Puritan Bride - Anne O'Brien

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well together, madam. I will inform Sir Henry of your compliance. I believe that he will be greatly relieved. I will also inform you of the necessary arrangements in due course when the legalities are complete.’

      He turned on his heel and walked to the door, halting to look back once more to where Kate stood motionless before the leaded window. The evening sun gave her dark curls a halo of gold, but left her face in shadow. Marlbrooke hesitated, his hand on the latch, appeared to change his mind and calmly, deliberately, retraced his steps until he was standing close before her. Kate’s immediate reaction was to retreat, but before she could do so she found herself held fast by the Viscount’s arm around her waist. She caught her breath in utmost surprise and was considering the most effective way to regain her freedom when his free hand wound itself into her tangled hair to pull her even closer.

      ‘Look at me,’ he demanded and when she automatically obeyed, his lips sought hers. It was a brief, cool caress, a fleeting touch of mouth against mouth, as insubstantial as a butterfly’s wing, but when Marlbrooke lifted his head his expression was not one of total disinterest. Kate could not read the fleeting emotion in his eyes, but was aware that his grasp showed no evidence of loosening.

      ‘Well, Mistress Harley? Nothing to say?’

      ‘No. I …’

      ‘Despite my admittedly short acquaintance with your delightful self, I would wager that you are rarely lost for words. Am I correct?’

      A flare of anger lit Kate’s eyes. ‘I can think of any number of things to say, my lord. But good manners prevent me from expressing them.’ How dare he mock me!

      Her confusion obviously amused Marlbrooke for he laughed, a gleam of white teeth in the dusk, tightened his hold further and bent his head to kiss her once more. But this was different. His mouth was demanding and urgent, melting the ice in Kate’s blood whether she wished it or no. It was as if he was determined to extract some reaction from her beyond her previous resentment and reluctant acceptance—and she was horrified at his success. Her instinct was to resist him with all her strength, but she was far too aware of the lean hardness of his body against hers beneath its velvet and lacing. His hands caressed her hair, her shoulders, sweeping down her back to her waist, but all the time holding her captive.

      Her mouth opened beneath the insistent pressure of his and she found herself responding to a surge of emotion that spread through every limb as he used the tip of his tongue with devastating effect to trace the outline of her lips. A strange fire threatened to engulf her, at odds with her inner fury at so intimate an invasion. In the ensuing war between mind and senses, Kate was horrified that her senses should be so easily victorious. Her hands seemed to move of their own accord to grasp his shoulders more tightly, to savour their strength … when suddenly she was free. As quickly as Marlbrooke had taken possession of her, he released her and stepped back. Kate found herself standing alone, her breath tight within her laced bodice, the only certain thought in her mind that this experience bore no resemblance to the one in the garden in Richard’s arms.

      Ultimately the decision of what to say, of what to do next, was made for her. Marlbrooke executed a perfect Court bow with impeccable elegance and grace and a flourish of his plumed hat which he had recovered from the oak side table. ‘Adieu, Mistress Kate,’ he said. ‘Until our marriage.’ Then he walked towards the door, giving Kate the opportunity to recover sufficient dignity to respond with a deep curtsy and an echo of the ‘adieu.’

      ‘I had almost forgot,’ said Marlbrooke suddenly from the doorway. He halted and turned in one fluent movement, the folds of his velvet coat gleaming softly in the dying light. He watched her where she stood in the shadows and was surprised by the shadow of guilt that touched his heart. Hers was indeed an unenviable position after all, as his mother had intimated. She was very young and would be a mere pawn in the vicious game of politics and power being played out in this time of transition from one regime to another. And he was as much to blame for her present predicament as was her uncle. But he had to admire her spirit. He suppressed a smile as he remembered her defiance towards her family and himself. And remembered with pleasure the softness of her mouth beneath his when she had recovered from the initial shock of his touch, the clear translucence of her skin under his fingers. The memory of the scent of her damp hair, the sweetness of lavender with the sharper overtones of rosemary, tugged at his senses, surprising him with a tightening of his muscles in thighs and belly. He frowned a little at the unexpected response. Perhaps their marriage need not be as bleak and fraught with tensions as he had feared. Beneath the solemn exterior he might discover a bride of surprising qualities. If only he could make her laugh a little.

      From the pocket of his velvet coat he produced a small package, wrapped in linen. ‘I had brought you this, to seal our bargain. Perhaps you would like to unwrap it when I have gone. I hope that you will like it. It belonged to my mother, you see, and she considered it to be suitable for a young bride. She treasured it when she was a girl, but sadly she can no longer wear it.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘I believe that she will like you.’

      He bowed again with a final flourish of lace at his cuffs.

      ‘The stones will, I believe, compliment your eyes.’ His mouth curved with genuine humour. ‘A gift from the painted popinjay! Your servant, Mistress Harley.’

      Upon which, he opened the door and left the room. She heard his footsteps die away in the direction of the library. As in a dream, she listened to the distant ebb and flow of a conversation, but remained where he had left her. Finally she heard more footsteps, then the slam of the front door followed by the beat of a horse’s hooves on the gravel drive. She stood at the window to watch the powerful figure of her future husband spur the gleaming bay thoroughbred into a controlled canter towards the gate. She watched until he had disappeared into the dusk and the sound of the hooves lapsed into silence.

      Only then did Kate walk slowly to the table. She picked up the package and unwrapped the linen to disclose a small velvet box. Opening it, she studied the enclosed jewel—a ring, a fragile flower of tiny sapphires and pearls mounted on a gold band. She caressed the delightful ornament with one finger. It was beautiful. But then Kate shut the box with a snap. She had had quite enough of love and emotion and romantic gestures for one day. Perhaps Viscount Marlbrooke’s mother was a romantic lady, but she had certainly misread this planned union between her son and the enemy. And yet he had said that Lady Elizabeth Oxenden would like her. He had given her much to think about.

      On impulse, Kate reopened the box and pushed the pretty ring defiantly on to her finger, watching the sapphires as they caught the final gleams of the day. You have committed yourself to this marriage, she told herself sternly. You will wear the ring. You will forget Richard and become a loyal wife. But you would be wise not to lower your guard before Viscount Marlbrooke. She closed her mind to the sudden vivid memory that rose, unbidden, of the possessive touch of his hands on her arms and shoulders, the imprint of his lips on hers.

      She took a deep breath against the ripple of reaction that feathered over her skin. Choking down the sob that rose in her throat, she left the silent privacy of the parlour and prepared to accept the felicitations of her family on her good fortune.

       Chapter Three

      The coach shuddered, jerked, stopped. The moon, bright in a clear, frosty sky, illuminated the coat of arms on the door panel. Three silver falcons, more grey than silver in the refining light, wings spread in flight on a sable field. A device instantly recognisable in the vicinity as that of the Royalist family, the Oxendens. Then the coach lurched forward again at a faster pace than was sensible for the icy conditions, only to be hauled once more to a precarious standstill. The voice of Jenks, the coachman, could be heard bellowing instructions, spewing out curses and oaths as Viscount Marlbrooke leaned from the window. The horses were plunging, snorting, eyes wild, manes tossing, a danger to themselves and anyone who might venture near. Jenks hauled on the reins, uncomfortably aware of their volatile temper.

      Foot pads?

      Marlbrooke could see no one in

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