“Go away!” she hissed, and was rewarded with a reluctant smile.
“In a few minutes,” he promised gravely, his hands gentle on her shoulders as he turned her over onto her stomach. Cathy could feel him deftly unfastening the hooks at the back of her gown. He tugged it down over her body, tossing it aside, then began to struggle with the lacing of her stays. The strings had apparently worked themselves into a knot. Cathy heard his muttered “Damn!” as he tried to undo it. Succeeding at last, he deftly loosened her stays, pulling them from beneath her.
“I feel sick,” she moaned suddenly as her stomach twitched again warningly.
“I know you do.” His voice was soothing, his hands caressing as they lingered briefly against her thighs before sliding her stockings and garters down her legs. “When you’re undressed, I’ll bring you something that will make you feel better.”
“Like strychnine?” The question was pure bravado, and Jon ignored its provocation. He turned her over onto her back, and Cathy was too weak to even want to resist him. She lay limply on the bed, her eyes closed as he pulled her petticoats away. She was left in her nearly transparent chemise and her ruined pantalets. Jon pulled the chemise over her head with a swift movement, then untied the ribbon waistband of her pantalets with deliberate care and slid them down her legs. His hands felt warm against the nape of her neck as he removed first her necklace, then her earbobs, and finally the ornament in her hair. Cathy was drifting off into a troubled sleep when she felt a cool wetness slide across her belly and down over her soft thighs.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, her eyes popping open. Jon continued to sponge her body with a damp cloth, washing her with an intimacy that made her blush furiously.
“You need a bath,” he said, glancing up at her briefly, his look almost tender. He drew the cloth one final time between her legs then threw it aside. She was left lying naked on the bed, her feet dangling ridiculously over the side as he turned away and strode across the room to the armoire.
“Where are you going?” she asked before she could catch herself, feeling strangely bereft. Jon slanted a wry look at her over his shoulder, his hands busy pawing through the stacks of her undergarments.
“I presume you want to sleep in a nightdress?”
“Oh,” Cathy murmured, then nodded. Her earlier anger with him was fading, along with her memory of its cause. The crazy spinning of her head was banishing all before it.
“You hurt me,” she accused, vaguely remembering a hard, thrusting pain with him as its author.
Jon found what he was looking for and turned back toward the bed, a wisp of silk dangling from one hand.
“You hurt me back,” he reminded her, one hand moving to lightly touch the cheek she had slapped. “That makes us even.”
This seemed reasonable to Cathy, who was getting dizzier by the minute. She submitted docilely as he pulled her to her feet, leaning heavily against the hard wall of his chest while he dropped the nightgown over her head. The musky man-smell of him was oddly pleasant. Cathy burrowed her face against the cool silk of his shirt as he twitched the sleeping garment into place.
“Into bed with you, temptress,” she heard him mutter, his voice husky. His arms slid around her and he was lifting her, then depositing her all too quickly on the soft mattress, this time up near the headboard in a proper sleeping position. Her blue eyes blinked at him reproachfully as he pulled the covers neatly under her chin.
“My head hurts,” she said as if it was somehow his fault. He smiled down at her, his face suddenly charming.
“I’ll fix it,” he promised, running a teasing finger down her small, straight nose. “I’ll have to get you drunk more often, minx. You’re irresistible.”
Before Cathy could do more than frown at him sleepily he was gone, only to return a few moments later with a brandy snifter full of some noxious looking concoction.
“Drink this.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, holding it out to her.
Cathy struggled up on her elbows. Even that slight movement made her head spin.
“What is it?” she asked suspiciously.
“Hair of the dog, my love, with a slight addition. Drink it.”
His arm came around her back, holding her upright, and he thrust the glass against her lips. Cathy had perforce to swallow. It was vile, and she gagged. But when her stomach had subsided and she was lying once more against her pillows she had to admit that she did feel better. She seemed to be floating, her body weightless, her mind soaring free. The mattress creaked and then sprang upward as Jon rose lithely to his feet.
“Don’t leave me,” Cathy murmured, her eyes barely opening as she clutched at his hand. “Please.”
“I won’t.”
