Free The Rebel Bride by Catherine Coulter Page A

he had shown her one evening after Sir Oliver had retired.
    “My dear, poor Marcham is sadly weighted down. Are you certain that you intend to be gone only four months?” Her voice was sweet and light as she tugged on his sleeve.
    Harry replied to her jest with a perfunctory smile. Despite his best intentions, he was impatient to be gone, and in truth, he didn’t know what to say to her, nor what he could do about her future. He knew that Sir Oliver was encouraging the suit of that provincial oaf, Squire Bleddoes. It was altogether ridiculous, for Kate was far too well born for such a marriage, and besides, she had told him she would have nothing to do with that “miserable, boring windbag.” This he had understood, but when she had blithely informed him that remaining her own mistress did not seem at all a bad thing, he was frankly shaken. She knew very well that his fondest wish was to join a crack cavalry regiment; she must also realize, he thought despairingly, that it would be impossible for her to accompany him.
    Lord, what a mull. What a miserable situation. Perhaps when he returned for the holiday at Christmas, he and Kate would think of something.
    Harry drew on his gloves and leaned over to kiss Kate lightly on the cheek. It occurred to him that there might be danger from another quarter.
    “Kate,” he said earnestly, his blue eyes narrowing,“don’t forget the earl of March. You can’t be sure that he won’t tell Father of our escapade. Most probably he’s prouder than Wellington himself and thinks very highly of himself. Lord, we can’t tell what he might do.”
    Kate looked at him and smiled, saying in a reassuring voice as if talking to a child, “I’ll be careful, Harry. Don’t worry yourself about it. I don’t think his lordship would ever stoop to such paltry and petty behavior.”
    Harry was a bit put out by her calm assumptions about the earl of March. It was at times like this that Harry wished Kate were more docile, more accepting of her older brother’s advice and counsel. He had the nagging doubt, grown stronger in the past several years, that he was no match for her quick tongue, that it was she who had the stronger will.
    Harry shook himself free of this not-altogether-pleasing image of himself. After all, it was rather stupid of him to regard his sister, a mere girl, as a possible superior to him. Was he not to be Sir Harry Brandon of Brandon Hall someday? And if Kate had not yet married upon the demise of Sir Oliver, it would be he, Sir Harry, who would arrange her life and give her direction.
    Seeing the rather benign smile on her brother’s boyish face, Kate thought that she had succeeded in keeping their leave-taking as unemotional as possible. She said, “I think the horses grow impatient, my dear. You may rest assured that I shall avoid Sir Oliver assiduously, as well as that alarmingly persistent suitor of mine.”
    Harry was immeasurably relieved. Kate was acting her usual self again. He quieted his conscience with the thought that before too many more months passed, he would find a solution to her problem.
    She added, green eyes twinkling up at him, “Do read at least one book this time, and not, I pray, one of those young gentlemen’s turf books.”
    “Well, don’t you kill anyone with your dueling pistol.”
    There was a sudden sound behind them, and Kate whirled about. It was only Filber, the Brandon butler, come to wave good-bye to Harry. She breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that Sir Oliver would openly condemnbrother and sister spending too much time together. It was strange, she thought suddenly. It was as if their father thought her a bad influence on Harry.
    “You did say good-bye to Father?” she asked nervously, still expecting to see his tall, gaunt frame appear at any minute in the open doorway.
    “Oh, yes, not to worry, m’dear. Now, I must be off. Do keep out of trouble, old girl.”
    She watched Harry swing himself onto his horse and signal Marcham