His Rebel Bride Read online

  Catherine jumped at the sound of his voice. It was deep and resonant and obviously used to giving commands and to being obeyed.

  ‘Damn you, Reresby. Give me a moment,’ Henry rasped.

  Exasperated, Marcus slapped the palm of his hand with his gloves, melting into the shadows. ‘Inform me when you’re ready,’ he growled over his shoulder.

  Henry faced Catherine and did not flinch before the alarm mirrored in her eyes.

  ‘Father, why did you ask me to come to the chapel?’ It penetrated through a wave of alarm sweeping over her that there was something ominous in all this, something that did not make sense. ‘Who is that man? What does he want?’

  ‘You, my dear,’ Henry replied coldly. ‘You.’

  Suspicious fear reared up like a sharp-clawed beast in Catherine’s breast and her sudden wariness was evident in her tone. ‘I do not understand. What have you done, Father? I ask you again, who is he?’

  ‘His name is Marcus Reresby and the two of you are to be married this night.’

  Catherine’s heart contracted and for one dreadful moment she thought she was going to be sick. Her mind was reeling when she said, ‘But I am to marry Harry Stapleton. You gave your consent. You said it was a good match.’

  Henry’s face tightened into lines of impatience and annoyance. ‘Forget Stapleton. It is my wish that you wed Reresby instead.’

  ‘But I am promised to Harry,’ Catherine protested in defiance of her father’s thunderous glower.

  ‘Not any longer. You are very young, Catherine, and probably would not understand, but there are not only your selfish inclinations to consider in this matter. Let it be enough for now that, for reasons I do not have the time to enter in to, I want you to marry Reresby.’

  ‘How can you expect that of me?’ she cried in outrage. ‘Surely I have a right to an explanation.’

  ‘It’s too late. Arrangements have been made. It is final, so prepare yourself.’

  Catherine felt fear clutching at her heart, creeping through her body. Every vestige of colour drained from her face. Harry was the one she wanted, had taken for granted she would marry one day soon. She loved him with a young girl’s intense passion and reverence. Harry was her first and last true love. He was her heart’s joy and she would marry him—or no one.

  She looked about her at the small gathering of people, recognising none, feeling like a hare cornered by the hounds in the hunt. What could she do? She saw Alice standing in the shadows, her eyes intent, her face set in anxious lines, her features revealing her concern as she waited to bear witness to this bizarre wedding. Catherine turned back to her father.

  ‘I won’t do it,’ she insisted wildly. ‘I cannot possibly marry a man who is a stranger to me.’

  ‘It is of no consequence what you want. You will marry him, so let that be an end to it.’

  Catherine’s delicate brows snapped together. ‘But why?’ persisted the young woman who never questioned her father. Observing how her father’s jaw tightened and how his cold eyes remained resolute, her stomach wrenched into sick knots at the thought of committing her entire life into the hands of a stranger. ‘Father, I beg of you not to make me do this. I will do anything—anything to please you, but please do not ask this of me.’ When he turned from her she reached out and gripped his arm, forcing him to look at her. ‘Please,’ she cried. ‘It is Harry I love. Harry I wish to marry.’

  Unmoved by her passionate plea, Henry shook her hand from his arm with such violence that she lost her balance and fell to her knees. ‘Love!’ he hissed at her. ‘What has love to do with anything? Love is for fools. It is nothing but an unrealistic adoration that renders humans blind to life’s unpleasant realities. It is wealth and power that protect them from life’s hardships, not love. Now get up, and I order you to control yourself, Catherine.’

  ‘Oh, Father,’ she whispered brokenly. ‘Do you really despise me this much that you will callously marry me to a man I have never met without consideration for my feelings?’

  Coldly ignoring her, he strode to the altar where the minister was making preparations for the nuptials he was to perform.

  The cold from the stone flags on the floor where Catherine knelt struck through her robe, but she was insensible to it. How long she knelt there she did not know, but she was brought back to reality when her small, icy hand was taken in a strong grasp and someone raised her to her feet. It was Marcus Reresby.

