Catherine

by Raine Cantrell

  Catherine had other devious ideas.

  She latched onto him so tightly and nipped his ear-lobe as he bent to place her on the bed. He ended up tumbling down on top of her.

  He grumbled another warning.

  She giggled. “We fit like peas in a pod.” To make sure, she wiggled about a little, then arched her body up to his.

  Mentally, Greg had a strong constitution. But the pitiful groans that escaped him told him that was no longer true. The sweetly heated feminine scent of her filled him with every labored breath he drew. I am a gentleman. I will not shred her clothes. I will not rip off mine. I will not kiss…

  Too late for that one.

  He was weak. He kissed her with a burning frustration born of his own desire. A little mean, a whole lot wild. Raw and hungry. A scorcher of a kiss that owed nothing to the skilled finesse of a practiced lover and a whole lot to the need of a dying man going down for the count.

  He was panting by the time he managed to break the kiss. He found the dregs of strength to unlatch her arms and hold them at her sides. He ignored her whispered request for more, ignored his body’s demand to give her and himself what they wanted, ignored everything in his effort to remember his own name.

  “Go to sleep, Catherine. You’ll regret this in the morning. Likely I will, too,” he muttered.

  But as he rolled to his back and started to sit up, she touched his cheek.

  “Stay.”

  As an enticement, it lacked heat. It wasn’t even a seductive plea. He heard her yawn, and her sigh as she curled on her side and made more room for him.

  He lay there, fighting to regain his breath, fighting for some shred of moral fiber to help him do the right thing and leave her.

  Her head nestled on his shoulder and her hand came to rest over his heart. She sighed with the contentment of a well-satisfied lover and slipped into sleep.

  He could slip away and she would never know. He caught himself rubbing his chin against her hair. Why the hell was he waiting? Had he some hidden, treacherous desire to punish himself? For sure, he was going to hate himself in the morning no matter what he did.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Greg didn’t sleep. He tried several times to slip out of bed, but Catherine was tenacious in the most tormenting ways. She was a cuddler. Not just next to him, but at times she sneaked past his guard and half sprawled on top of him.

  It wasn’t until the sky lightened that he finally escaped his hell. She instantly moved to fill the space he left. With a disgruntled murmur about ungrateful women, he left her to her slumber.

  By the time he changed and went downstairs—no humming for him this morning—Ramon had arrived and started the coffee.

  “I come early, sí?” the boy asked with a bright smile.

  Greg, rubbing his upset stomach after last night’s excess at dinner, grunted in reply.

  “Where is the señora?”

  “Sleeping, Ramon.” Greg found a stale biscuit in the bread box. It suited his role as martyr and he nibbled on it while he waited for coffee. “This morning, you and I will do the chores.”

  Hard work, Greg discovered, rid him of most of his dark mood. He managed to milk the cow without mishap. Miss Lily, pesky old hen that she was, drove him crazy as he helped Ramon gather the eggs. But he had a new discovery waiting for him. The old hen stole eggs and hid them.

  “What is that stench?” he asked the boy.

  “Miss Lily, she steals the eggs. She thinks she is still the young hen and tries to hatch them. But sometimes she forgets where she hides them. The señora has to search for them.”

  “That shouldn’t be hard. We just follow our noses.”

  Greg ended up in the hayloft. He finally found the rotten egg, buried in the straw beneath the corner eaves. He was hot and sweating by the time he retrieved it and was awfully glad all he had in his stomach was the stale biscuit.

  Not only was Catherine driving him to madness, but her pets were, too.

  As he stood in the warm sunshine, first gulping fresh air, then cool well water, Greg realized that a great deal of time was wasted in searching the whole barn for eggs. What Catherine needed, if she truly intended to be independent and make her business grow, was an organized approach to housing the hens. Ramon should be a hired helper on a daily basis so that Catherine was free to expand her list of customers.

  The idea of Catherine calling on strangers to sell her eggs didn’t sit well with him. But he reminded himself that he had no right to tell her what to do.

