“Yes, thank you.” Martin cut her off. “I am sure Mistress O’Hanlon has some reasonable explanation.” Despite his disheveled state, he was still able to arch his eyebrow in that cool, aggravating fashion.
“I already told you,” Cat growled. “I was sleeping.”
“And what was wrong with the bed I provided you?”
“Nothing, except it was too far away from Meg. I was doing what Ariane sent me here to do. Keeping watch over your daughter.”
He frowned in astonishment, rendered momentarily speechless. Cat took advantage of his silence to snarl at Agatha. “And I am no papist.”
“There, Mistress Butterydoor, you see—” Martin began, but Cat peered round him at the old woman, informing her with wicked relish.
“I was never baptized into any Christian faith. I follow the old ways, honoring only the good mother earth.”
Cat’s announcement sent both the old woman and the maid into fresh cries of horror. “A heathen! God save us all.”
Martin clutched his head and groaned as Meg’s bed-chamber door opened. Everyone froze as the girl took a tentative step into the corridor, her brow knit in consternation.
“Papa? What is everyone shouting about?”
“Nothing, Meggie.” Martin glanced down and flushed, for the first time seeming to notice his half-clad state. “It is only a small domestic disturbance. Papa will deal with it. You—you just stay in your room.”
He shooed Meg back into her chamber and closed the door, leaning up against it. As he did so, the neckline of his shirt pulled even farther open, revealing an expanse of hair-darkened chest.
Cat could not help staring, her gaze roving from that masculine chest on down to the taut calves and glimpse of muscular thigh. She realized she was not the only one gaping. Mistress Butterydoor gawked at her master, the little housemaid craning around the plump old woman for a better look.
Martin scowled and adjusted his shirt. He straightened away from the door with amazing dignity for a half-naked man being inspected by three women.
“Ladies, it is far too early in the morning for a man to be plagued with these hysterics. Maude, get back to your chores. Mistress Butterydoor, fetch Meg some bread and honey, and some hot water to bathe, now that you all have awakened the poor child.
“And you—” He leveled a dark look at Cat. “Come with me.”
Without waiting to see that she complied, Martin strode toward the stairs. The chastened housemaid mopped her tearstained cheeks, and even the sullen Agatha prepared to obey.
Cat was the only one who bridled, unaccustomed to being ordered about by any man. But she felt chagrined to be caught by Martin in the midst of such a ridiculous fray. Scornfully flinging the broom down in front of the quaking housemaid, Cat followed Martin down the stairs.
She stalked after him as best she could in the overlarge boots, grumbling, “I may be many things, Wolfe. But I am no man’s domestic disturbance.”
“What you are is pure chaos. A disaster waiting to happen.” Opening a door to the left of the stair, he jerked his head, indicating she should precede him inside.
Cat flounced past him into a small study, sparsely furnished, the walls dark with linenfold paneling. It was obviously where Martin had spent the rest of the night, a makeshift pallet of pillow and blankets piled before the hearth.
Martin closed the door and picked his way past the disordered pile of bedding to where he had abandoned his breeches.
Hopping upon one leg, he jammed the other into the dark woolen fabric. In all maidenly modesty, Cat supposed she should have averted her gaze. But it had been a long time since she had been a maiden.
She watched, obtaining a flash of flat hard buttocks as he eased the breeches over his hips. Only when he caught her staring at him did she reluctantly train her eyes elsewhere.
While Martin tucked his shirt around his privates and buttoned up the breeches, Cat studied the polished surface of the desk and the bookcase. The shelves were empty except for a few books that appeared to be gathering cobwebs. Cat hazarded a guess they had been left by the house’s previous tenant. Martin didn’t strike her as a man who gave himself over to study and quiet contemplation.
Curious about the titles of the abandoned books, Cat took a step in that direction, only to have her loose boot shift beneath her. She stumbled, nearly twisting her ankle.
“Damn!”
