His gaze drifted slowly downward. What of the rest of her? His body stirred. Was her form more, or less, than he remembered?
A rush of blood sizzled through his veins and pooled in his groin.
"Are you some untried stripling? Think with your brain, man," he murmured through his teeth, "not with your rod."
But how could he not look at her? After all this time, he had to see her. Just this once. What harm could there be in it?
He bent towards her, took hold of the blanket's edge. Catherine stirred in her sleep and he froze, not wanting to awaken her until he was ready. She sighed, turned her face a little on the pillow, and then her breathing steadied.
Matthew's did, too. Slowly, carefully, he drew down the blanket.
One quick look, that was all. Just one...
His heart stood still.
Sweet Mother of God, what was she wearing?
It surely was not a nightgown.
He had never quite understood the need of women to undress at night only to dress themselves again, to put on garments that covered them from throat to toe.
Catherine had slept in such a gown. Not just in the dream. No, he'd seen her dressed for bed once; she had passed before the lit lamp in her bedroom window as he made his way along the path that led to the house. She had paused in the window, almost as if she'd known he was there. Her nightgown, white and full with long, frilled sleeves and a high neck, had revealed nothing except the faintest outline of her body, silhouetted by the oil lamp.
Not all women slept that way, of course. He was thirty-three years old now; he had been at sea more than half his life and he was not exactly of the face and build that frightened women off. He had tumbled his fair share—well, more than his fair share, perhaps—of ladies into their beds.
But he had never seen one dressed in anything even halfway resembling this.
He swallowed hard, trying to ease the tightness in his throat. The tightness in his groin was another matter.
What in hell was she wearing?
It seemed to be two bits of embroidered white cotton. One was a narrow-strapped, sleeveless cotton shirt. The other was—well, he didn't know what it was. Not underpants, surely. No one, not even a Liverpool strumpet, would call that tiny swathe of white cotton an undergarment.
The shirt exposed her shoulders and arms, and the fabric was so thin and fine that it seemed to cup her breasts. He could even see the faint outlines of her nipples just beneath.
And the underpants, if that was what they were, rode so high on her long legs that they exposed most of her gently rounded hips, covering only that sweet feminine delta she had never let him see nor touch.
Matthew groaned. Christ! His body was hard for her, hard and hot and aching with need. He longed to strip off those bits of cotton and bury himself in her. To watch her face as her eyes flew open and she realized what was happening...
"No!"
The cry rasped from his throat and he stumbled back from the bed, his chest heaving with the harsh labor of his breath.
Catherine had made a fool of him. She had ruined his name, turned him into a traitor. She had been the very instrument of his death.
But he would not let her turn him into a beast.
He would take his vengeance but he would do it honorably, as he had planned. Not like this.
Never like this.
He drew a shaky breath as he looked down at her again. And yet—and yet, the need to touch her was overpowering.
Moments slipped by. Then, slowly, he reached out his hand and stroked it over the black silk of her hair.
It felt so good to touch her.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed and held his breath as he let his fingers drift the length of her throat. Her skin was warm and firm to the touch; the scent of soap and roses and woman floated to his nostrils and he drew it deep into his lungs.
Catherine sighed. Two vertical lines appeared between her dark, winged brows but they vanished almost immediately.
"Cat," he heard himself whisper. "Cat..."
His touch grew bolder. His hand moved lightly over her breast, feeling the weight of it, and the roundness. His thumb moved across the rise of her nipple. She stirred in her sleep; her flesh surged and hardened and pressed against his palm.
He clenched his teeth and groaned.
Both his hands were on her now, cupping her breasts, shaping them to his touch.
"Catherine," he said thickly.
A whimper caught in her throat. Her lips parted on the softest of sighs.
His hands went to her hips, stroked gently down her thighs. He knew what she was, a liar and a Jezebel, but what had that to do with desire?
"Cat," he said, and he lowered his head to hers. His mouth settled lightly against hers in the softest of kisses.
She was sweet. So sweet. Could he have forgotten the taste of her? He must have, for surely he could not recall her tasting like this. Her lips reminded him of summer rain and spring breezes, of the first cool touch of snow.
Her arms rose, twined around his neck. Her lips parted more fully under the hardening pressure of his. She whispered something in her sleep.
Yes, she was saying, oh yes...
Matthew shot to his feet.
What was he doing?
She was a lying, scheming bitch. Was she a sorceress, as well? Was she trying to cast a spell on him, even now?
His face took on the coldness of stone as he marched to the doorway. Hell, he thought, and he turned and looked at the sleeping woman in the bed.
"Catherine," he said, his voice as chill as the air that suddenly surrounded him. "Catherine, look at me."
"Mmm," Catherine said, and rolled onto her belly.
"Damn you, Cat. Open your eyes!"
* * *
The voice was coming from a long way off.
It was harsh and angry, and the last thing Kathryn wanted to do was respond to it. But it persisted, and at last her eyes flickered open.
"Kathryn," the voice said...
"Oh my god!"
Kathryn shot up in bed, clutching the blanket to her throat.
