Anne Barbour (13 page)

Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats, and she was startled to behold John Smith riding hard behind her.

“You want to what?” she asked in astonishment at his reply to her query.

“I wish to help with the harvest,” he answered with a grin, gesturing to the little parade ahead of them. “Your agent, Mr. Crest-wick, was telling me the other day that with the opening of the factory at Carringford, you’re finding yourself a little shorthanded this year.”

Catherine simply gaped at him. His breeches and homespun shirt, obviously borrowed from someone a little shorter and more rotund than he, did little to disguise the feral grace with which he sat astride Caliban.

“But you cannot mean you plan to work in the fields.”

“That is precisely what I mean. I need the exercise to help me maintain my fine figger, me girl.” He flexed his arm pridefully.

Catherine refrained from availing herself of John’s mute invitation to examine his forearm, and sank into an embarrassed silence.

Really, she chided herself, she had allowed herself to fall into the oddest state of mind since Smith’s arrival. She had maintained her fury over what she persisted in calling his attack on her for a good two days. It was at this point she realized the futility of remaining in a quarrel with someone who refused to acknowledge that he was being quarreled with. It was as though the incident outside her room had never occurred. Smith treated her with the same courtesy and laughing deference he accorded Grandmama and Mariah. He was a charming companion at mealtimes, and helped while away the long evening hours with games of whist, songs at the pianoforte (he was possessed, not to her surprise, of a fine baritone voice) or readings from the works of currently fashionable poets and writers. He did not apologize for his scandalous behavior, nor was there any repetition of what had occurred in that shadowy corridor.

Eventually, she had been forced to fall back on a dignified silence regarding the episode. She smiled disbelievingly at the compliments he paid her and took care to avoid being alone with him. Withal, she had the uncomfortable feeling that he was laughing at her—not unkindly, but with a certain errant mischief.

She wished she could tell herself that she was immune to his charm, but no woman with breath in her body could remain entirely indifferent to him. Riding beside him now, she chided herself for her unbecoming fascination with the beauty of his hands as they controlled the restive Caliban without effort, or the way the homespun clothing clung to his muscular shoulders and lean hips. Most of all, she resented the feeling of connection that sprang up between them every time he was near. Did he feel it, too? That sense of unspoken communion—of laughter silently shared and thoughts communicated without words.

She shook herself. How ridiculous she was being. She sounded like a smitten schoolgirl with a crush on her music master. He was only a man, after all, and she had resolved long ago that she would never again succumb to masculine importunities.

She frowned. She knew that in her resolve, she would receive no support from Grandmama and Mariah, for the rogue had insinuated himself in their good graces and they all but preened under his carefully designed attentions.

There were moments when it seemed to her that he reveled in the display of his wickedness. It was almost as though he were saying to her, “Yes, I am a perfect rotter at heart, and I am manipulating you and your household. But see how cleverly I am going about it. You will come to no real harm—probably, and we all are having such a lovely time.”

And they were. Catherine had to admit that he was good for Grandmama, for Lady Jane was in better spirits than anyone had seen her in years. John had the knack of making her laugh, and he was adept at anticipating her every desire. Her spectacles appeared in his fingers just as she turned to look for them on the lamp table beside her chair. Wine and biscuits were conjured, seemingly out of thin air, the moment she suggested that “a little something” would taste good right now. John was the first on his feet when she asked in a querulous tone for her shawl.

Oh, yes, it was all nicely calculated. And Mariah! Goodness, they spent hours talking about the war with Napoleon and the difficulties of life as a soldier’s wife. For someone who claimed not to know so much as his own name, he was certainly familiar with the most minute details of the war in the Peninsula.

There, he was doing it again—prancing about in his ridiculous getup and grinning as though he were playing at being a harvester for her sole amusement. She pursed her lips, and wheeling her mare about, resumed her journey to her fields.

