The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

He stood motionless and watched her in silence. She fluttered her hands about her, and she seemed to move more lightly, her step shortened.

“The mushrooms still flourish, that’s good, and they’re so very lush. The palace guards picked them for the queen. They should be flogged, the floor of the throne room is such a mess. All those brambles and that wretched encroaching ivy. And the queen’s musicians, playing soft music through the green swaying leaves.”

She sank down to her knees, her cloak billowing about her, and slowly began pulling away the tangled masses of ivy. She began to hum in a faraway voice, a child’s lilting song, as she brushed away the dead leaves from the top of the tree stump.

“The men came, Kate?”

She became suddenly quiet and crouched over, turning on her heels to gaze through him. “Oh, no! Be quiet, all of you. Do you not hear the sounds, the strange noises? Heavy, wooden boots, strangers coming here. Quickly, stop your playing, your music will attract their notice.”

She put a finger to her mouth and looked furtively about her. “Oh, no, they’re here. Hide, all of you, quickly. Yes, that’s right. Oh, I’m still to be seen.” A hard, proud look froze her eyes into bright slits, and her mouth was a straight, tight line. “I’m the queen, I will be safe. Look, here they come.” A spasm of uncertainty, then open fear, crumpled her features. She swayed back and forth on her heels, gazing mutely ahead of her.

“Kate, do you remember what happened? The men burst in upon you. They approached you, didn’t they?” He moved silently to her and went down on his knees beside her swaying form. She shook her head slowly back and forth, as if willing herself not to remember. She closed her eyes tightly and averted her head, willing herself not to see.

“What did the men do? Did they hurt you? Did they laugh and mock and admire themselves for finding you?”

Her eyes flew open, and she thrust her hands out in front of her to ward off something he couldn’t see. “No, no!” Her voice was a child’s, shrill and loud. She was shaking her head violently from side to side. She tried to scramble away from him, but Julien clasped her shoulders and held her firmly. “What do you want here? This is Brandon land. You must go, do you hear me?” The fear in her voice, the pathetic defiance, made gooseflesh rise on his arms. Through her eyes, he could picture the men, rough, perhaps drunk, coming upon the beautiful child, their dirty hands clutching at her long hair, ripping at her clothing, savagely exposing her.

She stiffened suddenly, pain suffusing her pale face, and cried out, a shrill, terrified cry that rent the silent woodland. She crumpled forward, and he caught her against his chest. Julien was beyond words, helpless and impotent in a fury that grated on his very soul. No retribution, no reckoning; and now it was too late, years too late.

With shaking hands he pressed her against him, trying somehow to make her feel his understanding, his compassion. Over and over he whispered her name.

He was long aware of the damp, chill air creeping through his greatcoat before she stirred in his arms, pushed against his chest and raised her white, tearstained face.

“It’s over now, love. There’s nothing more for you to fear. Do you understand?”

The naked pain in her eyes made his belly cramp. “Listen to me. You’ve got to face it now. It’s been over now, over for years upon years. The child’s pain can no longer be your pain. You must banish it from you. The ghosts are dead, Kate. All of them. Put them in the past where they belong. Let them go.”

“Ghosts . . . bury the ghosts. That’s what you said when you forced me here, isn’t it?”

“Yes. They’re no longer part of you, no longer a part of us. Let them go.” He gently brushed the tears away with his gloved fingers.

She gave her head a tiny shake, her eyes narrowed in confusion. “But I don’t understand, Julien. How did you know, for I did not. How?”