“Martha would be so disappointed.…” The words trailed off, and her long eyelashes fluttered down against her pale cheeks. Jon grimaced. Despite his firmest resolutions, the chit could twist him around her finger with ludicrous ease. He wandered over to the fireplace and stood staring blindly down into the flames, musing wryly on the follies of love-smitten men.
The pop of an exploding ember woke Cathy some two hours later. The room was dark and peopled with mysterious shadows. Cathy blinked groggily, pushing herself up on one elbow to peer around the room. The faint odor of cigar smoke lingered in the air, reminding her irresistibly of her husband. The events of the night were not very clear in her mind, but she could vaguely recall him undressing her gently, his dark voice calling her his love. His love. A smile curled her mouth.
The bright orange glow of a cigar tip caught her attention. She stared at it, just barely able to make out the long, lean shadow that sprawled behind it in the chair before the fire.
“Jon?” she breathed, knowing it could be no one else. The cigar was flipped into the fire, and the dark figure got to its feet and crossed toward the bed. Cathy sank back down, pleased. It was, indeed, Jon.
“How do you feel?” he asked softly, his face in shadow as he leaned over her.
“Lonely.” Cathy sighed the word, feeling no need to hide her love for him any longer, now that he had admitted his. His love. His love. The words echoed like a benediction in her brain.
“What do you mean?” Jon asked after a long moment, his voice strangely guarded. Cathy wished she could see his expression, but the room was too dark. Ah, well, there would be tomorrow—all their tomorrows—to talk of love. Right now she wanted more tangible proof.
“I’m cold, too,” she whispered demurely, her hand stealing out from beneath the quilts to run tentatively up his thigh. “Won’t you warm me up?”
“Ah, God, Cathy, you’re still drunk,” he groaned. Cathy smiled in the darkness. Yes, she was drunk. Drunk on the heady nectar of his love. Her hand moved higher, her fingers running teasingly along the hard bulge in his breeches. He started to pull back, then stopped. A low growl sounded deep in his throat and his hand came down to cover hers, pressing her fingers against him.
“I want you.” His voice sounded strangled. Cathy’s fingers curled against the soft velvet, kneading, probing. She touched the hard roundness of a button, freeing first it, then its fellow. Her cool little fingers slid inside to delicately stroke his hot flesh.
“Ah, God,” he groaned, coming down beside her on the bed. His arms went around her and he strained her body against his hard length. The thick quilts were between them and Jon kicked them aside impatiently, his mouth twisting across hers with searing need. Cathy twined her own arms tightly around his neck, returning his kiss with abandon, sobbing endearments against his mouth. She could feel the tremors that racked his corded limbs as they pressed her to him.
Through the thin silk of her nightdress, Jon’s fingers burned on her breasts and thighs and belly. Cathy writhed under his caresses, thrilling to his touch. Her own hands came away from his neck to tug at his shirt. The buttons popped, allowing her access to his furred, muscular chest. She pulled her mouth away from his, pressing wanton kisses on his body. His breath rattled
in his throat as though he was dying.
Jon sat up suddenly, and Cathy could have screamed at the removal of his warm flesh.
“Darling?” she questioned huskily, moving to kneel behind him where he sat on the edge of the bed, her soft arms sliding around his waist.
“I have to take off my damned boots,” he gritted, tugging at the offending footgear.
Cathy chuckled softly, the sound seductive. She pressed her breasts tightly against the hard muscles of his back, and he groaned, his hand leaving what he was doing to pull her head around for a brief, burning kiss. Then, dropping his boots to the floor one at a time, he stood up, stripping off his clothes with hands that shook. Cathy stayed where she was, kneeling on the edge of the bed, watching him boldly. In the flickering firelight his flesh looked orangey-bronze, as hard and pagan as any savage’s. Cathy admired the bulging muscles of his arms and thighs through half-closed lids, reveling in his strength. When at last he was naked, her eyes swept him with a long, desirous look that made him catch his breath. With every pore of her body she was aware of his maleness and his passion.