  The reminder didn’t sit any better.

  But he felt rather smug as he came up with ideas grounded in solid business practice. He could show her how to turn this into a real money-making concern.

  He headed back to the barn to get feed for the guinea hens. They tended to scatter into the woods once daylight arrived. He waved as Ramon left to deliver the eggs in town.

  Town…he should send Mrs. Pettigrew a thank-you note and a suitable gift. It was the polite thing to do. Damn! He never attended to such matters, but turned them over to his man of business. And where was he to find a gift that wouldn’t give that woman the wrong idea.

  “Then again,” he muttered as he returned to the house, “she did something to upset Catherine. Why the devil should I ignore that?”

  The more he thought about it, the madder he got. Even Lord Romeo sensed something wrong, for he kept out of the way.

  Greg’s sense of humor returned as he set about preparing a breakfast tray for Catherine. He made the coffee extra strong, thinking of those unfortunate days when he woke with a hangover.

  How much would she remember?

  And how much would he tell her?

  Thoughts of Catherine brought the reminder of how sexually frustrated he’d been.

  And still are? queried a nagging little voice.

  “No,” he said aloud in a firm voice. “I’m not going to behave like a stripling military cadet with his first woman.”

  A cackle made him spin around. Miss Lily hovered over the threshold.

  “Don’t you dare come into the house,” he warned the hen. “Having that mangy creature around is more than a man can stand.”

  She cackled again and her bright eyes seemed to be laughing at him.

  Greg shook his head. “Mad. I’m going mad. She’s got me talking to her hen now.”

  He attacked the slab of bacon, not at all concerned with the resulting slices. He tossed them into the frying pan. Prowling the pantry revealed a loaf of bread that hadn’t been cut. He hacked off a few pieces, spread them with butter and jam and tried to stop thinking about Catherine as he watched the bacon sizzle.

  “Sizzle. Now there’s a word to stir a man’s blood.”

  Just as she did last night.

  “No matter. I was a perfect gentleman. I could easily have taken advantage of her. I could have taken that sweet, deliciously responsive body right on the damn table. I could have had her on the stairs and again… No! I will not torture myself with ‘might-have-beens.’”

  He remained firm this time as he finished cooking and took the tray upstairs to her room.

  Sunlight spilled across the bed. Sunlight that turned her tousled curls to spun gold and bathed her lovely features with a seductive innocence that threw his good intentions to the floor, stomped on them and brought back his black, frustrated mood.

  “How could you sleep and leave me wrung out like some forgotten piece of laundry?”

  “Did I do that?”

  “You did a damn sight more, but who’s complaining?” His hands shook as she stretched and yawned. Sometime during the night she had lost her robe. Catherine’s nightgown wasn’t the silk-and-lace-trimmed confections a woman wore to entice a man. It was perfectly respectable with its ribbon tie at her neck and its long white sleeves. The sight brought back every moment of torment he had suffered. She owed him an enormous debt.

  And it didn’t help her that she had a slightly husky voice in the morning. Especially not th
is morning.

  He watched her struggle to remember. At least he thought that’s what caused her to frown and sit up. She absently pulled the quilt up to her chest. As if hiding made a bit of difference now.

  “You’ve got the most awful black scowl on your face. What in heaven’s name did I do?”

  “Don’t bring heaven into this. Believe me, look farther south. You’d be closer to where you had me.”

  She offered a surprised look, then arched her brow. A slow smile of utter delight creased her lips. “Did I hear you right? Did you just say I…I had…”

  “Me. In a vise. In hell. In torment. But I’ll have you know—”

  “Greg, stop, please. What did I do!”

  “Where should I start?” He hooked one foot on the chair rung and pulled it closer to the bed. Then he set the tray down.

  “Oh, you made coffee.”

  “Never mind the coffee. Don’t you want to hear the sins you committed against me last night?”