  ‘Come, do not distress yourself so, Mistress Barrington,’ he said gently, feeling her nerves stretched taut. He was not surprised when she angrily snatched her hand from his, and yet when he saw her eyes, expressive and alive, which were hurling scornful daggers at him, they were also glittering with bravely held tears. ‘This will not take long. Allow me to soothe your fears. If it is of any consolation to you, I shall depart as soon as the ceremony is over. We may not meet again for some considerable time.’

  Catherine gazed at him, searching his face. There was an oddly gentle look in his eyes—or was it pity? She had no way of knowing. Like a sleepwalker she allowed him to draw her towards the minister, a minister prepared to conduct this brief ceremony without asking awkward questions, a minister prepared to wave aside the required reading of banns for a substantial fee. She felt a constriction in her throat and swallowed, closing her mind to what was to come.

  Facing the altar, Marcus turned his head slightly and glanced at the young woman at his side. She was standing with her head held proudly erect, her eyes not cast demurely down but ablaze with defiance. He felt a moment of admiration for her. The girl might justifiably be close to tears—humbled by her predicament and afraid for her future—yet her pride had come to the fore.

  Catherine stood like a frozen statuette until the words prescribed by the Church were over and done with. All she could feel was the cold, a strange all-encompassing cold. For the time it took she let her mind slip away to a dark place where no one could reach her. Sudden, unexpected tears stung her eyelids when she thought of Harry and what his reaction would be when she told him she could no longer marry him. A sadness seemed to drag its way up from deep inside her, encompassing her with an unbearable sense of loss as her heart ached for the flame-haired youth to whom she had declared her love as he had declared his love for her, and she prayed he would be able to find it in his heart to forgive her.

  The ceremony over, the minister stepped back. ‘I wish you well. Go in peace.’

  Momentarily blinded by a rush of tears, as she turned away, Catherine stumbled slightly on the hem of her robe. For the second time a supportive hand came to her aid and firm fingers gripped her arm as she regained her balance. Looking down, she saw they were long, lean and well manicured. Furious with herself that she should display such weakness, she shrank from him, snatching her arm back and pressing it to her side.

  Marcus hid the flash of irritation her involuntary response stirred in him. Instead the corners of his mouth twitched in the ghost of a smile, but Catherine’s eyes fell away without seeing it.

  ‘As your husband,’ he said, ‘I feel that I must explain what is to happen—what is desired of you.’

  With no anxious humility now the shock had left her, showing only haughty bravado, Catherine lifted her head imperiously, her small chin squared up to him in her proud challenge of his authority. Her eyes had turned to flint and her mouth hardened to an unsmiling resentment.

  ‘What is desired of me? You need explain nothing to me, sir.’

  Marcus lifted his shoulders in a casual manner. ‘I do understand your reluctance to the marriage.’

  His banal dismissal of what had just taken place provoked Catherine beyond the anger she felt toward her father. ‘Forgive me if I do not feel married. Had I been given any other choice, I would not be.’

  ‘Nevertheless you are my wife.’ His voice was soft, though his smile was knowingly chiding.

  Catherine’s ire was ill suppressed as she ground out between clenched teeth, ‘And I chafe under it. This
is not a proper marriage and I shall endeavour to keep myself apart from it. It is an arrangement and most temporary.’

  ‘I think not.’ One dark eyebrow flickered upward in a measuring look. ‘You are a lovely and desirable young woman, Catherine. Why should I put myself through the expense of divorcing you?’

  ‘Then, as God is my witness, I swear you will rue the day you married me. I will make you the coldest, most unwilling wife you can imagine. I am yours in the eyes of man and God to do with as you will, but I make no secret of the fact that I love another and I will never be your wife in my heart—which is mine to give and mine to withhold.’

  With a mocking smile lightly curving his lips, Marcus inclined his head briefly to indicate his acknowledgement of her statement. ‘Then, my lady wife, I shall leave you in peace for the time it takes for your father to meet his maker.’ He turned from her to hide a perplexing emotion he had felt when he had taken her hand in his as the priest had joined them. Not desire, not surprise that her hand should feel so soft, but a strange new impulse to protect.

