Catch Me If You Can (2 page)

Chapter One

The Hunter Arrives

Sussex, England, 1896

Peter Rivers wafted his well-thumbed edition of
The Times
to stir the air while he observed the view from the carriage. The countryside rolled out on either side in a carpet of green and gold. It was late summer and the air was heavy with the scent of freshly cut hay.

It was Peter Rivers’ first visit to England. He anticipated most of all their onward continental travels for his heritage was French, but he’d found England a most agreeable place thus far. London reminded him of the hustle and bustle of one of the burgeoning American mid-west cities. Once they left the capital’s chaotic streets behind it was clear the villages were dotted about the countryside in average sizes to one another. In parts of America, one could travel for days without seeing another settlement, then find oneself on the edge of a sprawling city thrown up during the gold rush, the coal or the timber trade. Here on the Sussex Downs, where the landscape undulated gently toward the southern English coast, it was different.

Frieda Craven – his employer, who he currently accompanied on her travels – had commented on it, comparing the sights along their route to that which was more familiar to them, now far away in California.

“We near our destination,” he pointed out, as they passed another milestone. They had traveled some forty miles from the capital and the village of Fossett was one mile onward. They would reach the Craven Estate within the hour.

“Yes, we do,” murmured his companion.

Rivers rested his head back on the upholstered seat. The carriage was mercifully well built and the horses sound. The prestigious black and yellow liveries reflected the colors of the Craven crest proudly decorated the doors. Their host had ensured the carriage was at their disposal throughout their visit.

Rivers observed Frieda across the carriage. Her eyes were bright and her fingers occasionally fluttered in her lap. Rivers enjoyed the company of his employer and it pleased him to see anticipation in her expression. During their journey she’d been the perfect companion, engaging in many of the pastimes offered aboard ship, from cribbage to shuffleboard. Their train journey from Southampton to London and their five days seeing the sights in the city itself had quietened her somewhat, and Rivers watched the changes in her mood with interest. The meeting with James Craven, their host, was plainly one she looked forward to. There was a sparkle in her eyes. He’d never seen her this way before and was intrigued by the normally serene widow’s transformation.

Three years he’d known her. During that time he’d overseen her estates in the Napa valley they had gradually assumed a more casual relationship, akin to that of nephew and aunt, and he was fond of his employer. It was rewarding to witness the sparkle of anticipation in her eyes.

The two companions were on their way to visit Frieda’s brother in law. Rivers had always suspected she held a special place in her heart for James Craven. His letters always caused a fluttering in her temperament and a wistful expression lasted for many days. Rivers noted with pleasure how the possibility of
amour
could lend color and vivacity to even the most sedate of the female population. She certainly was a handsome woman, her appearance defying her fifty years.

With a sudden start Frieda leaned forward in her seat and drew his attention to a manor house ahead. It was a large building surrounded by old oaks. Not overly ostentatious, suggesting it was the home of a noble man, but not one of affectation or pretension, which rightly matched the manner and social standing of their host. Over the façade, rows of tall windows were evenly spaced, those on the lower floors outlined with sturdy rose bushes. Rose bushes also lined the broad promenades of the adjacent gardens.

The carriage drew to a halt outside a wide granite stairway that swept up to the entrance of the house. Servants were forming an orderly procession on the steps to welcome the guests. Within moments James Craven bypassed the retinue of servants in order to help them from the carriage himself. His necktie was loose and his half moon spectacles resting on the end of his nose, as if he’d been checking over the accounts until the moment they arrived.

As the door of the carriage opened, Rivers reached out and handed Frieda down. He allowed the two a few moments of reunion, before descending to join them.

“Ah, Rivers. Welcome, it’s good to see you again,” James said, turning from Frieda to greet him.

James had been instrumental in selecting Rivers for his post and there was understanding between the two men. James had visited the Californian estate after his brother’s death three years earlier to help Frieda to secure a good manager. Rivers firmly grasped the hand offered. James beamed at the two of them, his woolly graying sideburns framing his broad smile. “You are most welcome to our home.”

“I’m pleased to be here, Sir.” 

“Come, let us take some refreshment indoors.” 

Frieda and James were deep in conversation by the time they reached the parlor. It was a spacious room, littered with grouped easy chairs of differing designs, eclectic yet comfortable. A piano stood to one side of the fireplace and one wall was lined with bookshelves inset with a wide shelf at waist height, to allow the observer to open the books for perusal before selecting one with which to spend the evening. The ornaments and pictures decorating the walls spoke of travels in far-flung lands. A carved shield stood beside a collection of fearsome looking spears caught his eye. His host was clearly an intrepid explorer and an avid collector.

Rivers noticed Frieda and James had stationed themselves close to the large oak inset fireplace, as people tended to do, even in the height of summer the focal point of the room drew them close. He chose to sit off to one side in a winged armchair in order to view the grounds through the window.

Within moments a horse cantered into view.

Rivers leaned forward in his seat. It was a magnificent beast. The rider dismounted. A stable lad, he assumed. He quickly corrected the assumption, for it was a stable girl. The contours of a shapely rump within close-fitting breeches gave it away. Rivers smiled. The young woman wore men’s clothing, a shirt and riding breeches tucked into long boots. The shirt hung out of her belted waistband on one side, the thin cotton barely concealing the outline of her womanly form.

His inspection of the horse was replaced by an altogether more fascinating survey. The girl was a real beauty, despite the boyish attire. She had thick black hair clasped loosely at her nape. She soothed her mount with a sensitive, knowing hand. A sensuous country wench, he surmised.

She strode off, leading the horse by its rein.

