The Husband Hunt (7 page)

"Olivia wouldn't like that."

He put his hand on the nape of her neck.
"Read."

She tensed, held captive by the pressure of his strong fingers and the disturbing heat of his muscular body pressed against hers. She wondered if he had already forgotten about kissing her. She certainly remembered, every brush of his lips, the heady sensation of being held against that huge body. "All right. All right. Don't fret your bowels into fiddle strings. I'll read."

He lifted his hand away, staring at the vivid imprint of his fingers on her skin. "Oh, good. I can hardly wait."

She stared down at the paper as he stared at her, his gaze drifting down her back and buttocks to her bare feet. She had a certain elemental charm, he admitted silently. Quite a few men would find her combination of spirit, pride, and innocence provocative. Certainly, she had gotten the better of him yesterday, and even now he felt that inexplicable tug of attraction. "Hurry up."

"The…"

She glanced over her shoulder at him, apparently seeking approval. He nodded, motioning her to continue. Had anyone touched her before? he wondered. Would all that fire and spirit follow her into a man's bed? "Good. Good.
Go
on."

"The…"

"Yes. You said that." He realized suddenly that her gown would not cling to the cleft of her backside like that unless she had refused to wear a corset, which shouldn't surprise him as the young rebel hadn't bothered with shoes, either. "It was correct, Miss Grant. Do go on."

"The… the m—oh, look, there's a crimson-throated warbler in the tree outside."

He began to circle the desk, thinking that at this rate he would be as old as Methuselah before she finished the simple sentence. He also thought that she had sensual allure for such a slender frame and that if no one had claimed her, it would only be a matter of time.

"Never mind the warbler. Kindly continue to read." If that was what one could call it.

"The m—" Her face cleared. "'The man is a pig?'"

He frowned, moving around the desk to reread the paper. "It says, The moon is big.'"

"Oh." She shook her head as if she were completely flummoxed. "You know, I wondered for a moment if that might be what it meant, but there isn't any moon, so it didn't make sense."

"There isn't any pig, either, did you consider that? There also isn't an
a
in the sentence."

"Yes, there is."

"No, there isn't."

She held the paper up to the light. "What's this, then?"

He leaned over her shoulder, unprepared for the fire that caught in his blood. Oh, yes, she had a very alluring body indeed, with curves that could fuel quite a few more naughty fantasies. "It's an ink smudge, I expect."

"And this word is supposed to be
big?"

"It is."

"Hmm. The
b
appears to have a tail on it."

"The ink ran."

She turned, finding herself trapped between his massive body and the heavy mahogany desk. It was not an entirely unpleasant sensation, but it was disconcerting, sending little sparks of awareness throughout her system. "Your penmanship could use a little improvement," she said tactfully.

"It is your reading that should concern you."

He was spared hearing whatever reply she might have given by Olivia's reappearance in the room. Unaware that she had entered troubled waters, his sister sailed right up to the desk in a state of blithe oblivion. He drew back from Catriona, realizing that once again he had actually enjoyed the contact with her.

"Here's the book you asked for earlier, Catriona," Olivia announced. "It's a dusty old thing Lionel used as a doorstop." She dropped a massive gilt-spined book atop the others on the desk, her nose wrinkling in distaste.

"Lionel's Latin book," Knight said in surprise. He glanced at Catriona. "You intended to use this for a doorstop? Wouldn't a bucket of stones work as well?"

The bewitching smile on her face should have forewarned him. Brushing her bright hair behind her ears, she opened the book and in a sweet voice read:
"Ira furor brevis est.
Anger is a brief insanity. Hmm."

There was a moment of utter silence. Then Knight covered his face with one hand to hide his expression.

"Did Lionel write that?" Olivia asked in a puzzled voice. "It doesn't sound like anything he ever said."

"It was Horace," Catriona said quietly, running her fingertips down the book's spine. "My Latin is rather rusty, and I thought his lordship might help refresh my memory. It seems nursery rhymes are more to his taste."

"Well, you certainly can't speak Latin to your suitors," Olivia went on, clearly perplexed at the thought of a debutante spouting ancient philosophy. "You'll have the young men running off in droves. Knight, I thought you were going to instruct her in the art of light conversation. I understood you meant to teach her how to read a dance card."

"Is this better?" Her eyes dancing with mischief, Catriona pushed the paper Knight had scribbled on across the desk.

Olivia picked it up. '"The man is a pig'? What twaddle is this, Knight? Do you want her to sound like a half-wit?"

"There's little fear of that," he retorted, giving Catriona a look of grudging admiration.

"This is not what I had in mind," Olivia said.

"Nor did I," he said, "and since we are both in agreement that it was a bad idea—"

"Marigold and I had intended that you stage a mock courtship." Olivia began to circle the desk, blind to the horrified looks that her brother and Catriona exchanged, each one trying to appear more appalled than the other. "A dignified seduction, if you will."

