The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter

“I seem to recall, madam, that it was you who staged our last so memorable seduction scene. And if my lamentable memory serves me correctly, your own passion rivaled mine.”

“No, damn you, that’s a lie. I didn’t feel a thing, it was all imagined. No, I merely feigned feeling for you.” She clapped her hands over her ears.

“No, I won’t stop and I haven’t said all that I wish,” he said, feeling like a savage now, nearly lost to control. He forcibly pulled her hands to her sides. “Damnation, listen to me. The young girl who was brutally raped no longer exists. You have seen her again, felt her misery. But now you must let her go. You are a woman, with a woman’s needs and desires. You will destroy yourself if you do not banish that child’s fears.”

She wrenched herself free of him, her eyes grown dark and enormous. She gulped convulsively and the hated tears sprang to her eyes.

“Ah, sweetheart,” he whispered, and extended his hand to her. “Please, come back to me.” When she backed away from him, mutely shaking her head, he dropped his hands to his side, and his face hardened.

“Would that I never see you again, Julien.”

“If that is what you wish,” he said grimly, his eyes boring into hers.

“It is what I wish above all things.”

“Then I bid you good-bye.” Without another word he turned and left her bedchamber.

Kate raised her head from her hands, realizing inconsequentially that they were wet with tears. She rose slowly and placed more wood upon the dying fire.

The snowstorm ceased during the night, leaving a thick white blanket in its wake. Soft flakes fell about Kate as the steady pounding of Astarte’s hooves shook the low, snow-laden branches.

She didn’t slow Astarte’s pace until they’d crossed the small meadow that bordered the copse. She waited for the gnawing fear to come as she slipped off her mare’s back and carefully tethered her.

Watchful of her footing, she walked into the small hollow and stood there looking about her. Several inches of fresh snow were piled high on the familiar tree stump. The small patch of mushrooms was buried. She bent down and swept the snow from the stump. It seemed so much smaller than she remembered, her two hands could almost span its surface. She felt nothing except a slight chill from the crisp winter air.

She sat down and pulled her riding habit and cloak close about her. She waited silently, still expectantly, but she could not recapture her child’s excitement, nor her child’s terror. There was nothing here for her, not the soft, sighing music woven from her child’s thoughts, not the sound of the men’s heavy wooden boots coming upon her, their glee at finding her there. The copse was simply a place, a small hollow of land, of no account really, not to her, not to anyone.

She rose finally and walked back to Astarte. She didn’t look back as she retraced her steps.

40

“My lady! Oh my goodness, what a surprise! What an utter and complete surprise. We had no idea that you— well, you’re here and isn’t that something!”

“Good evening, George,” Kate said brightly, sailing past the flabbergasted butler, waving as she did so to two lackeys. They staggered into the entrance hall under the weight of several trunks, portmanteaus, and bandboxes.

“I find myself without a guinea, without even a shilling,” she said with a disarming smile. “Would you mind, George, settling with that excellent coachman, and, oh, yes, that very stern-looking fellow, who, I was informed, was an excellent outrider.”

“Yes, my lady, certainly.” He had sounded calm, even though to his own ears, his voice had risen a good octave. He motioned to a silent footman, who moved forward somewhat clumsily, bumping one of the countess’s bandboxes. George shot him a look that promised retribution, and after giving the hapless fellow instructions and paying the coachman and the evil-looking outrider, he turned back to the countess. He took her ermine-lined cloak, her gloves, and a dashing bonnet.

“It’s been a long time, George. I trust all goes well with you.”