The Husband Hunt (16 page)

Lord, by the look of him, his cold glare gripping her heart, he would
never
let her live down her encounter with Sir Alistair.

She stared at her soup bowl and reflected briefly on Sir Alistair's stolen kiss. It had been… well, nothing. She had felt absolutely nothing except a faint discomfort where his chin had grazed her cheek; there was a bit of stubble he'd missed shaving that had scratched her.

Yet when Knight had kissed her, she had felt everything, giddiness, warm blushes, a garden of butterflies in her stomach, too much, really, for one young woman to handle. In a rush of emotion, she remembered how much she enjoyed being held in those powerful arms, the firm possession of his lips on hers. Could that be what Arabella had meant? Was it dangerous to lose your heart to a man who reduced you to such a state? It was certainly unsettling to lose control over your emotions, and, oh, she wanted it back. She didn't want to feel this poignant agony any longer.

She frowned, peeking around the floral centerpiece for another glimpse of him. Judging by the frown carved on his handsome face, kissing her was certainly the last thing on his mind. Clearly, she had ruined everything between them, but was she actually to blame?

And the worst was yet to come.

Lady Bennett had surely reached her estate by now. In her mind's eye, Cat could see the elderly noblewoman mounting the stairs one at a time, terror awaiting her. The image promptly dissolved as a servant whisked away her untasted soup,
tsk-ing
in concern under his breath at her lack of appetite. She could only pray that Lady Bennett's footman had taken the warning to heart.

At the first chance, Cat decided she would plead a pounding headache and escape to her room where no one could glare at her. She would go into hiding for a hundred years until the emotional wounds of this evening became a scar. Unless, of course, Knight and Olivia demanded that she leave in the morning. It seemed likely neither of them would be able to forgive her, and certainly no one would forget in a hurry.

And the worst was yet to come. The vision was yet to unfold.

Knight pushed away the plate of poached salmon in parsley sauce and refused the tender duckling that Mrs. Evans had made especially for him. He could see the misery on Catriona's downcast face and reminded himself that she deserved it. He hadn't talked to her once since Sir Alistair rode away but had grabbed her hand and half dragged her back to the house, Olivia admonishing him to be gentle every step of the way. Gentle? Gentle? If the Scottish hellion wanted forgiveness, if she thought he would laugh this off lightly, she was wrong. He wanted to punish her. He wanted her to ache inside as he did.

She had wounded him. She had brought out something so painful and savage in his nature that he hadn't been able to control his own actions. He was appalled at his capacity to go from a pleasant mood to barbarity in a matter of moments.

Yes, he realized it wasn't her fault that Stone had kissed her, but she needn't have behaved so blithely about the matter of her potential disgrace. And what would have happened if Knight had not arrived at precisely that critical moment, he wanted to know? Or perhaps he didn't.

It was quite one thing to find that Catriona melted in his embrace like a snowflake and quite another to catch his little snowflake melting in the arms of someone else. Well, not exactly melting. Knight would be fair even if he was furious. In retrospect, she had appeared to be rallying a rather ineffective protest.

Protest or not, the whole situation had put him in a thoroughly foul temper. He was going to wait a half hour for the servants to return, and if they did not, he would ride over to Lady Bennett's himself to check on her. Not that he believed in visions, but Catriona and Olivia certainly did. In the meantime, he felt like drinking an entire bottle of brandy—no, actually, he felt like hitting Reginald Witt over the head with one.

The Honorable Half-Wit, as he was known to his friends, was either unaware of the scandal over Lady Bennett or uncaring, as he made an utter ass of himself to attract Catriona's attention across the table. Obviously smitten, he plinked a melody with his spoon on a row of wine goblets, until he caught Knight glowering at him. At that smoldering look from his moody host, Reggie shrank down in his chair like a chastened schoolboy.

"Are you quite done playing with that damn spoon?" Knight demanded.

"Urn. Yes. Yes, I am," Reggie mumbled, grinning like a satyr.

"Good," Knight said, not grinning at all. "Don't do it again."

His voice carried across the table, earning a sigh of disapproval from Olivia's pursed lips. He raised his brow at her, refusing to be cowed. A rebellion was brewing inside him. He just might grab Reggie by the neck and put his idiotic face in that plate of mashed potatoes.

