The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

“And you’ve shown great improvement. It’s been some three weeks now that I haven’t thrashed you quite so soundly.”

“You damnable man. You’ll see, I’m much the smarter and will serve you your just deserts.”

“I admit it’s a slim possibility, a bare glimmer of a possibility, if, in the dim future, I manage to lose my wits.”

She was suddenly as silent as a stone. She simply couldn’t imagine the future, dim or otherwise. She counted her future only in immediate days. She became aware that he was looking closely at her, and so she quickly spoke of the tastiness of the roast veal.

They journeyed slowly through France, enjoying the warmer weather, halting to explore the Roman ruins in the south— particularly in Nîmes, and making their way far to the west of Paris. When they reached Calais, Kate was surprised to find Julien’s yacht, The Fair Maid, moored in the harbor.

“Goodness, I’d forgotten that yacht of yours, Lord March.” There was laughter in her voice, and he warmed to it, turning a very real, very powerful smile on her.

“I hope I won’t have to sling you over my shoulder and carry you aboard.” He would have done it before if it had occurred to him. Still smiling, he turned to wave to a small, portly man, uniformed in dark blue, striding toward them.

“I don’t think you’ll have to now,” she said, looking with interest as the uniformed man bowed low to Julien.

“Aye, a pleasure to see you, my lord. The men were becoming a trifle restless.” His voice was booming. He broke into a leathery smile and bowed to Kate.

“The countess of March, Captain Marcham.”

“An honor it is, my lady,” the captain told her, thinking privately that he was indeed fortunate that he and his men weren’t left longer to kick up their heels in Calais. Lord, were he the earl, he would have extended the wedding trip another six months.

The Fair Maid was finely appointed, with small, elegantly furnished rooms and a deck and railing that shone to a high polish. During the nine-hour crossing, Kate spent the majority of her time contentedly bundled in fur rugs on the deck. As she sipped a cup of tea, offered by a shy young seaman, she remembered with some amusement her flight to France on the small, dingy packet.

“We’ll dock at Plymouth within the hour, my lord,” Captain Marcham informed them after what seemed to Kate an incredibly short time.

“Excellent time, Marcham. I hope you now have a better opinion of my yacht, Kate,” he added, turning to tuck the rug more closely about her legs.

“It’s quite lovely, as you well know. It’s just that we’ve come so quickly back, and I’m not certain—” Her voice trailed off, and she stared out over the whitecapped water, her mind in some confusion.

“Of what, my dear?”

She withdrew, giving a tiny shake of her head. “It’s nothing. I’m being silly, nothing more.” Suddenly he saw fear in her eyes, stark fear. She quickly added, “I promise you, it’s nothing at all. I’m fine, more than fine. I swear it.”

He would have howled at the moon if only there had been one. He felt sick with guilt and fear for her, even as he admired her more than he could say. She was brave, so damned brave, but she was hiding herself, hiding everything, and there was naught he could do about it, not yet at least.

When they stepped ashore at Plymouth, it was teeming with travelers, harried seamen, and many indigenous specimens lolling about on the dock. Somehow the touch of English soil beneath her feet and the hearty cries in the English tongue sounding on every side of her made her feel terribly alone. Though Julien stood not six feet from her, giving instructions to Captain Marcham and to the men who were removing their luggage, she had the unaccountable feeling that the man whose life she had shared for the past two months was now drawing away from her, returning to a way of life that was alien to her. Two months ago she wouldn’t have cared— indeed, she would have welcomed it— but now she felt that what she wanted most was to return to the yacht and let Captain Marcham sail wherever he wished.