  She winced. “Ouch. Are you always so—”

  “Never mind what I am. We were discussing you.” There had to be some justice. He wanted his pound of flesh. Watching Catherine pour herself coffee with a steady hand made him amend that—he wanted every bit of her.

  He started to pace.

  She patted the bed beside where she sat sipping coffee. “Come sit. Share breakfast with me. You made enough for two. Besides, you’re making me nervous.”

  There were many things he wanted to make her, but nervous wasn’t one of them. She smiled at him. Not only with her lips but with the mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

  “Whatever I did to offend you, I can only apologize,” she whispered.

  “Ah, you don’t remember.” Perhaps there was hope for justice after all.

  Very carefully, Catherine set the cup down. She looked up at him. “Yes, I do. You were a perfect gentleman. I haven’t kept to my promises. I didn’t watch over you last night. I ran away. I—”

  “And never did tell me why.”

  “And won’t tell you.” Catherine nibbled the jam-covered bread and chose a slice of extra-crispy bacon. She could almost feel the steam rising from him as she calmly ate. But she was far from calm. She did remember everything. She ducked her head, the movement sliding her hair forward so she could hide the flush rising to her cheeks. She couldn’t fully blame the brandy for acting like a wanton with him.

  “You were very sweet to put me to bed. You are very kind to bring me breakfast. I promise you—and this time I’ll keep it—that the rest of your stay will be in accordance with Suzanne’s and your doctor’s wishes.”

  “So generous, Catherine?” Since he was fuming, he spoke softly. “I can’t tell you how that reassures me. But, my dear, we still have a problem to deal with.”

  The dark undercurrent in his voice drew her to look at him. He stood away from the shafts of sunlight, his face in shadow. But it was the near blackness of his eyes that held her gaze. Something dangerous lurked within. Not the warning-bell kind of danger, but a gleam that sent her blood rushing through her body.

  “Since you remember, Catherine, you know how much I wanted you last night. Still want you. I was reduced to begging you for mercy, Catherine. Do you have the compassion to understand what that does to a man? I have never had to beg a woman in my life.”

  “Oh.”

  “Finish your coffee, Catherine.”

  She thought to ask why, but reached for the cup instead. She wasn’t the least bit frightened by the aura of leashed masculine ire directed at her. Truth was, she felt excitement fill her. A laugh bubbled up before she could stop it.

  “So you find this all amusing?”

  “I didn’t mean to laugh.” She set the cup down and retreated toward the headboard. “I was terrible. A wanton. I’ve never behaved like that with anyone else. Truly.”

  “I believe you. How are you feeling now, Catherine?”

  “Fine. I think.” She curled her hands on the soft folds of her nightgown. “If you leave, I’ll get dressed and tend to chores.”

  “It’s nearly noon. And the chores are done.” He stepped closer to the bed.

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh. You have turned my life upside down in a few long days. We won’t even speak of the nights.”

  “We won’t?” Wide-eyed, she watched him lift the chair with tray intact and move it across the room. The linen shirt had damp patches. He appeared hot and tired and dusty. When he turned back, her gaze roved the lean, hungry set of his features. His hair was mussed as if he had been running his hand through it. She retained the memory of doing so last night. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. A smudge of dirt marked the spot over his heart. Most of the buttons were open. She gulped again. He looked nothing like the man who had arrived unannounced on her doorstep.

  She blinked as he came to stand beside the bed. This close, she imagined she felt the tension, frustration and desire hardening his body. Amend the last. The evidence of its cause was there before her eyes. She looked up into his eyes.

  “How impulsive do you feel, Catherine?”

  “Impulsive?” She gulped again.

  “Last night you confessed it was a failing of yours.”

  “Yes. One of my goals this year is to curb it.”

  “Gets you into trouble, does it?”

  His grin had the earmarks of a predator’s. She was not sure she relished the role of tethered prey.

  “So you’re clearheaded this morning?”

  Was the man mad? The sexual heat coming at her in intense waves would cloud the mind of the most righteous woman. And that was something Catherine never claimed to be. Never wanted to be. How could he ask that ridiculous question when her body warmed and softened with longing before he even touched her?

