LoverforRansom (5 page)

She’d dragged her chair to the window, where she’d eaten her
entire meal, observing the newcomers and the horses. Ransom’s father was not
nearly as tall as his son, but was impressive nonetheless. He’d picked Mrs.
Byrne up and spun her around, causing her hoops and skirts to billow before
returning her to her feet. Rather than whirl Jenny about, he lifted her into
his arms and pressed a warm kiss to her cheek.

As Jenny presented her dog, Cathleen heard her name
mentioned. Fearing retribution, she held her breath until Mr. Byrne smiled and
rubbed the dog’s head. Even from here, Cathleen could read the surprise and
shock on his face at his daughter’s exuberance.

Once greetings had been exchanged, Ransom and Morris Hunt
began walking the horses toward the stables. Hunt was every inch as broad as
Ransom but did not possess his height. He walked with a swagger and wore a
tan-colored slouch hat that dipped on one side. His clothes, though covered in
road dust, were fine and had been tailored to fit him.

At his father’s side, Charles proudly led one of the horses.
Ransom and Morris Hunt seemed to be easy with one another. Smiles flashed and
laughter drifted up to her open window.

When finally some of the commotion outside had died down,
Cathleen kneeled on the braided rug and opened her trunk. Stashed in a drawer
were several pamphlets she’d brought to distribute to women in the town. She
withdrew one and re-familiarized herself with the tenets on the page.

Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony had penned most
of the material themselves. Mrs. Stanton had studied the works of famed
abolitionist and feminist Sarah Grimké. But whereas Grimké maintained that
women and men were of equal intelligence and made by God to be partners,
Stanton furthered the argument by adding that women deserved the right to vote.

Other feminists refused to marry and espoused the idea of
free
love
. Cathleen wasn’t sure what she thought about the idea of sex without
marriage. For her, the opportunity had never arisen. She wasn’t the sort of
woman who inspired lustful thoughts in men and she, better than anyone,
realized that.

Stanton had married, but refused to be called Mrs. Henry
Stanton instead of simply Mrs. Cady Stanton. While there were those who
grumbled about her radical ideas, the terminology of what she preferred to be
called was hardly the promotion of a radical theory such as free love. Oh, Mrs.
Stanton quietly supported the concept, but kept quiet about it publicly to gain
more support for her suffrage movement.

Cathleen swallowed thickly as she envisioned giving herself
to a man—to Ransom Byrne—without the bonds of matrimony and without societal
condemnation. Warmth infused her loins and throbbed between her legs in that
spot that had only ever known her own illicit touch.

The pamphlets slipped from her fingers and, eyes closed, she
sat heavily and allowed her imagination to run free. She’d only known the man a
scant two days, but he looked
capable
of pleasing a woman. Very capable.
He looked as if he not only possessed the skills to bring a woman pleasure,
would also take pride in excelling in the feat.

Earlier, after Ransom had retired to the old house, Jenny
had not offered any further commentary on the Widow Bostick. But Cathleen could
imagine the type of woman who’d wear so much cologne.

Cathleen thought of him with the faceless widow. How did
their trysts happen? Did they chat first? Or did passion reign supreme and turn
him into an untamable beast who ripped away the widow’s clothes to have his way
with her?

Heat crept into the back of her neck as she imagined his big
hands tearing away her own clothes. Perspiration beaded between her breasts and
she wondered how it would feel to have his tongue tracing between them. Her
nipples tightened against her stays and that unceasing pulse between her thighs
drove her to the edge of insanity.

Desire threw her into a state of confusion. She’d never been
kissed. But oh, she could fantasize about how his lips would feel against hers.
She squeezed her thighs together and whimpered at the jolt of pleasure that
emanated from her sex.

A door slammed somewhere downstairs and she opened her eyes
with a start and forced herself to think about the task at hand. She blinked
away taboo daydreams about a man who would subject her to the degradation of
being beholden to him.

Soon, she would begin to educate these Southern women. Maybe
even the Widow Bostick would be included. At any rate, they would learn and
soon realize they should seize the right to vote before black men were afforded
the privilege and stood alongside their white brothers in solidarity against
women of all colors.

