by Lisa Kleypas
They reached the site of the original manor, where the remains of ancient walls protruded from the ground like the vertebrae of fossilized creatures. Inequalities in the scrub-covered ground marked the locations of the manor’s outbuildings. A shallow circular ring, approximately twenty-five feet wide, revealed the dimensions of the moat that had surrounded a sixty-square-foot elevation of land.
After dismounting and tethering his horse, Leo went to assist Catherine. She disengaged her right leg from the pommel and took her foot from the stirrup, letting Leo control her descent. She alighted on the ground, facing him. Her face lifted, the brim of her riding hat partially shadowing her opalescent eyes.
They stood together with her hands on his shoulders. Her face was flushed with exertion, her lips parted … and all at once Leo knew how it would be to make love to her, her body light and supple beneath his, her breath rushing against his throat as he moved between her thighs. He would bring her to ecstasy, slowly and ruthlessly, and she would claw and moan and sigh his name …
“Here it is,” Catherine said. “Your ancestral home.”
Tearing his gaze from her, Leo regarded the crumbling ruins. “Charming,” he said. “A little dusting and sweeping, and the place will be as good as new.”
“Will you go along with the family’s plan to find a bride for you?”
“Do you think I should?”
“No, I don’t think you have the makings of a decent husband. You haven’t the character for it.”
Leo’s sentiments exactly. Except that it rankled to hear her say it.
“What makes you a fit judge of my character?” he asked.
Her shoulders lifted in an uncomfortable shrug. “One can’t help hearing about your exploits when all the dowagers and matrons are together at the balls.”
“I see. And you believe every rumor you hear?”
She was silent. Leo expected her to argue, or insult him. To his surprise, however, she stared at him with something like remorse. “You have a point. And whether the rumors are true or false, it was wrong of me to listen.”
Leo waited for her to follow that with some stinging insult, but she appeared genuinely chastened. Which was a surprise. It made him realize there was much he didn’t know about her, this solitary and serious young woman who had hovered at the edge of his family for so long.
“What do the gossips say about me?” he asked casually.
She gave him a wry glance. “Your prowess as a lover is much vaunted.”
“Oh, well, those rumors are definitely true.” He clucked his tongue as if shocked. “Do dowagers and chaperones really prattle about such things?”
Her slender brows arched. “What did you imagine they talked about?”
“Knitting. Jelly recipes.”
She shook her head and bit back a smile.
“How tedious these affairs must be for you,” Leo said. “Standing at the side of the room, listening to gossip and watching everyone else dance.”
“I don’t mind it. I don’t like dancing.”
“Have you ever danced with a man?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Then how can you be sure you wouldn’t like it?”
“I can have an opinion about something even if I haven’t done it.”
“Of course. It’s so much easier to form opinions without being troubled by experience or facts.”
She frowned but kept silent.
“You’ve given me an idea, Marks,” Leo went on. “I’m going to allow my sisters to plan the ball they mentioned earlier. Only for this reason: I’m going to come to you in the middle of it and ask you to dance with me. In front of everyone.”
She looked appalled. “I would refuse.”
“I’m going to ask nevertheless.”
“To make a mockery of me,” she said. “To make fools of us both.”
“No.” His voice gentled. “Just to dance, Marks.”
Their gazes locked in a long, fascinated stare.
And then to Leo’s surprise, Catherine smiled at him. A sweet, natural, brilliant smile, the first she had ever given him. Leo felt his chest tighten, and he went hot all over, as if some euphoric drug had gone straight to his nervous system.
It felt like … happiness.
He remembered happiness from a long time ago. He didn’t want to feel it. And yet the giddy warmth kept washing over him for no reason whatsoever.
“Thank you,” Catherine said, the smile still hovering on her lips. “That is kind of you, my lord. But I will never dance with you.”
Which, of course, made it the goal of Leo’s life.
Catherine turned to retrieve a sketchbook and roll of pencils from the saddle pouch.