When Martin regarded her quizzically, she complained, “It’s these bloody boots of yours. They are too big. I’d have been better off going barefoot.”
“How remiss of me not to have my boots fashioned to fit your dainty feet,” he drawled. “Remind me to speak to my bootmaker about it.”
He flung himself down in the chair behind his desk and proceeded to don his stockings. “Would you care to tell me what the devil you were doing raiding my wardrobe in the first place?”
“You left me little choice. Not after you made off with my clothes.”
“I passed your things off to the laundry maid for washing and mending. If you had remained abed resting as you should have done, your lack of garb would not have been a problem. Er—would you mind?” He indicated another pair of boots lined up before the hearth, shabbier than the pair Cat had borrowed.
Cat gave him a disgruntled look, but stomped over to fetch them. As she lifted the well-worn boots, she noticed what appeared to be fresh mud caked on the heels. It was also splashed upon the hem of a cloak tossed carelessly over a stool. The same cloak he had worn when he had crept in to check upon Meg last night.
Cat frowned. The significance of Martin’s attire should have struck her much sooner. He had gone out after tucking Meg in. But what reason would a man have for venturing abroad at such a late hour in a dangerous city like London? Gaming? Carousing? Wenching?
Cat could easily imagine Martin engaging in such pastimes but for one thing—the tender, protective way she had seen him hover over his daughter. A rogue he might be, but Cat doubted Martin would have risked leaving Meg at night unless he had a compelling reason. But what the devil could it be?
“Uh—Mistress O’Hanlon? Cat?”
Martin’s voice jarred Cat from her contemplation of his boots. He addressed her, all silken politeness, “I am of course entirely at your leisure, milady. You may hand me the boots anytime you feel ready. But I beg you, before I age another day would be good.
“My sincerest thanks,” he said when she plunked the boots down in front of him.
Cat scowled. “My chieftain did not send me here to act as your valet.”
“Your chieftain?”
“Ariane. The lady honors me by considering me her gallowglass.”
Martin choked, struggling to hide his grin. He chuckled as he worked on his boot.
Cat clenched her hands into fists. “One of these days, Wolfe, your tendency to laugh at me is going to get your skull broke.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you. Only at the notion of the Lady of Faire Isle, the epitome of peace and feminine grace, being anyone’s chieftain and hiring an Irish mercenary.”
“I already told you. I serve the Lady for love, not money. And it has been a long time since there was peace to be had for the Lady or anyone else. These are dangerous days.”
“Yes, they are.” Martin’s smile faded. He finished donning his boots and then levered himself to his feet. “And in light of that, and as you appear to be fully recovered, you had best journey back to your chieftain with all haste.”
“I have no plans to be going anywhere without you and the girl.”
“I believe we settled this matter yesterday.”
“All that we settled was how stubborn you are. Until you change your mind about taking Meg to Faire Isle, I am staying right here to protect her.”
“Don’t think I am not grateful for your offer or the pleasure of your company. I have not enjoyed myself this much since my last bout of dysentery, but I think it best if you sail on the next tide, Mistress O’Hanlon.”
&
nbsp; Cat folded her arms across her breasts. “No.”
“No?” His smile was soft as his voice, but his eyes glittered as he rounded the desk, prowling toward her.
Cat braced her legs apart, digging in her heels. “Don’t think to intimidate me. You tried that yesterday at the theater and you ended up on your arse with my sword at your throat. Oh, I suppose you could attempt to toss me out of your house and into the street. You and the half dozen other men you’d require. But I’ll only come back, camp on your doorstep if I have to.”
“God’s death, woman, I would not treat a dog with such discourtesy, let alone a friend of the Lady of Faire Isle. But there is no necessity for you to remain here.”
“Yes, there is if you persist with this folly of remaining in London. If the coven or the Dark Queen comes after Meg, you are going to need me. Who is there to help you look after her, that ignorant old woman with her cane? A housemaid with a broomstick? Whereas I, as you may have noticed, am a fair hand with a sword.”
