Anne Barbour (24 page)

Still, he missed the discourse they had shared in the days before she had discovered his true identity. They had not talked of anything of import—their favorite poets, their differing tastes in art—but they had laughed a good deal and she had genuinely seemed to enjoy his company. As he had hers.

And now, even though he had forfeited the easy confidence she had granted him before, he still liked being with her. She was an unusual woman, restful and stimulating at the same time. He liked to watch the play of emotions over her face as she talked and the grace of her movements as she served tea or reached for a book high on a library shelf. If the memory of the kiss they had shared in a darkened corridor returned all too often to haunt his dreams—both waking and sleeping—he considered that he was dealing with the situation with his usual dexterity.

He shook himself. At any rate, this idyllic interlude would soon end. He was much stronger now. As a matter of fact...

He lifted his eyes from the board to Catherine’s face.

“My dear,” he said abruptly. “It is time for me to leave.”

Catherine’s heart gave an unpleasant lurch at his words. She had known this moment would arrive—realized it was getting closer with each passing day—but now that it was here, she had difficulty in assimilating the idea.

“But—your w-wound,” she stuttered. “You are not well enough. You need—”

“I am well enough. My walks about the estate have grown longer, and yesterday Caliban and I rode to the village and back with no ill effects. It is time I faced my problem, and whatever is to come of it.”

She was obliged to admit the truth of what he said. She rose from the table, the chess game forgotten.

“But do you not wish someone to go with you?”

“Robbie offered to accompany me—after trying to dissuade me from making the trip—but I must do this alone.”

“I see.” Catherine attempted a smile, with only minimal success. “Very well, then. You will come again, will you not? Afterward? Mariah and Grandmama will want to know the outcome of your visit to your brother.”

“And you?” Unknowing, Justin held his breath.

Catherine flushed and dropped her gaze. “Of course, I would like to see you again as well. In fact, you are welcome to stay with us for a while. Even if you discover your brother has—or—that is, no matter the outcome of your visit with him, you will need a place to stay.”

“After I have seen St. John,” replied Justin gently, “my secret will be out. I shall return to London—if I am not summarily tossed into prison to await trial—and will hire lodgings of my own—or perhaps I shall billet with Robbie. However—” Almost without will he moved closer to her.

“Yes?” Catherine whispered.

“I hope that we will remain—friends. The time I have spent here at Winter’s Keep is precious to me. You—and Mariah and Lady Jane—have been a lifeline.”

Dammit all, he thought, perspiring. What did he think he was doing? It had, of course, been necessary to make a pretty little speech of farewell to the mistress of Winter’s Keep, but why had he grasped her hand as though it was, literally, the lifeline he had mentioned earlier. He noted in passing that Catherine had not wrenched it away from him, but stood staring as though she, too, were locked in some sort of paralyzing spell.

“I—” he heard himself continue. “You—” Her jeweled eyes seemed like green ocean pools, pulling him into their mysterious depths. He drew a deep breath. “Catherine—” His hand, seemingly of its own volition, reached to tuck a stray tendril of honey-colored hair into the cap from which it escaped. The next moment his arms encircled her, and he pulled her to him.

A slight whimper of protest broke from her when he brought his mouth down on hers, but her lips opened under his. Her arms crept around him, and she pressed the incredible softness of her body against him. For an instant, they seemed transported to another time and place—somewhere he’d never been before—and he ached with a yearning to remain there forever with this uniquely special woman and her lovely, womanly curves. He caressed the sweet length of her back and felt her responsive shudder. Her full breasts moved against him, and he gasped with his need for her.

A sudden burst of laughter from servants approaching from beyond the hedge surrounding the terrace brought him to his senses. He released her abruptly, but not before she had already placed
both hands on his chest to thrust herself away from him. For an instant, she stared at him, her gaze wide and startled.

Justin’s mouth curved in a rigid smile. “It appears I must apologize-—again. The trouble is, my dear, you are too damnably attractive.”

