Catherine

by Raine Cantrell

  But she had to try. “Greg, I may be dense, but I don’t understand how all this fits together.”

  “Suzanne, with her devious mind, conceived of the idea that I needed to make lasting changes in the way I live my life. Yes, she wants me to regain my health, and if I do so, she will cease all attempts to enlist my aid to get women the right to vote.

  “On the other hand, if I give up and return before the allotted time, I have promised to use my money and all political influence to help her cause.”

  “The woman is…I can’t think of a word to commend her brilliance.”

  His smile was rueful. “That’s one way of putting it. You’ll forgive me if I can’t admire her to the same degree. If I lose, I’ll be lynched at any one of my clubs. Her husband will place the noose around my neck with the greatest of pleasure.”

  He began serving the rest of the supper but made no move to eat himself. Catherine soon put down her fork.

  “You’ve put me in a quandary. I believe in what Suzanne is doing. Women should have a right to express their views before laws are made that rule their lives.”

  “Catherine, please, I never said I was against the idea. But you must see how impossible it is. Men will never stand for it. And since they have control of the money, and the political parties in this country, women will not have the right to vote in our lifetime.”

  “But women—”

  “Women are arrested for holding demonstrations. Do you think I want to see my sister in a rat-infested prison? Anyway, it’s all beside the point. I won’t lose this bet. And you won’t do anything to cause me to lose it. You’re too honest.”

  She sat back, unable to decide if she should be flattered that he believed it, or insulted that he could read her so easily. And he was wrong about one thing. She was torn in her desire to help Suzanne’s cause. She had never given it much thought, but it was only just that women had a say in what affected their lives.

  “We won’t have this become an issue between you and me,” he noted. “Will you agree to that?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Later, lying in bed, Catherine wondered why she had so readily agreed. There was something about Greg that chased good sense out the door, across the yard, over the fence and clear to the mountains.

  It wasn’t fair what he did to her mind.

  It most certainly wasn’t fair to begin the evening in a seductive manner and leave her with a good-night kiss on the back of her hand. She lifted the offending recipient of his kiss.

  Her lips had been moistened, parted and primed for his kiss. What had her hand done to deserve that pleasure?

  And her knee. She couldn’t forget the touch of his mouth against her knee after he had rebandaged her ankle.

  She mustn’t make too much of it. Flirtation meant nothing to a man like him. She couldn’t remember Suzanne writing that he had escorted the same woman more than twice. Fickle male. One in a woman’s life was enough.

  On that thought she closed her eyes. Things would look better in the morning.

  Across the hall, Greg remained awake. With his hands folded beneath his head, he stared up at the ceiling.

  His bedroom door was closed, but he had no trouble imagining Catherine lying in her bed. He knew she had been waiting for him to kiss her lips. One look at her luscious mouth and his resistance took flight. But from some deep reserve well he had found the strength not to do it. He wouldn’t have stopped with one kiss.

  Suzanne would have a laugh if she knew the quandary she had placed him in.

  And if he didn’t regain control over his reaction to the lovely widow, he’d have no one but himself to blame if he made a mistake. For all her denial, Catherine was a woman made for marriage.

  And he didn’t want a wife.

  Catherine did not find things improved come morning. A flooding downpour prevented Ramon from coming out to do chores. Her ankle was much better, so much so that she managed to get downstairs before Greg was awake.

  She started the fire in the stove and made coffee.

  The wood floor was cool beneath her stocking-clad feet and her toes curled upward in protest. She poured a cup of coffee and stood at the open back door, staring out at the rain. She sipped from the cup, welcoming the warmth against the chill air. The rain was a solid blanket of gray. She could barely see the barn across the yard. She leaned against the door frame, thinking of chores to be done.

  She didn’t move when she heard Greg come down the stairs. She even knew how he would move without having to turn to look, all fluid muscles and lean, wiry strength. He knew she was there. There was no need for words of false surprise.

