The Husband Hunt (12 page)

Arabella whispered, "Isn't it obvious? I want to make amends for what I've done. I handled the situation rather badly, and I—I'm afraid Knight might end up hurting Anton."

"What are you whispering about?" Knight demanded.

"The jeweler," Olivia answered, giving Arabella a searching look. "Go ahead, then. Pick something suitable but in good taste."

"Pick something that doesn't impoverish me," Knight said. "Olivia, that goes for you, too."

Olivia pitched a pincushion in the direction of his head. He ducked, snickering behind the door, and heard Catriona release an unearthly shriek of protest.

Claudette narrowed her eyes in annoyance. "Ooh! I've just stuck
mademoiselle
with a pin because of all this distraction."

"Right in
mademoiselle's
rear, too," Catriona said indignantly.

Knight couldn't help it. He popped his head around the door, his gaze going straight to her injured seat. Male animal that he was, he took a moment to admire the curvaceous rise of her rump before remembering himself.

"He's laughing at me again," Catriona said, catching a glimpse of his grinning face in the mirror. "Make him go away."

"Leave, Knight," Olivia said. "Or I shall be taking her uncle's dirk to you myself."

"Ah, the infamous dirk," he said as she sprang up to close the door on his face. "Does it really exist?"

He backed out into the hall, but as the door slammed, his grin began to fade. Wendell had been hounding him to go to Cornwall for a few weeks to consider purchasing more clay pits for another pottery firm. Knight had a few friends in Penzance, and he could easily divert himself for a week or two. Olivia seemed to be happily occupied for the time being.

It had suddenly occurred to him that he might not enjoy watching the local gentry make utter fools of themselves over the newest morsel on the marriage mart.

In fact, he did not think he could tolerate it.

Simmons arrived late that same night. Knight had managed to put the note the secretary had written him out of his mind until now. Everyone else had retired hours earlier, but he had stayed awake, staring through his study window at the woods. Not for a long time, not since the first months after returning from Albuera as he recovered from a bayonet injury to his shoulder, had he felt this sense of edginess in his own home. As if something were watching and waiting in the benign surroundings of his boyhood. The ladies of the manor were safely in their rooms, reading in bed, brushing their hair, doing the frivolous little things that females did before they could relax. He knew because he had checked—a ritual he had never indulged in until the recent rash of housebreakings had threatened the security of the sleepy village.

He'd stood in the hall outside Catriona's room, listening to the faint sounds she made, paper rustling, sheets drawn back, a shoe dropped to the floor. He had considered knocking, propriety ignored, to remind her again that the miscreants in the neighborhood had not been caught. But it was only an excuse, he knew that. He stared at her door as if he could see her inside, safe in her bed while he waged a battle with himself that would terrify her if she knew how she tempted him, how deep his desire for her ran.

Now he sat in his study, unable to work or read. When he heard a carriage on the road beyond the estate and heard footsteps in the drive, he was not alarmed. He was relieved.

At last. Something tangible to break this strange pall of tension. A distraction that would prevent him from prowling like a wolf outside a young woman's door.

"My lord," Simmons said as Knight brought him into the house. "I am glad to find you awake. By good luck, I met Lord Darnley at the Three Mermaids Inn. Recognizing me as your man, he allowed me to ride in his private coach almost to your door."

"Sit down by the fire," Knight said. "Here. Have a brandy. You surely have not been to Scotland and back in this short time?"

"Indeed not, my lord. However, after our talk, I was prompted by instinct to contact a former friend who had lived in the Border district where the Earl of Roxshire held his original seat. My friend knew enough of the young lady's history that I thought it imperative to contact you before I continued my investigation."

"Is this friend reliable?"

"I should think so. A retired vicar, an Oxford man, well traveled in his day."

"And?"

"She
is
the earl's daughter, my lord, but born out of wedlock."

Knight put down his glass. "Yes. I know that."

