Resisting Her Enemy Lord
Autorzy
Helen Dickson
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16,9K
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11
Chapter One
Night was drawing in and freezing cold rain and wind buffeted the small group of riders from every direction. These were desperate times. Armed bands frequently travelled the roads and in the dark it was not easy to identify friend from foe. Had the Royalists and Scots not been routed at Preston in August by Oliver Cromwell’s New Model Army, and should the riders encounter such a force, they would stand to be imprisoned and either ransomed off or, at worst, suffer an ignoble death. Mercifully, good fortune had been on the side of Parliament that day and the Scots sent packing back to the border.
A small band of men rode through the village of Carlton situated in the Welsh Marches. Two horses pulled a wooden cart carrying the earthly remains of Lord Thomas Stratton. Ahead of them the huge stone structure that was Carlton Bray Castle appeared large and ominous in their sights. The brooding, medieval edifice, the massive walls and dull mullioned windows were unwelcoming, even from a distance. Colonel John Stratton sighed his relief. Built of blood and bone in the twelfth century, the castle’s ancient stones were pitted and scarred from past battles.
The central keep, unapologetically bold and built foursquare in the courtyard with clean, straight lines, stretched like an arm into the sky, as though it would swoop them up and dash them against the defensible walls should they dare to venture too close. Defying entrance to the enemy and protecting those within, it towered over the sleeping village and the surrounding countryside, the small windows having seen four centuries blown past on the wind.
At last John Stratton felt a warm fire and a cup of wine was close. The half-dozen exhausted riders rattled across the drawbridge which spanned a dry ditch, the supporting timbers rotten in places with age. No one stopped them to enquire as to their business or acknowledge that the Lord of Carlton Bray Castle had come home at last. The clattering of the horses’ hooves disturbed the silence as they passed beneath the raised portcullis and entered the inner bailey. Drawing rein, they dismounted. Guards, disturbed from their slumbers, appeared from the shadows, one of them mumbling something about the ungodly hour, until his eyes lit upon the coffin and he joined his fellow grooms and stepped respectfully aside before taking the horses away to the stables to be rubbed down and fed.
John shuddered, certain he could hear the whispers of days gone by, of good and bad who had resided within the walls, their tortured voices rising up from the dungeons and echoing round the castle.
From a window high in the keep, Catherine Stratton looked down on the covered casket containing her husband’s dead body before passing on to the men who had escorted it from the north. The new heir of Carlton Bray Castle and estate was John Stratton, the noble Earl Fitzroy of the Sussex branch of the family. His heritage was so vast, with land and properties in both Sussex and the Midlands, that Thomas had told her there were few noblemen in England who could surpass it.
She had never met John Stratton, but in the early days of her marriage to Thomas he had told her about his handsome cousin. By his account John Stratton was the most impressive of his cousins. As a second son, with the lure of adventure strong in his veins, he had become a soldier. Colourful and exciting were the military exploits of John Stratton, the charismatic soldier with a reputation as being one for the ladies, although he was always discreet in his affairs. By Thomas’s account he was arrogant and ruthless—in fact, he was everything Catherine hated. He was here now not only to see his cousin laid to rest, but to claim his inheritance. Catherine had her own ideas of what she would do with her future, and, seeing Thomas’s heir for the first time, she was determined that nothing would sway her from her plans.
Shrouded in a black cloak, he stood back from the cart. She could not make out his features, but she could see he was as dark as Thomas had been fair. She felt a strange slithering unease. He had an air of command she had never encountered before—not even in her father.
As if the man sensed she was staring at him, he tilted his head back and looked up at the window where she stood. The meeting of their eyes was fleeting, but before Catherine could take stock of his features he turned away.
Ordering the castle guards to take care of his escort and hunched against the biting wind, John and his steward, Will Price, climbed the steep steps of the fortress-like entry. The massive door at the top moaned its rusty objection as it was pulled wide by a servant within. Showing deference, he stepped aside and bade them enter the lower hall of Carlton Bray Castle.
