looked up at him with a rueful smile, catching her bottom lip with her teeth. Cato shook his head, straightened her bonnet that seemed to have gone askew beneath the capacious hood of her cloak, and tucked her hand into his arm.

Interesting, Brian thought, remembering the almost automatic way Cato had adjusted his wife’s rucked sleeve earlier. It seemed to bode an easy familiarity that was unlike Cato.

Brian frowned, pulling at his chin. It had been easy enough to dispose of Diana. She’d been all too willing to accept the gifts he sent her in secret, and he guessed she had enjoyed the thought of her clandestine correspondence with an admirer.

Poison was such a versatile weapon, Brian reflected. It could be administered at a distance and in any number of ways. The gloves had been the most elegant trick, he thought. They had been of the softest doeskin, lace-edged and studded with tiny seed pearls. Very beautiful, and quite deadly. Every time she wore them, the poison would seep into her skin.

There had been silk stockings too-the kind of intimate loverly gift that would excite a woman as susceptible to flattery and courtly gestures as Diana. And the little boxes of comfits. Little jeweled boxes of lethal sweetmeats.

He had been in no hurry and it had taken about eight months before she died. The poison had mimicked a wasting disease and the bloody flux, symptoms too common to arouse the suspicion of foul play, particularly when there was no obvious reason for it.

Brian smiled to himself. The refinements of Diana’s death had pleased him almost as much as the fact itself. And then, of course, Cato had to marry her sister and undo all his good work.

Well, he might have to be a bit cruder in his methods this time, but that should pose no problems… now that he was firmly established under Cato’s roof.

All but the sick were straggling down the village street, wrapped against the cold, shuffling booted feet through the drifts. No God-fearing soul would neglect Sunday service, even for the snow, and the lord of the manor, if he was in residence, would never neglect the observance for fear of setting a bad example.

The congregation in Woodstock, as in so many other villages across the land, was mostly women, old men, and small children. The able-bodied men for the most part had been pressed into the army regardless of their views on the civil strife. The women bobbed little curtsies, the old men touched forelocks as the manor party walked up the path to the church door. Phoebe greeted them by name and would have stopped to chat if Cato hadn’t been holding her arm so securely, propelling her inexorably to the church door, where he moved his gloved hand to her shoulder, easing her in front of him.

Cato was thinking about Brian Morse. What was the real reason for this visit? A change of allegiance seemed unlikely. He didn’t want the man under his roof, but without good cause he couldn’t refuse to shelter his adopted son and heir. Well, he would play a waiting game. Brian would reveal his hand soon enough.

The vicar’s sonorous boom broke abruptly into Cato’s reverie.

“The arm of the devil has a long reach. His servants are to be found everywhere. And, my people, they are to be found among us now. Here in the very bosom of our village lurks evil, a follower of the devil. Her vile hand has fallen upon the innocent and the weak and we must cast her out.”

Here the vicar paused and raised his eyes to heaven, his arms flailing as if in ecstasies of prayer. “You have taken your children to this woman, in times of trouble; in times of weakness you have sought her help. And she has preyed upon your sorrows with the devil’s art.”

Phoebe felt the first icy shaft of premonition. It was something she had always feared, something that Meg risked with every act of healing. And it had to be Meg. She had been called a witch before, but before it had been almost an affectionate description, never accusation. There was no other member of this community who would fit the vicar’s diatribe. She glanced around. There were nods and whispers and grim faces. She glanced up at Cato, sitting beside her in the Granville pew, and saw that the vicar now had his full attention.

Something must have happened since Phoebe’s visit to Meg’s cottage the previous morning. Ordinarily she would have heard of anything untoward, but the blizzard had kept her and the household, her usual source of rumor and gossip, within doors.

Meg should be in church, Phoebe thought. Meg knew full well how the village was suspicious of and swift to censure anyone who didn’t obey the unwritten rules, but she persisted in flying in the face of convention. And her absence from the altar of God gave credence to these wild accusations.