  She felt the warmth of his body behind her and then his arms reached around her, pulling her gently back against him. He brushed aside her hair, his lips heated against her bare neck.

  Catherine closed her eyes. Doubts rushed into her mind, and denial sprang to her lips, only to be silenced as he moved his hands to rub her arms. Her head fell back against his shoulder. Through the barrier of her gown and camisole came the heat of his palm cupping her breast.

  She wanted to tell herself that it was the cool morning air that hardened her nipple against the slow, circling massage of his hand, the pad of his thumb a wicked tease against the peak clearly seen through the thin material. She could even tell herself that same cool air made her lean harder against him to absorb his body heat.

  But Catherine didn’t lie well, and tried never to lie to herself. It wasn’t cool air that made her push her soft, straining breast up against his teasing palm, it wasn’t the chill that pressed her rounded buttocks against the hard rise of male flesh behind her.

  At his gentle pressure she turned in his arms to stare up at him.

  There was time enough to escape as he took the cup from her, sipped at it and set it on the table behind him. That impossibly charming smile was in place when he looked down at her. Mere inches apart. All she had to do was lift her arms to draw him closer…or push him away.

  “Don’t do it, Catherine,” he whispered hoarsely. “Not yet,” he added as he caught her hands within his and raised them to his shoulders. Her body flowed against his. His mouth slanted down over hers, taking possession with a gentle ruthlessness, his tongue a welcomed invader that quickly seduced her.

  Instinctively her hips pressed against his in mute response, and a trembling began from deep inside, which built and spread. She could feel the tension tightening his body as she clung to him, tilting her head back beneath the sensual onslaught of his kiss.

  Catherine kissed him back. She took a savage delight in arousing him as he aroused her, until a small, acquiescent moan escaped her lips.

  He angled his head back, still holding her tight against him. “You know, this is the best way to greet the morning. Especially when you help.” And his mouth sought hers again, only Catherine turned aside.

  “We can’t.”

  “Can’t we?” he queried in a low, heated voice. His mouth traveled along her flushed cheekbone to the delicate curve of her ear. He found the rim with the tip of his tongue and teased her with a gentle tracing, then penetrated the hidden, sensitive core.

  She made a startled sound as pleasure tightened her body and sent goose bumps up and down her arms. When he repeated the penetration again, she felt both restless and languid at the same time.

  “Greg, don’t.”

  “Stop?” he asked, biting her ear with a delicate touch.

  She shivered helplessly and saw his male smile.

  “The chores,” she murmured, managing to lift her hand up between their bodies to cover his mouth. “I need to gather the eggs.”

  “It’s raining. In case you didn’t notice. And you’re so warm, Catherine. Let me—”

  “No. I…no,” she repeated.

  He was breathing hard but released her. “Stay put. I’ll go.”

  “But you don’t—” She stopped as he sprinted barefoot out into the rain. She shook her head. Miss Lily was not going to take k
indly to having a stranger near the hens’ nests. She debated for long moments whether she should go after him. But there was masculine pride at stake, not to mention her own part to play in Suzanne’s bet. He was supposed to experience country living. If he survived gathering the eggs, she’d have to try him at milking the cow.

  Despite making up her mind, Catherine repeatedly went to the door to watch for him. She was finished with the biscuits and on her third cup of coffee when he arrived at the back door. His shirtsleeve was shredded, and through the rents in the linen, she could see long, thin scratches down his arm.

  “Your eggs,” he said in a very controlled voice, and handed over the wooden bucket. “And don’t say a word.”

  “You shouldn’t have rushed out—”

  “I needed a cold dousing. And I did not wring your hen’s neck. Now, not another word.”

  He marched through the kitchen, pounded up the stairs, only to return in minutes.

  “Is there any hot water in the kettle?”

  “I was about to get it for you.”

  He snatched the towel from her hand, wrapped it around the handle and carried the steaming kettle out of the room.