Their boots sounded hollowly on the bare boards. Tall and powerfully built, John Stratton looked as if he could claim the very ground on which he walked. He emanated an authority and forcefulness that made every man who had fought under him during the civil wars obey his command. With his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword and his sodden cloak swept back over his broad shoulders dripping water on to the floor, he paused to assess his surroundings, finding them as he remembered when he had last been here as a youth. He noted the fine chimney breast carved with the Stratton coat of arms. The cold stone walls were hung with dusty old standards and weaponry from another age. Stout wooden beams hung with cobwebs and a wide open fireplace where logs sizzled beneath the great stone arch gave out a welcoming heat. John peered up into the corners of the hall already shadowed by dusk.
Will strode to the hearth, holding his hands out to the heat. Hearing the sharp tread of boots descending the stone stairs, John stood still, waiting to see who would materialise from the deep shadows of the staircase. A figure appeared, a man, he thought, until more of the person was revealed and he saw it was a woman attired in male garb. She drew his whole attention, so at one was she with her surroundings. Beneath the padded doublet his discerning eye could see the fabric pulling over her breasts—there was nothing masculine about her form.
Seemingly wholly unconcerned with his arrival, she paused, studying him with cool interest, her expression immobile and guarded with as little of alarm in it as it had of proud self-assertion. She was tall, as slender as a willow, her hair caught in a band at the nape of her neck, the vibrant tresses the colour of antique gold, curling down her spine. Her skin was creamy, glowing, a soft flush highlighting perfect cheekbones. Her lips were moist and the shade of coral that lay on the bottom of tropical seas, her eyes as green and bright as emeralds and framed by sweeping dark lashes. Without expression her eyes swept over him, sharp, calmly assessing. Pausing on the second step, she had the advantage of height.
John strode towards her. The piercing green gaze from her eyes almost knocked him back off his feet. A spark of desire was sent coursing through his body and for a moment he was rendered speechless. If this was Lady Stratton, she could not have been more different to what he had expected. Beneath the solemn yet proud exterior he believed was a woman of surprising qualities. What irresistible charms were concealed beneath her male garb? As he felt himself undergoing the same close scrutiny he was giving her, their eyes met and he held her steady gaze. For one discomforting moment it seemed that she was staring into the very heart of him, getting the measure of him, of his faults and failings. He had never seen eyes that contained more energy and depth.
He bowed. ‘My lady. Colonel John Stratton—Lord Fitzroy—at your service.’ The deep timbre of his voice reverberated around the hall.
‘I know who you are,’ she was quick to reply. ‘You are expected. You have brought Thomas home—and, I imagine, as my husband’s heir, come to claim your inheritance, such as it is. I have had no account of Thomas for nigh on four years—not since the Royalist army was defeated at Marston Moor. Neither hide nor hair has been noted of him since—until I received your letter. You were with him—at the end?’
‘Sadly, no, I was not. I arrived shortly after.’ He indicated his companion with a movement of his head, a man tall and well-built with a shock of tawny hair. ‘This is Will Price—my steward.’
‘Forgive me it I do not curtsy. It would be inappropriate and laughable dressed as I am.’ Her voice was well-modulated, confident and distinctly feminine. ‘Welcome to Carlton Bray. I have had accommodation prepared.’
There was no smile of welcome to warm her conventional words. No look in her eyes to indicate shyness or modesty—her manner showed no sign of grief that her husband was dead. John suspected this was no ordinary young woman. He sensed in her an independent spirit, which had no room for convention or etiquette. There was nothing demure about her, unlike the young ladies who flitted in and out of his mother’s circle in Sussex, whose eyes would be ingenuously cast down, even among those they knew, which was proper. This young woman showed none of the restraint instilled into girls of good family. She stared directly into his eyes. Her own glowed with an inner light and hinted of the woman hidden beneath her lovely features. For all her dignified composure and confidence, she was the loveliest, proudest-born and most alive figure John had seen in a long time. It annoyed hm to feel compromised by this situation.
