by Shana Galen
She picked up a book. The clock ticked away the hours, the monotonous tock-tock-tock lulling her to sleep. Finally, the words of her book blurred, and the novel grew heavy in her arms.
Her father’s house was full of laughing people. Catie could not see their faces, only their huge red lips and gaping mouths. She ran and ran, but everywhere she turned faces popped before her, laughing at her.
The hard floor was cold and damp under her bare feet, the way littered with sharp odds and ends that she could not identify in the dark. She stretched her hands out in the blackness, knowing what she would feel but powerless to stop herself.
Her hand closed on the sticky cobweb, and she felt the spider move over her hand. She jumped back, but her foot skidded over a soft, squishy rat. The rat sank its sharp teeth into her flesh.
Catie cried out and shook her foot, trying to dislodge the rat, and it was then that the spider made its way up her arm, past her shoulder, and onto her face. It crawled into her mouth.
Catie screamed.
“Catherine. Catherine!”
With a wrench of air, she sat, arms up and ready for battle. It was dark, and it took her a long, terrifying moment to realize where she was. Moonlight pooled through the curtains, emitting enough illumination for her to see the man at the edge of her bed.
She pushed backward, scrambling away, feeling another scream in her throat, but Valentine caught her, pulled her close and…
Held her?
Suddenly she was on his lap, and he was rocking her, his hand caressing her hair. “Shh, baby,” he whispered. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
They were the words Catherine needed to hear, and she relaxed, burying her face in his shoulder. He was not wearing a shirt, and his bare skin was cool against her hot cheeks. He felt so good, so strong, so safe. She wanted to curl up in his arms and never leave.
It was a small thing, an easy thing to turn her head so that her lips were against his shoulder. It was equally simple to press her mouth against his neck, feel the quick pulse beating against her mouth. He did not bend his head to hers. She looked up at him, shy and intrepid all at once. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. She’d never kissed a man, and her heart was racing so fast she feared it would jump out of her chest. She did not know what to expect, but his lips were exactly what she craved. They were cool against her heated skin, and he tasted of mint. She pressed her mouth against his, and the shock of the connection buzzed through her.
Her heart galloped on, and her breath was short. And then his arms tightened on her, pulling her closer so that her breasts pushed against his chest. His prickly hair tickled her through the thin nightgown she wore. His hands held her securely, but somehow he also managed to touch her. She felt him move over her waist and her hips. He cupped her bottom and she felt the bulge of his erection against her. Quint groaned, and his hold became almost painful.
She was afraid of him and thrilled by the new feelings, too. His mouth descended on hers again, and her head began to swim. The first tendrils of fear and uncertainty cascaded over her skin. She realized that he was easing her back on the bed, and she was torn. His kisses were consuming. She wanted them to go on and on. She wanted his lips and his hands on her all the time.
But then his hand slipped beneath the hem of her gown, and she felt his tentative fingers on her knee. It was too fast, too foreign a feeling, and she bucked and pushed him away. But her struggle was unnecessary. As soon as she’d tensed, she was free. She opened her eyes, his sudden absence making all that came before seem like a dream.
A match flared, and the lamp on the other side of the bed came to life. Catherine squinted at her husband. His hair was disheveled, his color high, and he was running his hands through his thick hair.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I did not mean—” He paused and looked at her. “You were having a nightmare. I only wanted to wake you.”
She nodded. In the lamplight, everything seemed different. She was no longer anonymous. She was ashamed of her actions. What would have happened if she had not stopped him?
Lord, she still wanted him. That was the most humiliating part. She looked at his bare chest and his rumpled hair, and she wanted to press herself wantonly against him. She wanted to touch him and kiss him and lick him.
Oh, Lord. What was wrong with her?
“Are you well now?” he asked.
She stared at him. No, she wasn’t well. She was thinking about licking him. That was not normal. But then she realized he was speaking of her nightmare. The faces, the closet, the rat bite and the spider. She shuddered violently.
