Dangerous to Hold (22 page)

Marcus leaned one shoulder against the lintel of the door. “When did your drinking habit become an addiction?”

“Ah. Now this is more like it. Marcus, you are not my father. I won’t be lectured by you. And I’m not addicted.”

“I’m your brother, and I feel responsible for you.”

“Half brother,” corrected Penn. “And since when did you start feeling responsible for me? There was never any love lost between us. I was just a convenience, someone who managed your estates while you went off to war. Are you finding fault with the way I run things?”

“Of course not. You’ve done an excellent job. But what about the future, Penn? You can’t go on like this. You have to pull yourself together and make something of your life. I’ve been thinking about it … supposing you take over that place of ours in Cornwall? I’ll deed it to
you. You can do whatever you like with it. I think you would enjoy the challenge.”

“I don’t want your charity.”

A muscle tensed in Marcus’s cheek. “You never expected me to return, did you, Penn? You thought I’d die out there in Spain, and you would have inherited everything.”

Penn began to laugh, then stopped abruptly. “I never expected to hear you say such a thing.” He reached for his glass and took another swallow. “Not to me.”

Marcus realized that nothing he said was going to make the slightest difference. He could praise Penn or he could insult him, and either way, his words would have no effect.

“This conversation is leading nowhere,” he said. “But I’d like to make one thing plain: I will not put up with drunkenness in my own home. Every bottle of spirits has been locked up and I have the key.” When Penn said nothing, he went on, “If you won’t think of yourself, think of your mother. Can’t you see you’re breaking her heart?”

“Damn you! I’m not a drunkard! I’m not! I can stop any time I want.”

Marcus stared at him hard. “Are you sure of that?”

Penn looked at the glass in his hand. “I can stop any time I want.”

The sight that met Marcus’s eyes when he entered the lord’s chamber riveted him. She was seated at a small table in front of the fire, completely absorbed in her task, unaware of the man who stood transfixed, watching her dip pen into ink and begin to write. She had changed into her nightclothes, and she was wearing something soft and dark, something feminine that molded itself to her curves. Her dark hair was subdued in a severe knot and emphasized her strong features. For a moment, a fraction of a moment, he could almost believe that he’d taken a step back in time and he was with Catalina again in that small priest’s cell in
El Grande’s
hideout in Spain.

But, of course, it wasn’t Catalina he was remembering. Cat’s face and form had become so etched on his mind that it was impossible now to see Catalina clearly.

When he could breathe, he said softly, “What are you doing?”

She answered absently, “I’m making notes of my impressions of your house and family.”

“You keep a diary? A journal?”

The pen stopped scratching. She was smiling when she finally raised her eyes to his. “Not a diary, Marcus. Just notes. I’m a writer. We writers never trust anything to memory. Who knows? I may find inspiration for an article for
The Journal
while I am here. Please.” She indicated a chair on the other side of the table. “What is it you wished to say to me?”

He took the chair she indicated. “Nothing in particular. Oh, don’t go getting that look in your eyes. We’re supposed to be married. What will everyone think if we don’t spend time alone together? I won’t stay long.”

She saw the logic in this and nodded.

He let out a long sigh, stretched out his legs, and propped his feet on the brass fender. “I apologize for that scene with Penn. I knew he sometimes drank to excess, but I’ve never seen him so offensive with it. It won’t happen again. I had my steward lock up every bottle of wine and spirits in the house, and the key to the cellar is now in my pocket.”

“I didn’t take offense. I felt sorry for him.”

Reacting to the reproachful note in her voice, he replied abruptly, “I’ve already apologized to Penn for not consulting him about the mare David wanted. Dammit, Cat, I was within my rights. I am the master here.”

“And I’m sure Penn knows it. I don’t mean to criticize you …”

“Go on. I know you have more to say.”

He was looking at the notes she’d made and she couldn’t see his expression, but his words were all the encouragement she needed. “I don’t think you’re handling this the right way. You humiliated him publicly by having the servants remove the wine and decanters, and now that
you’ve locked everything away, he’ll only be more stubborn. Until he admits he’s a drunkard, there’s not much anyone can do. Perhaps if you tried to be his friend—”

“His friend? Cat, we are brothers.”

“Yes, but as you told me yourself, you’re not a very close family. Perhaps that’s part of the problem.”

He suddenly looked up and pinned her with blazing eyes. It was one thing to reproach himself for his sins, but quite another to hear it from someone else, especially her.

“You’ve been in my home for less than twenty-four hours, and just like that”—he snapped his fingers—”you think you know better than I how to manage my family?”

“You asked for my opinion. And I do know what I’m talking about. When one member of a family is addicted to alcohol, the whole family suffers.”

He said carefully, “A moment ago, you said you were making notes of your impressions of my house and family for an article for
The Journal.
What kind of article?”

“Country sketches, that sort of thing.” Her hand went involuntarily to her notes and covered them.

“May I see your notes?”

She shook her head, and said lightly, “I never permit anyone to read my notes. You’ll have to wait until you read my piece in
The Journal.”

His voice was like ice. “Let me see the notes, Cat.”

She moistened her lips. “They’re not complete.”

Abruptly reaching forward, he wrested the pages of notes from her and scanned the title. “‘A Drunkard’s Progress,’” he read aloud, and his expression became livid. He stood up, towering over her, and she shrank back into her chair.

When he saw the look of fear, he swung away from her, putting some space between them, then he turned to face her. He articulated each word slowly and precisely. “You are not going to make my family fodder for that tawdry little column you write for
The Journal.
Do I make myself clear?”