"Would you like to make a toast, Knight?" she said with a forced smile. Then she added in an undertone, "Nothing untoward, if you don't mind. We have guests."

"Do we?" His smile was lethal. "I hadn't noticed."

His gaze swept past her to Catriona. Her fey beauty drew his eyes like a magnet. It apparently affected half the other men at the table the same way. Knight lounged back in his chair, mentally murdering them one by one. Instead of looking wilted by her disgrace, she appeared only more adorable, the distress on her delicate face appealing to the male instinct to protect.

"A toast?" Olivia asked him guardedly. "Or shall I ask Wendell to do the honor?"

An excited hush fell over the table. Aubrey, standing at the sideboard, put a finger to his lips to still the footmen at the sideboard. The guests regarded Knight in expectant silence, some still hoping for a dramatic finale to an unforgettable evening. For an instant, he and Catriona locked gazes, but instead of the hurt appeal on her face, he saw her in another man's arms. Then he raised his glass, his urbane voice betraying none of the turmoil that was tearing his heart into shreds.

"To Anton and Arabella. Long may the newlyweds enjoy their marital bliss."

A few speculative looks were exchanged, mainly by the females in attendance. Was Knight expressing his forgiveness for Arabella's betrayal, or did he truly not care? The popular vote decided on the latter. Nobody approved of what Arabella had done to him, anyway, and it wasn't like Knight to nurse a lonely heart with so many other eligible women waiting in the wings to win his affection.

Reggie raised his glass; glancing wistfully at Catriona, he shouted with a complete lack of tact, "To the marriage knot!"

Knight looked at Wendell. Both men broke into roguish grins. Then, as they had at countless similar affairs in the past, they said in unison: "The marriage noose, you mean."

*                         *                             *

Disaster struck over the dessert course. Mrs. Evans had prepared a strawberry trifle in the shape of a swan and tiered trays of petit fours and glazed plum tarts to tempt the appetite. But as the footmen milled about the table, serving the treats, the sound of men shouting on the terrace brought Knight out of his chair.

Before Wendell could join him, everyone had turned to stare at the figure who suddenly appeared at the French doors. Howard, his face white with fright, glanced around the room in genuine bewilderment. The poor man looked so shaken that Olivia could hardly scold him for forgetting his place.

"What is it, Howard?"

Knight grasped him by the arm and guided him back down the steps into the garden. Of course, by then it was too late. The guests had caught the scent of another scandal; truly, it was a memorable evening in the annals of dining in Devon.

Catriona stood at the forefront of the gathering crowd, her small body buffeted by the others, guilt and resignation on her face. "What did you do now?" Knight asked her quietly, resenting the instinct that rose again to protect her. For the first time, the edges of his anger began to crumble, replaced by concern.

She couldn't speak, motioning to Howard.

"Well, what is it, man?" Knight said, and suddenly he remembered that earlier affair, Cat's prediction, Howard and Smythe sent to Lady Bennett's estate. "Dear God," he said disbelievingly. "Don't tell me that the woman was killed."

Howard shook his head, his voice trembling. "No, my lord, but only because her footman persuaded the coachman not to drive her ladyship home. They left her at the parson's cottage and sneaked back to the house to make sure all was well."

"Oh," Catriona said in a rush of relief so profound that her bones turned to water.

"But all wasn't well," Howard went on, horrified by the memory. "Her butler was bound and gagged on her bed, and the housebreakers were lying in wait. I ought not to tell you what the footman found in the coachhouse, not in mixed company, my lord."

"What happened to the housebreakers?" Wendell asked, placing himself like a bodyguard between Catriona and the other guests on the uppermost step. Knight threw him a grateful look. She looked like a glass figurine in that flimsy dress, as if she would shatter if anyone so much as touched her.

Howard shuddered. "The parson's son had brought reinforcements from the village. They caught one of them on the moor. The other shot himself in the—"

No one as much as drew a breath in the silence that followed. By now, there wasn't a single person in the house who hadn't caught wind of the shocking news. A man was dead, a criminal by his own hand; two others were injured. One was Lady Bennett's stable boy, who had been stabbed while trying to defend the estate. Another man, a middle-aged groom well liked in the neighborhood, had been beaten so heartlessly that it would be a miracle if he lived through the night.

