Catherine

by Raine Cantrell

  “Do you share?” Greg asked when he had tortured himself long enough with the bewitching sight she made.

  “What?” she replied absently.

  “Do you share?” he repeated, his senses fully engaged. Envy for the disappearing cake made him aware of how easily she aroused him.

  “What are you doing here?” Catherine spun to face him.

  “I merely asked if you would share a taste of whatever put that dreamy look on your face?”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. If only you knew, you’d run as far and as fast as you could. “Spice.” Her voice squeaked. She cleared her throat. His amused expression combined with her guilty thoughts demanded a correction. “I mean, it’s freshly baked gingerbread.”

  “Ah.” He kept his disappointment hidden. A more suggestive answer would have him across the room to taste those lips. But there was no guile in her gaze. “Memories of childhood. I don’t think I’ve tasted gingerbread since then.”

  “Your mother’s. Suzanne and I would hang around the kitchen and pester her for the first piece. She would scold us and say it was too hot—”

  “And the cake would crumble if she cut it.”

  “And burn our fingers.”

  “And Papa always got the first piece.” Greg looked away as she apologized. “No. It was a good memory of them. Their deaths were an accident. I’m only sorry that I wasn’t here for Suzanne. She was only sixteen, far too young to have her world ripped apart.”

  “Your aunt came so quickly to take her away. We wanted, that is, my father offered to have her stay with us. But your aunt thought she needed new surroundings.”

  Her voice trailed off to a whisper. She struggled with tears. Talking about his parents’ deaths only made her remember her own father’s. She, like Mary, had also lost her mother early, and later her father, and then she had Mary and Sarah to comfort her.

  “Now I’m the one who is sorry this talk has saddened you.” Greg thought of her loyalty and her compassion despite her young age. Her letters were a lifeline to Suzanne those first years away from the only home she had known. He had been serving out his enlistment in Europe, too far away to be a comfort. For a brief moment he held a faint image of four little girls sitting beneath the ancient oak by the back door of his home. He had been invited to their afternoon tea party with dolls and giggles and offers to share their bounty. He recalled big blue eyes and long blond braids.

  He tried to hold the image, to see the memory of the lovely young woman before him in greater detail, but it disappeared. “Why wouldn’t you allow Suzanne to help you when your husband died? She wanted you to come and live—”

  “With her?” Catherine finished for him. “It was like your sister, kind and generous, but I couldn’t accept.”

  He noted a slight trembling about her mouth and chin. That chin—spelling stubborn—made his spirited widow appear vulnerable. He started toward her when she lifted a hand to stop him.

  “I couldn’t accept because I won’t live on anyone’s charity. I tried to explain to her, but she didn’t understand.”

  “Pride—”

  “Yes. I have a great deal of pride. Here with Sarah I have a home where I can earn my own way. It means more to me than having some man control my purse strings.”

  “Men handle money better than women.”

  “So a man would say.” A light of battle gleamed in her eyes. “I suppose you’re of the opinion that marriage is a woman’s only salvation. Ha! Life is unfair to females. Men are all alike. They grow toward freedom while women grow into captivity. That’s my opinion of marriage.”

  In any other woman he wouldn’t have believed she was telling him the truth. But he believed Catherine Hill. He found he admired her for making her own way when marriage offers would have poured in once her period of mourning was over, especially if she had gone to live with Suzanne. And knowing his brother-in-law as he did, there would have been no question of her paying for her keep or the fripperies so dear to a woman’s heart. Dear to the women he knew, at any rate. That included his sister, if his brother-in-law’s moans over her monthly bills were to be believed.

  Greg ran an appreciative eye over the widow’s masculine clothing. He wouldn’t mind seeing that graceful, slim body dressed in the latest Paris fashions. She objected to marriage, but was she open to an offer of carte blanche?

  “Was there something you wanted? I assume you didn’t take your prescribed rest.”

  “Water?” He held up the forgotten china pitcher.