‘So you are Catherine Stratton—Thomas’s wife.’
‘I am Catherine Stratton. I trust you and your steward have come alone—that there isn’t a troop of Parliament soldiers encamped outside the castle walls?’
‘Be assured there is not—just a small escort of four men who are being attended to by your guards. Although my cousin’s—your husband’s—adherence to King Charles has been noted.’
‘I imagine it has. Hopefully Cromwell’s soldiers will keep away.’
‘If they don’t, they will have no difficulty gaining entrance—your watchmen weren’t at their posts.’
‘Do I detect criticism in your remark, sir?’ she said coldly. ‘It is my hope along with every person in England that the wars are over and the defence of one’s property can be relaxed.’
‘I beg your pardon. My words were not meant as a criticism, Lady Stratton, merely of concern. Since the fighting stopped the country is full of displaced men roaming freely and taking what can be had from lone travellers and properties with a relaxed guard. One cannot be too careful even now. I apologise if my presence offends you. Knowing your husband was a Royalist, I assume you, as his wife, must be also.’
Her lips curled in a wry smile. ‘You assume too readily, sir. Just because my husband was a Royalist does not make me one.’
‘Were you not of one mind?’
‘No man makes up my mind for me,’ she assured him, leaving him to decide which side she favoured. ‘But I will tell you this. If it would cause the wind to blow fair for England, I might well turn my mind and heart to either side. Of late it has blown noticeably colder.’
‘It is not the wind that grows cold, Lady Stratton. Say rather that it is the times in which we live that cause one to feel an inner and outer chill.’
‘You may say what you please about the weather, but it is colder still in the prisons in which those loyal to the King are incarcerated.’
‘It is common for wives to follow their husband’s beliefs,’ John said, watching her through narrowed eyes. It was difficult to read her. Unless he was mistaken, he sensed she could see no other point than her own. Perhaps the years of living at Carlton Bray Castle in an area strong in its support for King Charles had taken a firm hold of her, John thought, deeply troubled. May God help her if indeed this was the case.
‘So, you have brought Thomas’s body home,’ Lady Stratton said. ‘Well, you are now the new owner of Carlton Bray. Do you intend to take up residence immediately?’ Her voice, clipped and businesslike, cut across the distance between them.
John did not reply at once. There was something solitary and untouchable about her. He could feel the young woman’s nerves stretched taut as a bowstring, perhaps at that limit of tension that comes before it snapped, which he thought might have been brought about by his arrival. ‘Not immediately—no. I am in no hurry. I am to meet with Thomas’s lawyers eventually. Unfortunately they are in London so it will have to wait. As Thomas’s wife and a beneficiary, it is necessary that you hear what they have to say. I have not been to Carlton Bray since I was a youth. I am curious to see if it is as I remember before riding on to London.’
‘The funeral will take place immediately. I have notified Reverend Armstrong and everything is in readiness.’
John nodded. ‘Then tomorrow would suit us all. I am also here at the bequest of your father.’
She did not answer at once. A slight narrowing of her eyes was her only reaction. What went on behind the cool visage John could only guess at.
‘I see. Why did he not come himself?’
‘He—is busy.’
She gave him a wry look, her eyes never leaving his face. ‘My father has always been too busy to waste his time with his family. He is not concerned with what I do. Are you closely linked to my father?’
‘I am. We know each other from our dealings during the war and our mutual relationship to Thomas. He and my father were friends of long standing.’
‘Yes—I recall the Stratton name being talked about when I was a child, but I was young and paid little attention.’
‘You father sends tidings and his apologies for not coming himself. He has written you a letter.’ He produced a letter from inside his doublet.
‘Then I suppose I should be thankful for small mercies. How considerate of him to write to his daughter at last,’ she said in an acerbic tone. ‘I wonder what he wants.’
‘Have you not thought that he might want to see you—for yourself?’