And the beautiful Scotswoman who stood on the terrace steps, like a young Greek goddess, had known. No one could decide quite what to make of her. Should she be regarded as a heroine or a social pariah? Then Reggie ran inside and brought her back a fringed shawl, wrapping it around her shivering form until Knight pushed through the gathering and elbowed him aside.

"I'll take care of her," he said firmly.

Reggie squared his shoulders, aware that everyone was watching him. "Well, I—"

Knight looked right through him, raising his voice to address the cluster of spellbound guests. "We have coffee and brandy in the blue room for those of you who wish a beverage before you leave. Under the circumstances, I think most of you would prefer to be home with your families."

Catriona made a covert move toward the steps. He clamped his hands down on her shoulders, his grip like steel as he nodded pleasantly to the departing guests. "Meet me in my study in an hour," he said under his breath. "Do you understand?"

She swallowed hard. "Are you going to kill me?"

"You'll have to wait to find out, won't you?"

She vowed a hundred times
that she would not go. Who was he to summon her like a serving girl? She simply would not go. He would have to drag her kicking and screaming down the stairs. But seventy minutes later, she found herself standing in the doorway of his study, drawn by a power deeper than she could deny. She should have known, that night when she saw the ring around the moon, not to lake that first step into his world. But then, as now, she couldn't stop herself.

For several moments, she wavered, watching him write at his desk. His neckcloth and black evening coat had been carelessly hung over the back of his chair. The breadth of his shoulders was the first thing she noticed, as she had on the night they met. But now she curled her fingers at her sides, stifling the temptation to throw herself into his muscular arms and seek sanctuary in his strength. Oh, she hated the delicious torment he made her feel.

He glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece, then looked at her directly, his gaze distant. "You're late. Sit down."

She took a couch in the corner, still clutching the shawl that Reggie had brought her earlier. My, his voice was unfriendly. No sanctuary in those strong arms tonight. She cleared her throat. "Is Olivia in bed?" she asked in an attempt at light conversation.

"Yes. With a severe headache, which is not surprising, is it?"

She pursed her lips. Well, light conversation did not seem to be in the cards for her, either. She sank down lower in the chair and closed her eyes, sheer exhaustion from the night's events taking its toll. But at least Lady Bennett was alive. Oh, thank God—

His voice snapped her out of her reverie. "So, tell me, did you like it?"

She opened her eyes, heart leaping into her throat, to see him standing over her, his broad frame blocking out the candlelight. The emotion on his face unnerved her. She struggled to answer. "The ball? Well." What could she say? She had detested every second, every dance except for the few with him. No debutante had ever made such a spectacle of herself, but after all the trouble and expense he and Olivia had gone to, surely such ingratitude would be a slap in the face. "Yes. It was a beautiful ball—"

His voice lashed her feeble response into ribbons. "I meant Sir Alistair's kiss. Did you like it?"

She was stunned into another brief silence. Was this the source of his wretched mood? After all that had happened afterward, she had almost forgotten that unpleasant scene in the stables. "I don't know whether I liked it," she admitted honestly, adjusting her skirts. "You attacked him before I had a chance to form a fair opinion."

He sat down beside her, his muscular thighs brushing hers. "Oh?"

She shrank away from the black anger in his eyes. "Well, I—"

He claimed her ripe mouth in a kiss that was designed to be her undoing. It was. The moment his lips touched hers, she was his, body and soul, and the skill he wielded to dominate her was more than her shaky emotions could handle. In a breathless whisper, she blurted out, "If you mean to prove a point—"

"Be quiet, Catriona. I am too busy for idle chatter."

By "too busy" she supposed he meant that he was deftly unhooking her gown, tugging at the ties of her chemise, rendering her shaking and helpless in his arms. A shiver shot through her as cool air brushed her naked breasts, the tender tips of her nipples hardening in response to his sensual regard.

"Look at you," he said mockingly, forcing her back against the chaise. "Half naked in my arms. What a wanton young woman you are. I could swive you on a stable floor, couldn't I?"

His crude words sent a chill of anger mixed with anticipation down her spine. "Knight—"

"I'm sorry," he said with an utter lack of conviction. "Is it my fault that I am insane at the thought of anyone else touching you? You've made me wild with wanting you."

"I thought you hated me," she whispered, her voice catching.

He hesitated; the last thing he had wished to do was admit the depth of his feelings. He intended to take his revenge in words, but, as usual, she broke through his reserve with the openness that made her so vulnerable. And hadn't the humiliation she suffered been enough? Hadn't the time come for him to face her with
his
own truth?