“I didn’t know you sketched,” Leo said.
“I’m not very good at it.”
He gestured to the book in her hands. “May I see that?”
“And give you reason to mock me?”
“I won’t. My solemn promise. Let me see.” Slowly Leo extended his hand, palm up.
Catherine glanced at his open hand, and then his face. Hesitantly she gave the book to him.
Opening the book, he glanced through the sketches. There was a series of the ruins from different angles, perhaps too careful and disciplined in places where a bit of looseness would have given the sketch more vitality. But on the whole it was very well done. “Lovely,” he said. “You have a nice feeling for line and form.”
She colored, seeming uncomfortable with the praise. “I understand from your sisters that you are an accomplished artist.”
“Competent, perhaps. My architectural training included a number of art classes.” Leo gave her a casual grin. “I’m especially good at sketching things that stay still for long periods of time. Buildings. Lampposts.” He leafed through the book. “Do you have any of Beatrix’s drawings?”
“On the last page,” Catherine said. “She began to sketch a protruding section of the wall, over there, but she became preoccupied with a squirrel that kept hopping into the foreground.”
Leo found a perfectly rendered and detailed portrait of a squirrel. He shook his head. “Beatrix and her animals.”
They exchanged a grin.
“Many people talk to their pets,” Catherine said.
“Yes, but very few understand the replies.” Closing the sketchbook, Leo gave it back to her and began to walk the perimeter of the manor enclosure.
Catherine followed, picking her way among the gorse studded with yellow flowers and shiny black pods. “How deep was the original moat, do you estimate?”
“I would guess no more than eight feet where it cuts into the higher ground.” Leo shielded his eyes as he surveyed their surroundings. “They must have diverted one of the streams to fill it. You see those mounds over there? They were probably farm buildings and serf quarters, made of clay and stud.”
“What was the manor home like?”
“The central keep was almost certainly made of stone, with the rest a combination of materials. And it was likely crowded with sheep, goats, dogs, and serfs.”
“Do you know the history of the original overlord?” Catherine sat on a portion of the exposed wall and arranged her skirts.
“You mean the first Viscount Ramsay?” Leo stopped at the edge of the circular depression that had once been the moat. His gaze traveled across the broken landscape. “He started as Thomas of Blackmere, known for his lack of mercy. Apparently he had a talent for pillaging and burning villages. He was regarded as the left arm of Edward the Black Prince. Between them, they virtually destroyed the practice of chivalry.”
Glancing over his shoulder, he smiled at the sight of Catherine’s wrinkled nose. She sat with schoolgirl straightness, the sketchbook in her lap. He would have liked to snatch her off the wall and do some pillaging of his own. Reflecting that it was a good thing she couldn’t read his thoughts, he continued the story.
“After fighting in France and being held prisoner for four years, Thomas was releas
ed and returned to England. I suppose he thought it was time to settle down, because he subsequently rode on this keep, killed the baron who had built it, seized his lands and ravished his widow.”
Her eyes were wide. “Poor lady.”
Leo shrugged. “She must have had some influence on him. He married her afterward and sired six children by her.”
“Did they live to a peaceful old age?”
Leo shook his head, approaching her leisurely. “Thomas went back to France, where they put an end to him at Castillon. But the French were quite civilized about it and raised a monument to him on the field.”
“I don’t think he deserved any kind of tribute.”
“Don’t be too hard on the fellow—he was only doing what the times demanded.”
“He was a barbarian,” she said indignantly. “Regardless of the times.” The wind had teased a lock of light golden hair loose from her tight chignon, and sent it straying over her cheek.
Unable to resist, Leo reached out and stroked the tendril back behind her ear. Her skin was baby-fine and smooth. “Most men are,” he said. “It’s only that they have more rules now.” He removed his hat, set it on the wall, and stared into her upturned face. “You may put a man in a cravat, teach him manners, and make him attend a soiree, but hardly any of us are truly civilized.”
