Jane Feather
The Accidental Bride
Prologue
Rotterdam, December, 1645
The Englishman was aware of his pursuer. But he gave no indication, not by so much as a stiffening of his shoulder blades, that every nerve was stretched taut and alert. He came abreast of a narrow doorway and hesitated. Then he raised his hand as if to knock and stepped swiftly into the dark narrow space, out of sight of the lane, pressing himself against the closed door.
His pursuer stopped, frowning. The Englishman was not supposed to make a stop on this street. He was supposed to be going to the Black Tulip to meet with the agent of the Dutch king, Frederick Henry of Orange. The man swore under his breath. How could his informers have made such an error? Dolts, the lot of them.
He moved forward again, hunching into his cloak. As he approached the doorway, Brian Morse stepped out in front of him. The man was aware first of a pair of small brown eyes, cold and flat as a viper’s. Then he saw the flash of steel. He reached for his own poignard but was somehow paralyzed by the icy recognition of the hopelessness of his position.
The tip of the swordstick entered his breast, sliding through cloak and shirt and flesh with the ease of a knife through butter. The pain was acute, a piercing cold intensity in his vitals. He slid down the wall, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the wet stones, and crumpled in on himself, inert, blood spreading beneath him, mingling with the dark rain puddles on the cobbles.
Brian Morse turned him over with the tip of his boot. The eyes, glazing now, stared up at him. A thin smile touched Brian’s mouth. Leisurely, he drew back his arm and drove the point of the sword deep into the man’s belly. He drove it down and up and a gray and crimson mass of viscera spilled to the cobbles.
Brian looked down at the bleeding lump of meat for a second, then with a contemptuous grunt and a curl of the lip, he turned away and continued his journey up the alley.
At the top, he turned to the right. This street was broader than the lane and light spilled from the upper windows of a cross-timbered inn. The sign of the Black Tulip creaked and swung in the wind.
Brian pushed open the door and entered the crowded noisome space. The reek of stale beer, unwashed humanity, and boiling pigs’ feet hung heavy in the smoke-filled air. The lime-washed walls sweated great gobbets of moisture and tallow candles burned in the sconces that hung from the massive rafters.
Brian pushed his way through the raucous throng, making for a low door behind the bar counter where a red-faced man was drawing ale with steady, unbroken movements, setting the filled tankards in a line on the counter. A harassed tavern wench retrieved them, carrying them on a tray held high above her head as she dipped and dodged the grasping fingers and the slapping hands of the tavern’s customers.
The man at the counter looked up as Brian edged past. He gave him a curt nod and gestured with his head to the low door behind.
Brian raised the latch and entered a small, low-ceilinged room. A man sat at a small table beside the fire, nursing a pitch tankard. The room had a damp chill to it despite the sullen smolder of the fire and the man still wore his cloak and hat. He glanced up as Brian entered the room and gave him one sweeping appraisal.
“You were followed,” he stated, his voice curiously flat and nasal. His eyes rested on the swordstick that Brian still held unsheathed. Blood dripped from the point and clotted in the sawdust strewn across the wooden floor.
“Aye,” Brian agreed. He raised the swordstick and scrutinized the rusty stains with the air of one examining and approving his handiwork. Then he thrust the blade back into its sheath with a decisive thud and pulled out the chair opposite the man at the table.
“One of Strickland’s agents?” the man asked, picking up his tankard.
“I assume so. I didn’t take the time to inquire,” Brian returned. “It was not a social occasion.” He reached for the jug of ale on the table and in the absence of a tankard tipped the jug to his lips and drank deeply.
“Killing’s thirsty work,” he offered. His tongue flicked over his lips as he set the jug back on the table.
The other made only a noncommittal grunt and reached inside his cloak. He withdrew a paper from a pocket in his woolen jerkin and tapped it thoughtfully on the stained planking of the table.
Brian’s small brown eyes watched the man’s hands, but he said nothing, containing his impatience.
“So,” his companion said after a few long seconds. “His majesty has been most generous.”
“His majesty’s son and heir is married to King Charles’s daughter,” Brian Morse reminded him with a caustic edge.
His companion’s eyes narrowed at the tone. “Be that as it may, Holland is neutral in your civil war,” he stated. “The king is making a great concession in this offer of aid.”
“It will be acknowledged.” Brian picked up the jug again and carried it to his lips.
The other man nodded as if satisfied. He unfolded the paper and silently slid it across the table.