  “Wash those scratches with soap,” she called out. “And don’t worry about your ruined shirt. I’ll add it to the cost of your damaged suit.”

  A twinge of pain in her ankle forced Catherine to sit down. Greg didn’t answer her but she could hear him moving around upstairs.

  “The man is reckless. He truly needs a keeper.” She propped her arm on the edge of the table and rested her chin on top of her fist before continuing. “I bet he didn’t throw feed to the hens before he searched their nests. Men! He couldn’t even wait for my instructions.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to think that he had gotten what he deserved for being so stubborn. She glanced at the floor and saw the muddy footprints he’d left behind. Pain or no pain, she had to clean the floor. If she didn’t, she’d be the one likely to take a fall. She managed to reach the table legs when Greg returned.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

  “Do you need spectacles? It’s obvious I’m washing the floor.”

  “From angel to shrew in minutes. I shouldn’t leave you alone.” With that muttered, he stepped up behind her and lifted her from the floor. He ignored her sputtering protest and her demand to know what he was doing and set her on the edge of the table. “You sit. I made the mess. I’ll clean it.”

  “But—”

  “I’m learning, lovely one. And what’s a little water and mud after the experience of gathering eggs?”

  Catherine bit the tip of her tongue. She couldn’t argue. She was too shocked. There wasn’t a man she could name who would cheerfully clean up after himself. Louis wouldn’t have noticed the mess he made. And never, ever would he do what he called women’s work. More surprises from Greg. She wasn’t sure her heart would stand this.

  But he’d soon learn that egg gathering wasn’t the only daily chore. She watched him wipe the excess water from the floor, proud of not mentioning it took him longer to finish than it would have taken her.

  Greg was not unaware of that fact. When he rose and tossed the last rag into the bucket, he stood before her and kissed her nose.

  “What was that for?”

  “A thank-you from a grateful male. You are an extraordinary woman, Catherine. I don’t know another woman who would have kept silent. Most would have given me eighteen instructions on the proper way to mop up a muddy floor. But not you.”

  “Stop. You’re embarrassing me. And I did think about it.”

  Greg placed his hands on either side of her hips and leaned closer. “But you didn’t say it. As I said, I’m most grateful. I’m—”

  “Overheated from your exertion.” She bent backward as his lips drew close to hers. “Greg, you need to eat.”

  “My intent, exactly. Uncanny how you can read my mind.”

  “But I wasn’t.” She had to grip his shirt-clad shoulders or fall across the table. “I’m not…on the table.”

  “Could have fooled me. But I’ve always had a fondness for sweets.” With a swift movement of his head, Greg captured her mouth. Her lips were parted for him and he slid his tongue between her teeth, filling her with the taste and feel of his hungry kiss. She held his mouth hard upon her own, spearing her fingers through his hair, moaning softly as the sensual heat built between them. The rhythmic motion of his tongue against hers was echoed by the movements of her body against his as she sought relief from the aching heaviness that filled her breasts and condensed between her restless legs.

  Uttering a mixture of curse and prayer, Greg tore his mouth from hers.

  “What the hell is that sound?”

  Catherine opened her eyes to see him turned toward the door. It took her a few moments and a repeat of his question before she could answer him.

  “The sound you hear is the cow.”

  He turned to look at her in time to see her lick her lips. Blue eyes bright with passion waited to meet his gaze.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She needs…” Catherine paused, then smiled. “She is in need of relief.”

  “One female is all I want to handle at one time.”

  “She won’t wait. Truly. She’s hurting, Greg. She needs to be milked.”

  His look of bemusement forced her to swallow her laughter. “It’s not difficult. Help me down and I’ll do it.”

  “You’re not going out there. It’ll be my luck to have you fall again.” He took a deep breath, ran one hand through his hair and stared out the back door.