  “Hot?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I am.” Greg had never, ever blushed in his life, but he could feel heat rush to his face as he realized what he had said.

  Catherine wisely didn’t respond. But she took him at his word. “There’s the pump.” She waved toward the dry sink. “Help yourself. Sarah had that installed a few weeks ago. Before that we had to draw water from the well out back. If you find that too cold, there’s always water heating on the stove.”

  Rusty, old man. Illness had robbed him of the ability to bait her into a dance of double entendre. Pity, it would liven up the days. And the nights… He left that thought.

  Catherine kept her attention on the pot of cold hominy as she poured in the hot water a little at a time. Usually she fried the leftover hulled corn that served as a hearty breakfast, but Greg couldn’t eat fried foods. Done for the moment, she looked over at him. He stood with a bewildered expression as he stared at the pump.

  “If you pump the handle, the water comes out of the spout.”

  “Right.”

  “Mr. Mayfield, you did say you wanted water.”

  “Yes. I’ve been studying this. It would be easier hauling water from the well. I haven’t used a pump.”

  “Never used a pump?”

  “True. I’ve a full staff at home. Martin, my valet, usually tends to my needs.”

  “How does your staff get water?”

  “No need for disbelief. I haven’t the faintest idea. Upstairs, there are bathrooms. I imagine there is some similar arrangement for the staff below stairs. As for the kitchen, Mrs. Hill,” he noted with a swift look around the large, sunny room, “I’ve never found the washing of dishes and pots to be of vital concern to my comfort.”

  She was sure that last remark was meant to put her in her place. All it did was bring a militant gleam to her eyes. “I can assure you, Mr. Mayfield, its absence would indeed be of vital concern if you found yourself without a clean dish to eat from.”

  “And I assure you, Mrs. Hill, my staff is far too well trained and well paid to allow that to happen.”

  Catherine gritted her teeth. Suzanne had been right. He was obstinate. “Here, we have you and me, the hand pump, the outhouse and the chamber pot.”

  But her muttered words were lost as he vigorously applied himself. He pumped and water gushed out.

  Unfortunately, he had forgotten to put the pitcher under the spout. Water splashed all over as he continued to pump harder while maneuvering the pitcher in place.

  Catherine forced herself to remain where she was. Temptation loomed to show him the proper way, but she fought its lure, despite the mess he was making on the floor. She couldn’t spoil that look of boyish delight.

  She also couldn’t help but wonder what other surprises he had in store for her. Obviously, she had taken a great deal for granted when she agreed to his staying. She knew she had to cook for him, do his laundry and oversee his avoidance of anything to do with business. She had never expected to show him a basic skill like pumping water. Was this the way she would help him change the way he lived?

  She wasn’t sure she had the patience. But her charitable nature reasserted itself. He would likely judge her inept at earning a good profit with her egg business.

  He turned to look at her, dripping pitcher in hand.

  Catherine boldly ran an appreciative eye over him. Her impish grin invited his in return. “You have the makings of a first-rate kitchen helper.”

&nb
sp; Pleasure from her approval spread inside him. No matter that it was a simple, almost ridiculous thing to master. Her sculpted face with a scrubbed, clean look drew his gaze. The features were fine, and perfectly placed: soft, wide mouth, clean line of jaw, delicate ears. And those eyes, so blue, filled with a twinkle of mischief, invited him to laugh with her, even if he was the object of amusement.

  His regard for her rose another degree. He could easily name a dozen women of his acquaintance who would have seized the opportunity to poke fun at his failure to do a simple thing. Not his widow. His? Where had that possessive thought come from? He couldn’t forget his first glimpse of the lady’s militant nature. Of the two, he preferred her this way.

  He executed a small bow, and water sloshed over the rim of the pitcher, splattering his pants, already ruined boots and the floor. “I seem to have made more of a mess over this than I did putting my first business deal together.”

  “But this is more easily mopped up,” she noted.