She had gone to sleep in a bedroom that looked like the overblown set of an old Dracula movie. The velvet draperies had hung from the windows in tatters and the room had been bare, except for this bed and a rickety armoire. And the only thing on the walls, aside from patches of damp, had been the faded rectangles and ovals that showed where paintings had once hung.
Now, a soft spill of moonlight illuminated a room that was as elegant as it must have been when Charon's Crossing was new.
A pair of slipper chairs were angled towards a small settee; an elegant armoire graced one wall. Opposite it, a milk-glass kerosene lamp stood on a small round table. Crimson draperies framed the windows, the sheer curtains beneath billowing softly in the night breeze from the sea. A painting of what looked like an English village hung on one wall; smaller landscapes and a pair of oval-framed portraits were arranged on the wall across from the bed.
Kathryn swallowed dryly.
This is just a dream, she told herself. It's a dream.
Her heart gave an uneasy thud. Was it? If you thought you were dreaming, then you couldn't be dreaming.
Could you?
She took a deep breath. Of course you could. That was the thing about dreams. Anything was possible, when you were—
"Good evening, Cat."
Kathryn shrieked.
A man had stepped from the shadows. He was tall, with broad shoulders, narrow hips and long, muscular legs. His clothing was old-fashioned: a frilled white shirt, opened almost to the waist; black, skin-tight trousers and high leather boots...
She knew him. She knew him! He was the man she had dreamed about yesterday morning.
"I'm dreaming," she said in a shaky voice.
Of course she was. She had to be. That was why the room looked so different, why the man walking slowly towards her was the man from her dream.
But if she was dr
eaming, why could she smell the flower-scented night air? Why could she feel the faint abrasiveness of the blanket she clutched in her trembling hands?
He paused beside the bed and looked at her. She stared back, the sound of her own frantic heartbeat pounding in her ears. It took all her energy and willpower just to keep her teeth from chattering.
"You aren't real," she said.
He laughed. "I am real enough."
"You aren't. This is just a dream."
His smile turned silky. "Shall I prove that it isn't?"
She thought of what had happened the last time she'd dreamed of him, and she shrank back against the pillows.
"Don't you touch me! If you do—if you do..."
"Empty threats, Cat. There is no fool to do your bidding this time."
"I'll scream! I swear, I'll scream until everybody on this island hears me and comes running..." Kathryn blinked.
What in hell was she doing? She was talking to a man who wasn't here.
"You aren't here," she said calmly.
"Of course I'm here. Dammit, Cat..."
She ignored him, scooted down under the blanket and screwed her eyes shut.
"This dream is over."
Her voice was firm, except for a barely discernible tremor. She had courage, he had to give her that much, but then, he had not expected her to accept his appearance easily.
"You disappoint me," he said softly. "Is this the greeting I get after we have been apart for so long?"
Kathryn's eyes flew open.
"It hasn't been so long. Just since yesterday morning."
Dammit, that had been a stupid thing to say. Not that it mattered. In a dream as wacky as this one, you could say anything you liked.
Besides, her remark didn't seem to have struck him as being stupid. It hadn't even made him twitch a muscle. He was still looming over the bed, his arms akimbo and his hands splayed on his hips, looking down at her in a way that made her feel about two feet tall.
It would have been lots better to stand up and confront him, toe to toe, instead of having him tower over her. But she'd have to get out of bed to do that and all she had on under this blanket was her underwear.
"Oh hell," she said weakly.
She really was nuts. None of this was real. What did it matter if she was wearing her underwear or not?
She swept the blanket from the bed in one deft motion, wrapped it around herself with whatever finesse she could muster, and shot to her feet.
"Listen, mister—"
"Such formality, Cat." He smiled coolly. "I would much rather hear you say my name as you used to."
"I don't know your name. And even if I did—"
"Is your memory so short, then?" His smile tilted. "Say my name, Cat."
"I told you, I don't..."
She gasped as he reached out and clamped his hands around her shoulders.
"Say it, damn you," he growled. "Say, Matthew."
Kathryn swallowed dryly. Dream or not, she knew better than to argue with a lunatic.
"Matthew."
"You say it as if it were new to you, as if you have never before heard the name Matthew McDowell." His mouth twisted. "And that is what you will wish before I am done with you, Catherine. I promise you that."
Matthew McDowell, Kathryn thought wildly, a dream image who introduced himself to you.
Maybe she wasn't dreaming after all. Maybe she was simply stark, raving crazy.
But if she was, if she'd conjured up this visitor, she'd certainly done one hell of a job. Lord, but he was gorgeous!
She had never seen eyes that color. They were like the sea, green and dark and stormy. And his hair. What color was it? Not brown. Not blond. It was gold. Burnished gold, and so thick and silken-looking she longed to reach up and touch it.
The rest of him suited that hair and those eyes. Her gaze skimmed over his face, taking in the straight, proud nose, the square, cleft jaw, the firm but sensual mouth. There was a little scar angling just above his right eyebrow. It suited him, as did the theatrical outfit. Not that it looked theatrical. It just made him look incredibly masculine. And just a little dangerous.
What was that poem she'd read, years and years ago? Something about a highwayman riding a ribbon of moonlight through the darkness...
