The Huntress (32 page)

“Before I knew what was happening, I had tumbled into bed with her, forgetting my love for Miri, my purpose for being there, forgetting everything except for the lust Cassandra aroused.”

Martin hung his head and concluded hoarsely, “After I left the inn that night, I remember falling to my knees, heaving my guts. I felt so—so tainted. It was a long time after before I could even look Miri in the eyes, let alone touch her.”

It was a humiliating confession for any man to make. Martin had never spoken about what had happened that night, even to Miri. He could not imagine how Cat had induced him to open up to her.

She should have had nothing but scorn for his weakness, but she wrapped her arms about him from behind, her voice as warm as her touch.

“Martin, I have known a great many daughters of the earth capable of brewing up a potion or perfume capable of seducing a man. I admit I used to think nothing of it. I was so bitter after Rory O’Meara broke faith with me; I used to say, ‘Bah! Let men look to themselves.’ But it is as wrong for a woman to take advantage of a man as it is the other way round.”

Martin shifted to face her and found her fierce blue eyes soft with understanding and compassion. The kiss that he brushed against her lips was as filled with gratitude as it was tenderness.

Much as he hated to admit it, Cat was right. It had helped to let go of some of those poisonous memories even if he had not been able to be completely honest with Cat. There was still one fear regarding Cassandra and his daughter that lingered to haunt him, a fear so great he could scarce acknowledge it to himself.

He pulled Cat into his arms and tumbled her back down onto the mattress. Their lips met in a kiss rife with warmth and passion until Martin was suddenly struck by something she had said.

Poised over her, he drew back to demand, “Who the devil is Rory O’Meara?”

“No one. A lad I once knew.”

She sought to distract him with another kiss, but Martin reared back. “That is hardly fair. I have shared all my darkest secrets with you.”

“Life
is
unfair,” she replied saucily, curling her fingers in his chest hair. “Has no one taught you that by now?”

“I learned enough to get what I want. By fair means or foul.”

Pinning her to the mattress, he dug his fingers in her ribs, subjecting her to a merciless tickling. Cat writhed, pummeling his arms and choking with laughter.

“All right, stop it, you French fiend,” she gasped. “I’ll tell you.”

When he ceased, she glared up at him. Ignoring her ferocious scowl, he kissed the bridge of her nose.

“Rory was my stepfather’s nephew,” she said reluctantly. “The tanist of the O’Meara clan.”

“Tanist?”

“It is a title bestowed on the heir apparent, the man who will eventually become the next chieftain, like the prince of his clan, and Rory seemed every bit the prince to me. He was sinfully handsome with his burnished red hair, blue eyes, and broad shoulders. All the lasses were mad about him.”

When Cat actually sighed at the memory, Martin frowned. “How strange. I’ve already taken a decided dislike to the man.”

Cat laughed, but her smile took on a rueful quality. “I never thought Rory would look twice at the likes of me with so many beautiful lasses swarming over him, much more feminine and graceful.

“And
taller,
” she added. “And yet the spring I turned fifteen he did notice me. It—it was like a miracle the first time he smiled at me. As though all the rest of the world fell away, all the misery, the slights and scorn I experienced in my stepfather’s household faded to nothing.”

Martin’s frown deepened, his dislike for this
prince
of Cat’s memory escalating to loathing. Maybe he didn’t want to hear anything more about Rory O’Meara.

But when Cat paused, he said, “Go on.”

“I was completely smitten with him. And he was charming enough to make me believe he loved me. I surrendered my virginity to him on a warm spring night in a field of heather.”

Her blue eyes clouded, and she shifted her head upon the mattress in an effort to avert her face. “After Rory got what he wanted from me, he scarce looked back. It is not a new tale, the same pathetic story that has befallen many a foolish maiden.”

Her lips tightened with self-disgust. “I thought I would have been far wiser than that. Within a week of bedding me, Rory plighted his troth to the daughter of the chieftain of a neighboring clan, a pretty plump creature far softer than my bony self and possessed of more wealth and importance.”

Cat hunched her shoulder in a slight shrug as though the matter were of no consequence. But when Martin caught her chin, obliging her to look at him, he could see the hurt girl in the woman’s eyes.

Martin brought one of her hands to his lips, kissing her fingertips. “So the villain broke your heart. I’d like to set sail for Ireland tomorrow and break his head.”

“That would be ill-advised. The last I heard of Rory he had become the chieftain of the clan when my stepfather died. Like most of the Irish, the O’Mearas can be a vengeful lot when their chief is threatened.”

She tipped up her chin proudly. “Besides, I don’t need you to break his head. What fun would that be? I’d prefer to do it myself.”

Cat’s lips tilted in a feline smile. “In fact, that is exactly what I did.”

Martin chuckled. “Ah,
ma petite chatte.
I should have guessed as much.”

“It was my gift to Rory on his wedding day, a good hard punch that broke his nose. My mother swooned from shame at my behavior and my stepfather soundly beat me for it. I didn’t care. It was worth it. By the time my aching back had healed, I never spared Rory another thought.”

“Truly?” Martin asked skeptically.

She regarded him with a sad smile. “Hearts don’t break, Martin. They just bruise a little. I learned to be more cautious.”

“So cautious you closed yourself off to other men ever since.”

“I have had other lovers.”

“But you never allowed yourself to take any risks again, indulge in that kind of love that transports you above the earth, consumes your entire being.”

Cat gave a scornful sniff. “You mean the way that you were with Miri Cheney.”

“After what happened with Cassandra, I hardly felt fit to touch Miri’s boots. But yes, I did spend years striving to be worthy of Miri.”

“Are you saying that during all that time you remained celibate?”

