She dashed a hand across her eyes, but the flood of angry words continued. “And now I really know what I’m worth! Nothing! Isn’t that so?”
“Hey… hey!” Cato shook her in an attempt to stop the raging, tear-drenched tirade. “What in hell’s teeth are you talking about, woman! I realize you’ve had a nasty experience, but you can’t hold me responsible for that! You’ve made it clear countless times that you’ll plow your own furrow, Phoebe, and the consequences of your own decisions are yours to bear.”
“Yes,” Phoebe said, her voice now dull. “That’s true. But I didn’t think I meant so little to you that you’d… you’d…” Her voice faltered. Somehow she couldn’t say it.
“That I would what?” Cato inquired in a tone suddenly as soft as silk.
“That you would have abandoned me,” Phoebe said. “If I hadn’t saved myself, you would have left me to Brian’s knife.”
Cato stared, unable to believe what he was hearing. “You think I would have done what?”
Phoebe tried to shrug out of his hold. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I should have known. You’ve always made it clear that your duty comes first. I got in the way. Of course you couldn’t sacrifice your mission because of my stupid mistake.”
Slowly Cato began to understand what she was talking about. But it was incomprehensible. Impossible that she should imagine him capable of such a barbarity. “Let me understand this. Because I really want to be sure I have this right.”
His fingers curled into her shoulders with bruising pressure. “You’re accusing me of being ready to leave you to Brian? Is that really what you’re saying, Phoebe?”
Phoebe felt the bright glaze of her righteous conviction dim somewhat. “But you did,” she said. “You told him you didn’t care about me. You turned away. I don’t know how you could do that, but you did.”
“Dear God! How could you even imagine such a thing? What the devil have I ever done that you would believe such a thing of me?” Cato demanded.
“You said it.”
“And what happened when I said it?” he inquired, a muscle twitching at the corner of his mouth.
There was something dangerous about that muscle. Phoebe thought back, looking for the right answer. She could still feel the knife at her throat. She could still see Cato’s eyes, so black, so blank, looking straight through her. She made no reply, but her hand went unconsciously to her throat.
“Brian was thrown off balance by the unexpected.” Cato answered his own question. “If you hadn’t been quick enough to take advantage of his momentary surprise, I would have done so myself.”
Had she been mistaken? Had she in the rush of hurt and uncertainty drawn the wrong conclusion?
“Come!” he commanded, clicking finger and thumb imperatively. Phoebe could see in the hard set of his mouth, the dark blaze in his eyes how he struggled to contain his own anger. “You owe me an explanation for such an accusation. And I would hear it now.”
Why had he suddenly managed to put her in the wrong? It was so unfair. All the months of frustrated hopes came rushing to the fore, and she faced him now with a wild outpouring of her deepest emotion, the truth tumbling from her lips in a passionate cascade.
“You don’t love me. I love you so much and you don’t feel anything much for me. Oh, I’m an amusing toy, sometimes. Good for bedsport. You said once you liked me, and I daresay you do, most of the time, except when I get in the way. I know I’m not important to you, not truly important. You’ve made that clear many times. Your own world is the only thing that matters to you, so why would you make such a sacrifice for me?”
She turned her eyes from him, unable to look at him as she poured out her heart. “Don’t you understand? I need you to love me. I’ve loved you for so long; you’re my life. I need to be your life. But I know you can’t love me, and since I don’t mean anything really important to you, it’s hardly surprising I should take your words at face value.”
“Dear God, Phoebe!” Cato caught her face with hard hands, forcing her to look at him.
“Flow can you say such things! Oh, I agree that you have come close to driving me to insanity on occasion. So close that sometimes I have been on the brink of losing all vestige of civilized control. I don’t know what to do with you. I can’t manage you. But dear God, girl!”
He stopped, looking down at her intense countenance, at the wide, generous mouth, the rounded chin, the snub nose. He looked deep into her passion-filled eyes. And it was as if he was seeing her for the first time. He saw her uncertainty, her vulnerability, the trust with which she had given him her heart. And he saw the deep well of love and passion, saw into the very depths of her soul… and finally Cato understood his own. Unwieldy, troublesome emotion though it was, love held him in thrall. He’d denied it because it frightened him. To lose control was his ultimate fear. He never admitted anger, and he never admitted love. But Phoebe had driven him to fury, as she had enwrapped him in love.
He ran his hands through his hair in a gesture of resigned defeat. “I couldn’t imagine taking a daily breath without knowing that you were beside me,” he said, making no attempt to conceal his surprise at the revelation.
“It’s taking me a long time to understand you, but God help me, that’s part of your fascination. I am in thrall to you. I cannot do without you.”
Phoebe, dumbstruck, just stared up at him. In her wildest imaginings she had never expected to hear such a declaration of love. It was not tender, not sweet, not loving. It was positively outraged. And yet she had never heard such music.
“I didn’t know,” she said eventually. “How could I have known?”
“You could have used the sense God gave you,” Cato snapped. “At this moment I don’t know whether I’m closer to making love to you or wringing your neck. Both options have a distinct appeal.”
“Could I choose?” Phoebe slipped her arms around his neck. She smiled at him. It was a tremulous smile and yet beneath lurked the suddenly acquired power of a woman who finally knew her self. And knew that she was loved.
Cato read that knowledge in the narrowed, seductive gaze as surely as if it had been written on vellum. “Dear God,” he muttered. “What have I unleashed?”
“Anything you wish, sir,” Phoebe responded. “I can be anything… and everything… you wish.”
He pushed his hands through her hair, smoothing it back, outlining her skull, leaving her face clear and open.
“Believe me, my ragged robin, you are.”
Phoebe was not fooled by the resignation in his voice. How could she be when his eyes glowed with such a powerful marriage of love and lust?
When finally all was right with the world.
“I love you,” she whispered and felt his love flow into her with his soft breath as he brought his mouth to hers.
Epilogue
Woodstock, Oxford, November, 1646
“See how fat I am, Olivia!”
There was no lamentation in Phoebe’s voice, rather a note of smug satisfaction, as she stood sideways to the mirror, cupping her round belly in both hands.
Olivia looked up from the letter she was reading. “You’re not fat. If anything, your face is thinner than before.”
“Do you think so?” Phoebe pinched the skin beneath her chin, examining her countenance closely. “Yes, I think you’re right. I can see my cheekbones. I look quite elegant, don’t you think?” She chuckled at this absurdity and walked to the window.
“Portia says they might be able to c-come for Christmas… at least she and the children. Rufus has to be in London again.” Olivia refolded the letter.