“More than fair,” he surprised her by conceding.
“And I will guard your daughter as I would my own chieftain. I will defend Meg with my very life.”
Martin peered intently into her eyes. Something softened in his features as he brushed his fingertips over the bruise upon her brow, the place still a little tender.
“By God, I believe that you would,” he murmured. “But that is hardly to the point. You have not been beneath my roof for twenty-four hours and you’ve already set my household into an uproar, to say nothing of the fact that you’re wearing my breeches.”
“So send one of your servants to the Fighting Cock Inn to fetch my things. Then I’ll have my own breeches.”
“Actually, I sent Jem to do that yesterday evening.” Something about the way Martin avoided her gaze made Cat uneasy.
“Then where is my saddlebag?”
Martin grimaced and confessed, “Your belongings are gone.”
“What!” Cat’s heart lurched. “What the devil do you mean gone?”
“Someone appears to have made off with them.”
“Everything?”
“I am afraid so.”
“All my clothes? My jerkin and breeches and—and my boots?” Cat paced up and down, her anger and dismay increasing with every step. “My saddlebag and all of my coin? Except for what I took to pay my fare into the theater, I left the rest hidden inside my stocking.”
“That was hardly the best idea.”
“It seemed far safer than carrying it on me and running the risk of footpads or—or pickpockets.”
“Safer at the Fighting Cock?” Martin rolled his eyes. “It is not exactly the most reputable establishment.”
“Where else in hell do you think I could stay? The better places would never welcome a woman traveling alone with no husband or maid. Especially an Irishwoman. I am fortunate I didn’t have to bed down with swine.
“But I would have been better off with the pigs,” she raged. “How I hate this damned country. ’Tis peopled by no one except villains and thieves.”
Storming by Martin, she punctuated her words with fierce gestures.
He reared back to avoid being flailed by her fists. “You have no thieves in Ireland?”
“Yes,” Cat snapped. “The goddamned English.”
She took another furious turn about the room, realizing that she was carrying on like a lunatic. But it was easier to give vent to her anger than think about the one beloved object among her missing belongings, the one thing she could not bear to lose.
When her rage finally burned itself out, she sank down despondently upon a wooden stool, her fists balled in her lap. Martin hunkered down in front of her.
“I am sorry,” he said gravely. “So what did you lose that is of such great value?”
“Nothing. What makes you think—”
“Because you don’t strike me as the sort of woman to weep over lost clothes or a pocketful of coin.”
“I am not weeping!” But to her horror, Cat felt her eyes prickle. She twisted her head away from him, but he caught her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
His eyes were far too sympathetic. It had been a long time since any man had looked at her thus.
“Tell me what you lost. I’ll get you another.”
“You c-can’t.” She thrust his hand away from her face. But he persisted, curling his fingers over her fist, coaxing her with the softness of his eyes, the kindness of his smile.
“It was nothing. I am merely being stupid, fretting over the loss of an old leather jack that I keep filled with usquebaugh.”
“You are grieving over the loss of your whiskey?”
“Not the whiskey, damn it.” Cat swallowed hard. “But the flask…it belonged to my da. It—it was all I had left that was his.”
Martin pressed her hand. “You still have your memories and for that I envy you. I have no idea who my father was. I am the illegitimate offspring of a Parisian whore.”
“Bah, there is no such thing as illegitimate. Not in Ireland.” She added sadly, “At least not in the Ireland I once knew. Under the old Brehon law, everyone is considered legitimate because we are all born with souls. It has nothing to do with our parents being married.”
“What a fine and sensible law,” he remarked wistfully. “Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do about your father’s flask. But I can buy you clothes—a new gown, shoes, stockings, corsets, anything you need.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Cat cried, drawing her hand away. She felt mortified enough to have nearly dissolved into tears in front of Martin without compounding her humiliation by accepting his charity. She leapt up from the stool.
“Your pardon. I don’t mean to seem ungracious, but I have never yet been reduced to accepting gifts from any man as though I were his—his mistress.”