When she did not return his smile, he continued, the merest hint of strain in his tone. “Catherine—this has been a pleasant idyll. I have enjoyed your company more than I would have believed—that is, you almost make me wish I were not such a wretched prospect for a gently bred maid. But I am, you know. With the best intent in the world, I am one of life’s born destroyers of happiness. I would not want to ruin yours.”

Still she did not respond, but continued to gaze at him, her emerald eyes dark.

“I—I must go,” she whispered at last. Whirling about, she hurried through the French doors that gave access to the library. She paused on the threshold and turned back.

“When?” she asked brokenly.

“Tomorrow morning,” Justin replied, his own voice a harsh rasp.

Catherine turned once more and hurried into the house. Blindly, she made her way to her study, and, because her knees would no longer hold her up, she sank into a chair by the window. You fool! she berated herself. She had done precisely what she had determined she would not. She had allowed all her resolutions to be swept to the winds in the circle of Justin’s arms. At his first touch, she had simply melted into a puddle of acquiescence, and the warmth of his fingers on her cheek had created such an ache of wanting deep within her that she’d wished nothing more than to bury herself in him. Dear Lord, she had opened herself to him completely. And she had reveled in his kiss; a kiss that, while gloriously satisfying, left her yearning for so much more.

She tried to tell herself that it was only because she was growing into spinsterhood and had never lain with a man that she had responded so wantonly and so completely, but—no, it was more. When his mouth had come down on hers, she felt, along with the urgency of her need, a union with him of body and spirit. It was almost an extension of the connection that seemed to join them with every word they spoke to each other and every glance exchanged.

Why should she feel this bond with a man she could not even let herself like? He had duped her once, and every instinct warned her that he was not to be trusted. He had as much as told her that
he was not prepared to lose his heart to her. Good God, even he had warned her that he was a villain, and there was no real reason why she should not believe him. All the evidence showed him to be a user of people for his own ends, and a seducer of his own brother’s fiancée, to say nothing of that most vile of creatures, a traitor to his country. Yet when she looked into those polished-pewter eyes, she saw a man of decency and honor.

In fact, the more she came to know him, through his own actions and the words of his friend, the more she was convinced that his unworthiness lay in his own vision of himself, fostered so cruelly by his father—and his brother. Was she being foolish beyond permission? Was she allowing herself to be deluded yet once again?

She sighed heavily. Not that her feelings for Lord Justin Belforte were of any importance. He would be gone tomorrow.

The words echoed mournfully in her mind. Oh, she might see him again. If he were successful in his quest to exonerate himself from a charge of treason, surely he would visit Winter’s Keep in the future. If he were less fortunate—well, she could always visit him in prison—at least until he was hanged.

The thought made her almost physically ill, and she rose abruptly. Lord, she must get on with her life and stop dwelling on what lay ahead for Justin. Moving to her desk, she pulled her rent book from the pile of papers there and, seating herself, began a distracted perusal of its contents.

Justin departed Winter’s Keep early the next morning under threatening skies. He drove the curricle Catherine had insisted he take rather than endanger his wound on horseback. Caliban trotted behind the vehicle, tossing his tether and whiffling angrily, as though proclaiming this arrangement unacceptably beneath him.

Justin covered the miles for the most part unseeing. His wound troubled him very little, thus there was nothing to distract his mind from the turmoil that raged within him. His mind was filled with thoughts of Catherine. What was there about the green-eyed witch that had so captivated him? He had known many women. He had made love to many, and even developed an affection for some of them. But never had he plunged into the shattering maelstrom of emotion he had experienced at the first slight pressure of her mouth against his. When she had responded to his kiss, he had wanted nothing more than to lose himself in her lovely feminine warmth. What would it have been like to continue that magical embrace to its natural conclusion? What would it be like to take
Catherine Meade to his heart and to his bed, to keep her and hold her for the rest of his life?

A wave of chill realization spread through him. He had come to the knowledge long ago that love was not for him. How could he ask a woman to commit herself to one such as he—a failure at everything he had ever attempted that did not involve knavery and deceit?

Not that he wished for any sort of commitment at all, of course. But he knew that whatever the outcome of his quest for exoneration, he must not see Catherine again. She could not be part of his future, wherever it lay.

