Dangerous to Hold (25 page)

When Marcus came to her room, she pleaded a headache. After one searching look, he crossed the hall to his own room and shut the door with a snap.

She allowed her maid to prepare her for bed, but as soon as she was alone, she rose and donned her warm robe. Just doing something, even if it was only pacing in front of her bed, had a steadying effect.

She tried not to dwell on her feelings for Marcus but it was impossible. She recognized, now, that in spite of Amy, in spite of everything, she had never stopped loving him. How was it possible to love a man she despised?

That was the trouble. She didn’t despise him. By slow degrees, she had come to admire him until she’d begun to doubt her own sister. She couldn’t believe that Marcus had ravished Amy. At the same time, she couldn’t believe that Amy would lie to her. She didn’t know what she believed.

She was going in circles. What she needed to do was think of a way out of a situation that had turned into a
nightmare. Her mission was over. She had to get out of here.

She moved to the window and looked out. Across the water meadows, the lights of the town winked back at her. There were moors out there, and the best riding to be had in three counties, if Tristram was to be believed. She longed to take out Vixen, and feel the wind in her hair as they galloped across the heath. She’d been shut in too long, a prisoner of the part she was playing.

She’d done her own discreet investigating of everyone’s whereabouts during the time she was walking on the ramparts. None of the men had an alibi, not even Tristram. His tutor, the chaplain, had been called away to the bedside of a dying parishioner. The gentlemen who’d gone out hunting had separated, and Marcus and David couldn’t account for anyone. Only Helen and Samantha could vouch for each other.

She’d then considered whether any of the servants could be involved, but they were all local people or they had been with the dowager for years. Nothing suspicious there. And of course, besides Marcus and herself, no one had ever set foot in Spain, or if they had, no one was saying anything. All of which brought her full circle. Who else would wish to harm her but Marcus?

She lay down on her bed to think things through, but only grew more confused. She must have dozed, for when she came to herself, her mind was as clear as a bell, and she knew exactly what she must do. She would make up an excuse to go to London and then confront Major Carruthers. They must take Marcus into their confidence, she would tell him, and
El Grande
must be brought into it too. They would lay all their cards on the table. She would tell them all about the accident. And—somehow—she would have to tell Marcus that she was really Catalina. Then, together, they could decide where to go from there.

Swiftly rising, she paced to the window. She ran her finger through her hair and lifted her face, imagining the sensation of galloping across the heath.

She stared out that window for a long time. Suddenly filled with resolve, she began to dress.

•  •  •

Marcus reined in, and his mount reared up, powerful forelegs pawing in the air for an instant, then he touched spurs to flanks and his horse shot forward. They took the hedge at full speed, with a disregard for the night conditions that would have been arrogant had Marcus not known every detail, every nook and cranny, every rock and boulder on that treacherous course. Both he and Tarquin had run this course many times before.

When they came to the top of a rise, the chestnut automatically veered to the left in a half circle. A touch on the reins brought his head up and he came to a quivering halt. Marcus looked out over the valley. On one side were the lights of the town; on the other side lay the castle, though there was little to be seen of it now that night had fallen. The way down led over the old stone bridge that crossed the Avon, then through dense woodlands and lush farmlands that now lay fallow. Behind him were the moors. This was his domain, his home. It was a good feeling.

On the lower slopes, two grooms astride prime Wrotham horses waited patiently till Marcus joined them. Beyond a greeting no other words were spoken. They were becoming used to their master’s odd penchant for riding out late at night. Marcus supposed they thought him either reckless or deranged or both, and they might well be right. All he knew was that unless he drove himself to the point of exhaustion, he would be awake half the night. Awake. Restless. And aching with unsated desire—a sad state of affairs for a man who was used to getting just about any woman he wanted.

He was experienced enough to know that he could have Catherine too. But that wasn’t what he wanted, not if he had to seduce her. He wanted her to come to him without regret. If he could find Catalina, he would divorce her tomorrow, or he would arrange for her to obtain a Scottish divorce. Cat knew all this and it made no difference. She had scruples and she would never take up with a married man.

The trouble was, though he respected her scruples, it
didn’t improve his temper. Frustration was riding him hard, making him cool and distant, making him find fault with her at every turn. He’d been furious at the article she’d written based on Penn, but when he’d had time to think about it, he realized that what he’d really been afraid of was that she saw him as a subject too. He didn’t so much care if she saw Penn as a subject, just as long as she saw him, Marcus Lytton, as a man.

The way she had responded to him tonight, when they’d waltzed together, had convinced him that he hadn’t been wrong about her. They’d made love on that dance floor, in front of a hundred people. She’d been pliant in his arms, and susceptible to his every move. His mind hadn’t been on dancing, but on bed, and she had known it too. The air between them had been charged with sexual energy. For a moment, he’d lost his bearings, and he was transported to the priest’s cell in that burned-out monastery in Spain. He remembered Catalina stopping in mid-sentence when he forgot to guard his expression, then a moment later, she would leave the room.

It bothered him, this confusion he sometimes experienced between Cat and Catalina. They were the only two women who had ever aroused that primitive side of his nature, making him want to reach out and take. Not that he would ever do such a thing. He might not be the most moral man in the world, but he had his code of honor. That was the difference between Cat and Catalina, too. The one was honorable, the other was a conniving little bitch.

Just thinking about Catalina made him angry all over again. His patience was running out. More than a month had passed since he had introduced Cat to society, first in London and now here in Wrotham. Not once had Catalina or
El Grande
tried to get word to him.