"Her mother was what the Scots call a green-woman. She lived with the girl on the moor until her premature death. Apparently, she drew her last breath under the illusion that Roxshire meant to marry her. As it happened, he had already died the year before."

"And Catriona went to live with this rough-mannered old uncle she mentioned? Diarmid Grant?"

"Five years later."

He felt an unpleasant prickle at the back of his neck. "Who took care of Catriona until then?"

"For three years or so, it seems that the child took care of herself," Simmons said. "She managed to deceive the few who cared to ask into believing that her mother was merely ill, bedridden, at the time. The girl left charms on the doorsteps at night and was repaid with food in the same manner when those charms worked. A minister of the kirk found her alone at her mother's grave one night and guessed the truth. It was he who told my friend of the girl's plight."

"Child, you called her," Knight said, his face troubled, aspects of her personality falling into place. "How old was she?"

"Nine when her mother died. Twelve, I suppose, when the minister took her briefly into his care."

"How does a nine-year-old girl live alone, Simmons?" he asked in disbelief. "How could she survive?"

"Countless children are homeless in this world," Simmons said. "It breaks the heart to see it happen."

"It should
not have
happened," Knight said fiercely. "She is Lionel's cousin. Her father should have made provisions."

"It appears he did for a time, but as is so often the case, when he married and his first legitimate child was born, a son, he lost interest. Then another son came along."

"Her brother James," Knight said, frowning. "The one she defends. I suppose it is not an uncommon story."

Simmons took a long sip of brandy. "I'm afraid there is more, which is why I was compelled to warn you about her, my lord."

Knight smiled, surprised to find himself inclined to protect the woman he had hoped to unmask. "I know that her aunt stabbed her uncle. In the gullet, I believe."

"And did you know that her uncle was a common farmer, a man who enhanced his livelihood by stealing cattle from his neighbors? His father was an ardent Jacobite rebel from the Highlands who was publicly executed for treason. The uncle inherited his rebel tendencies."

"That is no stain on her soul."

"Diarmid Grant was accused of murdering a man in cold blood. The girl was in the house at the time. For several years, she lived under his influence— she could hardly emerge from such an atmosphere unscathed."

Was it only a week or so ago that Knight would have paid a fortune to unearth such damaging testimony against her? "She quotes Latin, Simmons. She has learned to read and write from someone. Was it from this minister you mentioned?"

"I do not know. At some point, it is not clear when, there was another uncle who attempted to take her under his wing, some mysterious character who dabbled in the black arts. God only knows what would have become of her if the young earl had not gotten her into a boarding school and brought her to his castle for a proper upbringing."

"James again, the—" Knight turned slowly as he noticed the other man's expression of alarm. Catriona stood in the doorway, wearing one of Olivia's old lace dressing robes that clung to the delicate lines of her body. She stared at him, her face so white and wounded that Knight rose unconsciously from his chair.

"Thank you, Simmons," he said in a soft voice. "That will be all."

"Yes, my lord." The man rose to leave. "Shall I discuss the matter with Lady Deering?"

"That will not be necessary." Knight's eyes never left Catriona's stricken face. "I will handle the matter."

"Come in," he said the moment Simmons had left the room. "Sit down beside me, Catriona."

"I could leave the house now, before Olivia wakes up," she said awkwardly. "I could stay in the village until morning. I don't mind. I'll understand if you wish me gone. I never intended to bring you trouble."

He was furious at himself that she had discovered what he'd done. "You will
not
leave this house. I thought I had made my feelings clear."

"Aye." She took a breath, venturing into the room. "But that was before he came and told you."

"It is impolite for a proper young lady to eavesdrop."

Her gaze held his, brimming with the pain of betrayal. "I think that after what you just heard, we both know I will never be a proper lady. You can dress me in beautiful clothes. You can hammer social niceties into my head, but deep inside, where it counts, I am unacceptable."

"Then it was all true?"