He knew now that he loved her, that beneath the boiling desire, the emotional unrest, he cared for her so deeply he could not deny it. Perhaps he should have fought against it, but fighting the truth was not his way. He had found the love of his life, and he wouldn't let her go. He would possess her and protect her, no matter what it took.

"Hate you?" His gaze disarmed her with its unmasked emotion. "I lose a piece of my heart every time you walk into a room."

She stared at him, relief bringing tears to her eyes. "You aren't going to ask me to do the proper thing and leave?"

"On the contrary." He leaned forward to kiss the trembling corners of her mouth. "I'm going to ask you to do a very improper thing with me."

His gaze was heavy-lidded and hypnotic, awakening all her senses. Her body ached for his touch. Her breathing faltered as she felt a flush of arousal warm her skin.

She glanced at the door, whispering, "Are you certain about this? Olivia and Aunt Marigold will murder us if they find out."

"They'll find out sooner or later," he said, his smile full of devilish intentions. "If anything good comes of tonight, it is that I cannot keep what I feel for you a secret."

Then his hands were around her shoulders, in her hair, strong, persuasive, lifting her to him. He pushed the sleeves on her gown down as he kissed her. She tried to cover her breasts, but he shook his head, his eyes burning with need. He wanted to see her body. He held her still beneath him with his muscular weight. She gave a soft whimper, then fell still, her eyes closing. He smiled, pleased at her submission, and trailed his fingers down the arch of her throat to her breasts.

"You are mine," he whispered in a dark voice that made her shiver again.

“I—”

"You will never, ever, let another man touch you, do you understand?"

His fingers plucked at her distended nipples with a sensuality that rendered her powerless. His hard body burned against hers, radiating heat and male aggression. She felt small and defenseless, incapable of doing a single thing to stop him. Not that she wanted to. She gazed up into his intense face through her eyelashes. Pure lust smoldered in the depths of his dark eyes. She was utterly lost in him.

He nuzzled her neck and shoulders, taking small bites here and there that left her feeling lightheaded; certainly, she knew that this was not ladylike behavior. But only for a moment, a few kisses—would it hurt? She needed to be held after the evening's turmoil, but, oh, what if she didn't stop him? And he was jealous; this big, handsome tyrant was enraged because another man had kissed her, even though she couldn't remember that other man's face, or even his name.

He buried his face between her milky white breasts, his big hands holding her as if he would never release her. Her scent reminded him of wild roses, he thought as he flicked his tongue back and forth between her sensitive pink nipples, intent on reducing her to raw sensation. She moaned, pushing herself against him for more. She looked innocent and flagrantly erotic at the same time. He closed his eyes, a shudder rocking his large frame.

"We can't do this here," he said roughly. "Jesus, I am such a bastard."

She made an incoherent noise, captured in all those indescribably wicked sensations that he knew so well how to evoke. As he drew her nipple between his teeth, tugging gently, she gripped the arms of the chaise for anchorage.

He looked up into her eyes, the pupils dilated with desire. "Don't breathe a word of this to Olivia. Let me be the one to tell her."

"She already knows you're a bastard, Knight. I heard her telling Wendell so when they were checking the ballroom this morning."

"Thank you," he said wryly. "Actually, I meant that I should be the one to break the news to her about our engagement."

"Our what?" she said, sitting up in shock, her hand at her throat.

He cupped her astonished face in his hands and kissed her into silence.

"Do I take that as a yes?" he asked, his thumb stroking her cheek.

Mischief danced in her eyes. "Well, I would have to ask permission from the master of the manor. Just as a courtesy—"

She found herself deposited on the Axminster carpet before she could finish, his body nailing hers to the floor. She stared up into his dark, unfathomable eyes and shivered, conquered by his potent masculinity. The weight of his thighs smothered her lower body in waves of pleasurable sensation. The desire smoldering in the depths of his eyes seemed to draw the strength from her body.

"What happened?" she whispered with a dazed smile.

He laughed. Sprawled out like that on the carpet, she looked alluring and disoriented, like a fairy who had fallen out of the sky. How careful he would have to be not to damage this dainty creature. He stared at her creamy white breasts and imagined her body writhing beneath his. But to deflower her on the floor—almighty God, if he did not walk away now, he would tear that dress into shreds with his teeth.