Rivers sat back in the chair and wondered if he’d see the stable girl again during his visit. He considered himself a keen observer of human character. He particularly enjoyed observing women. They were very different creatures from men and he enjoyed discovering all the ways in which they differed. When an appealing character and the opportunity came his way, he enjoyed discovering them more intimately.

He was no casual seducer, but he’d proven himself a popular man with the ladies, despite his preponderance for being a loner and his reputation as something of a blackguard. His travel stories, hunting abilities, and extensive knowledge of wine production had gained him both good and bad attention, particularly over the past nine years since he’d left his family home. Along the way he took pleasure pursuing passionate women whilst carefully maintaining his desire to avoid matrimony.

The mention of his name drew his attention back into the room.

“Rivers has been patient during our journey. He’s keen to get to France and Italy to select vines for his new project. That is foremost in his mind at the moment,” Frieda gave a caring smile toward her friend and employee.

A frown passed across James’s face. “I hope you won’t be leaving us too soon. I’ve been anticipating this visit for some time.”  His expression softened and he drew Frieda’s hand to his lips. The gesture brought a flush to her angular cheekbones.

“Perhaps we might encourage you to join us in our onward travels, James?” She looked deep into his blue-grey eyes.

Rivers was about to conjure an excuse to leave them alone when footsteps and voices sounded in the corridor outside.

James turned toward the door. “Ah, that will be Eleanor.” 

Rivers’ eyebrows lifted. Surely it wasn’t Miss Craven who he’d spied from his seat by the window? His interest sharpened. Could it be that James Craven’s daughter dressed like a boy and traipsed about like some brazen country wench?

If so, he would shortly meet her.

No, he decided, for if it was his employer’s niece he’d seen, she would be both a sweet temptation and a forbidden fruit.

* * *

When Eleanor caught sight of the carriage, she hurried back to the house. The guests had already arrived. Tidying her hair and realigning her ribbon as she went, she chastised herself for letting the time slip by.

She’d been looking forward to meeting Frieda and hearing about life in America for months, if not years. She’d listened avidly to her father’s stories of his journey across America in the 1870s,  now she wanted to hear Frieda’s tale, a woman’s story, so that she could truly imagine herself heading west on the long adventure.

As she hastened into the parlor, her father rose from his seat. Frieda Craven was seated nearby. Eleanor beamed at the sight of her. Aunt Frieda was a strong handsome woman, her Germanic blood showing in the strong bone structure of her face, and the fair hair graying on her temples.

Eleanor gathered Frieda in a warm embrace. “Oh, Frieda, it is good to meet you at last. As I expected, you have the look of a real pioneer.” 

Frieda chuckled at her remark. “And you are even more beautiful than I expected you would be, is she not, Rivers?”

Eleanor hadn’t noticed the man in her hurry to meet Frieda. He stood off to one side watching the two women embrace, his brow lifted as if he was amused by something. She walked to him, her hand outstretched in greeting.

Tall and striking with angular features, he had glossy dark hair that fell to his shoulders in apparent abandon. His eyes verged on black, and they studied her intently as she crossed the room.

“Mr. Rivers, I presume.”

He accepted her outreached hand and raised it slowly to his lips.

The firm touch of his mouth on her skin sent a frisson of delight through her entire body.

“Please, call me Rivers. It is the name I go by.” He turned briefly to Frieda and added, “Indeed, Miss Craven is a most captivating young lady.” 

“Call me Eleanor, I insist. And why can’t we call you by your given name? We don’t follow archaic rules nor formal conventions in this house.”  

An amused smile swept across his face. “So I’ve noticed.”

Eleanor wondered if she’d embarrassed him by being so forthright.

“I prefer Rivers. It is merely personal preference,” he added, the smile in his expression lingering.

His voice was deep and husky, his accent capturing her attention immediately. “Ah, you consider yourself more river than rock, perhaps?”

His wry smile met her teasing one. “Perhaps.” 

The way he looked at her, with such direct intimacy, set her pulse racing. He was certainly a handsome man, with his sun-kissed skin and his broad shoulders. She returned his smile and took her seat, joining the housekeeper, Mrs. Bramley, in passing the tea dishes.

She chatted eagerly with Frieda, all the while aware of the dark and attractive man who looked on. He appeared mysterious and aloof and yet he watched her in a most insistent way. It made her skin tingle.

Why didn’t he join the conversation? He sat off to one side and watched the three from under hooded eyes. She wondered if he’d been surprised by her appearance. She often roved around in men’s riding breeches. The neighbors and villagers still blanched at the sight of her dressed in such unladylike and outrageous attire, riding astride her horse like a man. The household servants and the tenants were used to her ways. She expected Frieda to be a kindred soul who wouldn’t be embarrassed by her attire, but what of Mr. Rivers? Perhaps he was more proper in his ways.

Eleanor had scant knowledge of how Californian society might differ to their own. In their travels, she’d learnt never to assume customs were the same, or even similar, and one should endeavor to make those with different customs feel comfortable. However, as if in response to her thoughts, Rivers rose and took off his traveling coat, laying it on a nearby chair.

Eleanor couldn’t resist watching the movement of his broad chest and his long, lean limbs as he slipped the coat off. When he moved lithely across the room and seated himself nearer to them, she smiled in greeting.

Rivers returned the smile. Humor warmed his expression and graced his solid hawk-like features with a magnetic attraction.

A rush of butterflies loosed in the pit of her stomach.

He truly was a most handsome man.

Eleanor knew her meeting with Frieda was going to bring even more pleasure and interest than she’d expected, and not least from the presence of her handsome companion.