He started for her, but she held up a hand. “I’m well. I just—” She was startled to find tears on the back of her hand when she wiped her eyes, and this time a wave of her hand did not stop Valentine from sitting beside her.
“It’s a dream I have sometimes. A nightmare,” she mumbled, trying to keep him from seeing her face.
“Perhaps talking about it will help,” he murmured. He took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “The room is alight. No shadows. Tell me.”
Catherine did not want to tell him. It was silly and humiliating that something from so long ago should still terrify her. She was too old to be afraid of spiders and rats.
And yet she needed to tell him. It was so hard to keep it all inside. And the dream was so real, so horrifying.
“I’m a little girl,” she heard herself say. She stared down at the bedclothes, not his face, but she was glad he did not release her hand. “I’m in a closet under the stairs. Alone. I’m there because I’ve been bad, and I’m scared because it’s cold and dark, and I can’t see. I cry to be freed, but no one comes.”
Valentine took a deep breath, and she glanced up at him. His eyes were dark. Angry?
“I’m hungry and so frightened, and I’m pounding on the door until my hands are sore. But no one comes.”
The tears were streaming down her cheeks now, and she let them fall. And she let Valentine pull her into his lap again. She’d wanted him to. She’d needed him close to say this last part.
“And then I feel something slither over me. A-a rat, I think, and I jump up and my hand is tangled in a cobweb, and I feel the spider, its furry legs all over me. And I scream and scream. But no one ever comes.”
“Shh,” Valentine said. “You don’t have to say anymore. I’m here now. You can sleep, and you’ll never have to dream that again. I’ll be right here to keep the nightmares away.”
He was lowering her on the bed again, but this time his touch was only one of comfort. She closed her eyes as he pulled the sheets up around her.
“Catherine,” he whispered just as she began to drift off, “how old were you when he locked you in the closet?”
“Ten,” she said. He began to pull away, and she reached out and caught his wrist. “But it was only a dream. You understand that?”
He leaned over her and caressed her cheek. “I understand. Now I understand.”
The next morning Catherine received three letters: one from Ashley, one from Madeleine, and one from Josephine. All three were angered that she had been forced to leave Town, for they assumed she would never leave of her own volition. Ashley seemed to take her absence as a personal affront and threatened to come out to Hertfordshire and make sure she was well. Maddie talked more of events in Town, particularly the difficulty her father was giving her about going to the orphanage every day. He worried for her safety.
Catherine wished Josie’s father would worry more for her safety. Josie’s letter was filled with tales of a Lord Westman and pirate’s treasure. As usual, it sounded like Josie was getting into plenty of trouble.
Catherine spent the morning writing letters to reassure her cousins and to give them her opinions on their various dilemmas. Maddie got sympathy and Josie a stern lecture. Ashley was instructed to stay in London for the time being.
&nbs
p; Catherine stayed in her room as long as possible, avoiding Valentine. The events of the night before had not been far from her mind. She was ashamed of her forwardness, angry that she had told Valentine about her “dream,” mortified that when he saw her again he would pretend nothing happened and mortified that he would not.
There were so many times in the short days of their acquaintance that he had seemed to want her. He’d touched her and looked at her with desire in his eyes. Last night he could have had her. Catherine had no illusions on that score. She would have willingly done whatever he’d asked.
And yet, Valentine had not taken her. He had pulled away, preferring to lull her to sleep than into his arms. She woke in the bed alone this morning. And no wonder. He had no feelings for her. It was Elizabeth he loved.
Catherine finished addressing her letters and put away the writing materials she’d requested. She could hardly avoid Valentine for the rest of the day, or even the rest of her life, as she’d like to. She always waited for things to happen to her. Today, she was going to face the world.
She found her husband in his library. She knocked twice and opened the door. Valentine looked up when she entered. He was sitting at a large mahogany desk that matched his eyes. No wonder his eyes reminded her of that wood. He looked at home behind the desk.
Before him were a stack of papers, a pen, an inkpot, and a pot of tea. She could see the steam still rising from the pot, and could almost feel the warmth of the fire in the hearth.