He held up his hands, backing up to the window. "Not with me. Not a chance. Find another victim."

"Perhaps he doesn't know how," Catriona said, bending over Lionel's book again.

He glanced at her behind, his hand half lifting to give a good swat. "I know how, believe me."

"But Catriona
doesn't,"
Olivia said passionately. "Do you, my dear?"

"Do I what?"

Olivia gave her an indulgent smile. "A young woman must be prepared to handle herself with confidence in any situation. Has a young man ever paid you court, for example? Or made an improper advance toward you?"

"Do you mean tried to do the ditty with me?"

Olivia closed her eyes, reeling with shock at the indelicate phrase. "Something of that nature," she said weakly.

"Well," Catriona said, frowning at the memory, "one of the men who worked for my uncle put his hand under my nightdress while I was in bed asleep once. At least, he thought I was asleep. I suppose one could consider that an improper advance."

Knight glanced around, despite his effort to appear unconcerned, his face darkening. "What happened?"

"I was so frightened that I stabbed him with my dirk."

"Did he die?" Olivia whispered.

"Not that first time."

Knight's mouth tightened in disgust. "He tried it again?"

"The very next night."

"And?" Knight demanded, drawn in against his will. "Did you stab him again?"

"No," Catriona said, shaking her head. "My uncle did. He was hiding in my bed, waiting for him. I was huddled in the wardrobe."

Olivia turned gray. "He killed him… in front of you?"

"Almost," Catriona said, nodding with satisfaction. "And after that, nobody ever tried to court me again."

"Well," Olivia said after an awkward silence. "Well."

Knight had returned his troubled gaze to the window, disturbed by the depth of his reaction. It took several moments for him to detach himself from the emotional involvement he felt and a curiosity to understand more about her life. What kind of home had she come from? What manner of events had molded her character? And who the hell had possessed the patience to teach her to read Horace?

"Leave us alone for a few minutes, Catriona," he said quietly, his big hands braced on the windowsill. "I wish to speak to my sister alone."

"Was that necessary?" Olivia asked as Catriona slipped out into the hall, her face unnaturally composed.

"Damn it, Olivia." He pivoted, his voice intense. "Did you hear what she just told us? How can you possibly hope to change her?"
And for what?
a cynical voice asked in the back of his mind.
To unleash her on a world that will mock everything she is?

"All I want is to make her presentable to society."

"I don't think we have enough time left in our lives to do that."

"Nonsense. She's lovely. Knight. Those eyes—" "The eyes of a lynx and the wild heart of one beneath her loveliness, too, I'll bet. Dear God, Olivia, there is so much more to her than the obvious."

"Lionel would expect—"

She broke off as the door opened and Wendell looked in, a playful smile on his face. "A party, and I was not asked?"

"Not for at least another two weeks," Olivia said, unable to resist smiling back at him. Wendell never failed to brighten her mood. "I do hope you will not desert us."

He came into the room. "Have I ever missed a party?"

"And how will she ever be presented at Court with her background?" Knight asked Olivia, returning to their previous conversation. Wendell had always been like family, included in the good and the bad of their private lives.

"If we are discussing our Scottish cousin," Wendell interjected, leaning against the door, "Court will not be a problem. I shall be happy to arrange it should the need arise."

"Oh, good," Knight said, throwing him an irate look. "Then you can arrange her marriage, too."

Wendell winked at Olivia. "I might just do that. For Lionel's sake."

"I think we're a long way from planning any nuptials," Olivia said wistfully. "There's her come-out party to plan for next year in London—"

"Considering her background, Olivia," Knight said without any malice in his tone, "I think we both know that London is out of the question. It would not be good for her."

Olivia paused, accepting the truth of what he said with a rueful shrug. "I'm afraid you might be right for once. But she still could make a good marriage with a country squire, with our help. Oh, Knight, please,
please
will you at least teach her to dance? I shall handle the other matters. She is not an entirely hopeless cause."

"I thought you'd hired a dancing master," he said. "What ever happened to that Mr. Garfield who taught you?"

"Garfield?" Wendell said. "Bit old, isn't he?"

"A bit dead," Olivia said. "For five years now. Oh, come on, Knight. I have not yet heard whether young Mr. Edwards will travel here on such short notice to give her instruction."

"No," he said. "She dropped a bucket of stones on my foot." And she tempted him, her sweet body and that Celtic spirit. "I am
not
dancing with her. No."

"Oh, leave him alone," Wendell said. "He's still sulking over losing Arabella to that fudgy old Anton. I'll teach her to dance, Olivia."