A faint, contemptuous smile touched her lips. ‘If that is so and he wishes to make amends for his neglect of me, then it is too little and too late.’ Descending the two remaining steps, she walked towards him, holding out her hand. Taking the letter, she read the words carefully. When she had finished reading she strode to the fire and tossed it into the flames and watched it burn.
John was struck by her proud, easy carriage as she walked. She was stately and immensely dignified.
‘It is as I thought,’ she said. ‘Having heard of Thomas’s death, he writes that it is his wish that I go to him at Oakdene House—though God knows why. I want none of it—of him.’
‘You are hard on your father. Clearly you do not see eye to eye.’
She was silent, considering his words, then she turned, her eyes capturing his. ‘No. We have never got on. Would that I could. It is his fanatical obsession with this infernal war that I hate.’
‘He works for the good of the realm.’
Her lips curled wryly. ‘My father works for the good of himself, Edward Kingsley, and no one else. He was for the King before the King raised his standard at Nottingham. Deciding that England would be better and more comfortable under Parliament rule he became a turncoat, whose politics are as variable as the seasons. If you know him at all well, sir, you will know I speak the truth. He is his own worst enemy and is apt to be pulled in different ways than most ordinary mortals. I, too, want what is best for the realm, but my idea of bringing this about is different from that of my father.’
John paused to master himself and marshal his arguments. Catherine Stratton’s views, whose animosity to Edward Kingsley’s opinions as seen from a daughter’s perspective, were of a different nature to his own. ‘I imagine they are and am most interested for you to enlighten me.’
‘Do not mock me, sir. I am not my father. He loves the power he wields over others. He wants control, believing he is the strong one. He does not hold women in very high regard—especially me—and his wife, my stepmother, only a little higher than me. Blanche was much younger than him when he married her. He wanted a son—was desperate for an heir to inherit his estate. He had no interest in daughters—in me. It must have been a disappointment to him when I was born. There were two children born to my mother after me—she miscarried them both. My father used me as a pawn in the marriage stakes, marrying me to your cousin because he was a good prospect without consulting me.’
‘Yet your loyalty to your father in doing his bidding was commendable.’
She withstood his hard stare. ‘I was just sixteen years old. Loyalty weighs nothing against reality. The haste with which my father married me to Thomas was embarrassing—although not without its advantages for both of them. It was a union to bring power and wealth to both families. Assured that Thomas would follow his lead, he was disappointed when he declared for the King, steadfast in his loyalty. I have no doubt that now he has discovered that Thomas is dead, he has found someone else for me to marry. Although why he thinks I would I want to wed again is beyond me. I can think of no man I would want to marry. Female I might be, but do not underestimate me. I own no man my superior.’
‘The devil you do!’ He was astonished. ‘You have an uncommon honesty about such matters—unlike most women.’
There was a gleam of battle in her eyes as she held his gaze. ‘There are many men hereabouts who see my independence as a threat. I prefer my own authority over what is mine.’
‘Without having to answer to a husband. It appears to me that Thomas’s death has come as something of a convenience to you. Did you not miss him?’
Her eyes hit sharply on his. ‘You are impertinent, sir, but since you ask—no, I did not. We did not get on and I will not pretend otherwise. My father arranged my marriage to Thomas as a means to an end. And you, sir? Do you have a wife?’
‘No. Life’s too short to be bound to one woman.’
The war years had exacted a huge toll not only on the country, but on John’s family also—he had lost both his father and older brother in the struggle. Holding a cynical view of love and marriage, he was reluctant to commit himself to any one woman.
‘But you need an heir—all men need an heir, do they not? It is a priority.’
‘Not in my case. I have brothers enough who have sons. When I propose marriage to the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, it will not be for the purpose of begetting an heir. I take it you will not consider marrying a man of your father’s choosing in the future.’