Well, she thought wryly. With a little knowledge these
women’s opinions would change. She’d see to that.

* * * * *

Just as Cathleen had predicted—and in spite of Aunt Chloe’s
grumblings—the dog curled up in the bed next to Jenny and the child slept
soundly.

There’d been so much fuss made over the elder Mr. Byrne’s
return that Cathleen had not been able to concentrate on her reading. She’d
found that the lamp in the parlor radiated the best light and with everyone
asleep, no one would mind if she ventured down to take in a chapter or maybe
three of
The Homes of the New World
by Swedish feminist Fredrika Bremer.

Clad in her nightrail and robe and with her hair loose about
her shoulders, Cathleen tucked her book under one arm. Clutching her reading
glasses firmly in her other hand, she tiptoed down the unending staircase,
before making her way through the shadowy expanse of the hall to the front
parlor. The grandfather clock’s sonorous ticking echoed through the quiet
house.

Accustomed to the dark, Cathleen put her book on the settee,
donned her glasses then removed the chimney from the lamp on the marble-topped
end table. She’d noticed earlier that the scissors to trim the wick were kept
in the table’s drawer, so she retrieved them and angled the wick into a point
so it would give off the brightest flame. She opened the tin matchsafe and
struck a match on the grate. It flared to life in a puff of sulfur. Cathleen
wrinkled her nose against the acrid stench as she held the match to the wick
until it lit.

The bright glow illuminated most of the massive parlor,
casting the corners in even deeper shadow. Cathleen returned the globe,
adjusted the height of the wick and then positioned the lamp as close to the
settee as she could. Normally, she read braille books at night, but she’d only
had space in her trunk for the teaching materials in braille she’d brought for
Jenny.

Opening her book, she leaned close to the light and, finding
the place where she’d left off the day before, she began to read. After several
minutes, her eyes began to ache and burn. She blinked and then went back to the
passage.

“You’re sitting so close to that light, you’ll catch the
whole place on fire.”

Cathleen gasped. Her head shot up, her ears recognizing
Ransom Byrne’s voice before her eyes brought him into focus. He formed out of
the shadows like a specter as he stepped into the light. Cathleen’s hand flew
to her pounding heart. “Mr. Byrne, you startled me.”

“Did I?” he asked in a voice far softer than she thought him
capable of possessing. “I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t sleep and came to retrieve
a book.” He gestured toward the bookcase. “And by the way,” he added. “I’m not
one for pretense. My father is Mr. Byrne. Please, call me Ransom.”

Clad in his snug-fitting dark trousers, boots and a white
shirt with rolled-up sleeves, he obviously hadn’t expected to find anyone
awake. But even in a state of amused surprise, the man oozed power. There was
something raw about him that made her mouth go dry. His features held just the
hint of a mischievous smile that caused something sinful to unfurl and spread
through Cathleen’s body. Her gaze followed the pull of his suspenders as they
delineated broad shoulders and the expanse of his flat chest.

Cathleen wet her parched lips with the tip of her tongue.
“That would hardly seem proper.”

“Proper,” he scoffed and waved his hand in dismissal. His
gaze fixed on her. Hard. “I’d prefer it.”

How was she to respond? She debated offering her nickname,
Catie, but it seemed presumptuous and scandalously intimate. Instead, she gave
him a slight nod. The idea of uttering his Christian name aloud made her
stomach flutter. In spite of what he requested, she would be mortified to do
so.

After laying her book on her lap, she removed her glasses
and rubbed her tired eyes. When she opened them, she discovered Mr. Byr—
Ransom
bending to take the book. She swallowed thickly. Her thin cotton gown and robe
proved no barrier against the heat from his hand as the backs of his fingers
moved across her legs. She froze, terrified to move, to even breathe as he
lifted the book and sat in the chair at the corner of the settee.

“What are you reading?” he asked, even as he turned the
volume over to glance at the title.

“A collection of essays by Fredrika Bremer.”