She gave him a grateful smile. Sometimes she didn't know what she would do without Wendell, and she felt guilty for keeping him to herself. She wondered why no woman had caught his eye and was surprised at how unhappy the thought of losing him made her feel. And there were moments when he looked at her that she felt… no, that was silly, outrageous even. Wendell saw her as a sister, nothing else. She was imagining things if she saw anything else in his friendship.

From the small bench hidden in the alcove,
Catriona listened to the conversation that drifted from the depths of his lordship's study. Who was Arabella, anyway? Was she the reason he discharged such a foul temper like a thunderstorm?

Catriona didn't know, and she wondered why it should mean so much to her. Thomas had been sorely mistaken. There was no peaceful haven for her in England, no escaping the unpalatable facts of who she was or what she had been. She should never have weakened and believed it safe to trust the viscount with the truth. Or let him kiss her, either, although it was probably the most pleasant part of her experience with the English so far.

It was clear to her that she could not stay in this house forever, causing trouble between Olivia and her brother. Her problems were not theirs, beyond their understanding, and she could certainly take care of herself, had done so for more years than not.

She was capable enough. She was not afraid to work, and she was growing troubled at the thought of Thomas handling James by himself, while she remained there, a source of friction to the family. She could scrub floors at an inn or serve as a governess in a small house. She could humble herself and return to the castle if she had to.

She stared out the window at the moors and felt the wildness pull at her heart. She had wanted so badly to belong there. She had wanted to find a place for herself at last, but she was different from other people. Changing her clothes and manners would deceive no one for long.

In the distance, she watched a merlin circle lazily in the air, mesmerized by its beauty. Again she sensed that someone was out there watching her. She felt a powerful tug that was painful to ignore.

Come to me,
a voice seemed to beckon from the moor.
Come to me, and find the part of yourself that you have searched for.

Knight cantered across the moor, not certain if he wanted to find the missing relative or not. The servants had searched the gardens and found no trace of her. Her beloved stones were still under the bed, so she hadn't run off. He should be glad if she had gone, and yet, well, he wasn't. Having taken her under his wing, he would decide when and if she must go.

The thought of her wandering alone wracked his composure. He had chased her away, he realized that. He would be responsible for any harm that befell her. Guiltily, he wondered if she had overheard his conversation with Olivia, if she had heard him express his doubts about her social salvation. What would become of her if he sent her away? It was too easy to imagine some rake snapping her up as his mistress. If she wasn't well born enough to take as a wife, she was more than desirable as a bedmate, the kind of woman any man would eagerly leave his club to visit late at night. Her honest view of life was refreshing, and he suspected she would be a passionate lover.

He scowled at the barren expanse of boulders and gorse that caught the dying rays of the day's light. How far could she go on foot? And why should he bother to find her anyway, to drag her to the ballroom and teach her to
dance,
when she was not ready to be exposed to even crueler standards than those held in his own home? Dear God, she would be laughed out of London if she arrived in such a defenseless state, unwilling to play society's games.

It pained him to admit it, but he liked the way she looked at him, as if he were the most powerful man in the world. He liked how she gave a little shiver whenever he accidentally touched her, although he suspected those fleeting moments of contact weren't all that inadvertent on his part. They were more a symptom of his inexplicable attraction to her.

It would not do, of course, the way she unsettled him at every turn. How was she managing to slip under his guard? For he guarded his emotions very closely these days. Life was uncertain, its pleasures tainted by death and betrayal. His experiences had hardened him. Tender feelings for an exasperating young woman who refused to conform had no place in his world. And yet she made him smile.

"Catrio-na!" He cupped his hands and shouted into the air, startling a merlin from a crag.

Nothing else moved. A faint wind stirred the bell-heather, and as he turned, sighing, he saw a woman's figure emerge at the edge of the woods.

He realized it was not Catriona before he was even halfway to the woods. The woman was taller, her hair a deeper shade of red, her royal-blue riding habit expertly tailored to enhance her generous curves.

"Arabella," he said, his voice unemotional as he dismounted. "What are you doing here?"

She turned awkwardly, a bouquet of bell-heather in her gloved hand. "I have come here every day to work up the courage to visit you and Olivia. Yet every day, when it is dark, I return home, a coward."

What could he say to the woman who had left him for another man when all he felt, after the anger and humiliation, was a deep relief that their lives were no longer entwined? Everyone had expected Knight to marry Arabella—their families, their friends, the local vicar. Their names were carved into the churchyard yew. Perhaps he had taken her for granted, indulged in one flirtation too many while she demanded his total attention. Perhaps he had wanted more from a marriage, the deep love and devotion that his parents had shown each other. His mother and father had fallen in love at first sight and had eloped, never to regret their impulsiveness. He had been dreading the moment when he would meet Arabella again, and now it was upon him and must be dealt with as politely as possible.

"You look well, Arabella."

"So do you." She bit the edge of her lip. "How is Olivia?"

He shrugged. "I worry about her."