“Well…no. My travels and duties to the king of Navarre often took me far from Miri’s side. Occasionally, I had to indulge the lustier side of my nature, but that had nothing to do with my adoration of Miri.”

Cat’s sudden lunge caught him off guard. She shoved him onto his back and loomed over him with a look of fierce reproof.

“Do you know the trouble with you, Martin le Loup?”

“No.” Martin sighed. “But I feel certain you are about to tell me.”

“You view love as this exalted thing, worshipping the woman of your affections as though she were some distant star.” Cat punched her fist in the air in a frustrated gesture. “You need a woman who knows how to get right down there, thick in the muck of life, sweating and fighting alongside you, the two of you looking out for each other, nurturing and—and protecting.”

“And I suppose this romantic vision of yours includes two warm bodies rubbing together for their mutual benefit?” Martin asked with a sardonic lift of one brow.

“Yes, that is most certainly a part of it.”

“What about two hearts and souls touching as well?
La grande passion?
You don’t believe in that?” he demanded.

Cat rolled off of him. “I suppose it happens, but it is as rare as that comet streaking across the sky. All I am saying is, the next time you see Lady Danvers, instead of assaulting her with elegant speeches, you—you should grab her and kiss her like there is no tomorrow. Or you may well spend the next ten years courting her.”

Cat flung herself out of bed and strode over to the fire. She yanked on her breeches and started to get dressed.

Martin remained flat on his back for a moment, feeling stunned. Never in all of the times he had pleasured a woman had he ever had one leave his bed and bluntly order him to go make love to someone else.

He jerked upright, seething to tell Cat what she could do with her advice. There was only one woman in the world he wanted to kiss and that was the stubborn, infuriating redheaded sprite jamming herself back into his breeches.

Because he loved her.

Mon Dieu. Martin’s breath stilled, his anger fading before the staggering realization.

He…he loved Cat. What an idiot he was not to have figured it out sooner. She was the last sort of woman in the world he would have ever expected to seize hold of his heart this way. Strong, tough, too infernally independent and proud for her own good.

But when Cat revealed the gentler, more tender side of her nature, she left a man feeling as though he had been entrusted with a most precious gift.

Never had Martin known any woman so capable of infuriating him one moment, then arousing him the next. Watching her dress, the supple curves of her body bathed in firelight, was enough to get him hard all over again.

But what he felt for her was far more than mere desire. He could be himself with Cat, tell her anything, bare all his own weaknesses, with no need to pretend, no fear she would find him less of a man.

He loved Catriona O’Hanlon and Martin’s first impulse was to leap out of bed, seize her in his arms, and tell her so. He was checked by one thought.

She would never believe him. Why should she, after watching him court Jane Danvers all this while, after listening to him spout his adoration of Miri? She would think him a romantic fool who bandied about the word
love
with little restraint and she’d be right.

How could he convince her that what he felt for her was more real than anything he had ever known in his life? He couldn’t and he didn’t have the right to try.

He still had his daughter to consider. All Cat wanted to do was return to Faire Isle, a place of all those strange mystical associations he had to banish from Meg’s life. If Martin had any doubt of that, his recollections of Cassandra tonight were a bitter reminder.

Cat paused in lacing up her shirt long enough to cast him an impatient look. “The rain has stopped. We have to go.”

Martin nodded and levered himself out of bed. After his nightmarish interlude with Cassandra, he had come to loathe storms. Never had he thought to feel so bleak to see one come to an end.

T
HE GENTLEMAN USHER ALLOWED
W
ALSINGHAM TO PASS INTO
the queen’s inner sanctum, a privilege few were accorded, especially at such a late hour.

Like Walsingham himself, the queen was noted for laboring over reports and matters of state far into the night, the only person in the kingdom whose stamina rivaled his own.

But the queen was not at her desk as usual. Only a few candles were burning, the maids of honor huddled together, speaking in nervous whispers.

Walsingham could well imagine the state of the queen’s temper ever since she had read the translation of Mary Stuart’s infamous letter.

But it was difficult to gauge Her Majesty’s present mood. She had her back to him, her tall slender form swallowed up by the shadows near the window. Walsingham could make out little beyond the red gleam of her hair, the sharp outline of her profile as she stared outward, studying the night sky.

The storm had passed over; the clouds had dispersed enough to reveal a pale sliver of moon, the ominous streak of the comet.

Although her courtiers repeatedly begged her not to tempt fate by looking at the strange phenomenon, it was typical of Elizabeth’s defiance and courage that she persisted in gazing at the comet so boldly.

The stiffening of her shoulders told Walsingham she was well aware of his presence, but she refused to acknowledge him.

“Your Majesty,” he murmured, kneeling stiffly before her.

Still she avoided receiving him and Walsingham knew full well why. Elizabeth was mistress of the arts of procrastination and delay, a policy that served her well in many instances, but it would no longer do so in the matter of the Queen of Scots.

For her good, for the good of the realm, he had to make her see that and face the grim task ahead of her.

The queen’s voice came softly at last, “Have you heard the latest from Rome?”

Sir Francis shifted uncomfortably on his aching knees.

“No, Your Grace.”

“The Pope is thinking of issuing another bull of excommunication.”

“Against whom?”

“Not
whom.
Against what. His holiness plans to excommunicate the comet. Do you not find that both amusing and astonishing?”

“Nothing could astonish me regarding the superstitious folly of the papists.”

“It might be a good thing. If it focuses the attention of my enemies on finding a way to destroy the comet, perhaps they might for a while forget about destroying me.”

She flicked an impatient glance his way before turning back to the window. “Get up, before you wear out your knees, old Moor.”