‘No, I will not. I am my own woman, sir, and now I know that Thomas is indeed dead, then I will not be swayed from going my own way by any words of persuasion from my father. I will be much happier to remain a widow for the rest of my life. I have not seen Thomas for four years—four years of not knowing if I am wife or widow. Not even a letter. Now I know what has happened to him it feels as if a huge burden has been lifted from my shoulders.’
John detected the underlying bitterness in her words. He’d already determined her marriage to Thomas had not been a happy affair and that he had not dealt well with her. How much pain and anguish did this woman hide behind that calm composure? he wondered. He’d come to Carlton Bray expecting to find a quiet young woman grieving for her husband. Instead of this he’d found a strong, opinionated woman who appeared to be relieved he was dead.
‘You are both forthright and honest, my lady. I admire your plain, frank candour. After all my experience with dissemblers I have come across, it is refreshing to hear plain speaking. That I cannot fault.’
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion at his words of praise and then she laughed. ‘You are chivalrous, sir. I respect that.’
Her sudden and unexpected laughter was both joyous and warm. John suspected it was a long time since she had laughed at all. He suffered a slight sense of shock as, still smiling, she looked at him fully. There was something in her eyes that set his heart beating uncomfortably fast. He felt a great sense of excitement, and he could not but marvel at himself. She was a stranger to him with a mind of her own. Yet somehow he knew that beneath Catherine Stratton’s exterior there was a lush sensuality. Instinctively he knew, too, that no matter how arrogant she might conceivably be, she had that magic quality that could well enslave a man and bring him to his knees.
‘I have ridden many miles, my lady, to bring Thomas back to where he belongs,’ he said, giving no indication of his thoughts and feelings where she was concerned. ‘I was in the north with your father at the time of my cousin’s death. When we parted company, as Thomas’s heir I rode south to view my inheritance. It was your father’s intention to go to Oakdene. He has asked me to escort you to London—he threatened me with God knows how many disasters if I came without you. I am reluctant to return to him to admit my mission has failed.’
‘You will have to—unless you were to consider using force.’
‘Heaven forbid if I were to resort to that. I can imagine the trouble you would cause me on the journey were I to take you under duress. You might, of course, find me an objectionable escort.’
‘Not in the least. I do not know you well enough for that.’
‘Are you not afraid of me and what I might do should you refuse to abide by your father’s wishes?’
She smiled thinly. ‘You give yourself too much credit. I’m a survivor. I do not show fear or weakness. That isn’t part of who I am. I don’t normally fraternise with the enemy—because that is what you will become if you insist on doing my father’s bidding.’ Her words were cool and measured. Defiance and strength shone from her. Being the only offspring of Edward Kingsley meant there was small chance of her escaping the same. Her path had been set at birth.
‘So is it your intention to remain here until...when?’
‘Worry not, sir. I will not be here when you come to take up your inheritance. Although should that happen before the country’s troubles have been laid to rest, there may be discord when you do. It will soon be the talk of the village that your political leanings are different to those of my husband and every man hereabouts.’
‘True, we differ, but it is not insurmountable.’
‘Still, it is hardly the situation for domestic harmony. Most of the people hereabouts are loyal to the King, but in recent months as they have watched Parliament take the upper hand, they are sensible enough to keep their mouths shut about it.’
‘As you do, Lady Stratton.’
She smiled. ‘I like to keep my thoughts to myself.’
‘And should the strife continue? Forgive me, Lady Stratton, but a wayward band of desperate stragglers from either side looking for succour could prove dangerous.’
‘‘I am not alone and, with the castle walls to defend me, I am certainly not vulnerable.’
John admired her confidence. She had the backbone to withstand the defence of Carlton Bray as many beleaguered wives had done whose husbands were away fighting on either side. ‘Despite the fact that there is an absence of competent guards on the gates, as I have already stated.’ He looked at the old servant and then back at her. ‘Should Commonwealth troops arrive at your door when I have gone you will need to have men-at-arms aplenty to guard you. These are still dangerous times.’
