Married by Morning (5 page)

“From what I know of men,” she said, “I agree.”

He gave her a mocking glance. “What do you know of men?”

She looked solemn, the clear gray irises now tinged with ocean green. “I know not to trust them.”

“I would say the same of women.” He shed his coat, tossed it over the wall, and went to the hill at the center of the ruins. Surveying the surrounding land, Leo couldn’t help wondering if Thomas of Blackmere had stood on this exact spot, looking over his property. And now, centuries later, the estate was Leo’s to make of what he would, his to shape and order. Everyone and everything on it was his responsibility.

“How is the view from up there?” he heard Catherine’s voice from below.

“Exceptional. Come see it, if you like.”

She left the sketchbook on the fence and began up the slope of the mound, lifting her skirts as she climbed.

Turning to watch Catherine, Leo let his gaze linger on her slender, pretty figure. She was fortunate that medieval times were long past, he thought with a private smile, or she would have found herself snapped up and devoured by some marauding lord. But the touch of amusement faded quickly as he imagined the primitive satisfaction of claiming her, picking her up and carrying her to a soft patch of ground.

For just a moment he let himself dwell on the idea … lowering himself to her writhing body, tearing her dress, kissing her breasts’

Leo shook his head to clear it, troubled by the direction of his thoughts. Whatever else he was, he was not a man to force himself on a woman. And yet the fantasy was too potent to ignore. With an effort, he bludgeoned the barbaric impulses back into submission.

Catherine was halfway up the slope when she gave a low cry and seemed to stumble.

Concerned, Leo started for her immediately. “Did you trip? Are you’
bloody hell
.” He stopped in place as he saw that the ground had partially given way beneath her. “Stop, Cat. Don’t move.
Wait
.”

“What’s happening?” she asked, her face bleached of color. “Is it a sinkhole?”

“More like a bloody architectural miracle. We seem to be standing on a portion of a roof that should have caved in at least two centuries ago.”

They were approximately five yards apart, with Leo on higher ground.

“Cat,” he said with great care, “slowly lower yourself to the ground to redistribute your weight over a greater surface. Easy. Yes, like that. Now you’re going to crawl back down the slope.”

“Can you help me?” she asked, and the tremor in her voice wrenched his heart.

He answered in a thick voice that didn’t sound like his own. “Sweetheart, I would love nothing more. But joining my weight to yours could collapse the roof entirely. Start moving. If it makes you feel better, with all the debris in there, it can’t be too far to fall.”

“Actually, that doesn’t make me feel better at all.” White-faced, she moved slowly on her hands and knees.

Leo stayed in place, not taking his gaze from Catherine. The ground that seemed so solid beneath his feet was possibly nothing more than a layer of earth and ancient rotted timber. “You’ll be fine,” he said in a soothing tone, while his heart pounded with anxiety for her. “You weigh no more than a butterfly. It’s my weight that’s put a strain on what’s left of the beams and bridging joints.”

“Is that why you’re not moving?”

“Yes. If I cause a collapse when I try to get off, I’d like you to be out of harm’s way first.”

They both felt the ground shift beneath them.

“My lord,” Catherine asked, her eyes wide, “do you think this has anything to do with the Ramsay curse?”

“Actually, that hadn’t occurred to me yet,” Leo said. “Thank you so much for bringing it to my attention.”

The roof collapsed, and they simultaneously plunged amid a torrent of earth, rock, and timber into the dark space below.

“Marks.” She heard Leo shove debris aside as he made his way to her. His voice was unsteady and urgent. “Are you hurt? Can you move?”

“Yes … I’m all in one piece…” She sat up and rubbed her face. Evaluating the collection of aches and pains in her body, she decided they were all insignificant. “Just a bit bruised. Oh, dear. My spectacles are gone.”

She heard him swear. “I’ll try to find them.”

Disoriented, she tried to make out what she could of their surroundings. Leo’s lean form was a dark blur nearby as he searched the rubble. Dust clouded the air, settling slowly. From what little she could see, they were in a pit, perhaps six feet deep, with sunlight drizzling in through the broken roof. “You were right, my lord. It wasn’t far to fall. Is this the keep?”

Leo’s breathing sounded strained as he replied, “I’m not sure. It could be an undercroft beneath the keep. I see the remains of a stone partition over there … and hollows in the side wall where transverse joints would support—”

In a burst of fresh terror, Catherine launched herself at his indistinct form, scrabbling to reach him in the dimness.

“What is it?” Leo’s arms closed around her.

Gasping, she buried her face against the solid surface of his chest. They were half sitting, half lying amid heaps of rotted timber, stone, and earth.

One of his hands came to her head, curving over her skull protectively. “What happened?”

Her voice was muffled in his shirt.
“Undercroft.”

He smoothed her hair and pressed her even closer into the protection of his body. “Yes. Why does that frighten you?”

She could hardly speak between panting breaths. “Isn’t that … where they keep the bodies?”

