Catherine

by Raine Cantrell

  “As for the last, talking about making money to a banker would violate the terms that Suzanne set and I agreed to.”

  Catherine folded her arms over her chest. She didn’t know if she should feel pleased or angry that he didn’t consider her a marriage threat. Not that she wanted him to think about marriage and herself in the same thought. But it piqued female vanity—the little she believed she had—that he had discounted her from the first.

  Curiosity got the best of her, and the words were out before she stopped them.

  “Why haven’t you married?”

  “Now I feel at home. Suzanne asks me at least once a week. Can you stand a little male honesty, Mrs. Hill?”

  “I prefer honesty at all times.”

  “Another odd trait to find,” he murmured more to himself. “I haven’t found the right woman. And since we are getting into personal matters, I might ask why you haven’t remarried?”

  “You might ask. That doesn’t mean I have to answer.”

  “And here I thought I had met a woman who was above using the feminine wile of creating mystery—”

  “No, I’m not above using it. I simply refused to answer your question. That’s a common failing among men. They can’t believe a woman is capable of telling them the truth. I’m content being a widow. I do not have to follow rules society sets for single women. I do not have to answer to a man for my actions. Ah, I see by your look that you don’t believe me. I told you so. Most men will not, and more than a few women, Mrs. Pettigrew among them, have told me to pray harder for proper guidance.”

  “Your pardon, Mrs. Hill.” Greg looked into her blue eyes. Sparkling. If she wasn’t inwardly laughing at him, then he was not a man. But it quickly came to mind that he faced his sister in much the same way over the very same question. He grinned at her.

  “May I have your promise that you’ll protect me from that woman?”

  “I’ll do my best. But there is another solution.”

  “Don’t suggest that I court that child.”

  “No. I wouldn’t want to see Camilla hurt.” She glanced down at her scuffed boots. Better to find out now than later. “You could end the problem by going home.”

  “Out of the question.” He clasped his hands behind his back and started pacing away from her. “I’ve got too much riding on my staying the full month.”

  “Oh,” she whispered, disappointed. “I had forgotten the bet. Knowing your sister, she made the prize a valuable one.”

  That brought him around to face her. “She didn’t write you with the details?”

  “No, she didn’t. Why do you think she did? Your sister wrote it was important, but she didn’t want to influence me in any way.”

  “Suzanne did that?”

  “Your disbelief astounds me.”

  “No more than what you’ve said astounds me,” Greg returned. He ran his hands through his hair. “I can’t believe she didn’t enlist your aid.”

  “Are you,” Catherine asked in a suddenly cool, very soft voice, “calling me a liar?”

  Distracted by thoughts that his sister intended this bet to be fair, Greg didn’t answer her.

  Catherine fumed. She wanted to leave him, but the idea of hobbling across the yard while he watched was intolerable. But she couldn’t keep standing there.

  “If you’re finished questioning me, I suggest you return inside. I’m sure you’re not nearly as rested as you should be.”

  Her curt tone caught his attention. “You’re angry with me. Why?”

  “Some things, Mr. Mayfield, are best left unsaid. Good day.”

  She pushed off the side of the house, using every bit of control to walk normally. Please let him go back into the house, she prayed. I don’t know if I want to scream, cry or beat sense into that man!

  “How soon to supper, Mrs. Hill?”

  “When I’m done with my chores.”

  She was definitely angry with him. What had he said to her? Greg shrugged. They had spoken about so much in the last hour, he couldn’t recall it all. But something had firmed her spine.

  “Since I turned down Mrs. Pettigrew’s invitation to what no doubt would be a lavish meal, you will tell me what I’ll have in place?”

  Catherine stopped dead. She drew in a deep breath, released it and took another. Her hands curled at her sides. She slowly turned around.

  “What did you say?”

  “I asked you what you planned for supper.”