  “Answer me, Catherine.”

  “Why does it matter?” she asked in a choked whisper.

  “I want you to know what you’re saying. Exactly what you are doing. No recriminations later. No—”

  “That’s all right. You needn’t make a list.”

  “I need to know that you’re sure—”

  “I think I’ve been sure since you set the stove on fire.”

  She couldn’t help the smile this time. A flush stained his cheeks. She held out her hand to him. Not exactly as she had dreamed, but then, reality was ever so much better.

  “That’s it,” he murmured, reaching for her and dragging her up against him. His mouth plundered hers with all the pent-up desire the long hours had kept at a boil.

  Catherine thought, in a way, that said it all. Her lips were as impatient as his, her body as tight with need and flushed with heat. She fought for breath as she melted against him.

  He caught her head between his hands and dragged her head back. “I wanted to woo you. Seduce you and—”

  “Later,” she murmured. His eyes flashed at hers, all but scorching her.

  “Later,” he muttered. He took her mouth again, his blood on fire to hear the soft, welcoming sounds she made in her throat.

  She fell back on the bed, taking him with her in a sprawl that covered her from lips to toes. Both greedy, they kept their lips locked in a kiss.

  She dragged at his shirt as they finally broke for air. “I want you. Now. I’ve never said that. I’ve never wanted like this.”

  His eyes glittered as he looked down at her. In a voice all but purring with male satisfaction, he said, “I know.”

  “You can’t. I’ll show you.”

  Her lips imparted hunger to his. She had accused herself of being wanton, but she knew it was more than unbridled lust that drove her. She wanted one memory. Just one to store against the lonely time to come when he left her. There was greed, too, to savor it all, to capture his every groan, to hold his taste and heat, to always remember the passion to be sated.

  She heard the snap of shirt buttons. The cloth went flying. Cool air touched her body as her nightgown sailed to the floor, but she was drowning in sensation. His
mouth left hers to taste petal-soft skin, went down to capture one rosy-tipped breast. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, before moving to his thick, dark hair as she cradled his head against her.

  His skin was heated against her hands as she explored wherever she could reach. She felt his muscles bunch with tension. She was boneless as he traced random patterns of desire over her skin. She moved to the button fly of his pants with a boldness that shocked her.

  Greg had nothing but groans of approval for her.

  The sheer force that exploded between them made her shudder. And this, she thought, was only the beginning. It didn’t surprise her that their fingers tangled over the buttons on his pants. Only his were stronger—the buttons popped and scattered. He levered himself up, Catherine followed to her knees. She wanted to touch him everywhere, greedy as could be.

  She teased him unmercifully as he struggled to kick off his boots. Oh, but it was so good to laugh with a lover. Louis never… She stopped the thought and guilt that rushed through her.

  “Can’t you get them off?”

  “I’m trying, woman. I’m damn well trying.”

  She ignored the wealth of exasperation in his voice. “Well, let me try.”

  “I’m warning you, Catherine. Not that it does much good. But if you put your hands on me now, I won’t be responsible for the disappointing results.”

  “Oh.” She backed down on the bed.

  “Stop saying that.”

  “Greg,” she called softly.

  “What!”

  “Hurry.”

  “Oh, sweet saints in heaven.” With a grunt and groan he untangled his leg from the pants and kicked them aside. He was half-turned away from her as she asked what the problem was.

  He faced her, glaring daggers that mixed passion with his frustration.

  “Oh. Oh my.” Her wide blue eyes rose to meet his narrow-eyed gaze.

  “I won’t hurt you, Catherine.”

  “Oh, that wasn’t fear. Just sheer, unadulterated female admiration.”

  Her smile beckoned his. Of course, she had no idea how much the temptress she appeared with the fall of her tangled blond hair making a game of hide-and-seek with rosy-tipped breasts. The loving expression on her face held him still. He wanted her, but what he wanted more was to claim Catherine as his own.