  It was clear to him that his new wife was quite different from her contemporaries. She was far too self-possessed, too self-assured. She would not play the coquette with him, as was customary with all the unattached young ladies he encountered. It was plain Catherine did not like him, that she resented him for preventing her marriage to Harry Stapleton—whoever that young man might be—and her reaction became a challenge.

  Marcus had been blessed with more than his share of good looks, and since his early youth he had attracted the admiring glances of women of all ages—and more than one had told him he had that special charm women found irresistible. He was assured that, given time, Catherine would certainly not be any different.

  On trembling limbs Catherine went to the door where she halted and turned to look back when she heard her father speak, but she was too far away to hear what was said.

  ‘So, Reresby, I think we have concluded our business, have we not, to our mutual satisfaction—though ’ tis a pity you never did find out the name of the man who murdered your father. Perhaps next time you will not be so hasty in making wagers when the stakes are set so high. Over-confidence often results in disappointment.’

  ‘You really are about as despicable a specimen of the human race as my imagination can conjure, Barrington. I have let you off lightly. I should have run you through when I had the chance.’

  Henry laughed, a nasty, rasping sound. ‘You are right, Reresby. Under the circumstances you have indeed been generous. Had the situation been reversed, you would not have escaped with your life. Still, what do your think of my daughter? A comely wench, you must agree.’ He chuckled, his words taunting. ‘Think yourself fortunate that when I am dead you can drink your fill. I failed to warn you that Catherine does not lack spirit and will lead you a merry dance. I fear she will be a mightier foe than any you may encounter on the field of battle.’

  ‘Catherine is indeed lovely, I grant you—in fact, I find it hard to believe she has any part of you. When I issued my challenge I proposed to take something from you that to any other man would be infinitely more precious than all his property and his life—but I was mistaken. It is rare indeed for a man to stake his own daughter’s future on the turn of a card—indeed, most men would rot in hell first—yet that is what you did. May God forgive you, Barrington, for I doubt Catherine will.’

  Henry shrugged. ‘Catherine always was a drain on my resources, Reresby, and a thorn in my flesh. You were mistaken in your assumption that I cared that much for her.’

  ‘As things have turned out, that is my misfortune. However, I shall continue to seek the man who wielded the knife that killed my father. The two of you were in it together, I know that. It is only a matter of time until I find him.’

  Henry’s smile was mocking. ‘You believe that, do you? The man you seek is sitting tight. I have a warning for you, Reresby. You’d best have a care for yourself. The mood of the man you seek is dangerous, and whoever interferes with him and his plans risks his life.’

  ‘I have no fear of a murderer.’ Marcus looked away, pulling on his gloves as if he could no longer trust himself to speak, and then he said, ‘I shall keep my part of the bargain and take satisfaction knowing how immense your suffering will be—knowing all your accumulated, coveted wealth, mostly acquired by foul means, now belongs to me. You have nothing. You will not see me again in this life.’ He turned and gave a curt bow in Catherine’s direction before striding quickly out of the chapel.

  Catherine returned to her bedchamber with a heavy heart. Her life as she had known it had come to an end, and from now until the man she had married this night returned, she would feel like a felon awaiting execution on Tyburn Tree. It was as though her world had split open and she had fallen into a place she did not recognise. Alone in her misery, she stood by her window and stared at the blackness beyond, unable to believe that when she had gone to bed life had held such promise. Now to have lost her darling Harry, to be trapped like this in a marriage to a total stranger—it was too much to bear.

  Feeling a hardness around her finger, she raised her hand and looked at it. She had almost forgotten the wedding band Lord Reresby had given her. Her hand felt strange when she looked at it, as if it belonged to someone else. She remembered the moment he had placed it there, how her fist had been tightly clenched and how he’d had to prise it open to put the ring on her finger. His gaze had been hard and challenging, penetrating the depths of her own, and his hands had been firm and strong.