  “Yes, I thought that’s what you said.” She smiled and saw that he frowned. He also took a step toward her but she lifted one hand to stop him. “Since you so kindly described the meal we had as a culinary achievement, and one you were looking forward to having again, then that is what you’ll have.”

  “Biscuits and eggs?” he called out.

  “Cold biscuits and cold hard-boiled eggs. If you like, you can have cold grits, too.”

  “You wouldn’t do that to me. I’m a sick man.”

  Catherine derived the greatest satisfaction as she looked over her shoulder and fluttered her lashes at him. She licked her bottom lip, mentally hushing the little voice begging her not to be cruel. Pleasure bloomed. Greg was staring at her mouth. His dazed expression almost made her smile. She licked her lip again.

  “Mrs. Hill…er…Catherine,” he mumbled, wondering as he did what had happened to her. “Surely you wouldn’t, I mean you couldn’t—”

  “Mr. Mayfield, watch me.”

  Watch her? He couldn’t seem to do anything else. Wicked widow, indeed. She disappeared into the shadowed interior of the barn. He stood there, shaking his head.

  Her impudent smile sent his temperature soaring, then he silently repeated her words and his temper kicked in.

  “We’ll see about that,” he grumbled, and made a beeline for the kitchen.

  Disappointment came with his first deep, inhaling breath. There were no enticing smells coming from the pots on the stove. There was the bowl of hard-boiled eggs and a basket of leftover biscuits on the table.

  Rebellion seared him. He refused to eat them again. He spied the pan of gingerbread and helped himself to an overgenerous slice. The cake was delicious, sweet and light with bursts of spice melting on his tongue. He ate the first slice with relish, then helped himself to another.

  When he finished, he decided that gingerbread went a long way to restoring his good humor.

  He shot a last look at the table.

  “She won’t do it. She wouldn’t dare,” he stated as he left the kitchen.

  “She did it. She dared to do it,” Greg muttered four hours later. He was in his room, standing and staring out the window.

  Darkness had descended, and with it, a quiet like the closing of a coffin.

  Where were the gaslights? Or house lights? Not even a passing carriage lantern relieved the black curtain of night.

  Insect noises and small rustlings were all he heard as he leaned out the window. No creak of farm wagons, no shouts of hack drivers cursing privately employed coachmen. Where were the lights? The people? Noises he could identify?

  What did one do in such an isolated setting?

  What specifically did the widow do to occupy her evening hours?

  She had been unusually quiet. She didn’t even mention the missing gingerbread. Was she angry with him over his careless remarks about her cooking?

  No. Catherine had not struck him as a woman who held a grudge.

  Then what was wrong? No smiles, no sparkle in her eyes. She had barely whispered good-night to him.

  This was an exercise in frustration.

  He was a man. How could he possibly know what went on in a woman’s mind?

  How many times had Suzanne, and even one or two of his mistresses, pointed that fact out to him? And why should he care what that provoking widow thought?

  A wry grin teased his lips. Obviously he cared a great deal, since he couldn’t stop harping on why the merry widow had withdrawn.

  Disgusted for not coming t
o any conclusion, Greg turned away from the window. He glanced at the lamp on the bedside table and the three open books beside it. On the dresser beside his toilet articles was another stack of books. Reading was one of the quiet pastimes his doctor recommended. But not one of the three Jules Verne novels held his attention. He wasn’t in a mood to journey to the center of the earth, or dive twenty thousand leagues under the sea, or travel from the earth to the moon.

  He felt restless when he should be exhausted. The closed door made the room confining. The house was so damn quiet.

  At home, no matter what wee hour of the morning he returned, Martin was always waiting, someone was always on duty in the kitchen if he should want something.

  But the widow was asleep. And she had reminded him more than once that they were here alone.

  He didn’t bother to pick up his pocket watch to see the time. But he did open his door, hoping to see a crack of light beneath the door across the hall where Catherine slept.