But he would miss her.

He made good time on the road to Barkway, despite having to stop to rest more frequently than he would have liked. By late afternoon, he was within ten miles of Sheffield Court. His thoughts turned to his father and St. John.

What would Sinjie’s reaction be when he turned up at the Court? he wondered. No doubt his first move would be to send for the magistrate. After that, he would either try to throw him out of the house or lock him up in one of the cellars to await retribution.

Well, he was welcome to try either of those avenues, but, by God, he would answer a few questions first.

As he rode, he endeavored to work up a lather of indignation over St. John’s supposed iniquities. All he could produce, however, was a cold, desperately unhappy quivering sensation in the pit of his stomach. Justin still found it hard to believe that St. John would resort to attempted murder to wreak the vengeance on him that he had harbored all this time. On the other hand, outside of the animosity between them, Sinjie had no motive to employ such drastic measures. St. John was the heir—no, he amended with a pricking behind his eyelids, St. John was now the Duke of Sheffield with all the honors and status and wealth the title embodied. Justin counted for nothing in the well-ordered pattern of St. John’s life. He posed no threat either to his brother’s well-being or his life of privilege. It was also well-nigh impossible to imagine St. John as being privy to treason.

But there was that paper in the possession of Le Capitain Paul Bassinet.

It was eight of the clock in the evening when Justin arrived in the village of Barkway, less than a mile from the Court. He dismounted stiffly before a small inn, one that had rarely known his custom in the distant days when he frequented the local watering
spots. He instructed the ostler to have the curricle drawn to the back of the yard and the horse that had pulled it stabled. Then, after tethering Caliban outside, he entered the little hostelry. Gratefully, he sank into a padded settle near the hearth in the public room, and, ordering a tankard of ale, he glanced at his surroundings. The place did not seem to have changed much since he had seen it last. The same crudely fashioned tables and benches squatted under the same low, smoke-stained beams, all illuminated by a few sconces and the light from the meager fire that crackled in the hearth.

Good, the place was thinly attended. Only three men could be seen: sons of the soil from the looks of them. They sat in a group at one of the tables, looking as much a part of the decor as though they’d been in situ since the place was built. They eyed him curiously when he entered the room, but apparently the inn was close enough to the highway so that the sight of a stranger was not unusual. One of the men, bald as a cantaloupe, was caught in a fit of laughter.

“Eee,” he gasped. “And then t’ vicar lost his spectacles. Only young Fletcher grabbing ‘em saved ‘em from tumbling into the grave.”

One of the other men, whose bushy pate more than made up for his companion’s lack, joined in the laughter. He gestured with the pipe he had been cleaning out with some industry. “Wouldna that ha’ been somethin’? Wi’ all the nobs standin’s about. What a send off fer the old duke!”

Justin’s ears pricked up.

“Ay,” interposed the third man, the oldest of the three and so thin his bones almost protruded from beneath his skin. “We an’t had such a collection o’ swells around these parts since t’young master—that is. His Grace now—was christened. Ah, ye want t’talk o’grand galherin’s. This was a piddlin’ affair by comparison.”

“Weel now,” responded Baldy, “what would ye expect? T’old gaffer weren’t exackly sociable of late.”

The Bush snorted. “Couldn’t face any o’his grand friends, what wi’ his boy wanted fer hangin’.”

Bones shook his head. “Now, waren’t that a queer stir up? Imagine young Master Justin doin’ the dirty to ‘is own country.”

“He allus was a bad ‘un,” remarked the Bush, inhaling a noisy draft of ale.

“Oh, I dunno,” Baldy responded judiciously. “He was used to spend a lot o’time with my Seth—took his mutton in our cottage
dunnamany times. He was an imp, no question about that, but I never saw any real evil in ‘im.”

The Bush tapped the dottle from his pipe. “‘Pears he musta changed some, then.”

“I sorta liked the lad, too.” This from Bones, shaking his head lugubriously. “He allus seemed all by himself most o’the time. Used ta come around my shop, askin’ if he could help out.”