Three Weddings and a Murder (15 page)

Cat’s lady’s maid slipped in from another door. Jamie recognized the woman, but could not recall her name. Beneath her white cap, her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed into a hard scowl. She appeared ready to stomp across the room and slam the door in his face.

Once, he might have reprimanded the audacity of her disrespect. Now, irritation burned across his chest, but he did not react.

He knew the servant was no fool. She saw written on his face what he could not hide from his heart.

Ancient anger. The fire of ache. And the signs of an internal war.

Casting one last glance at his sleeping wife, he stepped back into his room and pulled the door closed.

T
HE
S
EPTEMBER DAY WAS LOVELY
, as was often the case in Nottinghamshire. Cat tried to focus on the sunshine and the work ahead of her rather than thoughts of her husband.

Three days and he had yet to seek her out. She did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved. She should be thinking of her future, of the plans she had created for herself. Plans that did not include the presence of the marquess. Despite the suddenness of Jamie’s return, and the boldness of his demand, nothing had changed.

Jamie’s lack of attention did not influence her toward wanting to start a family with him. She desired a child, but that child needed a father.

A large patch of Michaelmas daisies bloomed in the open plot between the Wentons’ and Rogers’s cottages. Bees hummed in the purple flowers, content to be busy on this fine day. Cat crossed the street to walk in the shade. Honey and sunshine and soft sounds invited a languidness she could ill afford. Already her blood moved in a slow rhythm, exhausted from the previous evening. She’d lain awake in the dark. Wondering if Jamie would visit. Telling herself she would not welcome him into her bed and imagining it all the same.

She was imagining it now.
Silly girl.
Cat took her pencil from her pocket and scribbled some rather useless ideas in her notebook. Really, she ought to pay better attention to the work around her. She wanted this cluster of cottages to be perfect for the families who would soon inhabit them. She wanted the children, a few of whom had spent years in the workhouses, to know sunlight and fresh air. The gardens would help their bodies to be healthful, while the open fields and trees to climb would repair their spirits.

These were not families who knew comfort, as she did. They knew work, and sickness, and hunger. And some of them, gaol.

In three years’ time, this end of the village would be full of life. The families would be healed and the flower boxes would be overflowing.

And Jamie, would he still be home?

Pushing the thought from her mind, she entered what would be the Warners’ cottage. The north-facing windows were particularly large and exposed to the street. Redford’s Mercantile had some new fabrics in stock that would make lovely drapes.

The deep blue velvet she had seen last week would be too formal for the cottage, but perfect for Jamie’s bedroom. The cool color suited him well. Especially his eyes, and the way they were set off by his darkened skin…

Work. Work was a good distraction.

Cat crossed to the windows and considered the spindly ladder lying against the bare wall. She’d never actually measured for drapes herself, but she’d watched the footmen do it. Surely it couldn’t be too hard. The laborers were busy repairing the chimney across the street, and she hated to bother them.

She dragged the tall ladder toward the windows and climbed the first rung. Nothing hard to it. Any independent-minded woman could do this work. She climbed near to the top and removed her measuring tape from her pocket. She held the end of the tape above the window and let the rest of it drop to the ground.

Dash it. This wouldn’t work, she could not read the numbers at the bottom of the window. Perhaps she should stand in the middle of the ladder.

She took a step down and froze as her dress pulled sharply against her throat and shoulders. Her skirts were caught beneath her boots. Just wonderful. She stepped up the ladder and freed the fabric. This time, as she descended, she kicked her skirts out wide. Still, her left foot managed to catch the hem of her riding habit.

This was silly.

She threw the measuring tape to the ground and grabbed as much fabric into her right hand as possible. Cool air rushed against her calves as she hoisted her skirts.

She took a precarious step down, but could go no further. Alas, it was not possible to descend a ladder without the use of two hands.

Footsteps sounded on the front porch.

“Oh good,” Cat called to the workman. “Can you please help…?”

Her voice trailed off as she felt a familiar shiver run up her spine. That was no workman watching her. It was her husband.

“My, my,” he drawled from the doorway.

Oh, buzzing and warmth and languid sunshine. It caught up to her regardless. Cat closed her eyes and felt the heat of his gaze on her back.

She could only imagine what he saw. Her lower legs were bare above her riding boots. And her drawers, should they be exposed, were frilled with lace at the bottom. Jamie had enjoyed extravagances like that, had bought her the most glorious undergarments the week after their wedding.

The sound of his footsteps drew nearer at a leisurely pace. She did not drop her skirts. She could not help it, she enjoyed his looking.

“I don’t know if I should admire you or call you to task.” His rough voice rubbed against her, sent gooseflesh skittering across her skin.

Strong hands wrapped around her waist and she opened her eyes. He was touching her. Framing her body with his long fingers. She was honey, shaped by a vessel. Fire, blazing within a ring of rocks. She was safe. Pouring out. Held together.

Jamie. Her Jamie.

“You can release the ladder now, Cat.”

But she didn’t let go. It was too long since she’d last been touched. Not the purposeful touch of her lady’s maid, or the quick buss on the cheek from a friend. But touched by a man. Touched so that the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as they were now.