  If he ever shared the fact that he was alone in the house with a widow as lovely as Catherine and made no attempt to seduce her to share the pleasures of the flesh, he would be banned from every private club where his friends and business acquaintances gathered.

  Mad. The woman was addling his wits as badly as her grits had.

  Disappointment appeared to be his lot. No light. There was a faint shadowed outline as if her door were ajar. He rubbed his freshly shaven jaw, tempted to wake her.

  His stomach rumbled, loud to him in the night’s stillness, and he replaced the lure of Catherine’s company with thoughts of the gingerbread.

  He tightened the silken tie of his robe. He decided he didn’t need the lamp.

  His slippers made no sound as he walked the hallway, but he crept down the stairs like a thief trying to avoid the steps that creaked.

  It came as a bit of a surprise when he gained the kitchen without mishap. He gave passing thought to lighting the coal oil fixture over the table and rummaging through the pantry. She did tell him to make himself at home.

  But Greg had never rummaged through his own pantry. He had no idea of what he would find or what to do with most of the canned and jarred foods on the wooden shelves.

  “Better to stick with the gingerbread,” he muttered.

  He cautiously felt his way around the table until he reached the stove. The tray was where he remembered it. He lifted the napkin and, by feel, judged that the lovely widow had indulged herself. There was less than half of the cake left.

  He wasn’t about to go fumbling in the dark for a knife and so broke off a hunk.

  Halfway done eating the gingerbread, he stopped.

  “Where the devil would she hide the milk can? Or the tea canister?”

  His mutterings didn’t help. He couldn’t recall where she’d put the milk and he didn’t know how to brew tea. All he recalled was something about letting it steep.

  He contented his thirst with water, managing to get enough on his robe to chill his skin.

  Once upstairs he stripped off the robe. He threw a hasty look at the door and knew he’d better close it. He’d never worn a nightshirt and he wasn’t about to start.

  Greg lay awake for quite some time. His thoughts veered of their own volition back to Catherine. He didn’t want to make comparisons to other women he knew. But he had discovered long ago that listing a woman’s faults was better than counting sheep—a practice that never had worked for him, although many swore by it.

  His widow was stubborn.

  Yours?

  For tonight, he decided.

  Where was he? Ah, yes. Stubborn but enticing. She was simply different from other women. He couldn’t name one, including Suzanne, who admitted to working without finding a way to apologize for it. His widow was a woman of pride. But, oh, that smile. And those eyes…

  This is not helping you to sleep.

  Leave be, he warned the devilish little voice. A man had a right to take his pleasures where he found them. And if I want to indulge in thoughts of the woman’s lust-provoking curves, I will.

  Of all the stupid things to do. From that lustful thought his body reacted with heated blood and instant arousal.

  Greg couldn’t summon guilt. The woman couldn’t read his mind. By all that was holy, she was asleep in her bed.

  His eyes drifted closed as he turned on his side and plumped the pillows. He created his own version of their first meeting.

  This time, a lovely, wickedly seductive widow opened the door to his knock.

  There was no horrid cat. Not one squawk marred the husky murmur of her voice making him welcome.

  Her blond hair floated free over her shoulders. She wore a pale blue silk robe with a single tie—his dream, his ease of convenience. So faithfully did the thin, shimmering cloth cling to her luscious body, only the exact shading of her nipples was left to his imagination.

  Greg chose a dusky rose to match her lips.

  He entered the house. She offered refreshment. He refused. He stared into blue eyes and read approval for the lust-laden thoughts reflected in his gaze. A moment or two passed, then she drew him close.

  Her generous lips were his for the taking. And he took until they both shook from the blaze of desire generated by that first kiss.

  Greg tossed and turned. He flopped from his back to his stomach. His hands clutched the pillow.

  Nothing could have forced him from his vivid dream—which, upon later reflection, he blamed on his miserable excuse for a dinner.

  There he was, looking into her eyes dark with need. Her skin flushed with passion. His breathing increased. He could almost hear her heart beat.