  “Mine to do?” he asked with horror. His reputation was in shreds at this point. Thankfully, no one would ever learn what he had been reduced to.

  “Afraid so.” Catherine turned back to the stove. It wouldn’t do to forget Suzanne’s ardent instructions. Make him aware of the simple pleasure gained by his own hand. She wasn’t sure if this qualified, but he made the mess, he’d learn to clean it up. “Yes,” she repeated in a firm voice. “It’s yours to do. I’ve a meal to finish. You’ll find the mop in the pantry. Doorway to your left.”

  His natural authority reared its head. He was about to refuse. But she was humming as she bent over to take the tray of biscuits from the oven. A delicious aroma filled the kitchen, but Greg was beset by lusty thoughts of his hands curving over soft swells and engaging in man’s oldest sport. He turned away before she could discern his thoughts.

  And found himself wondering why he thought to protect her. He only knew it had nothing to do with her being his sister’s friend.

  The pantry, unlike his own, was not locked. He knew about the lock because Grantfeld, his butler, had been given the key by his own hand. But then, the widow had no staff to worry about stealing from her. He scanned the shelves filled with jars, crocks and some canned goods. It brought back the memory of home. The floor held sacks and larger crocks, which were tightly covered to conceal their contents. At the back he saw what he needed. Greg made a fast identification of the mop because he knew what a broom looked like. Not only looked like, but felt like, too. His mother hadn’t been shy about swatting him when he got into mischief. And then, one of his housemaids was always sweeping the front granite steps of his home—a stone mansion on Madison Avenue across from the residence built by the well-known jewelry family of Tiffany—when he left for his morning ride.

  Catherine stopped peeling eggs to instruct him how to swing and wring the mop. By the time he finished, she had the table set. She noted with some satisfaction that he had color in his cheeks, and his eyes had lost some of the aloofness. But she wasn’t prepared for his dismay when he stood by his chair and stared at the table.

  “I thought you were going to feed me.”

  “This isn’t slop for the hogs, Mr. Mayfield.”

  “But it hardly constitutes what I consider a meal.”

  “I am following your physician’s instructions, sir. Hard-boiled eggs, hominy and plain biscuits. Milk to drink, and you have butter and jam for your bread. Plain fare to help heal your stomach disorder.” Catherine glared at him. She gripped the back of her chair to forestall the urge to shake him. Didn’t the man have sense to know that she wasn’t going to ignore what was good for him?

  Stubborn witch. Didn’t she have the sense to know that a man needed an appetizing presentation when his diet was restricted? Greg glared right back at her.

  Catherine moved to pull out her chair.

  Greg scooted around the table and pulled the chair out for her. “Allow me to seat you, Mrs. Hill.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mayfield. By all means, let us remember our manners.”

  “And our roles,” he muttered.

  “Meaning?”

  “Hostess and guest, my dear Mrs. Hill.” Jailer was more like it. His lips compressed. She was worse than Suzanne.

  “I agree. You should remember. Guests don’t make remarks about what is served to them, unless they’re going to be compliments, Mr. Mayfield, not insults.”

  “Sit down, madam. I do not require a lesson in manners from you.” The woman was insolent. Impossible. And wore a teasing, faint fragrance.

  Catherine sat. She winced as she put pressure on her sore ankle just to lift herself above the seat so he wouldn’t think her heavy as he pushed the chair close to the table.

  Feminine vanity?

  She had no answer for the needling voice. She had all she could do to bite her tongue as he made her wait to take his place. He took his time to admire the carved wooden napkin ring, and made an elaborate show of unfolding his napkin before placing it on his lap. Catherine determined to fight and win this battle over meals right now.

  Greg took a deep breath and released it. He was determined to clarify the matter of his meals before this obstinate woman believed she could get away serving him food that would make his least-paid scullery maid turn up her nose. But why couldn’t the widow look like a dowdy maid and not a woman who stirred his blood?

  “Shall we begin?” she asked in a prim, starched voice.