The tremulous question hung in the air as Leo puzzled over it. “
Oh
. No, it’s not that kind of undercroft.” A quiver of rueful amusement ran through his voice, and she felt his mouth touch the rim of her ear. “You’re thinking of one of the rooms beneath modern churches, where the deceased are put away. But a medieval undercroft is different. It’s only a storeroom beneath the keep.”

Catherine didn’t move. “There are no s-skeletons in here?”

“No. Nor skulls, nor coffins.” His hand continued to stroke tenderly over her hair. “Poor darling. It’s all right. Nothing fearsome down here. Take a deep breath. You’re safe.”

Catherine continued to lie in his arms as she caught her breath. She tried to take in the fact that Leo, her enemy and tormentor, was calling her “poor darling” and petting her. His lips brushed her temple and lingered gently. Holding still, she absorbed the sensation. She had never been attracted to men of his size, preferring those of less intimidating stature. But he was strong and comforting, and he seemed so genuinely concerned, and his voice was like dark velvet wrapping around her.

How perplexing.

Had anyone told her that she would one day be trapped alone in a filthy pit with Leo, Lord Ramsay, she would have said that was her worst nightmare. And yet it was turning out to be a rather agreeable experience. No wonder Ramsay was so sought after by the ladies of London … If this was how he set about seducing them, all this lovely soothing and stroking, Catherine could easily understand how he got his way with them.

To her regret, he gently eased her away from him. “Marks … I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to find your spectacles in this wreckage.”

“I have another pair at home,” she ventured.

“Thank God.” Leo sat up with a quiet grunt of discomfort. “Now, if we stand on the highest pile of debris, it’s only a short distance to the surface. I’m going to hoist you up, get you out of here, and then you’re going to ride back to Ramsay House. Cam trained the horse, so you won’t need to guide him. He’ll find his way back home with no trouble.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked, bewildered.

He sounded rather sheepish. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to wait here until you send someone for me.”

“Why?”

“I have a—” He paused, searching for a word. “Splinter.”

She felt indignant. “You’re going to make me ride back alone and unescorted and virtually blind, to send someone to rescue you? All because you have a splinter?”

“A large one,” he volunteered.

“Where is it? Your finger? Your hand? Maybe I can help to … Oh,
God
. ” This last as he took her hand and brought it to his shoulder. His shirt was wet with blood, and a thick shard of timber protruded from his shoulder. “That’s not a splinter,” she said in horror. “You’ve been
impaled
. What can I do? Shall I pull it out?”

“No, it might be lodged against an artery. And I wouldn’t care to bleed out down here.”

She crawled closer to him, bringing her face close to his to examine him anxiously. Even in the shadows, he appeared pale and gray, and when she pressed her fingers to his forehead, she felt cool moisture.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “It looks worse than it is.”

But Catherine didn’t agree. If anything, it was worse than it looked. She was infused with panic as she wondered if he were going into shock, a condition in which the heart did not pump enough blood to maintain the body. It had been described as a “momentary pause in the act of death.”

Stripping off her riding coat, she tried to lay it over his chest.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Trying to keep you warm.”

Leo plucked the garment off his chest and made a scoffing sound. “Don’t be ridiculous. First, the injury isn’t that bad. Second, this tiny thing is not capable of keeping any part of me warm. Now, about my plan—”

“It is obviously a significant injury,” she said, “and I do not agree to your plan. I have a better one.”

“Of course you do,” he replied sardonically. “Marks,
for once
would you do as I ask?”

“No, I’m not going to leave you here. I’m going to pile up enough debris for both of us to climb out.”

“You can’t even see, damn it. And you can’t move these timbers and stones. You’re too small.”

“There is no need to make derogatory remarks about my stature,” she said, lurching upward and squinting at her surroundings. Identifying the highest pile of debris, she made her way to it and hunted for nearby rocks.

“I’m not being derogatory.” He sounded exasperated. “Your stature is absolutely perfect for my favorite activity. But you’re not built for hauling rocks. Blast it, Marks, you’re going to hurt yourself—”

“Stay there,” Catherine said sharply, hearing him push some heavy object aside. “You’ll worsen your injury, and then it will be even more difficult to get you out. Let me do the work.” Finding a heap of ashlar blocks, she picked one up and lugged it up the pile, trying not to trip over her own skirts.

“You’re not strong enough,” Leo said, sounding aggravated and out of breath.

“What I lack in physical strength,” she replied, going for another block, “I make up for in determination.”

“How inspiring. Could we set aside the heroic fortitude for one bloody moment and dredge up some common sense?”

“I’m not going to argue with you, my lord. I need to save my breath for”—she paused to heft another block—“stacking rocks.”

Somewhere amid the ordeal, Leo decided hazily that he would never underestimate Catherine Marks again. Ounce for ounce, she was the most insanely obstinate person he had ever known, dragging rocks and debris while half blind and hampered by long skirts, diligently crossing back and forth across his vision like an industrious mole. She had decided to build a mound upon which they could climb out, and nothing would stop her.