Brian set down the tankard and picked up the paper. He ran his eye down the neat columns. The king of Orange was indeed being generous. The munitions he was offering to supply the embattled and impoverished king of England would go a long way toward redressing the difference in strength between Cromwell’s New Model Army and the Cavaliers.
“His majesty will not stint his gratitude,” Brian said slowly. He reached into his pocket for a letter of his own. It bore the seal of Charles of England.
His companion took it and examined the seal closely. He’d been told what to look for and there was no mistaking the royal insignia. He thrust the document inside his jerkin and drained the contents of his tankard.
His chair scraped on the planks as he stood up, pulling his gauntlets from his belt. “You will be contacted with exact details about delivery after the king has read the letter and consulted with his advisors. The ship will leave from Rotterdam. You should hold yourself in readiness.”
He strode to the door and it banged closed on his departure.
Brian Morse finished the ale in the jug. Once this mission was successfully accomplished he would go home, bearing with him in triumph the fruits of his negotiations. And at last he would come to the attention of the truly powerful around the king. He would be noticed. He would be recognized as a man of ability. And there would be some reward. A reward, if he played his cards right, that would enable him finally to pursue personal interests under the guise of working for the king’s cause.
Chapter 1
Woodstock, Oxford, January, 1646
Olivia’s even breathing resumed and Phoebe tiptoed across the chamber to the armoire. She had left it partly open so it wouldn’t squeak. She took out the bundle of clothes and the small cloakbag and crept on her freezing bare feet to the door. She lifted the latch and opened it just wide enough for her to slide sideways through and into the dark passage beyond.
Shivering, she scrambled into her clothes, pulling them on over her nightshirt. There were no candles in the sconces in the passage and it was pitch dark, but Phoebe found the darkness comforting. If she could see no one, then no one could see her.
The house was silent but for the usual nighttime creaks of old wood settling. She dragged on her woolen stockings and, carrying her boots and the cloakbag, crept down the corridor towards the wide staircase leading down to the great hall.
The hall was in shadow, lit only by the still-glowing embers in the vast fireplace at the far end. The great roof beams were a dark and heavy presence above her head as she tiptoed in her stockinged feet down the stairs. It was a mad, crazy thing she was doing, but Phoebe could see no alternative. She would not be sold into marriage, sold like a prize pig at the fair, to a man who had no real interest in her, except as a breeding cow.
Phoebe grimaced at her mixed metaphors, but they both nevertheless struck her as accurate descriptions of her situation. She wasn’t living in the Middle Ages. It should not be possible to compel someone into a distasteful marriage, and yet, if she didn’t take drastic action, that was exactly what was going to happen. Her father refused to listen to reason; he saw only his own advantage and had every intention of disposing of his only remaining daughter to suit himself.
Phoebe muttered under her breath as she crossed the hall, the cold from the flagstones striking up through her stockings. Reminding herself of her father’s intractable selfishness buoyed her up. She was terrified of what she was about to do. It was absolute madness to attempt such a flight, but she would not marry a man who barely noticed her existence.
The great oak door was bolted and barred. She set down her boots and cloakbag and lifted the iron bar. It was heavy but she managed to set it back into the brackets at the side of the door. She reached up and drew the first bolt, then bent to draw the second at the base of the door. She was breathing quickly and, despite the cold, beads of sweat gathered between her breasts. She was aware of nothing but the door, its massive solidity in front of her filling her vision, both interior and exterior.
Slowly she pulled the door open. A blast of frigid air struck her like a blow. She took a deep breath…
And then the door was suddenly banged closed again. An arm had reached over her shoulder; a flat hand rested against the doorjamb. Phoebe stared at the hand… at the arm… in total stupefaction. Where had it come from? She felt the warmth of the body at her back, a large presence that was blocking her retreat just as the now closed door prevented her advance.
She turned her head, raised her eyes, and met the puzzled and distinctly irritated gaze of her intended bridegroom.
Cato, Marquis of Granville, regarded her in silence for a minute. When he spoke, it was an almost shocking sound after the dark silence. “What in God’s name are you doing, Phoebe?”
His voice, rich and tawny, as always these days sent a little shiver down her spine. For a moment she was at a loss for words and stood staring, slack-jawed and dumb as any village idiot.
“I was going for a walk, sir,” she said faintly, absurd though it was.
Cato looked at her incredulously. “At three o’clock in the morning? Don’t be ridiculous.” His gaze sharpened, the brown eyes, so dark as to be almost black in the shadowy dimness of the hall, narrowed. He glanced down at the cloakbag and her boots, standing neatly side by side.