  Her graceful fingers cleverly divested him of his clothes. She beckoned him up the stairs.

  One step, two, and suddenly those blue eyes changed to green, but without the blond-tipped lashes.

  Greg moaned at the change and thrashed across the bed. His legs tangled in the sheet. He couldn’t breathe. The moment his hand connected with soft, silky hair, he sighed relief and then groaned with rising ardor.

  She was more than willing to stop and explore, arousing him. He, in turn, tasted her silken flesh. Her slender body was sleek and supple. She pressed against him. Her heat drove him wild. The tips of her nails raked his chest. He shuddered in reaction. When the tip of her tongue—that sweet, pink tongue he envisioned himself the recipient of—played over his mouth, then circled his ear before sliding down to his chest, he swore she wove her sorcery to ensnare him.

  His lovely widow became the aggressor. His hands gripped the sheet beneath his powerfully aroused body. He touched and stroked her until he heard her purr.

  He wanted her. Right there on the staircase. Urged by a desperation he couldn’t explain, he tried to hold her.

  She eluded his arms with a graceful turn and moved up a step. His hand caressed the smooth, silken length of her hair. With a hip-swaying walk meant to bring a man to his knees, she climbed the stairs.

  Greg raced after her.

  He was panting by the time he reached the top of the stairway. The hall, suddenly dark with pockets of shadows, loomed before him like an endless tunnel.

  No. Not endless. There, waiting at the end, floated blue silk.

  With his prize so close, he ran. As he did, the walls and ceiling stretched away from him until he no longer saw them. And he was shrinking.

  Danger stalked him. Panic drove him forward. He had to save his wicked widow. His breathing was the rasp of an exhausted man.

  Something massive pursued him.

  Greg looked back over his shoulder. A cry came from his lips.

  Green eyes of monstrous size stared at him. Terror, the likes of which he had never known, struck him dumb. The feline face taking shape out of the gloom froze him in place.

  He heard her seductive purr beckoning him onward.

  But all he thought of now was to get away. Move! Hurry! his brain ordered. Finally, his body obeyed. He pounded on the doors closed to him.

&
nbsp; No aid. No refuge.

  His attempts were of a frantic nature to evade the claws trying to trap him. He felt the heat of the cat’s breath. Reduced to sobbing exhaustion, he tried one more door.

  It opened.

  With the animal a whisker away, he had no time to shut and bolt the door. He searched for a place to hide.

  The bed. Get under the bed!

  Greg squirmed his way into the dark cave. His fingers pressed the wooden floor as if he would find a magic door to freedom. A dust ball tickled his nose. He almost inhaled it in an effort not to sneeze and give away his hiding place.

  Prayer was beyond his capability. He lay cowering, gasping for breath.

  Greg watched with horrified eyes as massive paws came into view. He cringed as the body thumped to the floor. He could see that wicked tail snapping from side to side. His eyes widened when the cat’s nose was in sight, whiskers twitching. Those great green eyes settled on him.

  His blood chilled the marrow of his bones. There was triumph in the creature’s gaze at having cornered him. One of the large paws flashed out. His leg was caught.

  Despair filled him. He was going to be this beast’s midnight snack.

  He punched the paws slowly dragging him forth. He knew the cat would toy with him before he crushed his puny bones between those sharp fangs.

  He was to die. The victim of a cat’s revenge.

  Chapter Eight

  Greg bolted upright in bed. He threw the pillow he had been clutching to the floor and kicked aside the sweat-soaked sheet.

  A plaintive meow had him rubbing his eyes. Horror of horrors, those green eyes were staring at him!

  For an instant he couldn’t move. Slowly sanity returned as the dream-turned-nightmare faded. The weight on his leg had not been a massive claw but the cat’s body.

  “Hell! Double and triple hell!” Limp with relief, he slumped back against the remaining two pillows.

  Breathe. In and out. Calm yourself.