The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

“The nightmare. You remembered and spoke in your sleep. To be certain, I spoke with your father.”

To his surprise, she flung away from him and rose shakily to her feet. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you force me through all this? Damn you. Why, Julien?”

“I wanted to, but I thought that if I told you, simply recounted what I knew, I couldn’t be sure you would remember, or understand. There was so much that—”

“Well, now you have your confession, my lord. Did Sir Oliver give you every sordid detail? Did he tell you all about his slut of a daughter? Did he tell you how he would beat me for really no reason at all, just to purify me, how he’d yell as he wielded that damned whip of his, just to save me. Well, did he gloat and laugh and tell you everything?”

He rose to his feet. “Oh, no, sweetheart, you don’t understand. All this drama, if you wish to call it that, I did it for you, to help you, to help you remember, so you could banish the past, so you could be free of it.”

She sneered at him, her hands balled into fists on her hips. “For me? Dear God, how you lie to yourself, just as you’ve always lied. There weren’t any nightmares until you forced me to wed you. There weren’t any ghosts until you resurrected them. Did I play my part well, my lord?”

“Damnation, you’re being ridiculous. You know I love you. You will listen to me.”

“No, I won’t. I have your full measure now, my lord. Do you intend a second visit to my father to tell him he was correct about his harlot of a daughter? Don’t think he’ll take me back. Or do you still believe my innocence? Do but recall how very passionate and abandoned I was in your bed last night. Come, Julien, was your precious Sarah ever more eager for your mouth caressing her body than I was?”

“That’s quite enough. By God, you will stop this damned nonsense.” He moved quickly forward to grab her, to shake some sense into her, but she evaded his outstretched arms and rushed to Astarte. She tugged the reins from the withered branch and threw herself onto her horse’s back.

“Stop! Damnation, don’t be a fool!” He yelled even as he was running toward her. He lunged forward to grab the bridle, but Kate jerked up on the reins and Astarte snorted in surprise and plunged backward. Kate wheeled the startled horse about and dug in her heels.

Cold, desperate fear gripped him. The child, dear God, she had to remember the child.

Astarte was galloping erratically, crashing through the undergrowth of the woods, naked winter branches ripping at both horse and rider. Kate’s riding hat was torn from her head, drifting gently earthward, buoyed by the vivid blue ostrich feather, until it lay stark and helpless on the mossy floor of the woods, ground but an instant later into bright shreds by Thunderer’s pounding hooves.

The woods ended, and both horses cannoned onto a narrow lane, beset with deep, treacherous ruts, gaping wide, an arm’s length, many of them. Astarte veered off the road, as if sensing herself the dangers of those yawning holes, into a barren field.

Agonizing minutes passed as Thunderer strained to close the distance.

A long, low stone wall, for many years a meaningless boundary between properties, cut across the field to either side, its cold gray edges stark against the clouded sky. Surely now Kate would stop, she must stop.

“Kate, no! Astarte doesn’t jump without command!” His yell filled the empty space. He made a last desperate attempt to reach her, but she evaded his outstretched arm.

37

“Astarte, over!”

The futile command hung about him, muting his hearing, a command shouted too late, perhaps a command Astarte wouldn’t have obeyed in any case, for Astarte had been her horse since the moment she’d patted her nose and crooned words to her that he hadn’t begun to understand. He watched in helpless despair as Astarte reached the stone wall, gave a frightened snort, and veered sharply, grazing the jagged stone edges.