He hastened away, obviously in a great hurry to get back to his cronies, Phoebe reflected acidly. She took up the lantern and went to find the outhouse.

She returned to the long dormitory having met no one on her journey. She took off her outer garments, laying them tidily over the chest. Her shift felt very skimpy as she stood by the cot. She could hear laughter from below and lamplight showed through the spaces in the floorboards. If she listened hard, she could distinguish snatches of conversation and recognize some of the voices.

She extinguished the lamp and lay down on the narrow cot, pulling the thin blanket over her. The pillow and mattress were stuffed with straw and crackled when she turned over. She lay listening to the sounds from below. The laughter had ceased and there was a different tenor to their voices, as if, supper over, they had returned to business. Phoebe identified the rich, mellow cadences of Cato s voice interspersed with the sharp and unmelodious tones of Cromwell and the lighter tones of General Fairfax. It sounded as if they were in dispute.

“If a man hasn’t the courage to take the ultimate step, then I can’t help but question his commitment,” Cromwell said, his voice nasal and strident.

“I trust it’s not my commitment you’re questioning.” Cato’s voice was even, almost amused, as if such an idea were laughable.

“You’d vote to depose the king?” Cromwell demanded.

Phoebe listened, straining to catch Cato’s reply. “It’s not a step to be taken lightly,” he replied after a minute. “We force peace on our terms. I see no reason to do more.”

“You think the king would abide by such an agreement?” The question came from General Fairfax and produced a buzz of response from the company.

“I think we must assume that he would.” Cato’s response was firm, rising over the buzz. “I didn’t enter this war to establish a republic.”

“Then this war has overtaken you,” Cromwell declared. “It’s no longer a gentlemanly exercise to persuade Our Sovereign Majesty to heed the wishes of his subjects.” His voice was bitter and ironic. “It’s a fight for the right to rule England. And I say the people’s rule must hold sway.”

“You go too far for me, Oliver,” Cato said, as firmly and evenly as before. “But we can surely agree to differ on the final outcome without throwing accusations of disloyalty at one another.”

“Aye, you have the right of it, Cato,” Fairfax said warmly. “Oliver, ‘tis foolish to fall out with your friends.”

“I said nothing about disloyalty,” Cromwell declared. “Only of a failure of commitment. But you’re right, ‘tis too early to talk of such things. Let us win first.”

This was received with a rousing cheer and stamping feet and the sound of goblets being banged upon the table in resounding approval.

Phoebe drifted off to this lullaby.

She awoke in darkness, faintly aware through the clinging tendrils of sleep of the sounds of breathing, of snores, the creaking of straw palliasses as men shifted in sleep. For a moment she was disoriented, then she felt the hand on her back and she remembered.

“Cato?” she breathed.

For answer, he kissed the back of her neck. She was lying on her stomach, her shift tangled around her waist, and she could feel his length along her back, the hard throb of his erection against her bottom. She reached her arms over her head in a languid, luxuriant stretch as her body came alive, her skin began to tingle in anticipation.

He slid a hand between her thighs, feeling for her, caressing her until she opened to him, hot and moist with her own arousal. He moved his arm beneath her, lifting her buttocks towards him, and penetrated her with one deep thrust. He was lying along her back, his skin pressed to hers, as he moved within her, long, slow movements that filled her completely. His teeth grazed her nape, the points of her shoulder blades, and with his free hand he played with her breasts.

Phoebe buried her face in the pillow to stifle the moans of pleasure building in her throat. The sense of the men around them in the darkness seemed to increase her excitement. It was as if what they were doing on this narrow cot was forbidden, dangerous, no longer the legitimate if entrancing act of marriage. She could not move her own body, not by so much as a wriggle, for her own pleasure or for Cato’s. She was held captive by the body above her, pressed into the mattress, able only to submit to the waves of pleasure that broke over her with increasing strength.

The ripples began deep, deep in her belly, at the very center of her being, it seemed, and spread in ever widening circles until they consumed her, every inch of her. Her body was rigid, taut, held for a moment in an exquisite vise of sensation, then everything seemed to burst and dissolve and she bit the pillow to muffle the unpreventable gasping cries of an inarticulate joy that seemed to go on for ever and ever.