“Wanton,” he murmured, coming to her and pulling her nightgown over her head with a swift movement, leaving her as naked as he. She pressed against him uninhibitedly, loving the rasp of his body hair against her soft breasts, the heat and hardness of him. He bore her backward, his knee parting her thighs as they came to rest on the softness of the mattress.
When he possessed her, Cathy felt throbbing, burning ecstasy. She arched against him, grinding her softness to his strength, sobbing her need against his mouth. He was gasping, his heart beating so hard that it sounded like a drum being pounded between them. He took her to the edge of rapture once, and then again. When at last he was still, his mouth pressed warmly against the curve of her neck and his hand gently stroking her hair, she felt as if she had died and gone to heaven. Her fingers came up to touch his mouth wonderingly, and then before she could tell him of her joy she fell asleep.
Jon slept too, but not as deeply as Cathy. He awoke just as the sun was peeping over the horizon, the first of its rays slanting into the room, to find his arms wrapped tightly around her naked body. Jon ran a lazy hand over her silken skin, then when that brought no response he propped himself up on one elbow, staring down at the sleeping loveliness of her face.
His eyes touched tenderly on the dark lashes that lay in long, feathery crescents against her delicately tinted cheeks, her small nose, the lovely, seductive curve of her rose-colored mouth. He admired the fine-boned line of her jaw, her slender neck, the strawberries-and-cream perfection of her breasts. The quilts were still twisted about their feet, and the slenderness of her waist, the rounded turn of her hip, her long, lissome legs were all laid bare to his appreciative gaze. He thought of the incredible bliss she had given him in the night, and marveled at the depth of his passion. Never before in his life had he experienced anything like it.
A stray sunbeam touched a curling lock of her hair, bringing it to vibrant, shimmering life. Jon picked up the strand, testing its silken texture with his fingers, lifting it to his nose to inhale its sweet fragrance, pressing it reverently to his lips. He froze in the act. He was behaving like some besotted half-wit! Last night the devouring love he felt for her had blinded him to everything but her beauty and his need. Daylight, with its accompanying return to sanity, had come not a moment too soon. Jon thanked God that Cathy had slept through his awakening. If she had not, he would have confessed his love, imploring her on bended knees if necessary to return it. God, how she would have enjoyed that! Her revenge would have been complete.
Jon got off the bed hastily, gathering up his discarded clothes from where they had fallen. A scowl furrowed his brow. He needed time to think before facing Cathy again. They could not go on as they were. At least, he could not. Not bothering to do more than pull on his breeches, he let himself quietly out of the room.
The day was well-advanced when Cathy awoke, the sun high up in the sky. She stirred sleepily, missing the warmth that had curled around her in the night. Her eyes blinked open, and she pressed her face lovingly to the indention in the pillow next to hers. Jon must already have gone out to the fields. What a slug-a-bed he must think her! And what a shameless hussy, she thought, blushing as she remembered her boldness of the night.
Jon loved her. The thought rang with a clarion purity through the otherwise confusing memories of last night. Could she doubt it, remembering his wild lovemaking? Slowly a frown marred her features as less welcome memories began to intrude. He had taken her more than once, last night. The first time was in the carriage on the way home from the ball. With sickening detail, Jon’s brutal rape of her body replayed itself in her mind. God, how could he have done such a thing? If he loved her? Had he actually said that he loved her, or had she only imagined it because she wanted it so much? She concentrated, trying to remember. A deep, painful blush crept up over her face to the very roots of her hair as the events of the night came back to her. God, she had acted like a bitch in heat, practically begging him to make love to her! She remembered the way she had touched him, had pressed wanton kisses all over his body, and wanted to die.
He didn’t love her. He couldn’t. Not after the bestial, disgusting way he had taken her in the carriage! The champagne she had consumed had combined with her desperate need to make the words up out of thin air! God, how he must be laughing at her! How he must despise her! Or worse, maybe he just didn’t care. Maybe such nights were so common to him that he wouldn’t even give her behavior a second thought.
A discreet knock at the door interrupted her agonized musings. She took a deep breath, willing herself to be calm.
“Yes?”
