The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

She whimpered softly and he tightened his arms about her. It occurred to him, as he gazed down at her peaceful face, that his life had been singularly uncomplicated up to this time. He tried to weigh the enormity of the problems he now faced. Although he couldn’t explain why, he felt certain that she wouldn’t as yet remember her nightmare, even though his rape of her had penetrated the cloak of forgetfulness that had protected her all these years. He could well understand how a child’s instincts for survival had forced her to lock away what had happened to her, to bury it so deep that there were only vague shadows, images that faded quickly, blackness that vanished with the blink of an eye. But now it could be only a matter of time until she remembered, and, he thought bleakly, such devastating knowledge could easily be too much for her. And it was his fault, all his fault.

He rose slowly, careful not to disturb her, and gently laid her in her bed. Then his own physical exhaustion overtook him, and with a deep sigh he stretched out in the chair and soon fell asleep.

Kate awoke, her mind alert and clear from the long hours of sleep. She sat up in her bed and looked about her. She was startled to see Julien sprawled in a chair beside her, his clothing disheveled and his head resting against his hand. She frowned in confusion, vaguely remembering being held by him. He had comforted her, had soothed away an awful fear. She shook her head to focus the jumbled images, but they melted away from her. She slipped out of bed and felt a sharp pain between her thighs. She stilled. All that had happened to her came rushing back. Her eyes flew to her sleeping husband. He’d told her that she’d had a riding accident. Her mind clung tenaciously to this fact. No one, save her and that man, knew what had passed between them, and she grimly resolved that Julien must never know. She walked to where he slept and shook his sleeve to wake him. Somehow it didn’t seem important that she was dressed only in her nightgown.

He awoke with a start and bounded out of the chair. He stared down at her, silent and pale. He pulled her gently against him. How very strange, she thought wonderingly, that she found his closeness and strength comforting. They stood thus for some time, until Julien drew back and with a gentle hand smoothed back her tangled hair from about her face.

“You are all right?”

She lowered her eyes, and he wanted to cry out at her look of anguish. Oh, God, he couldn’t bear it. “Kate,” he began. He felt so bloody helpless.

She looked up at him, her face now impassive, and interrupted him quickly. “I’m quite fine now, Julien. I wasn’t gravely hurt in the riding accident. Gabriella must have been frightened again. It’s over now. Yes, all of it is over now.”

He was relieved at her decision not to tell him the truth. If she were to tell him of her rape, he wouldn’t be able to keep silent, and what he told her would destroy her newfound trust in him. Somehow he must find a way to banish the terrible fears from her childhood before telling her.

He smiled at her and said lightly, “I fear, my dear, that if the Craytons were to witness the countess and earl of March in such a state of disarray, our consequence would be in dire straits.” He ran a hand through his own messed hair. “Do you feel like a bath?”

She mustered a tentative smile. She raised her hand to her tangled hair and said, “Oh, dear, it will take Mrs. Crayton at least thirty minutes to brush out the knots.”

He admired her greatly in that moment. Without thought, he pulled her against him again, gently brushed his lips to hers, and released her. She didn’t recoil from him, but rather stood silently gazing at him, with a confused look on her face.

“Would you have breakfast with me? In an hour?”