"Are you done examining me, Cat?"
His voice was cold and harsh but there was something more in it. Pain? Could that be what she heard?
His hands tightened on her shoulders. "Did you expect to see the visible wounds of your betrayal? They are healed, at least to the naked eye."
"I don't know what you're—"
"Don't lie to me, damn you! It's too late for that."
Kathryn licked her lips. "Look, I don't know what's going on here. And I definitely don't know you. Maybe..." She bit back the rush of hysterical laughter rising in her throat. "Maybe you're in the wrong dream." She yelped as his hands tightened on her. "Hey! You're hurting me!"
"I want answers, Catherine, and I want them now."
"And I," she said, wrenching out of his grasp, "want you out of here!"
Matthew gave a bark of harsh laughter.
"Aye, indeed you must. But you cannot get rid of me so easily. Not this time."
"And you can't bully me," she snapped, her chin rising in defiance. "Not even in a dream."
"I can do with you as I damn well please."
"Listen, mister, either you get out of here this minute or I'll—I'll—"
"You'll what?" He caught hold of her again, his hands sweeping into the dark spill of her hair. "What can you possibly do to me that you haven't already done?"
Kathryn's heart began to race as she stared up into that hard, handsome face.
He isn't real, she told herself frantically. The feel of his hands on her might seem real. His fury might seem real, too. But she had made him up... and she could just as easily unmake him.
"Go away," she said, fighting to keep her voice; steady.
Matthew laughed. "I will, when it suits me."
"You will go when it suits me. I made you up. You're... you're a creature out of my imagination."
"A creature, am I?" His eyes darkened. "Is that how you think of me?"
"Yes. No. Dammit, you're twisting my words! All I'm saying is that you aren't really here."
His smile made her breath catch.
"Aren't I?" he said, and before she could struggle or stop him, he bent his head and kissed her.
It was a kiss that branded her with fire; she could feel it sweep like molten lava from his lips to hers.
Kathryn's hands lifted. She balled them into fists but he caught her wrists in one hand and held them against his chest while he drew her closer into his arms. Her head tilted back as his lips moved over hers, urging her to surrender.
She would never do that...
Her fingers went slack as they pressed against the hard wall of his chest.
"Please," she whispered against his mouth.
Please, what? What did she want? Not this. Not the heat of him, and the hardness. Not his kiss, tasting of desire and of hate...
She made a sound, a soft, keening sigh that she barely recognized as coming from her own throat, and he answered by sweeping one hand down her back to the base of her spine.
"Catherine," he whispered, the word lost against her lips. "Catherine, sweet Catherine."
He felt her lips tremble and open to his even as he felt the sudden hot dampness of her tears and tasted their salt upon his tongue. Her fingers were curling into his shirt. She was his now. He had only to draw her down to the bed...
Christ, what was he doing? This wasn't vengeance, it was seduction. And Cat was doing the seducing! She was working her wiles on him as she had done in the past.
Had he learned nothing in the infinite darkness of his eternal prison?
Matthew cursed and flung her from him. She stumbled and fell back onto the bed.
"Bitch," he said. "Whore!"
Kathryn stared up int
o his fierce, angry face. Then she screwed her eyes shut.
"This is a dream," she chanted in a frantic whisper, "a dream, a dream, a dream..."
Somewhere in the distance, a bell began to toll.
Chapter 4
Somewhere in the distance, a bell began to toll.
Kathryn sighed in her sleep and burrowed deeper into the blankets.
The bell pealed again, and she frowned.
"Mmm," she murmured...
She came awake all at once, heart pounding and eyes wide. In one swift motion, she rolled to the side of the bed, reached down and snatched her shoe from the floor, and brandished it wildly as she shot up against the pillows.
"Okay," she said, "okay, I've had it! You get out of here right now or... or..."
The room was empty. It looked exactly as it had when she'd gone to sleep last night. The drapes were shabby and old, the furniture was almost nonexistent, and the only things decorating the walls were patches of faded paint and splotches of dampness.
Kathryn let out her breath and slumped back against the pillows.
There were dreams. And then there were nightmares. And there wasn't a question in the world about what she'd just experienced.
It had been a nightmare with a capital N, the kind that would have sent half the population of Manhattan galloping off to see their shrinks.
She couldn't even blame it on moo goo gai pan.
"Not this time," she muttered.
She sighed, dumped the shoe on the floor, sat up and tossed back the blanket.
Which only proved, she thought, scrubbing her hands over her face and yawning, that a supper of Campbell's tomato soup and half a packet of Ritz Crackers could do their own artful job of putting you on the road to Nightmare City if you were spending the night in a place that looked like a reject from a bad movie.
At least she hadn't conjured up Freddy Krueger, she thought with a shaky laugh. As made-to-order dream characters went, Matthew McDowell was at least a little more appealing.
It was just that dreaming up a gorgeous guy in a costume who couldn't seem to decide whether he wanted to make love to you or kill you was a bit unsettling.
Kathryn pushed the hair from her eyes and rose to her feet. Sunlight streamed past the tattered velvet drapes, bathing her in warmth.
Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel) Page 5