“My mistress? Hardly!” Martin straightened to his feet. “No, consider the new gown as—as merely a courtesy to a friend of Ariane’s. And besides,” he smiled. “At some point, I would like my breeches back.”
“Fine. You can have them now. And the shirt as well.” Her lips thinning into an obstinate line, she started to undo the ties at her neckline.
Martin seized her hand to stop her. Looking torn between vexation and amusement, he demanded, “Are you always this infernally proud and stubborn? Be reasonable, Cat. Even if your clothes hadn’t been stolen, you can’t tramp about London in boots and breeches. This isn’t Faire Isle. Some Puritan preacher would have you arrested for indecency. Whether you like it or not, I have to furnish you with a proper gown—”
“Indeed you won’t,” Cat said, pulling indignantly away from him. “I have a gown. As soon as your laundress sees fit to return it to me.”
“That shabby thing. I wouldn’t rub down my horse with it. If you insist upon remaining here and being part of my household, you must be respectably attired.”
“A plague upon your respectability.” Cat jabbed her finger against his chest. “Let me make one thing plain, le Loup. I won’t be part of your household. I am not here in your service, but to protect Meg. And I will be the one to decide what I wear. I have never—”
She gasped as he seized her shoulders and stopped her mouth with a hard kiss. His lips were warm and rough, sending a shaft of heat through her.
Cat sprang back as though she’d been scalded, for a moment unable to catch her breath, let alone speak.
Martin likewise leapt back, looking stunned by his own action.
“What—what the devil did you do that for?” Cat demanded.
“I—I am damned if I know,” he blustered. “It was your fault. Always arguing about everything. You drive me to distraction. It was the only way I could think of to get you to shut your mouth.”
He expelled a loud gust of breath. “Besides, it was nothing, merely an—an English custom. Men here often buss women by way of—of friendly greeting.”
“Well, I am not English and neither are you. So you had best be r
emembering that.” Cat wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Try that again while I am here and your friendly lips will be too swollen to be bussing anyone.”
“Don’t fret yourself, mademoiselle. I’d sooner kiss a hedgehog. They are a good deal less prickly.” Martin glowered. “And I never agreed you could stay.”
“If I had asked for your agreement, I’d be sore troubled about that.”
Cat would have liked to have raised her eyebrow after his own cool fashion, but the best she could manage was a proud toss of her head as she strode to the door. But her dignified exit was marred by those damned large boots causing her to trip again.
Swearing after a fashion that would have blistered a sailor’s ears, Cat stormed from the study, slamming the door behind her.
Martin stood stock-still for a moment, uncertain whether he wanted to roar with laughter or bang his head against the wall.
He sagged down into the chair behind his desk, rubbing eyes that still felt bleary from being rudely jarred awake. Not that he had gotten much sleep after his meeting with Walsingham last night. He had tossed and turned for hours, cursing the day he’d ever let himself be caught up in all this damned English intrigue.
It had seemed like such a golden opportunity when he had first agreed to work for Sir Francis. Just acting as a courier, delivering messages, picking up a little gossip here, acquiring a little information there. Nothing too dangerous.
He had never expected to find himself entangled in plots to assassinate one queen, intrigues to entrap another, and, worst of all, obliged to spy upon people whom he liked and felt indebted to.
As if that was not complication enough, now he had this firebrand Irishwoman to deal with. God knows what had ever impelled him to kiss her. He preferred his women soft and gentle, with figures that were tall, willowy, and graceful like Miri’s. Catriona O’Hanlon was such a tough, fierce little thing.
Martin’s lips curled in a mischievous smile. It might be worth kissing her again just to see the sparks fly from her eyes. They were like twin blue flames. But a man who was sitting on a powder keg had no business lighting fuses.
Martin dragged his hand wearily over his beard. He was beginning to feel like an acrobat he had once seen juggle knives at a fair in Paris. One blink, one misstep on his part could spell disaster.
The Huntress Page 10
