Virginia Henley (40 page)

“There you are, Robert. Help me break down this door so I can go and ravish the little hellcat.”

“You devil! He’ll hear you and you don’t give a damn.”

“How well you know me.” He finally relented. “I’m only teasing, sweetheart. Good night.”

Cat went to sleep, thrilled that he’d called her sweetheart.

The next morning it was Robert who perched on the rail as he watched Patrick and Catherine lure the wild colts to their side. “When John sees these horses, he’ll be green with envy.”

“I’ll bring your brother a wild stallion when I return.”

“Before I leave today I should visit John and his family.”

“I’ll come with you.” Cat wanted to know Robert’s feelings about Hepburn’s suitability for marriage.

As the pair rode together to Hunsdon Grange, Catherine asked Robert, “Do you think Hepburn would make a good husband?”

“With the right woman,” he said carefully.

Cat raised her brows. “Could you explain what you mean?”

“He would be the master of his own household. Liz can wrap me around her little finger. I doubt if such feminine tactics would work on Hepburn; he’s far too dominant to be manipulated. He doesn’t have money to squander on luxuries that a wife might think of as necessities, especially if she were spoiled. He’d likely forbid his wife from wasting her life at Court. He’d be a powerful protector of his wife and family, though.”

“This isn’t the first you’ve thought about him as a husband.”

“No. Hepburn made it plain to me that he wanted you.”

Her insides melted. She did not focus on the fact that he would be dominant, or consider her spoiled. All she could think of was the fact that he wanted her and would stop at nothing to get his way. It made her blood sing with excitement.

On their ride back to Spencer Park after their visit, Cat was starry-eyed over Mary and John’s happy marriage. “Their union was made in heaven. They never exchange an angry word.”

“Such wedded bliss is the exception rather than the rule, Cat. Marriage with Hepburn would be nothing like that. You are extremely impulsive, and if you did something that truly angered him, I’ve no doubt he’d put you over his knee and tan your arse.”

Patrick would never do that. He’s head over heels in love with me,
she thought smugly.

Before Robert left, he and Patrick closeted themselves in the library once again, while Cat regaled Maggie with the details of her visit to Hunsdon Grange. “They are such a happy, loving couple. Mary is having another baby!”

“That’s the inevitable outcome of loving. Take heed.”

Dear God, what if I’m having a child? I’d be in the same terrible predicament as Mary Fitton. Well, not the same, because Patrick wouldn’t refuse to marry me, but Mother would die of shame and the gossip would blacken my name.
Cat ran upstairs and examined her reflection in the mirror. No, she was sure she wasn’t with child. Her eyes fell on Philadelphia’s letter, with its accusation that Mary Fitton was a
whore.
She glanced at the connecting door and decided to leave it locked.

Robert insisted on departing before dinner, so Cat and Patrick ate alone in the big dining room. “Too bad we have to observe decorum. I’d much prefer to eat in bed,” Patrick teased.

Catherine threw him a repressive look that he found hilarious. He choked on his wine. “You look pious as a nun!”

“And you look irreverent.”

His grin was lecherous. “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful, amen.”

“Irreverent and blasphemous!”

“You sound like you’ve been eating pickled Bibles.” His grin turned into a leer. “I promise you a religious experience!”

Though she tried not to laugh, she found it impossible. “You have a wicked humor, Hepburn.”

“It’s my saving grace.”

“You said that before.”

“It bears repeating.”

She recalled other words he’d said on that fateful ride north for the wild horses:
Cold water is excellent for curbing impulses. Remember it!
She very much regretted that before the night was over, they would both need cold water. She reached for the wine decanter and then changed her mind. Her blood was on fire now; the last thing she needed was an intoxicant that would heighten her desire and make her insatiable.

As per their arrangement of two nights ago, Catherine went upstairs first, and, as usual, Maggie followed. Cat checked the adjoining door to assure herself that it was still locked, then on impulse took the key and handed it to Maggie. “You’d better take charge of this ... I don’t trust myself.”

“An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

“You have a homily for everything,” Cat accused.