  “Just tell me how to…what it is I…”

  Catherine tried to be matter-of-fact. It was clearly an impossible task. Showing would be better, but he wouldn’t hear of her going out to the barn. She managed to get past the washing of Sweet Bess’s udder, but when it came to the actual milking, she thought she lost him.

  His eyes took on a glazed look. She demonstrated the motion needed. And stopped abruptly. She stared at her hands, the position of her fingers, and noticed the very defined fit of his pants. Once Louis had asked her to touch him just like this, but when she had tried to repeat it on her own, he had stopped her because it was too painful for him. Did Greg have the same problem?

  But why would he be thinking of sex when she was trying to save him from having the milk bucket, stool and his legs kicked out from under him?

  “Let me come with you,” she pleaded. She wiggled off the table. “See? I can stand for a little while.”

  “Stay put. I managed the eggs. I can manage this.” He paused at the door. “I’ll expect a better reward when I’m finished.”

  “Of course,” she readily agreed. “You’ll have earned it.”

  Greg found breakfast warming on the stove, a steaming tub of water and his clean clothing laid out on a chair.

  Of Catherine there was no sign.

  Just as well, he thought. What man wanted a woman to see him like this?

  He should have paid attention to her instructions. Instead, he had let his mind wander into the realm of the sexual delights he’d soon be sharing with his lovely widow.

  Some delights. She had him so twisted in knots, his body was sure he was killing it.

  Battered, bruised and filthy, he sat down with a weary sigh. Women, he decided, were the most devious creatures the Lord had created to torment men.

  Amend that. Females of all kinds were the devil’s own.

  He leaned over to rub his shin. Even with his boots on he’d felt the cow’s kick. A reproachful meow made him look up. Lord Romeo stood by the back door, stretched to his full height. His paws touched the handle.

  When Greg didn’t immediately respond, he meowed again.

  “I don’t blame you for wanting out. I’d run myself, if I could.”

  Once the cat was outside, he looked again at the tub, the breakfast and his clothes. Catherine was a caring woman.

  The lesson w
as slow in coming, but he was beginning to understand how much work she did. He’d let her rest.

  Besides, he was in no condition to continue an amorous pursuit.

  For now.

  Chapter Thirteen

  At the end of the first week, Greg awoke with the knowledge that he and his lovely widow were dueling their way through the days like a fencing match. On guard, engage, parry and retreat, even a few surprise thrusts were the order of the last few days.

  Not that he complained. He was learning to laugh at himself and enjoy Catherine’s mischievous sense of humor as they shared inside and outside chores.

  Lord Romeo was still the bane of his existence. The cat seemed to appear at the worst moments, often with what Catherine termed his show of affection. From entwining his body around Greg’s legs to depositing some newly caught rodent at his feet, the cat demanded attention.

  Greg stretched and saw that dawn heralded a new day. His stomach rumbled, but even the constant twinges of pain were receding.

  Taking stock of himself, he realized that he had never felt better. He had never worked so hard physically, but there was satisfaction with each mastered chore. He fell into his bed each night and slept the sleep of the just.

  Of course, he couldn’t deny that having Catherine beside him would have made his stay complete, but he was making great strides in wearing down her considerable resistance.

  He was learning to cook. There was a true challenge. He’d set fire to the frying pan, boiled potatoes into hard lumps and roasted steaks that were charred outside and raw inside.

  They hadn’t starved as he improved his culinary efforts. Catherine had the patience of a saint. And his pockets were deep to pay for the many meals supplied by Caroline.

  At least he could look forward to being served a decent dinner this evening. They were to attend Mrs. Pettigrew’s dinner party with dancing afterward. He couldn’t wait to take Catherine into his arms. Her ankle was healed, so there wouldn’t be excuses why she couldn’t dance with him. And later… He smiled. Later he would take care of the constant ache that had him wishing his tailor had not been so precise in the cut of his pants. He arose with a prayer that no mishaps marred the day.