‘We have survived so far—although the war has left behind physical scars which I am sure you must have observed for yourself when you rode in. The last I heard, the Scots who were marching south were stopped at Preston by Cromwell and driven back. The Royalists have been routed, Lord Fitzroy, and scattered throughout the length and breadth of England—something which you are aware of and rejoice, I am sure.’
‘Fully aware, since I was there, but I do not rejoice in another’s defeat. Preston was the death blow to the Royalists. They surrendered to Lord Fairfax. Many were killed, many taken prisoner—some of the leaders were sentenced to death, Thomas included. Badly wounded, he escaped over the border into Scotland.’
‘I see. That still doesn’t explain where he has been since Marston Moor.’
‘I don’t know the facts, but what I do know is that he was always involving himself in further uprisings wherever they occurred.’
‘Instead of coming home—or having the goodness to let me know where he was. A brief note would have sufficed. Love him or loathe him, sir, I was still his wife and deserved better than that.’
‘Whatever you say about Thomas’s character, it was not his intention to be cruel to you.’
She looked at him coldly. ‘And you would know that, would you? Since I do not believe we have much to fear just now you can tell my father I am happy to remain where I am, until I decide to go my own way.’
‘There is something I have not told you, which may alter your decision on whether to go with me to London or not.’
‘Oh? And what is that, pray?’
‘Your father is not a well man. He was taken ill when he was in the north. The physician is treating him for a weakness of his heart.’
She stared at him. Clearly this had come as something of a shock to her. ‘Are you telling me that my father is dying, sir?’
‘Perhaps not as bad as that, but his suffering was so severe that he had to be escorted home. He has expressed his desire to see you most strongly.’
She cast him a frowning glance. ‘I see.’
‘Do you still intend to remain here?’ His gaze was steady and challenging. ‘I would advise against it.’
Catherine raised her chin a notch, not ready to be bullied. ‘I haven’t made up my mind.’
‘Then you should. There is another issue that needs your consideration. Oakdene is close to London. You need to be present when Thomas’s will is read.’
They stood face to face while arrogance and self-will waged their own war between them.
‘Yes, there is that—although there is nothing to stop him informing me of the contents by letter. Obviously, if my father is seriously ill, I shall have to give it some thought.’ She snapped a peremptory signal to the servant. ‘Bring some ale and cold meats for our guests, Miles.’
John noted that, as she instructed the servants, authority wrapped itself about her like a cloak and she wore it comfortably.
‘Remove your wet clothes and make yourselves comfortable by the fire. Miles will attend to your needs. Now excuse me. I have things to do.’ To put an end to the discussion, she crossed to the stairs.
‘Lady Stratton.’ She halted mid-stride and looked back at him. ‘I trust you will consider your answer most seriously. I came here in good faith. Even if you do decide against going to London, at least I have told you the truth about your father.’
With a slight nod of her head she turned from him. ‘I am obliged.’
John watched her go. She walked with a purposeful stride and a proud set of her head. How would she react, he wondered, if she knew the truth about her husband’s death and knew what lay in store for her when she reached her father’s house?
After issuing orders to the housekeeper and a young maid to assist Miles in attending to the comforts of Lord Fitzroy and his steward, Catherine took refuge in her chamber. Standing at the window, she looked out, but saw nothing. The splendid room seemed to melt away and she was so cold as if she had been miraculously transported out of doors into the cold rain that continued to fall. Her shoulders sagged and her hands hung heavy by her sides. Her father was ill. How ill? she wondered. She suspected it had to be of a serious nature for him to summon her. Every instinct within her screamed resistance, but deep in her heart she knew she would have to go to him. Her heart was full, too full to express what had taken root deep within her. It was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. It was a tolling bell, heralding doom.
When she had married Thomas she had been a normal, healthy girl, filled with dreams and wishes about marriage, having read her share of romantic tales. Marriage to her was about mutual love, understanding and trust. She soon had reason to condemn herself for the silly, childish illusion, for marriage to Thomas was nothing like that. At the time, she had raised no objection to the marriage as she imagined it as a way to escape her father’s domination of her, to be released from the hold he’d had on her since the death of her mother.