The question uppermost in her mind was—why? Why was this stranger in their midst going to such trouble to ingratiate himself? She had told him he need not fear being sent out into the cold, cruel world without a penny to his name, nor a clue as to his identity. What more could he want from them? Or was his entire predicament a pretense? Had he really lost his memory? But why create such a charade for their benefit?

Pretense or not, she thought some hours later, none of her workers had labored harder at his task than John. From the moment they had set scythes to the hay in the morning until now, near sunset, when they were bundling up their tools to begin the trek home, he had toiled unflaggingly. When the laborers had paused for their noon meal, John had settled into the grass with them, swilling great drafts of ale. He regaled the men with ribald stories and sent the women into storms of giggles as he flirted with young and old alike.

Catherine realized that he genuinely enjoyed the camaraderie. Had he really been a soldier? she wondered. It scarcely seemed a profitable career for a self-aggrandizing rogue. Later that night, she found herself again pondering his motives. There was no doubt he had tired himself today. Yet, after dinner, he spent a good two hours reading to Grandmama from a book of rather mawkish poetry by Thomas Chatterton, simply because her rheumatism was fretting her. She was sure, though she did not understand how she knew, that his solicitude was not feigned.

She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. She was tired as well, pleasantly so after her day in the sun-warmed fields. Mariah, too, looked as though she would like to make an early night of it. Her cousin did not take an active part in the harvest activities, but usually took the opportunity to give the house a good turnout. She had spent the day supervising a thorough cleaning of all the chandeliers in the place—a formidable task.

Catherine was not surprised when, shortly after ten o’clock, Grandmama declared herself” ready for bed. John rose with what seemed to Catherine a suspicious alacrity to help the old lady to her feet. Mariah yawned and announced that she, too, would retire. Catherine, nothing loathe, followed the two women from the room, observing as she did so that John was also moving toward the stairs. He laughed at her questioning glance.

“Yes, I am going to seek my rest as well. I’m sure that if I were a few years younger, I could keep up with the laborers in the field all day and still while away the better part of the night in a tavern, but being stricken in years, I can feel every stroke of the scythe. Tomorrow, I shall be stiff as a pike.”

Catherine nodded sedately, and bidding him a polite good night, began to ascend the stairs. On an impulse, however, she stopped abruptly, causing John, who was behind her to bump into her. She laughed self-consciously.

“I—I just wanted to say thank you.” At the questioning lift of his brows, she continued hastily, “For your work in the fields and—and for spending your evening reading to Grandmama. I know you cannot have enjoyed such an interminable length of time with Thomas Chatterton, for I recall your saying he is among your least favorite poets. It—it was kind of you to give Grandmama such pleasure when she is so uncomfortable.”

John’s brows flew into his hairline. “Kind? My dear Catherine, you have not known me for very long, but surely our acquaintanceship is of long enough duration for you to know that I rarely do anything out of kindness. As it happened, Chatterton fit precisely into my mood tonight, I wished nothing more than to lull myself into a stupor with soporific verse prior to falling into bed for a hard-earned slumber.”

She smiled tentatively. “Mmm, I somehow find that hard to believe—that you do nothing out of kindness.” The smile dropped from her lips at his next words.

“Believe it,” he said in the sharpest voice she had yet heard him use. His expression phased quickly into one of light mockery. “Kindness is simply too fatiguing, I’ve found, and so utterly profitless. There, I’ve shocked you,” he added. “I shall amend my statement. I try to repay a kindness, of course, for a gentleman always pays his debts, but...”

“But the word ‘altruism’ is unknown to you,” she finished.

“Completely foreign.”

“Mmm,” she replied skeptically, thinking of his blind rush into that little shack to rescue her and Silk. What an odd gentleman, to be sure. Most people tended to claim benign natures undeservedly. Here was someone who denied having one. Heretofore, she had suspected him of using his charm for his own ends, and she still believed this to be true. However, perhaps he was deliberately painting himself worse than he was. Why he should wish to do so was beyond her, unless— unless, he did not realize he was doing so.