“From what I know of men,” she said, “I agree.”
He gave her a mocking glance. “What do you know of men?”
She looked solemn, the clear gray irises now tinged with ocean green. “I know not to trust them.”
“I would say the same of women.” He shed his coat, tossed it over the wall, and went to the hill at the center of the ruins. Surveying the surrounding land, Leo couldn’t help wondering if Thomas of Blackmere had stood on this exact spot, looking over his property. And now, centuries later, the estate was Leo’s to make of what he would, his to shape and order. Everyone and everything on it was his responsibility.
“How is the view from up there?” he heard Catherine’s voice from below.
“Exceptional. Come see it, if you like.”
She left the sketchbook on the fence and began up the slope of the mound, lifting her skirts as she climbed.
Turning to watch Catherine, Leo let his gaze linger on her slender, pretty figure. She was fortunate that medieval times were long past, he thought with a private smile, or she would have found herself snapped up and devoured by some marauding lord. But the touch of amusement faded quickly as he imagined the primitive satisfaction of claiming her, picking her up and carrying her to a soft patch of ground.
For just a moment he let himself dwell on the idea … lowering himself to her writhing body, tearing her dress, kissing her breasts’
Leo shook his head to clear it, troubled by the direction of his thoughts. Whatever else he was, he was not a man to force himself on a woman. And yet the fantasy was too potent to ignore. With an effort, he bludgeoned the barbaric impulses back into submission.
Catherine was halfway up the slope when she gave a low cry and seemed to stumble.
Concerned, Leo started for her immediately. “Did you trip? Are you’bloody hell.” He stopped in place as he saw that the ground had partially given way beneath her. “Stop, Cat. Don’t move. Wait.”
“What’s happening?” she asked, her face bleached of color. “Is it a sinkhole?”
“More like a bloody architectural miracle. We seem to be standing on a portion of a roof that should have caved in at least two centuries ago.”
They were approximately five yards apart, with Leo on higher ground.
“Cat,” he said with great care, “slowly lower yourself to the ground to redistribute your weight over a greater surface. Easy. Yes, like that. Now you’re going to crawl back down the slope.”
“Can you help me?” she asked, and the tremor in her voice wrenched his heart.
He answered in a thick voice that didn’t sound like his own. “Sweetheart, I would love nothing more. But joining my weight to yours could collapse the roof entirely. Start moving. If it makes you feel better, with all the debris in there, it can’t be too far to fall.”
“Actually, that doesn’t make me feel better at all.” White-faced, she moved slowly on her hands and knees.
Leo stayed in place, not taking his gaze from Catherine. The ground that seemed so solid beneath his feet was possibly nothing more than a layer of earth and ancient rotted timber. “You’ll be fine,” he said in a soothing tone, while his heart pounded with anxiety for her. “You weigh no more than a butterfly. It’s my weight that’s put a strain on what’s left of the beams and bridging joints.”
“Is that why you’re not moving?”
“Yes. If I cause a collapse when I try to get off, I’d like you to be out of harm’s way first.”
They both felt the ground shift beneath them.
“My lord,” Catherine asked, her eyes wide, “do you think this has anything to do with the Ramsay curse?”
“Actually, that hadn’t occurred to me yet,” Leo said. “Thank you so much for bringing it to my attention.”
The roof collapsed, and they simultaneously plunged amid a torrent of earth, rock, and timber into the dark space below.
Chapter Seven
Catherine stirred and coughed. There was grit in her mouth and eyes, and she was sprawled on a wretchedly uncomfortable surface.
“Marks.” She heard Leo shove debris aside as he made his way to her. His voice was unsteady and urgent. “Are you hurt? Can you move?”
“Yes … I’m all in one piece…” She sat up and rubbed her face. Evaluating the collection of aches and pains in her body, she decided they were all insignificant. “Just a bit bruised. Oh, dear. My spectacles are gone.”