Cato grew increasingly angry as the vicar’s invective continued. The fire-and-brimstone kind of sermon was becoming ever more popular as the strong Puritan element in Cromwell’s New Model Army took hold over the looser morality of the royalist Cavaliers, encouraging a rabble-rousing fanaticism that did little good and had much potential for harm.

When the service was over, he said rather curtly to Phoebe, “Stay here with Olivia. It’s too cold to wait outside and I wish to talk with the vicar.”

Phoebe buried her gloved hands in the deep pockets of her cloak and slumped down in the pew, huddling for warmth. She needed to go and find Meg, but it would have to wait until after dinner.

“It’s as c-cold inside as outside,” Olivia stated glumly. “What a dreadful sermon.” She was right about the cold. The two small braziers in the nave did nothing to relieve the icy dampness.

“He was talking about Meg,” Phoebe stated.

“Oh, but he c-couldn’t be!” Olivia exclaimed. “She’s never done any harm to anyone.”

“It had to be her, there’s no one else in the village it could be. I’m going to see her this afternoon. Will you come with me?”

“Yes, of c-course.” Olivia often accompanied Phoebe on her visits to the herbalist, although despite her fascination she regarded Meg with a faint degree of alarm.

“Come,” Cato called from the door. There was an edge to his voice that brought them hurrying to join him. His expression was dark, his mouth thin, his jaw set.

“What did you say to the vicar?” Phoebe asked.

“Watch your step,” Cato said shortly instead of answering her question. “You don’t want to slip again.”

“Why did you wish to talk to him?” Phoebe persisted, lifting her feet with exaggerated care on the path.

“I don’t like all that fire and brimstone. If the man gets a sense of power out of stirring the crowd… For God’s sake, Phoebe!” He grabbed at her arm as she stepped knee-deep into a snowdrift.

“Oh!” Chagrined, she dragged herself out of the snow. It had gone into her boots and soaked the hem of her cloak and gown. “I didn’t see it.”

“Why didn’t you look where you were going?” he snapped.

“I don’t think it’s just,” Phoebe stated, “to be cross with me simply because you’re cross with the vicar.” She looked down at her sodden feet with a grimace. “It’s bad enough as it is.”

“What a ragged robin you are! I’d better carry you home.”

“No, thank you,” Phoebe said. “And anyway I’m too heavy.” She stalked ahead, trying to ignore the horrid cold squelching of the snow in her boots.

Cato forgot his annoyance with the vicar. In two paces he came up with Phoebe, swung her around, lowered his shoulder, and hoisted her up and over. “Not in the least heavy,” he said cheerfully, patting her upturned bottom in reassurance. “Keep still, and we’ll be back in the warm and the dry in no time.”

“You can’t carry me through the village like this!” Phoebe squawked.

“Oh, no one will think anything of it,” he assured her, striding out. “Besides, everyone’s gone home to fires and Sunday dinners.”

Behind them, Olivia gazed at the sight of Phoebe disappearing around the corner over her husband’s broad shoulder. She’d never seen her father do anything quite like that before. Of course, it would ensure Phoebe didn’t fall into another snowdrift. Olivia hurried in her father’s footsteps.

At the front door Cato eased Phoebe off his shoulder. Games were all very well in their place, but Lady Granville couldn’t appear before the servants in her present position.

“Ugh!” Phoebe said, shaking out a foot. “I’m sure I’m frostbitten.” She moved through the door that Bisset now held open and said mischievously over her shoulder, “My thanks for the ride, sir.”

Cato shook his head at her retreating back, then, drawing off his gloves, turned to the butler. “Bring a decanter of madeira to my study, Bisset. Ah, Brian… I trust you’ve been made comfortable.” He greeted Brian, who was coming down the stairs. “You’ll forgive me if I leave you to your own devices until dinner. I have to gather some papers and change my dress for the ride to headquarters this afternoon.”

“Of course, my lord.” Brian offered the rigid Olivia a half bow. “Olivia, my little sister. You do seem to have grown up since I saw you last.” He regarded her with a faint smile.

“I do hope you won’t find the c-climate in Woodstock as unhealthy as you found it in Yorkshire,” Olivia said sweetly. “You had such an uncomfortable t-time. Was it fleas… or lice, Brian? I don’t recall.”