“I’m a Celt ... it’s my nature.” She drew the curtains. “There’s a full moon tonight; be careful, my lamb.”

“I am being careful. Good night, Maggie.”

“Not only a full moon, but November twenty-fifth is St. Catherine’s Day, known to the Celts as Women’s Merrymaking Day.”

“Enough portents. Good night.”

Catherine, knowing she would find sleep elusive, decided to read. She lit another branch of candles and began to undress. She put on her night rail, slipped into bed and picked up her sketch pad. Soon, though, she was interrupted.

“Cat, the bloody door is locked!”

She caught her breath and didn’t answer. Inside her eardrums she could hear her heart thudding. Or was he knocking?

“Are you there, my lovely lady?”

“Hush, Patrick ... everyone will hear you!”

“Everyone but you, it seems. Unlock the door, Catherine.”

“I ... I don’t have the key.” She hesitated. “Maggie took it.”

“Then I shall go and relieve her of it,” he said shortly.

“No! You mustn’t. Patrick, this is wrong. I forbid you—”

“Forbid?”
His voice through the door was ominous.

“I’m sorry, Patrick. I’ll explain in the morning.”

The silence was shattered by a loud crash as Hepburn battered the double door and broke the lock. He towered before her like an avenging warrior. “You’ll explain now, Hellcat.”

“How dare you? How
dare
you break into my chamber like a mad bull on a rampage?”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her roughly. “Never lock a door against me again!”

Anger, frustration and desire flooded her eyes with tears. She went limp beneath his hands. “Patrick, I’m afraid.”

“Stop lying, you little spitfire. You’re afraid of neither man nor beast!”

Cat flung away from him and grabbed the letter from Philadelphia. “Read that. They’re calling Mary Fitton a
whore
! That’s what I am to you ... I’m your
whore
!”

He took her by the shoulders once more and shook her till her teeth rattled. “Never,
ever,
say that again, Catherine. You are my betrothed, my future wife. You were virgin until I made love to you.” His arms enfolded her. “You are my sweetheart.”

Held against his powerful body, she felt a raging lust and took a shuddering breath. “I ... I’m afraid. Mary Fitton is having a baby, and today at the Grange I found out that Mary Carey is with child ... I don’t want us to make a baby until we’re married.”

“Is that what this is all about?” Patrick sounded relieved. “You can put your trust in me. I promise not to be careless.”

“The queen takes it as a personal assault on her character when a lady of the Court brings disgrace upon herself. Her Majesty metes out a terrible punishment.” Cat bit her lip. “Mother would die of shame if it happened to me.”

His arms tightened protectively. She was so young and so vulnerable. “There are other ways, sweetheart. I promise not to do anything to put you at risk. Will that make you happy?”

She nodded solemnly and allowed him to pick her up and carry her to the bed. Already she knew that he had more control over himself than she would ever have. Once he began to kiss her and touch her intimately, her passion took over and obliterated all caution. She had an impulsive and reckless nature that seized control like a whirlwind, sweeping up everything in its path.

Patrick undressed her slowly, kissing every inch of silken skin that he exposed. By the time she was naked, he had her writhing beneath his knowing hands and his seductive mouth.

“Now you,” she insisted, undoing the buttons of his shirt with impatient fingers. “I love to slide my hands over your bulging muscles and smell your man-scented skin.”

When he was naked he pushed her back onto the high bed so that her legs were draped over the edge. Then he went down on his knees, brushed aside the tiny tendrils on her plump mons and tasted her with the tip of his tongue. He slipped his hands beneath her bottom cheeks and thrilled as she arched up into his mouth without hesitation or reservation. He kissed the insides of her soft thighs until she was moaning with need, then plunged his tongue into her hot, sugared sheath.

Catherine wrapped her legs about his neck, undulating her body with the sensual rhythm of his tongue, yielding everything to his demanding mouth. Cat gloried in the freedom he had given her to be wanton, with his promise that he’d not impregnate her. She cried out at the pleasurable sensations he aroused with his powerful, wicked mouth, which took her higher and higher, until she almost reached a peak. When he deliberately withdrew, she became frenzied.