  He locked gazes with her and rubbed his hands together. “I cannot wait.”

  Chapter Six

  But wait he did.

  Her candor through the meal disarmed him. Disarmed and charmed him in a way that left him thinking he had been had by a professional huckster.

  At her suggestion he left her to clean up the kitchen.

  Humor combined with reason. Dangerous qualities to discover in a woman who had the gumption to stand up to him.

  Pointing out that plain, wholesome food was what the doctor had ordered, she assured him that his restored good health was her goal.

  Hard to argue with such rationale. Even if he had been set to do just that less than an hour ago.

  The climb up the stairs provided time for clearer thought.

  She had tricked him into eating by the provocative way she had of closing her eyes, biting into her jam-filled biscuit with relish, and then, only to torment him, he was sure, she savored the taste—overlong, he observed.

  He had been fascinated watching the tip of her tongue lick a stray crumb from the corner of her mouth—envisioning himself as the lucky recipient of such play—that he had absently finished the butter-flavored corn grits.

  Her slender fingers, each move graceful, made the peeling of hard-boiled eggs an art. Only, he reminded himself, because his desire had been heightened with the thought of those clever fingers opening his shirt buttons and stroking his skin.

  Greg shook his head. The woman was a danger to him.

  A mere few hours and she already had him believing he would enjoy his visit in this rustic setting.

  Had she known how she affected him?

  The question made him stop midway up the stairs.

  Images of her face came to mind. That rueful expression that didn’t hide the amusement in her eyes as she licked jam from her lips. Mischievous voice…

  He was bemused to find a variety of images dancing through his mind. It was her expressiveness that marked her. When she became flustered, she was quite fetching.

  Certainly would entice a man to fluster her often.

  When she was annoyed with him—far too frequent an occurrence since he’d arrived—her firm lips and determined chin had their own appeal.

  Another temptation for a man.

  And when she smiled, ah, when she smiled, her whole face brightened. Her wide, generous smile shone through her lovely skin and sparkled in her blue eyes.

  Where are you going with this, old man?

  Nowhere. He continued up the stairs.

&nbs
p; Those hominy grits must addle the brain.

  Addled wits. The only explanation, Catherine thought, heaving another sigh of relief.

  Mr. Gregory Mayfield was going to test every bit of feminine ingenuity she possessed.

  She had flirted with him. Shamelessly. Not too bad in and of itself, but the man had responded.

  Trouble lay in that direction.

  She had gently teased him into finally admitting that she had to follow doctor’s orders or be accused of taking his money under false pretenses.

  She hadn’t been sure if he’d muttered “charming nurse” or “curse.” It only made her think of something Mary often said. A wagonload of nursing wasn’t worth a spoonful of loving. Now, there was a dangerous thought.

  But not, by far, the worst one.

  That had come when Greg left the kitchen.

  She wanted to call him back. She didn’t want their time together to end just yet. She had enjoyed sharing the hastily-put-together meal with him.

  His dark green eyes fascinated her. Warrior’s eyes. But when he smiled, bits of gold flecks became apparent and softened his look. Without lying to herself, she knew she had seen desire there.

  And her own reaction claimed the feeling was mutual. Had he noticed the shallow breaths? Thank goodness he could not hear the quickened beat of her heart or see the warm flutters that had filled her each time he leaned closer.

  But he must have noticed that she couldn’t keep her gaze from lingering on his mouth.

  Trouble. The man was trouble.

  The challenges of past eighteen months were stimulating, but not as exciting as thinking of the next go-around with Gregory Mayfield.

  She stacked the plates, then struggled to stand. Eating hominy grits twice in the same day must surely addle wits.

  “You’ve just been alone too long,” she murmured. “Have patience. You’ll soon get over this initial attraction. And there’s a lot to be said for patience. Given enough time, even an egg will walk. Or so Mama was fond of saying.”

  Which only reminded her that she had chores to do. All on an ankle that was steadily swelling within her boot.