She gave a vague shrug, suddenly looking older than before. "More or less. Will you thank Olivia for all—"

"Sit in that chair," he growled, grasping her elbow to practically push her small form into it. "Did I not give you an order to stay here?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"Then obey it." He hesitated. God, she looked so fragile and—bloody self-assured. "Did your uncle really murder a man? The truth now, Catriona. I am on your side this time. Did he?"

"No."

"Good." He took a sip of brandy, but his relief was short-lived as she managed to shock him yet again.

"He murdered three of them. Two before I was born."

He almost choked. "And this did not seen barbaric to you?"

"'Twas in self-defense," she said patiently. "Is there a difference between killing a man to protect yourself and a duel, then?"

"A duel at least confers an illusion of civility," he said, taking the chair opposite hers. Nine years old. He couldn't stop thinking about it, shaken by the image of a younger Catriona struggling alone on the moor. Had she buried her mother's body by herself? She must have. God help her. That she managed any degree of gentility was a wonder, and he was suddenly, unexpectedly, grateful for this imperfect brother of hers who had rescued her from a fate Knight could not envision.

He sat forward suddenly. "You haven't killed anyone, have you?"

"Not yet." She smiled at him. "Although recently there have been a few moments when the thought tempted me."

He had finished his brandy. He needed the whole bottle to handle this. "We can't act in haste. We have to decide what to do."

"About what?"

"About your family's history of homicide."

"There's not much we
can
do, is there? After all, the men he murdered have been dead for years. No one can bring them back."

"Catriona, I don't think you understand me."

"I usually don't."

He frowned. "What I am talking about is your reputation. Your uncle's penchant for killing is hardly an attractive asset to a future husband. I think the wisest course might be to leave the matter buried in the past."

"And who's the one who went digging it up?" she exclaimed. "I didn't advertise the facts of my life in
The Morning Post.
You're the one who sent that old man to expose me."

He rubbed his forehead. She had the most powerful talent for getting to the heart of an issue, of unsettling him. "Yes. But you can't say I didn't have cause."

"What cause?" she asked. "It's not as if I attacked you with my dirk."

"No," he said slowly.

"Or stole the Rutleigh emeralds."

"But you did shoot a pistol on my estate the night of your arrival."

"Aye, but not
at
anyone."

"Well, I'd never heard of you. I thought I knew Lionel well."

"Poor Lionel," she murmured. "I've made a muddle of his name, haven't I?"

"I don't know what to do with you."

"Are you going to tell Olivia?"

"Absolutely not. She has been in her element since you arrived. There is no point in distressing her. Besides, it wouldn't change how she feels."
How either of us feels,
he thought. Oh, no, if anything, the dangerous knot of his attraction to her had only tightened, his heart imprisoned at the center.

She exhaled, visibly relieved. "Then I won't tell her about you, either."

"Excuse me?"

"The Acorn Affair. Arabella. A hot poker to the soles of my feet couldn't loosen my tongue. On my honor, my lord. I owe you that much."

"Once again, there is a world of difference between that trifling affair and the matter we just discussed." He gave her a droll look, trying not to imagine the delicious body concealed beneath her ruffled muslin nightdress. "What are you doing out of bed, anyway?"

"I heard horses on the moor. I was hoping Thomas had decided to come back."

"Well, he hasn't, and Aunt Marigold will roast me alive if she catches me with you again this late at night."

"At least you're not in your nightclothes."

"I never was in my nightclothes, Catriona. Now, kindly go to bed before we find ourselves in serious trouble. I have many things to think about."

She smiled, making no effort to leave. The firelight accentuated the intriguing contours of his face, edging his features with an elemental beauty that made her shiver with forbidden excitement. She could study him forever. She could sit at his knees and wait for his kisses to weaken her and fill her with that wonderful confusion.

He stared back at her; it was starling again, the desire deeper than anything he had ever known. The urge to take her into his arms and lower her to the floor, to lie beside her in the firelight and initiate her into the secrets of love. He took a breath against the temptation.

"I know I will regret asking this, but your smile is a warning. What is going on now in that sly mind of yours?"