A mottled flush spread across Brian’s thin, pointed countenance. Cato was already halfway across the hall and didn’t hear Olivia’s mockery.

“And as I recall, you also ate something that disagreed with you,” Olivia continued. “I do t-trust you won’t have a similar problem on this visit.”

Brian’s thin mouth flickered. The fine line of his eyebrows lifted in a supercilious question mark. “You talk in riddles, little sister. I’m sorry to see that you haven’t managed to overcome that unfortunate stammer. It makes you sound like a simpleton. I wonder you have the courage to open your mouth at all. But at the very least, you should try to make sense. It might lessen the unfavorable impression.”

Olivia felt the old surge of frustration and the nasty cold tremor in her belly that Brian had managed to engender as far back as she could remember.

With curled lip and mockery in his eye Brian watched her struggle. “Poor little girl,” he murmured. “But so amusing.”

Olivia’s hand closed over the friendship ring in her pocket. Portia had exorcized this demon once and for all. Now Olivia met Brian’s smile with her own and concentrated fiercely.

“Excuse me. I have to take off my cloak.” There, she’d managed the stumbling block. It was the hardest sound of them all for her. With a little nod of satisfaction she turned to the stairs.

She was feeling so pleased with herself that she almost skipped down the passage towards Phoebe’s bedchamber.

Phoebe was sitting on the chest at the foot of the bed, wriggling her white numbed toes at the fire in an attempt to get the feeling back, when Olivia came in. “I’m sure I’m frostbitten,” she declared.

“They do look rather dead,” Olivia said, peering at Phoebe’s feet with some fascination. She hitched herself onto the edge of the bed, observing cheerfully, “It was funny to see my father c-carrying you like that.”

“My feet were wet,” Phoebe offered, a slight flush blooming on her cheeks.

“I’ve never seen him do anything like that before,” Olivia said. “He doesn’t tend to be spontaneous. Maybe all these surprises you k-keep giving him are having an effect.”

“What kind of effect?” Phoebe hopped off the chest to fetch clean stockings from the linen press.

Olivia considered. “Well, he laughs more,” she said finally. “He never used to laugh when Diana was around, but now he’s often amused. I like it,” she added. “I used to think he was sad a lot of the time. But he doesn’t seem so now.”

“Really?” Phoebe paused, her clean stockings in her hand. “Do you really think so?”

“Mmm.” Olivia nodded. “Haven’t you noticed how his eyes seem to gleam sometimes?”

“Yes, they do, don’t they?” Phoebe smiled to herself.

“Well, I’d better take off my c-cloak before dinner.” Olivia jumped up. “We’ll go and see Meg this afternoon.” She went to the door just as it opened to admit Cato, intent on changing into riding dress.

“Excuse me, sir,” she said with a curtsy. “I was just talking to Phoebe while she changed her stockings.”

Cato nodded a mite absently. He had rather a lot on his mind at present. He closed the door behind Olivia.

“How are your feet?”

“Warmer now.” Phoebe eased her stockings over her toes, then slowly pulled them up, stretching her leg in front of her as she did so, flexing her foot.

Cato watched her. There was something undeniably sensuous about the whole maneuver. She fastened her garters just above the knee and then looked up as if aware of his scrutiny for the first time. Her teeth closed over her bottom lip, and a smile touched her eyes, a smile where diffidence blended with invitation.

“I’ve ordered dinner for noon,” Cato said slowly. He began to unbutton his doublet. “I have to ride to headquarters this afternoon.”

“Will you ride home today when you’ve completed your business, sir?” Phoebe remained perched on the bed, her skirt still hitched up above her knees.

They were very prettily rounded knees. Cato’s fingers were now on the waistband of his velvet britches. “I had not thought to be absent this night,” he said.

Had the previous night really happened? Had it just been a trick, an artful pretense? He had a sudden mad impulse to test the waters.

“Come here,” he said, crooking a finger at her.

Phoebe slid off the bed, her rich velvet skirts sweeping once more to her ankles. She came slowly towards him, her eyes as brilliant as a sun-filled midsummer sky.