It was time to move on to the next step in his plan. Catherine, as Catalina, must lay claim to
El Grande’s
estates. He hadn’t thought everything through yet. They would work through lawyers so that she wouldn’t have to go to Spain. If that didn’t force Catalina and her brother into the open, he didn’t know what would.

He savored the cold blast of air that ruffled his hair. Tarquin danced beneath him, straining against the bit. Marcus laughed and slackened the reins, then horse and rider bounded forward. The grooms cursed under their breath and started after them.

Catherine made her way out of the castle without too much difficulty. There were still people coming and going, mainly tradespeople and servants, but in her serviceable garments, she blended in well, especially with the hood of her mantle half covering her face. If she was stopped at the gates, she would tell the porters that she was a village girl whose sweetheart was one of the temporary chefs especially brought in for the ball. Fortunately no one stopped her. No one even gave her a second stare.

She ran into trouble at the stable and kennel block. She’d expected it to be dark there, but when she turned the corner of the U-shaped building, she found that several outside lanterns were lit, and in the yard, beside a tethered horse, three men were arguing. Two of them were Tristram and Penn, the other was dressed in Wrotham livery—evidently one of the grooms. Catherine pressed into the shelter of a darkened doorway, debating what she should do next. As she watched, Penn went sprawling, and Tristram and the groom helped him to his feet. She realized Penn was highly intoxicated.

“Don’t want to go to m’bed,” Penn yelled, trying to shake himself free. “Want to go to the village. I’ve run out of brandy, damn you! Got to get another bottle. Smollet, you’re a damn tat … tall … informer, that’s what you are. I’ve a good mind to turn you off.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the groom respectfully.

Tristram’s voice was furious. “You should be thankful that Smollet refused to let you ride out. One of these days you’ll break your neck, not to mention the neck of a good horse.”

Supported by Tristram and the groom, Penn was half
carried, half dragged out of the yard. Catherine did not wait for them to come near her. She did an about-turn and quickly went down the length of the kennels, turned the corner and waited. The argument between Tristram and Penn had made the dogs restless. Now, as the men reached the kennels, the hounds broke out in an unholy uproar, dashing themselves against the gates of their wooden enclosure. They were still barking when the men moved off into the shadows.

For a long time after, Catherine remained motionless, her heart thundering against her ribs. Then, moving quickly and silently, she returned to the yard where the horse was tethered.

At her approach, the gelding lifted his head. He was a glossy black with ears pricked forward and nostrils flaring. His big black eyes were curious rather than wary. Catherine had the sense that he was weighing her up in much the same way that she was weighing him.

“You beauty,” she breathed. “You’re Tristram’s Charon, aren’t you? The Andalusian. Are you as good as he says you are?”

When she ran a hand along the long, smooth neck, the horse whinnied softly. Catherine checked the girth and tightened it. With a swift glance around, she swung into the saddle male-fashion. A slight pressure with her knees was obeyed instantly, and the horse moved off in a slow walk. A few paces took them out of the light and into the shelter of darkness. Behind them, the dogs continued to bark. It would be some time before the hounds settled, and some time yet before Smollet would return to check on Tristram’s horse. When he found Charon missing, she hoped he would conclude the horse had bolted when the dogs went wild. Later, when she returned to the castle and set the gelding free, the groom would presume the horse had found his own way back.

When she came to the water meadows, she pulled on the reins and turned her mount. On a gentle rise, she checked. A breeze ruffled the surface of the river, and the air smelled pristine pure and as cold as the moon that floated above them. In the distance glowed the lights of the village.

Charon was impatient with the delay. He stomped and pulled on the bit, dancing to the side when Catherine tried to restrain him. It was as if he were telling Catherine not to be so craven, that he was bold enough for the two of them.

She laughed as she felt the excitement begin to build in her. It seemed like an eon since she’d been mounted on a horse of Charon’s caliber. Muscles rippled and tensed, and she could feel the sheer power waiting to be released at her signal. He was hers to command. How could she resist?

She slackened the reins and let the Andalusian have his head. With a whinny of pure delight, or so it sounded to Catherine’s ears, he pranced and danced, then broke into a canter and finally lengthened his stride till they were soaring above the sward like swallows in flight.

There was no doubt in Catherine’s mind that Charon knew where he was going. In all probability, he and Tristram had made this ride many times. If it had been Penn’s horse, it would not have surprised her if the Andalusian had trotted into the courtyard of the Black Boar in Wrotham and deposited her outside the taproom door.

This thought again brought to mind the pitiful scene she had witnessed in the stable yard. Penn needed help, but she didn’t know how to help him. Nothing seemed to work with him. In her father’s case, he had finally stopped drinking when one of his patients, a young woman, had died. It hadn’t been his fault, but he had blamed himself. After that, he wouldn’t allow alcohol in the house.

Suddenly, without warning, a dark, silent shadow hurled itself toward them. Her response was quicker than conscious thought. She checked, gathered her mount, then touched her heels to his flanks. Beneath her, Charon bunched and strained, then soared effortlessly into the air.

“Damn! A hedge!” breathed Catherine, and she let out a shaky laugh. When Charon made a perfect landing on the other side, she pulled to a stop, then slowly turned to face the hurdle they had just cleared.

Though it was dark, there was enough light from the moon to make out shapes and shadows. She saw that
they had left the familiar bridle path and were following a parallel route. Obviously Tristram and his horse preferred a more hazardous course.