How wrong she had been. Thomas had never been a popular member of the community. Of an aggressive nature and downright unpleasant, he had left her alone to while away her days as she wished. He had found her so unattractive that he seldom came to her bed, fumbling clumsily and hurting her with his gropings when he did. In the beginning she had blamed herself for being naive and inexperienced so the fault had to lie with her. But when she listened to the girls she employed in the castle laughing and giggling to each other about their amorous encounters with the opposite sex, she knew there had to be more to what happened between a man and a woman when they were in bed.
She often wondered if Thomas found his pleasures elsewhere, but finding it both hurtful and distasteful to imagine that he might, she immediately banished the thought from her mind. There were times when she was lonely without another woman to talk to, or anyone to keep her company at night when the chill of winter permeated every inch of the castle.
She did not grieve her husband’s loss, only what his loss would mean to her personally, to her future. This shamed her, but that was how it was. Mercilessly, she was to be thrust once more into her father’s hands. There was a time, when she was a child and her mother had been alive, that he had shown her affection. Life had been so much more light-hearted then, when she had indulged in innocent pleasures. How she had longed for him to comfort her in her loss when her mother died, to show her that he still cared. But he was a man not given to exposing his feelings or emotions and now he was demanding that she go to London.
The brief, cherished dream of going to Wilsden Manor, a beautiful property in Hereford left to her by her mother, of living for herself and doing with her life exactly what she liked, was melting away just when it was almost within her grasp. After she had been to Oakdene she would go there, but at this time she was duty-bound to abide by her father’s wishes. Was it foolish of her to hope that the long-held memories of the affection he had shown her in childhood could be revived?
Her thoughts shifted to John Stratton. Unlike Thomas, who was tall and thickset, with unattractive square features and fair hair thinning at the crown, John Stratton was quite different. But she must never forget that he was a Stratton, that he was of the same blood as Thomas, and her initial impression was that he was as arrogant and demanding as Thomas has been. At thirty-one years old, he was a striking-looking man with an enormous presence. Although his manners were perfectly correct, she sensed in him a purposefulness that made her uneasy. He was of an impressive stature, tall and lean and as straight as an arrow, with a whipcord strength that promised toughness, and, even though his arrival had interrupted the peaceful running of the castle, she could not help but admire the fine figure he made.
His dark brown hair sprang thickly, vibrantly from his head and curled about his neck. His chin was jutting and arrogant, his mouth firm, hinting at stubbornness that could, she thought, prove dangerous, making him a difficult opponent if pushed too far. There was also a hardness about him, an inflexibility of mind and will, and a toughness imbued by his military life.
Yet there were laughter lines at the corners of his mouth that bespoke humour. But it was his eyes that had held her. They were compelling, brilliant blue and vibrant in the midst of so much uncompromising darkness and, when they had settled on her, they had been unnervingly intent. He had seemed to take pleasure in studying every inch of her, although there was no lechery in his gaze.
Somehow she could sense he expected her to fear him and to fidget nervously under his regard. It was for this very reason that she had stood motionless, forcing herself to look directly back at him, giving him stare for stare. And then he had smiled, a thin, crooked smile revealing a lightning glimpse of very white teeth. His masculinity was obvious and complete and there was a certain refinement in his well-defined, handsome features. All through their meeting she had been uncomfortably conscious of him and was careful not to move too close. She would not be lulled by a handsome face.
What did he make of her? And did he wonder about her loyalties—King or Parliament? It didn’t worry her that he might regard her as having the same faults and allegiances as Thomas—and, she thought on a sigh, there were times when she had to question them herself.
The morning of Thomas Stratton’s funeral dawned dank and grey. After a night with little sleep, Catherine woke early. She rose and crossed to the window to look out. The rain had ceased and a grey mist swathed the top of the hills and drifted down into the valley bottoms. As she looked down into the courtyard a form, probably one of the grooms, moved towards the stables. Suddenly, a ride out into the surrounding hills before breakfast was too tempting for her to resist. She often rode out early morning and, she thought, this could well be the last time she would do so at Carlton Bray.