The thought startled her, and she fell silent for a moment. At the top of the stairs, she turned to bid John good night once again, only to find that he had availed himself of her hand. She knew an urge to wrench it from his grasp, but realizing that this would make her look singularly foolish, she contented herself with a frigid stare.

To her surprise, he shifted awkwardly. “I—I believe I misspoke myself just now. I did not mean that I do not appreciate the kindness you have shown me. It is my good fortune to find myself in your household, Catherine, and I shall try not to abuse your trust.”

As though aware of the peculiarity of what he had just said, John bent over her hand and brushed her fingers with his lips. With a small, almost shy smile, he turned on his heel and moved away down the corridor, leaving Catherine to stare after him.

Upon reaching his bedchamber, Justin closed the door behind him and leaned against it, breathing as heavily as though he’d just escaped the furies of hell. Lord, how had he come to make such a complete ass of himself? Perhaps, he reflected as he wiped his forehead, because never before had he undergone such a complete upheaval of emotion as he had climbing that single flight of stairs.

He had been taken aback at Catherine’s expression of gratitude, for he knew it was completely undeserved. He did not understand the instinct that had surged within him to give her such a disgust of him that she would be under no further illusions as to his character. This, after he had spent the better part of his stay so far ingratiating himself with her. He had thought himself undone after his blatant attempt on her virtue only a few night before. He counted himself lucky he hadn’t been driven from the portals of Winter’s Keep with a fiery sword.

However, he had apparently redeemed himself with his attentions to Lady Jane. And the cream of the jest was that his ministrations to the old lady had been performed without a thought to the main chance. He simply liked her. He supposed it was because she reminded him of his Aunt Mowbry, one of only a few of his relatives who did not agree with his father and brother that he was a disgrace to the family name.

He moved across the room and, drawing forth the disreputable ensemble he had placed under his mattress, began to change his clothes. He stretched his aching muscles. Lord, he didn’t feel like a ride into London tonight, but he’d made an appointment with Jack Nail and he’d better keep it. He was eager to discover if his associate had come up with any information of value, and it was time to initiate contact with Jerry Church. In addition, it was time to pay another visit to Charles, who would by now think he had dropped off the edge of the world.

In her own chamber, having prepared for bed, Catherine dismissed her maid. She did not immediately seek her rest, but remained standing by her window for some moments. It was a lovely night. The scent of the shocked hay drifted across the park, blending with that of the ripening oats and rye from farther afield. The stars hung, huge and liquid in the sky, while a crescent moon sailed delicately across the tops of the trees. For a moment, she felt part of the night, as though she might take wing and soar into the filigree of clouds that cast lacy patterns on the grass below. Leaning against the window’s velvet hangings, she inhaled deeply, absorbing the sounds of crickets chirping and the hoot of a distant owl. Suddenly, a wave of yearning swept over her, a wanting for she knew not what.

She knew she was being ridiculous. She had everything she needed. She had family and friends to love and who loved her in return. What more could anyone want? The embrace of a man? How absurd. She’d had that and found it sorely wanting. She turned away from the window abruptly. Climbing into bed, she thumped her pillow, but before she could sink into it, a sound from the corridor caught her attention.

She frowned. It was merely a creaking—probably the house settling in for the night—however, thoughts of her grandmother and the restless nights she sometimes endured pulled her from the bed. Opening the door cautiously, she peered into the corridor, but saw nothing. Another soft creak, this one from farther away, drew her toward the stairs, and she reached them just in time to observe a dark Figure move swiftly from the hall below to the back of the house.

She darted back to her room and ran back to the window. Yes, there—just below her, emerging from the kitchen exit, was a man. He was dressed in dark clothes and moved so silently that she might almost have thought she imagined his shadowy progress. A few minutes later, she observed a horse and rider gliding across the landscape, disappearing at last into the path that led away from the house to the outside world.

What the devil? Only one explanation for this extremely odd situation occurred to her, and without thought she hurried to John Smith’s bedchamber. When there was no response to her soft knock, she entered the room. It was empty. Moonlight slanted across bedcovers that had not been disturbed.