She heard him swear. “I’ll try to find them.”
Disoriented, she tried to make out what she could of their surroundings. Leo’s lean form was a dark blur nearby as he searched the rubble. Dust clouded the air, settling slowly. From what little she could see, they were in a pit, perhaps six feet deep, with sunlight drizzling in through the broken roof. “You were right, my lord. It wasn’t far to fall. Is this the keep?”
Leo’s breathing sounded strained as he replied, “I’m not sure. It could be an undercroft beneath the keep. I see the remains of a stone partition over there … and hollows in the side wall where transverse joints would support—”
In a burst of fresh terror, Catherine launched herself at his indistinct form, scrabbling to reach him in the dimness.
“What is it?” Leo’s arms closed around her.
Gasping, she buried her face against the solid surface of his chest. They were half sitting, half lying amid heaps of rotted timber, stone, and earth.
One of his hands came to her head, curving over her skull protectively. “What happened?”
Her voice was muffled in his shirt. “Undercroft.”
He smoothed her hair and pressed her even closer into the protection of his body. “Yes. Why does that frighten you?”
She could hardly speak between panting breaths. “Isn’t that … where they keep the bodies?”
The tremulous question hung in the air as Leo puzzled over it. “Oh. No, it’s not that kind of undercroft.” A quiver of rueful amusement ran through his voice, and she felt his mouth touch the rim of her ear. “You’re thinking of one of the rooms beneath modern churches, where the deceased are put away. But a medieval undercroft is different. It’s only a storeroom beneath the keep.”
Catherine didn’t move. “There are no s-skeletons in here?”
“No. Nor skulls, nor coffins.” His hand continued to stroke tenderly over her hair. “Poor darling. It’s all right. Nothing fearsome down here. Take a deep breath. You’re safe.”
Catherine continued to lie in his arms as she caught her breath. She tried to take in the fact that Leo, her enemy and tormentor, was calling her “poor darling” and petting her. His lips brushed her temple and lingered gently. Holding still,
she absorbed the sensation. She had never been attracted to men of his size, preferring those of less intimidating stature. But he was strong and comforting, and he seemed so genuinely concerned, and his voice was like dark velvet wrapping around her.
How perplexing.
Had anyone told her that she would one day be trapped alone in a filthy pit with Leo, Lord Ramsay, she would have said that was her worst nightmare. And yet it was turning out to be a rather agreeable experience. No wonder Ramsay was so sought after by the ladies of London … If this was how he set about seducing them, all this lovely soothing and stroking, Catherine could easily understand how he got his way with them.
To her regret, he gently eased her away from him. “Marks … I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to find your spectacles in this wreckage.”
“I have another pair at home,” she ventured.
“Thank God.” Leo sat up with a quiet grunt of discomfort. “Now, if we stand on the highest pile of debris, it’s only a short distance to the surface. I’m going to hoist you up, get you out of here, and then you’re going to ride back to Ramsay House. Cam trained the horse, so you won’t need to guide him. He’ll find his way back home with no trouble.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, bewildered.
He sounded rather sheepish. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to wait here until you send someone for me.”
“Why?”
“I have a—” He paused, searching for a word. “Splinter.”
She felt indignant. “You’re going to make me ride back alone and unescorted and virtually blind, to send someone to rescue you? All because you have a splinter?”
“A large one,” he volunteered.
“Where is it? Your finger? Your hand? Maybe I can help to … Oh, God. ” This last as he took her hand and brought it to his shoulder. His shirt was wet with blood, and a thick shard of timber protruded from his shoulder. “That’s not a splinter,” she said in horror. “You’ve been impaled. What can I do? Shall I pull it out?”
“No, it might be lodged against an artery. And I wouldn’t care to bleed out down here.”
She crawled closer to him, bringing her face close to his to examine him anxiously. Even in the shadows, he appeared pale and gray, and when she pressed her fingers to his forehead, she felt cool moisture.