Occasionally she stopped and put her hand on his forehead or throat, checking his temperature and pulse. And then she would be off again.

It was maddening not to be able to help her—humiliating to let a woman do such work without him—but every time he tried to stand, he became dizzy and disoriented. His shoulder was on fire, and he couldn’t use his left arm properly. Cold sweat dripped from his face and stung his eyes.

He must have drifted off for a few minutes, because the next thing he was aware of was Catherine’s urgent hands shaking him awake.

“Marks,” he said groggily. “What are you doing here?” He had the confused impression that it was morning, and she wanted him to awaken before his usual hour.

“Don’t sleep,” she said with an anxious frown. “I’ve built the pile high enough that we can climb out now. Come with me.”

His body felt as if it had been encased in lead. He was overwhelmed with weariness. “In few minutes. Let me doze a bit longer.”

“
Now
, my lord.” Clearly she would bully and badger him until he obeyed. “Come with me. Up with you.
Move
.”

Leo complied with a groan, lurching until he had staggered to his feet. A cold burst of pain radiated from his shoulder and arm, and a few helpless curses slipped out before he could stop himself. Oddly, Catherine didn’t rebuke him.

“Over there,” she said. “And don’t trip—you’re too heavy for me to catch.”

Profoundly irritated but aware that she was trying to help him, he concentrated on placing his feet and maintaining his balance.

“Is Leo short for Leonard?” she asked, confusing him.

“Confound it, Marks, I don’t want to talk now.”

“Answer me,” she persisted.

He realized she was trying to keep him alert. “No,” he said, breathing heavily. “It’s just Leo. My father loved the constellations. Leo is the … constellation of high summer. The brightest star marks his heart. Regulus.” He paused to stare blearily at the pile she had made. “Well. How efficient you are. The next time I take an architectural commission—” He paused to catch his breath. “I’ll recommend you as the contractor.”

“Just think if I’d had my spectacles,” she said. “I could have made proper stairs.”

He let out a huff of laughter. “You go first, and I’ll follow.”

“Hold on to my skirts,” she said.

“Why, Marks, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

They climbed out together laboriously, while Leo’s blood turned to ice and his wound ached and his brains went to mush. By the time he’d flopped to the ground in an awkward sideways sprawl, he was infuriated with Catherine for making him go to such effort when he’d wanted to stay in the pit and rest. The sun was blinding, and he felt hot and strange. A ferocious ache had settled behind his eyes.

“I’ll fetch my horse,” Catherine said. “We’ll ride back together.”

The prospect of mounting a horse and riding to Ramsay House was exhausting. But faced with her ruthless insistence, he had no choice but to comply. Very well. He would ride. He would bloody well ride until he expired, and Catherine would appear at the house with his corpse seated behind her.

Leo sat there fuming and boiling until Catherine brought the horse. The anger gave him the strength for one last massive effort. He swung up behind her, sat the horse, and put his good arm around her slim body. He held on to her, shivering with discomfort. She was small but strong, her spine a steady axis that centered them both. Now all he had to do was endure. His resentment evaporated, dispersed by thrills of pain.

He heard Catherine’s voice. “Why have you decided never to marry?”

His head bobbed closer to her ear. “It isn’t fair to ask personal questions when I’m nearly delirious. I might tell you the truth.”

“Why?” she persisted.

Did she realize she was asking for a piece of him, of his past, that he never gave to anyone? Had he been feeling even a little less wretched, he would have cut her off at once. But his usual defenses were no more effective than the broken stone wall surrounding the manor-house remains.

“It’s because of the girl who died, isn’t it?” Catherine stunned him by asking. “You were betrothed. And she perished from the same scarlet fever that afflicted you and Win. What was her name…?”

“Laura Dillard.” It seemed impossible that he could share this with Catherine Marks, but she seemed to expect that he would. And somehow he was obliging her. “Beautiful girl. She loved to watercolor. Few people are good at that, they’re too afraid of making mistakes. You can’t lift the color or hide it, once it’s put down. And water is unpredictable—an active partner in the painting—you have to let it behave as it will. Sometimes the color diffuses in ways you don’t expect, or one shade backruns into another. That was fine with Laura. She liked the surprises of it. We had known each other all during childhood. I went away for two years to study architecture, and when I came back, we fell in love. So easily. We never argued—there was nothing to argue over. Nothing in our way. My parents had both died the previous year. My father had a heart ailment. He went to sleep one night and never woke up. And my mother followed him just a few months later. She couldn’t stop mourning him. I hadn’t known until then that some people could die of grief.”

He was quiet then, following the memories as if they were leaves and twigs floating on a stream. “When Laura caught the fever, I never thought it would be fatal. I thought I loved her so much that the power of it would be greater than any illness. But I held her for three days and felt her dying a little more each hour. Like water trickling through my fingers. I held her until her heart stopped beating, and her skin finally turned cool. The fever had done its work and left her.”