  Irately Catherine wrenched the ring from her finger and dropped it in her trinket box, slamming the lid on the offending article. How she wished Marcus Reresby could be as easily got rid of.

  Four days after suffering a stroke, King Charles II was dead and his brother, James II, the principal target of so much Whig plotting, succeeded him. James was as determined as ever to practise openly his Roman Catholic faith, although in an impromptu speech delivered before his Privy Council on the day his brother died, he assured it that he would govern according to the laws, announcing that he knew the principles of the Church of England were for monarchy and therefore he would always take care to defend and support it.

  But it was soon evident that, although he would support and defend the Church of England, he would not prevent any other form of the Christian religion being practised—as had been the case in his brother’s time of religious intolerance—including his own. It wasn’t long after his accession that he began bestowing favours on his fellow Catholics, promoting them to offices of state, deeply offending his most powerful subjects and provoking concerted movements to overthrow him.

  These seditious movements began to look for a successor. Some looked towards William of Orange, grandson of Charles I, and William’s wife Mary, daughter of James, the present King. But others looked towards James, Duke of Monmouth, the handsome and charming bastard son of Charles II who had doted on and indulged him. The Duke of Monmouth was at present in exile in the Low Countries.

  The world of politics seemed a million miles away from Riverside House. Other matters were concerning Catherine as she tried to come to terms with her predicament. Harry was oblivious to her marriage—it was as if by not telling him she could pretend the marriage had not taken place. She didn’t want to talk about Marcus Reresby. Talking about him made him real. She could not bear to lose Harry. He would be devastated on learning she had wed another.

  Almost as soon as Lord Reresby had left the house, Henry Barrington had fled to Holland where he lived for fourteen pain-filled months. His health had begun to deteriorate almost immediately. From letters sent to her from an acquaintance in Holland, Catherine was kept informed of his illness and how he suffered great pain. She felt nothing when she read the words. All the agony he was suffering now was like a salve to the mental torment he had made her suffer all her life. Even if he asked for her—which he never did—she would not go to him. Let him make his peace with God, not her. It was t
oo late.

  To add to her troubles, Harry was to leave for Brussels to join the Duke of Monmouth. Deprived for ever of her one true love, how would she survive?

  Catherine looked at Alexander Soames sitting at the table, his elderly grey head bowed over her father’s last will and testament. That he was not his usual calm self was evident. She knew instinctively that something was wrong. Mr Soames had been her father’s legal adviser and a good friend to her for many years.

  Mr Soames fixed his eyes on the papers in front of him. That Henry Barrington had not loved his daughter he had always known, but he had never fully realised the extent of his dislike until he had been summoned to the hall to draft out a new will fourteen months ago. How could Henry have gambled away his entire fortune, everything that had been this girl’s birthright?

  Raising his eyes, he looked at Catherine, perched stiffly on the edge of the chair opposite. She had backbone, did Henry’s daughter, and she certainly knew how to conduct herself, he reflected silently. ‘I wish I could spare you this, my dear, but unfortunately I can’t. The fact is that your father was destitute. Everything he once owned already belongs to your husband, Lord Reresby.’

  Catherine listened to what Mr Soames had to say, feeling as though she was frozen to the chair, every part of her set in a mould of ice. Fourteen months ago she had made a pact with herself not to think of Marcus Reresby, and now here he was, intruding like an uninvited guest. He hovered at the edges of her consciousness like a ghost in the gloom, when all she wanted was for him to be gone from her life, gone from her memory. She wondered why what Mr Soames disclosed did not surprise her. Despite her shock, she managed to make her voice sound calm.

  ‘I see,’ she said at length. ‘Everything Lord Reresby has is his own—and that which should have come to me is now his, too.’ Her soft lips twisted with irony. ‘Lord Reresby has done well for himself. His circumstances must have improved considerably. Not only have I been robbed of my freedom, but also my inheritance. I think I have married a monster, Mr Soames. Who could blame me if I were to look elsewhere for affection?’