“About time you woke up, Miss Cathy,” Martha scolded good-humoredly, opening the door. “Master Jon told me to let you sleep, but enough’s enough. Master Cray is making such a to-do that you’d think he was about to starve!”
“You’ve seen Jon this morning!” Cathy said with as much coolness as she could muster.
“Yes, and a fine feather he looked to be in, too. You must have stirred his blood for him, last night!”
In spite of herself, Cathy could feel a blush stealing across her cheeks. There was no doubt that she had, as Martha put it, stirred his blood! Humiliation rose like bile in her throat, and Martha’s amused chuckles didn’t help.
“Was he going out to the fields?” She had to know how much time she had to prepare for her next meeting with him. Martha’s eyes widened with surprise.
“Why, no, lovey, he said he had to go to Atlanta on business. He said he’d be gone about a week. Didn’t he tell you!” Martha sounded suddenly concerned, as if she was beginning to suspect that something was not quite right. Cathy swallowed, and did her best to produce a bright smile.
“Oh, yes, of course he did. I just forgot, for a moment,” she lied. “Did you say Cray was hungry? Poor little boy! Bring him here, please, and I’ll see what I can do about it.”
Cathy went through the rest of the day like a zombie. She smiled, she played with Cray, she made all the right responses while one thought pounded repeatedly in her brain: Jon cared so little for her, thought so little of what had happened between them the night before, that he could take off to Atlanta for a week without a word, without even saying good-bye! Dear God, the thought hurt! Cathy had never felt so totally forsaken in her life.
Late that afternoon as she played with Cray in the rose garden she heard a carriage roll up the drive. What now, she thought dismally, and prepared herself for a gossip session with a catty neighbor. Some pretty probing questions were likely to be directed at herself, she realized with a blush. Last night had been a disaster on all fronts.
“You’ve got a visitor, miss,” Petersham came out to tell her, sounding vaguely disapproving. Cathy looked at him, puzzled by his tone.
“Who is it?”
“A gentleman, miss. He wouldn’t give his name.”
Which accounted for Petersham�
�s disapproval, Cathy reflected. She hoped fervently that it wasn’t Paul Harrison come to apologize for his behavior of last night, or, worse, to pursue their acquaintance. Cathy carried Cray with her as she followed Petersham back into the house, hurriedly smoothing her hair as Petersham indicated the parlor.
“I put him in there, Miss Cathy. If you need me, I’ll be within call.”
Really, did he expect the man to attack her in her own house? Cathy frowned at him impatiently, then pushed open the parlor door. A nattily dressed, silver-haired gentleman stood with his back to her. He turned slowly as Cathy opened the door. Cathy recognized him as soon as he moved. A glad cry rose in her throat, and she practically ran across the room to embrace him.
“Papa! Oh, Papa, I’m so glad you’re here!”
Seventeen
Are you sure you’re doing the right thing, Miss Cathy?” Martha sounded deeply troubled as she poured steaming cans of hot water into the ornate bath.
“Yes, Martha, I’m sure.” Cathy’s reply was clipped. Inwardly she wished she was really as certain as she claimed to be. Part of her longed to tuck Cray under one arm and her portmanteau under the other and fly back to Woodham—and Jon—as if her feet had suddenly sprouted wings. But that was the soft, weak, feminine part. With the rest of her—her pride, her self-respect, her common sense—she knew that the time had come to cut her losses. Jon did not love her—his behavior had made that more than clear. It was folly—no, madness—to stay with a man who sooner or later would take her heart and break it into millions of tiny pieces. She had to get away while she still had the strength of will to do so—and before she had another infant growing under her skirt. Now that the ice had been broken and he was once again taking her to bed, it would not be long before she found herself with child a second time. And the bonds that bound her to Jon would be stronger than ever. Even now, she could only hope that his seed from those last two encounters had not taken.
The thought of Jon’s reaction to her leave-taking made Cathy swallow nervously. But luckily she wouldn’t be around to see or hear it, she thought, shifting Cray to a more comfortable position as he nursed. By the time Jon returned to Woodham, the Unicorn would be well out to sea. He had said he’d be gone for a week, and two days had already passed. Two more would see the Unicorn on her way to England.
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