"Yes, you must." Another hesitation. "Does she hate me?"

"Olivia? She does not know how to hate. I think she is disappointed."

"And you? Do you hate me?"

He glanced around, distracted by the sense of being observed. Nothing disturbed the serenity of their surroundings, except the merlin circling the crag on the moor. Was it the same bird? No. No. There were two of them now, then a third, a fourth. He did not remember seeing so many birds at the time and wondered what had drawn them.

"Have you seen a young woman anywhere?"

Arabella blinked, taken aback. "A woman?"

"Lionel's cousin. I cannot find her."

"Oh, a cousin." She sounded relieved. He wondered if she hoped he would spend the rest of his life missing her.

"Knight?"

A twig snapped somewhere in the woods. "Did you hear that?" he asked, turning his head.

She frowned. Heavens, he was so handsome, so big and masculine. Couldn't he tell that she still desired him? "It's only my horse. What is the matter with you?"

"Oh, I don't know, Arabella. Am I expected to tremble with joy the first time I see the fiancée who jilted me for a fat old baron?"

She gasped. "Anton isn't fat."

"Put the old porker on a slimming regime, have you?"

"Knight!"   Her blue  eyes glistened  with  unshed tears; he remembered that she had always been able to cry on command. "You say the most awful things."

"Did I just hear a snort?"

She put her hands on her hips. "I told you it was my horse. Aren't you the least bit glad to see me?"

He looked her up and down. "Is that a pimple on your chin, Arabella?"

"You—"

Another twig popped. He grabbed Arabella by the wrist and pulled her deeper into the shelter of the woods. She gave a surprised laugh, sounding breathless at his bold gesture. "Where are you taking me? Oh, Knight, Knight, I knew nothing had changed. Did you happen to bring a blanket?"

He glanced down, startled, at her face. "What?"

She brought her hand to her throat and began to unbutton the jacket of her habit, her lips forming an inviting pout. "I might have made a mistake marrying Anton."

An acorn sailed down between them. He took a step backward, watching his former fiancée in disbelief. "What are you doing, Arabella?" he said in a hoarse voice as she tugged her bodice loose.

"Don't you remember how you used to bite my neck?" she asked softly. "Kiss my breasts until I melted? Oh, Knight, my breasts are so lonely, aching for your special touch—"

An acorn hit her on the nose. Her fingers stilled. "Gracious, I think the squirrels are attacking us."

He gritted his teeth and looked up from her half-exposed cleavage to the wryly embarrassed face of the young woman positioned in the crotch of the ancient oak tree, a book in her lap. "When I get my hands on you, I am going to paddle your posterior but good."

Arabella released a giggle of scandalized delight. Knight had always had a penchant for misbehaving in the bedroom. "I probably deserve it."

"Not you, you dimwit," he said without thinking. He pushed around her to reach up into the tree.
"Her."

He caught hold of Catriona's ankle as she gave a yelp of panic and threw her arms around a tree limb as an anchor against his strength. It didn't help. One mighty tug, and he'd pulled both her and the book down hard on the ground, towering over her as she sprawled across the mossy roots at his feet.

"I do not like having anyone spy on my private affairs," he said in a furious voice.

She rose to her feet, her face bright pink with embarrassment. "Well, goodness, how did I know you were having 'a private affair' under this very tree?"

His jaw tightened. "A civilized person might have announced her presence."

"I thought I did."

"Knight."

Arabella's voice was strained as if she sensed that theirs was not an ordinary association. "Do you mind telling me what this is all about? Who is this person?"

"Lionel's cousin." He bit out the words. "She wandered away from the house and got lost."

Arabella looked at Catriona with one eyebrow lifted questioningly. "I thought you meant someone much younger."

"No." He stared hard at Catriona, wondering just how much she had heard.

"I didn't wander away, either," Catriona said. "I needed to be alone to think."

"She has Lionel's eyes," Arabella said gently, her anger dissipating at the reminder of a man who had never said a mean word about anyone in his life. "Oh, my. Look at that. It's uncanny."

Knight wasn't sure how he had gotten into this situation. "She doesn't have Lionel's temperament, does she?"

"Well, I shouldn't wonder," Arabella said thoughtfully. "You could have bruised her bones the way you pulled her out of that tree. There isn't much to her. Did he hurt you, my dear?"

Catriona shook her head. "Thank you for asking, ma'am. You're very kind, but I'm perfectly fine. I probably should have told him where I was going."

Arabella cast an appalled look at Knight. "I know I broke your heart, but is that any reason to have become such a brute? This is not typical of your behavior."

Catriona turned to regard him, feigning disbelief. "You mean he wasn't like this before?"

"Get on my horse," he said quietly.

"I think I prefer to walk," Catriona said, starting to edge around his tall, unmoving figure. "I really need the exer—"

"Do as I tell you!" he shouted.