One dark eyebrow lifted in question. “I’m not familiar with
her.” He eased back in the chair, letting his legs sprawl comfortably.

Cathleen scooted her own feet back lest her shins come in
contact with his calves. Her heart hadn’t stopped trying to drum its way out of
her chest and her body throbbed in places she’d never thought possible. She
became terribly self-conscious. Her hair was loose. She’d taken off her stays
long ago and every breath made her painfully aware of the way her bare nipple
brushed against the cotton.

His gaze lifted and glided over her as smoothly as a summer
breeze over a millpond. The way he looked at her left her feeling exposed, as
if he’d happened upon her in a moment of dishabille. She resisted the
temptation to smooth her hair or to draw the lapels of her robe closer about
her chest. Her toes curled in her slippers, the tension not leaving her until
his stare fell upon the page once more.

He began to read aloud. “When will women perceive that, if they
would worthily take a place in the forum, they must come forth with the dignity
and power of the being who has new and mighty truths to enunciate and
represent? They must feel and speak from the center of the sphere of women. Not
all the good nature…” He stopped reading and grimaced. “What is this dusty tome
about anyway?”

“It’s about Miss Bremer’s travels in America. She’s quite a
sensation in her home country of Sweden.”

Again, he raised an eyebrow, but Cathleen could tell he was
not impressed.

“She, like my friends Mrs. Stanton and Miss Anthony, are
working to secure equality for womankind,” Cathleen added, then awaited his
response—which she was sure would be tart with vinegar.

“Don’t you ever read anything for pleasure?”

She toyed with the earpieces of her glasses, her mind fixed
on the way his velvety drawl had played havoc with the word
pleasure
.
She cleared her throat. “There are far too many important things to read to
waste my poor eyesight on frivolities, Mr. Byrne.”

He closed her book, set it on the table and stood. Cathleen
flinched as his leg brushed hers when he passed on his way to the bookcase. He
opened it and pressed his fingertip to his lips in thought as he perused its
contents.

Cathleen studied his casual stance. His weight shifted to
one leg and his head cocked to the side. He looked back at her, stared so long
it made her insides quiver and then turned back to the collection and removed a
slender book from the shelf.

“I shall read to you then,” he said with a smile and he
returned to his chair. “To protect your poor eyesight from…frivolities.”

Cathleen gulped as his long fingers opened the book and he
thumbed through the pages. It looked like a child’s volume in his hands and she
couldn’t help but wonder what he’d chosen.

“Ah, here,” he said, placing his elbow casually on the
armrest of his chair to hold the book at a comfortable height. “It was many and
many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea, that a maiden lived there that you
may know by the name of Annabel Lee.”

Edgar Allan Poe. Of course she was familiar with the famed
Baltimore author. But she’d read his works in braille, and certainly had never
heard them read aloud by a man with such a hauntingly husky voice. This
night—this moment, with the clock’s pendulum ticking off the seconds in time
with the poem’s meter and the flickering glow of the lamp—seemed to be made for
the dark, beautifully macabre poem about a woman who’d died before her time.

“For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams of the
beautiful Annabel Lee,” Ransom continued.

Cathleen closed her eyes, picturing a pair of young lovers
walking hand in hand on a stormy beach. Ransom’s voice transported her and she
felt the anguish of the author who’d lost his love only to find himself
frequented by her ghost.

“And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side, of my
darling—my darling—my life and my bride, in the sepulcher there by the sea, in
her tomb by the sounding sea.”

Eyes still closed, Cathleen sat in the stillness, absorbing
the song contained in the words. When her lashes fluttered open, she was
surprised at the tear that traced down her cheek. Blushing, she swept it away.
“Very nice, Mr. Byrne.”

He raised his eyebrows in mock warning.

She giggled.
She actually giggled.
Closing her eyes
for a split second, she struggled to compose herself. She was acting like a
bashful schoolgirl. “Ransom,” she corrected, her voice but a breath.

In that instant, something had suddenly changed between them
and she was at a loss to decipher it.

Staring, he inhaled. “With your hair loose, you reminded me
of the woman in that poem.”