Cato pulled her buttocks hard against him and moved his other hand from her breasts to clasp the back of her head, his fingers twined in the thick, luxuriant hair as his own climax throbbed deep within her. He buried his mouth against her neck, tasting the salt on her skin, inhaling her fragrance that always reminded him of vanilla. He felt as if he had never possessed a woman as completely as he now possessed Phoebe, in this dark loft amid oblivious sleepers.

Or were they oblivious? The thought that maybe someone was lying there listening to the muted sounds of their love-making had a strange and heady effect. It seemed to increase the power of his orgasm, and as he fell from the heights of pleasure back to reality, he wondered what on earth had happened to him. He who never lost control, would never consider making an exhibition of himself, had found something about the dark, illicit nature of that clandestine act utterly compelling and arousing.

He disengaged slowly, reluctantly, and rolled to lie beside her, gathering her against him. She pressed back, drawing up her knees so that they lay like spoons in the narrow space. His fingers were still twined in her hair, and his other hand was at her waist, holding her.

Chapter 13

“You’ve heard nothing further about Meg?” Phoebe asked Olivia on their return the following morning.

“I haven’t been out,” Olivia said, “but no one’s said anything in the house, and someone would have mentioned it if anything bad had happened. They know you’re a friend of hers.”

“Well, that’s something,” Phoebe said. “But I’ll go and see her right away. Will you come?”

Olivia hesitated. “I’m in the middle of a very difficult translation. You go on ahead and I’ll c-catch you up.”

Phoebe laughed. “There’s no need to tear yourself away from your books. I only wondered if you felt like the walk.”

“Well, I do, but…” Olivia looked at the pile of books on the parlor table.

“But another time,” Phoebe said, giving her a quick kiss.

“I’ll c-come later,” Olivia promised.

Phoebe stood on tiptoe to adjust the set of her new hat in the mirror above the mantel. She thought her eyes seemed heavy, languorous almost, still aglow with the memory of that loving on the narrow cot among sleeping men. Never in her wildest dreams would she have expected such a thing from Cato.

With a little smile, she left the parlor and went downstairs. She was intending to leave the house immediately, but somehow her feet took her to Cato’s closed study door. She had no real errand but she found she wanted to see him. It seemed an irresistible urge. She raised her hand to knock and then realized that there were two voices coming from the other side of the door. Brian Morse was with Cato. The small passageway at the rear of the hall was windowless. The keyhole in the study door was very large. There was no key in it and Phoebe could see the stream of light falling onto the dark oak at her feet.

She had never listened at a door before. But now, without really knowing why, she found herself bending forward to press her ear against the keyhole. Their voices were very clear.

“We were discussing the situation in the West Country last even at headquarters,” Cato was saying. “Your knowledge of the king’s council’s views would be invaluable… even your opinion if you have no definite knowledge…”

“The concern in Oxford is that the West Country is on the point of going over to Parliament,” Brian replied after a moment. “The tyranny of the king’s commander in the West has done more harm to the king’s cause than a thousand enemies.”

“Aye, we had heard tell of some such,” Cato responded, his voice considering. “And what is the king proposing to do about it?”

“I believe he will recall Sir Richard.”

“And replace him with…?”

Again there was a pause, then Brian said slowly, “Hopton, I believe.”

“Ah” was Cato’s response.

“Have I satisfied the inquisition, sir?” Brian’s voice sounded light and humorous.

There was another short silence. Phoebe’s heart skipped a beat. She pressed her ear yet closer.

“You will understand our hesitation,” Cato returned. “We have still to digest what you’ve given us.”

“I’ll leave you to reflect, then, and hope most fervently that after some thought you’ll be convinced of my sincerity… and will be willing to convince your high command.”

To her horror, Phoebe felt the door latch lift. She fell back into the shadows, her hand clapped to her mouth, as the door was suddenly flung open. Brian stepped out into the corridor. His eye fell on Phoebe, shrinking against the wall. He closed the door at his back.