Pulling on her clothes and riding boots and carrying her hat, she silently slipped down the stairs and left the castle. As she’d crossed the hall, she imagined she heard the sound of a horse’s hooves clattering over the drawbridge, but on entering the yard and seeing no one, she thought she had been mistaken. The stables were quiet, the horses shifting restlessly in their stalls. Hurriedly saddling her mount, she breathed deeply of the scent of hay and the warm bodies of the horses which she always found familiar and comforting.
Leaving the castle behind, she rode towards the hills. The paths were familiar to her and she rode her horse hard, revelling in the exercise. Yet she had a heavy heart, for this might be the last time she rode these hills which were so much a part of her life. When her beloved mother had died and since marrying Thomas, followed by his rejection of her and long absence, she had at first floundered in uncertainty with no confidante, no one to hear her complaints and give her succour. Carlton Bray had become the centre of her existence, her beating heart. When she realised that this was her life from now on, she had moved in a carefully constructed calm efficiency, directing the household and supervising what had to be done in times of strife, of which there were many. She had come to love every ancient and battle-pitted stone of the old castle and would miss it terribly, but life had to go on.
After half an hour and having ridden some distance from the castle, she toyed with the notion of turning back, then dismissed the idea. Thomas’s funeral loomed like a dark cloud over the day ahead of her and she wanted to enjoy her ride a bit longer. Taking a path that would lead her up into the hills, she decided to ride as far as the lake, which was a thin ribbon of water in a thickly wooded valley. Taking a downward path, which was thickly choked with briars, deftly her horse picked its way along. Catherine knew that when she broke through the trees the view would be well worth it. She was not mistaken. It was a view she had seen many times and revelled in its beauty in all the changing seasons.
Abruptly the foliage parted. From where she stopped a stretch of clear ground cut a swathe some twelve feet in width. To her left, further along the lake, large rocks protruded out of deep water. Dismounting, she took the reins and quietly made her way along the edge of the trees, her gaze fixed on the rocks ahead of her, certain she had heard the soft whicker of a horse. About to step around the rocks forming a sequestered cove screened by a tangle of willows, she quickly stepped back, having seen a horse nibbling the grass and a pile of clothes on the rocks. Moments later there was a splash, followed by the lesser sound and sight of a body, like a dark, sleek blade, cutting its way just below the surface of the water with slow, controlled strokes.
Catherine took a wary step out of the covering willow tree to watch as the swimmer ploughed his way into the centre of the lake, his strokes powerful and sure. She shuddered, thinking that whoever it was would surely freeze to death in the cold November waters of the lake. A thin mist floated just above the surface. She drew back when he turned and swam back to the rocks, then rose ghostlike from the water. His dark hair hung in wet strands about his head and neck. Without even seeing his face Catherine knew he was John Stratton. The water level dropped from his chest to his waist, to his thighs and—she wanted to turn and run, but did not, held in place by the sight of the primeval, glistening form, naked and powerful.
Spellbound, Catherine let her gaze rove over the firm muscled chest and legs, lingering on the patch of dark hair and his manhood protruding there. Despite the coldness of the morning her body became heated, her face red, yet she could not tear her eyes away. Unaware that he was being watched, he began to dress. Rooted to the spot. Catherine continued to watch, her breath ragged and her heart beating loud in her ears. She was careful not to make a sound lest he heard, having no idea how she would explain her presence. How she managed to keep herself hidden until he’d mounted his horse and ridden off she couldn’t say, but she was relieved when the sound of his horse’s hooves could no longer by heard.
Only then did she leave the lake and ride back to Carlton Bray. When she rode into the courtyard she didn’t see the figure standing watching her, no more than a silhouette in the shadows—tall, physically imposing, arrogant even, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