Patrick moved up over her and took possession of her lips. When she tasted herself on his mouth, she went wild. She thrashed and rolled until she gained the dominant position, then she trailed her hair from his throat to his groin, teasing, tempting, taunting him, longing to make him lose control as she had. Needing him to moan and writhe in his passion, she could resist the temptation of his phallus no longer. On impulse she took the head of his cock into her mouth and stroked him with her tongue. Her black curtain of hair concealed the sexual things she did to him, and suddenly, amazingly, she climaxed.

A
s Catherine came up through layers of heavy sleep, she knew something awaited her that she didn’t want to face. She lifted her lashes and remembered. Today was December 1, and Patrick was leaving. The last week had gone by at a strangely uneven pace. The days had gone slowly, since Patrick spent many hours with Mr. Burke, learning about cattle, deciding on spring crops, going over the accounts and all the myriad things connected with a huge estate like Spencer Park. In contrast, however, the nights sped by, hurtling toward the last one they would spend together.

Catherine blushed as she remembered the intimacy of last night. Patrick had taken her fingers and showed her how to touch and stroke her own body to bring it pleasure. “I could never bring myself to do such a thing!” she had protested. “You will, Cat. There will be nights when you ache so much you won’t be able to sleep without release.” She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks and suddenly became aware that she was wearing earrings.

She threw back the covers and padded to her mirror. To her delight she was wearing a pair of dangling emerald earbobs. The corners of her mouth lifted. She had been so languid from his loving that she had never even felt him thread the gold wire through her earlobes.
A Borderer always gifts his wench with a bauble.
Cat shook her head to watch the emeralds swing. With her wildly disheveled hair, she looked exactly like a Borderer’s wench.

Not bothering with a robe, she ran to the connecting door and turned the broken knob. Before the door swung open a feeling of dread assailed her. His bedchamber was empty, and she suddenly knew that he had not only left the room but left Spencer Park too. He had deliberately gone while she was sleeping. “No! Patrick!” She threw open the wardrobe, knowing she would find it empty. She picked up a shirt from where he had let it fall in his haste to pack and pressed it against her face, inhaling his unmistakable male scent.
It’s the only thing I’ll have of him for four months.
“That’s not true!” she said aloud. “I have his ring, I have the wild horses and I have his love.” She smiled, remembering.

During the week that followed, she nearly went mad from loneliness. The days were spent riding Jasmine and tending the wild colts. To keep busy she spoke to Mr. Burke about building a brew house and began to sketch some plans along the lines of the brew house at Crichton. Each night after she undressed, she put on Patrick’s shirt, but the ache his scent evoked was almost unendurable. The impulse to follow him to Scotland grew so strong, Catherine began to pack her clothes. Isobel’s unexpected arrival thwarted her plans.

Cat gasped and thrust her left hand behind her back as her mother strode into the library with an out-of-breath Maggie following on her heels. Her serving woman shot Cat a look of apology that she hadn’t been swift enough to warn her of the impending danger. “Mother! I am surprised you braved the snowy roads to come and visit me. How thoughtful of you.”

“Nonsense! I wouldn’t waste my time visiting. My journey is one of necessity. Her Majesty is recovered from her cold and has accepted invitations for the Christmas festivities. Cecil has invited her to stay at Theobalds, and the Earl and Countess of Nottingham will entertain her at Arundel House over the New Year. The queen has a fancy for new gowns and is annoyed that you are gone off to the country when she needs your services, Catherine.”

“Oh, Mother, I couldn’t return to Court so soon after—”

“Rubbish! That’s the reason I had to go to the trouble of coming in person. I knew you’d disobey any letter I sent asking you to return. I guessed I’d have to drag you back by the ear!”

“I know the scandal hasn’t abated,” Catherine murmured.

“Mary Fitton was just delivered of a dead child. A fitting punishment, I would say, for her wanton behavior.”

Dear God, you have a heart of ice. Poor Mary was likely in love with Will Herbert.
“And what of Pembroke?”