He shifted his hands and spread his fingers wide, almost brushed the underside of her breasts. Her sharp inhale was loud in the silent room.

She opened her hand and let go, let herself fall back into him. Jamie slowly lowered her to the floor.

When he did not immediately release her, she stepped to the side. She did not want to give him this power over her. Not again. She dropped her skirts and squared her shoulders before she turned.

Attraction hummed between them, infinitely louder and hungrier than the honeybees. Jamie made no attempt to hide his arousal. His blue eyes were molten, his lids heavy. She struggled to hold his gaze before he let it slip down to her lips.

He was going to kiss her.

Cat stepped back and banged into the ladder. “Whatever are you doing in the village?”

His lips lifted into that dratted half smile. “Whatever are you doing, climbing a ladder?”

She slid to the side, needing more space from him. “Measuring for drapes. You?”

“Come to find you.” His eyes followed her escape. “You seem intent on avoiding me.”

Avoiding him? Cat opened her mouth to deny his accusation, but, in truth, she had been doing exactly that. Taking meals in her chamber, detouring around the rooms he seemed to frequent, and spending more and more time in the village.

It pleased her that he noticed this. She looked down and shook out her skirts so he would not see the flush heating her face.

“Why are you measuring for drapes?” Jamie collected her tape from the floor and handed it to her, then looked out onto the street. “And why is Abbey Lane overrun with workmen?”

His back was to her, so she allowed herself time to reply. She didn’t know how much she could trust Jamie with her plans for the village. Not that she thought he would object. Just…she didn’t want to be vulnerable to him. Not in the least.

“You have decided to renovate the village?” Shadows played beneath the hard angles of his face as he turned toward her.

“Yes.”

“Because it was…looking shabby?”

She drew back. “Do you think that would be my only concern?”

He glanced down at her legs. “You have always had an eye for pretty things.”

So he
had
seen the lace on her drawers.

Still, she was no longer the girl he knew her to be. It was true, in the past she might have worried about the cottages simply because they appeared disheveled. She would have renovated them to impress visitors approaching Forster Abbey. But that girl was gone. “You have been away a long time, Forster.”

His eyes searched her face. “It seems I have.”

Neither spoke for a wide stretch of time. At least not with words. Cat felt the subtle shift as her body reacquainted itself with his presence. As the skin knows the touch of sunshine, or the nose a familiar smell, so her form knew his. Blood, bones, muscle, even her heartbeat attuned to him. He was everywhere, within every part of her.

She did not like it.

“Where are the tenants?” His face was half light and half shadow as he stood before the window. “I thought the Thompsons inhabited this cottage.”

“They’ve moved to Nottingham.” How flattering that he could remember his tenants’ names, but not his simplest duty to his wife, such as a note to let her know he was still alive. “His sons needed employment.”

Jamie glanced at her from the corner of his eyes. Her skin prickled and her heart thumped. So dramatic, this reaction of her body to his body.

“I’d like to keep these cottages full with estate workers, as is tradition.”

Was he saying the families she had chosen were not welcome? For they did not include husbands and fathers. And she had a plan to employ the women and children outside of farming. “There simply isn’t enough work in the fields, not with the threshing machines.”

He tapped his fingers idly on the windowsill. “I am increasing the farming capacity of the estate and will soon be in a position to employ more men.”

Irritation pressed into her with insistent fists. If he had need for more homes, there were other empty cottages on the estate.

Indeed, Jamie acted as if he could come back after a five years’ absence and reclaim control of her world—her plans, her womb, her future. “How ambitious you are in your return, Lord Forster. So much plowing of new fields and increasing of crop yields.”

He slanted her a sharp look, his blue eyes intent on her.

I need an heir, Catherine.

Turning to face her, he leaned a shoulder against the window and took his time considering her. Considering the shape of her face, which she kept achingly impassive, then curve of her breast and waist where he had held her. He dragged his gaze back up to hers. “I’m a very ambitious man, Lady Forster.”

The sun beat through the window, but it did not rival the heat in her blood.

Desire. Its soft fingers threaded down her spine and ripened the flesh that would welcome his.

He shifted his weight onto one foot. They stood before the large window, visible to any villager or laborer who should look their way. She could not concern herself with their impression. Certainly it was well and clear what would be seen. There were bulls and mares in the field that considered each other thus.

It was not so rare a thing.

But neither was it without a subtle persuasion.

Jamie was already her husband. She knew the feel of him within her flesh, the pleasure he could give her. She knew what it was to gasp and tremble and ache and tumble over the precipice of desire together.

Lust was not an emotion that required forgiveness.

And lust did not keep a husband. Did not bind a father to his home.

She uprooted her feet and crossed the cottage, stopping only when she reached the door and the fresh air outside. She cast her husband as impartial a look as she could manage even as her limbs trembled and her blood screamed
NOW
.

“Do have a care, Forster. Untended fields have a predilection for thwarting a man’s designs.”

T
HAT NIGHT,
C
AT EYED HER BED
distastefully. It was a lovely contraption, covered in lavender silk shot through with silver. But it seemed torturous to consider another night spent tossing and turning within its confines.