"I have to get you out of here," he said hoarsely.

"Why?" she asked, sounding more disappointed than anything.

"Because—oh, hell."

He pushed her filmy skirts up to her waist, all the colors of. the ocean wrapped around her sensuous curves like a ribbon that held an enticing gift. What a sweet handful of woman. What a temptress and, oh, God, the treasure buried deep beneath her thighs, the enticing scent of woman that drifted to him. He wanted to sink his shaft into that softness and pump her all night. He stroked his fingers against her soft flesh. She arched in surprise. She was so tight and slick that his heart began to pound.

"Oh," she said, her back curling into a bow, her gaze on his hard face. She knew perfectly well in theory what a man and a woman did in the mating act, but this, well, no wonder no one had ever explained the finer details. She closed her eyes, awash in embarrassment at her body's animal instinct. It was all she could do not to thrust against his hand, to push down deeper and soothe the ache he had awakened. She begin to move, restless, encouraged by the groan he gave into her hair as he held her. Unconsciously, she held his forearm for reassurance.

His elegant fingers touched her in feathery strokes, over and over, dipping deep inside the most private recesses of her body. Knight watched her opening to him in wonder, her inhibitions shed as he seduced her without mercy. What if he had married Arabella and missed Catriona? The thought of everything she had gone through made him determined that she would have a secure life, that nothing would ever hurt her again. "You have the sweetest body," he whispered. "I want every piece of it for myself."

His belly tightened with a hunger he could not deny as he studied the sensuous curves of her small body. The thought of Alistair touching her reawakened the rage and jealousy he had fought to subdue. She was his. He would kill to keep her. He alone would show her sexual pleasure beyond anything she could imagine. Even now, she quivered at his most casual touch.

He plundered her mouth with kisses that left her gasping. He rubbed his thick shaft against her until they were both moaning in frustration. With a fierce growl, he pulled her up onto his lap so that she was straddling his thigh, her legs sprawled open like a wanton as he pressed his finger all the way inside her tight passage. He broke out into a sweat as he imagined thrusting into that wet, pink sheath.

"Only me, Catriona," he whispered.

She sighed, too engrossed in what he was doing to respond. She felt hot and aching; her shoulders sagged forward as shocks of pleasure began to spread across her belly. Before he brought her to her peak, her body convulsing, she felt his hand firmly grip her bottom and heard a curse, accompanied by the rending of silk, the painstaking stitches of Claudette's hardworking assistants coming apart. Her underskirt had been torn; she saw that much as she lifted her head in hazy curiosity to look.

"Oh, hell," he said, his breath uneven, his eyes black with lust. "I'll buy you another, but you're not wearing anything this provocative again for anyone but me."

"It doesn't look as if I shall be wearing this again in any hurry, either," she whispered, biting her lip
.

"I can't believe I did that to you," he muttered.

He lifted her off the floor, his harsh face inscrutable. He should have known she would tempt him beyond mercy. He should have known that he couldn't touch her sweet flesh and expect to walk away unaffected. He ached to his marrow, drawing on every last remnant of his restraint. How was he supposed to keep his hands off her after this? Nothing would satisfy him until he had her in his bed. His gaze wandered over her, marking every inch of her as his own. She looked tousled and sexy and wanton, and he wanted to take her in every way known to man.

"I adore you, Catriona Beatrice Grant," he said gruffly, "you who nearly shot my gardener the first night I found you hiding in my garden."

"And I thought you were, well, perfect."

He smiled. "Far from that."

"Yes." She gave him a wicked grin. "I found that out, too."

"Brat," he said with affection.

"Brute," she said.

"Twit."

"Tyrant."

He paused. "Scottish sorceress."

"English scoundrel."

He looked up at the ceiling. "Umm. Interesting combination. Think of the children a Celtic sorceress and a stuffy scoundrel would produce."

"If I'm given permission to marry him," she said. "My unofficial guardian might refuse."

"I shall talk to this guardian of yours tonight. Man to man, as they say."

"He can be very difficult."

He took her chin in his hands. "And very persuasive,
and
he will do anything to have you."

"Will he?" she whispered.

"Just watch him." He narrowed his eyes at her, striving to look serious. “Speaking as your unofficial guardian, I strongly advise you to accept his proposal."