“But I wasn’t—”

He silenced her with a sweep of one hand. He knew his reaction was extreme, but he couldn’t help what he
was feeling. He’d just come from his confrontation with Penn, and his frustration was keen. Moreover, in his mind, by finding fault with his brother, she was finding fault with him.

A warm, passionately caring woman couldn’t behave like this. She wasn’t a warm, passionately caring woman. She was a cold, unfeeling witch who cared only for the pieces she wrote for
The Journal.

It came to him then just how deeply he had come to care for her, and the thought made him writhe. She didn’t care for him. For all he knew, even the passion was a sham. She certainly never had any trouble putting a stop to things before they’d gone too far.

“I thought you were different,” he said, “but I see I was wrong. Other people are just potential subjects to you to be analyzed and then documented for the world to read about. Perhaps they’ll be amused, or perhaps they’ll shed a tear. It’s all the same to you as long as you titillate your readers. Well, you won’t do it with my family. I’m paying you well for your time, and every second of your time belongs to me. As long as you’re employed by me, you’re going to forget that you are a writer. And one more thing. When this is over and you’ve gone back to your life in Hampstead, I shall be reading
The Journal
in minute detail. If you write anything that embarrasses any member of my family, I shall bankrupt not only you but your employer also. Do you understand?”

“Marcus,” she cried passionately, “I wasn’t writing about Penn. I was writing about anyone who drinks to excess. You see—”

“Don’t lie. His name is right here in your notes.”

“But I’m not writing about him in particular.”

“No, but you’ll use him as an example.”

He looked at the paper in his hand and threw it on her writing table. Then, with a savage oath, he flung out of the room.

She felt shattered. He’d never looked at her before with such contempt. But he didn’t understand. She did care about people, she cared deeply, but caring wasn’t always enough. It was because she’d felt so helpless to
change things that she’d become a writer in the first place. Perhaps she didn’t do much good, but it was better than being a complete spectator at the world’s misery.

She stared into the glowing coals in the grate and wondered why she should care what he thought of her.

A week later found Catherine walking the ramparts of the south wall. This was where she came to exercise when no one was free to accompany her on her walks. This morning, Marcus and David were out shooting with some local gentlemen, Tristram was at his studies, she wasn’t sure about Penn, and Samantha and Helen, to Catherine’s intense envy, were riding somewhere on the moors. She might have gone walking with an armed footman in tow, but Marcus and she had agreed that it would look odd. In any case, she enjoyed these solitary walks along the ramparts.

The sun went behind a cloud and she looked up in some surprise. When she’d come out on the walls there hadn’t been a cloud in sight. Though autumn was almost over, these last few days they’d been enjoying warm weather. Now, dark clouds that seemed to be a reflection of the darkness in herself were gathering overhead. There were shots in the distance and she presumed they came from the gentlemen who’d gone out hunting.

She propped her crossed arms along one of the battlements, and rested her chin on them. As far as the eye could see, for miles around, these lands belonged to Marcus. For centuries, the citizens of Wrotham had paid their feus to the lords of Wrotham. Until she’d come to this castle, she’d never really thought of Marcus as a peer of the realm. She’d thought of him as a soldier, then again as an unscrupulous rake, and sometimes as a mischievous rogue. She was seeing another side of him now. He was very much the lord of his domain.

Since their quarrel, there had been no more cozy chats. He never came to her room; anything that had to
be said was said in passing. He never teased her any more, never tried to get her dander up. He was polite but distant when they were alone, and when company was present he was merely polite. Though she hated to admit it, she missed the old Marcus.

If anyone noticed that theirs was not a perfect marriage, no one mentioned it. It was Penn’s unpredictable behavior that was on everyone’s mind. One moment, he’d be laughing and joking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The next his mood had turned ugly and he was looking to pick a fight. It was always a great relief when he left to work on estate business.

There wasn’t a drop of liquor in the house. Penn never complained, or mentioned it, but everyone knew that he was getting it somewhere. According to David Lytton, Marcus had only succeeded in punishing the innocent by locking up all the liquor in the house.

She felt sorry for David. He’d never meant to stay on so long, and clearly felt a bit out of place, but the dowager wouldn’t hear of his leaving so soon. In a few days, there would be a ball in honor of Marcus and his bride, and she wanted him to attend. David had given in gracefully. If Catherine had been David, she would have invented an ancient uncle whose dying wish was to look upon his nephew’s face one last time.

Well, perhaps that wasn’t completely fair. Marcus’s family wasn’t really so bad. She was becoming rather fond of them, more than fond, even of Penn. There were times she saw something in his eyes that made her want to reach out to him. As for the dowager and Samantha, it was impossible not to like them; they were so eager to learn about the ladies in Spain and London, the current fashions, and the parties she’d attended. And Tristram was her most devoted admirer.

To Marcus, on the other hand, she was a cold-hearted, mercenary adventuress with whom he’d made a bargain. And if he knew the truth he’d think even worse of her.

This was dangerous thinking. Major Carruthers would be appalled if he knew how she was wavering.
Never let your feelings get in the way of doing your job
was what he always said. She hoped the major was doing
his
job. For herself, she was beginning to think she’d come on a wild-goose chase.

It had begun to rain. After a few minutes, she headed for the door to the tower staircase. It was dark inside the tower. This was unusual and she stopped. Because so little natural light entered the tower from the arrow loops set in the wall, lanterns at each flight of stairs were always lit. She saw at once that one of those lanterns had gone out. This hardly bothered her. Though the stairs were dangerously steep, she’d descended them often enough to be sure of her footing. As she started down, she heard a faint sound. Someone had either just entered by the door to the bailey, or had just left by it. From one of the arrow loops close by, a gust of wind buffeted her, bringing the rain with it. She hardly felt it. Her hand had gone automatically to her pocket where she kept her pistol.