“Catie,” he said, putting down his pen. “Come in.”
Chapter 14
Valentine began to rise, but Catherine waved him back down. “No need to rise, sir. I only came to ask if you would make sure these letters are delivered for me.” She handed them to him, and he took them, glanced at the names.
“Of course. How are you feeling this morning? I hope you are not too tired.”
Catherine looked down at the floor. She stood at the edge of a brown-and-gold rug. Beneath her slipper, a sliver of hardwood floors winked.
“Sir.” She finally looked into his eyes. “I must apologize for last night. I do not know what came over me.” She looked down again, unable to hold his gaze and speak of such things. “I did not mean to be so forward.” She peeked at Valentine. He was staring at her.
“I see.” He cleared his throat and stood, coming around the desk. “I assure you, I was not offended.”
“It won’t happen again.” Catherine forced herself not to back away when he came close to her.
“I sincerely hope that’s not true.”
She took a deep breath. “I have been thinking about our conversation.”
He furrowed his brow. “Is there one in particular?”
“The one in the carriage.” She shot him a glare. “You know, the one. About the—ah, marriage bed.”
“Ah, that one.”
“I have unraveled your plan.”
One eyebrow angled upward as he leaned a slim hip on the desk. Funny how she hadn’t noticed how slim his hips were until now. He was lean all over—that much she remembered from last night—but she had not appreciated what a long, lithe shape he had and how attractive that could be in a man.
“I gave myself away, did I?” he said, and his tone was wry.
She blinked and tried to refocus. She looked into his face. “Yes, you did. If you think I don’t—”
But staring into his face was no better than looking at his body. He was far too handsome, and looking at him always elicited a response in her. She’d known so few men, and none as handsome as this one. His hair, still too long, curled over his collar, and it was inky black against his tan skin. His skin was marred by a dim shadow of beard growth, the color on his chin and cheeks almost a stain on that chiseled face. And his eyes. She had the most trouble there. His eyes were far too soft when they focused on her. They seemed almost…kind.
She shook her head. “What was I saying?”
“Something about you unraveling my plan.”
“Right. If you think I don’t realize that a marquess needs children—heirs and legitimate heirs—then you must think me a fool, and you’ve treated me as one, too.”
He pursed his lips, opened his mouth, and then closed it again. “I’m not sure I follow.”
She sighed in exasperation. Of course he understood! “You told me it was my choice whether or not to share your bed. And you told me”—she pointed accusingly at the ring he’d given her— “this was a symbol of your promise. But what you neglected to mention was that if I chose not to share your bed, that would not solve your problem. Even if you have other women, you still need a legitimate heir.”
“I see.”
“Yes, I do, too.” She crossed her arms. “So in truth, this ring means nothing, sir. You will either have to bed me against my will or throw me out to achieve your aims.”
“Is that so?” He was still leaning against the desk, arms crossed, looking not at all concerned with what she was telling him. In fact—she peered more closely at his mouth—he almost looked as though he were amused by her.
“Sir!” she said forcefully, hoping her tone would make him see the seriousness of what she said. “I do not think you quite comprehend.”
He began to work his way around the desk. “Oh, I comprehend, Catie. I think you are the one who does not understand.”
She blinked, watching him take another step closer, though her cowardly feet desperately wanted to turn and flee. But she would stand her ground and see this settled between the two of them. “What do you mean, sir?” He was standing close now, and she had to tilt her head up so she could look into his face. “What do I not understand?”
He lifted a hand and brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. She shivered at the intimate touch. He was so close now that he was beginning to have an effect on her. She could smell his scent. It reminded her of their ride yesterday morning—a combination of leather saddles, pine trees, and new spring mornings. She leaned closer.
“Many things, my Catie,” he said, and this time when he lifted his hand to stroke her hair back, she anticipated his touch and bent into it.
Her heart was pounding now, and she was so terrified that she needed to count to at least a hundred before she would feel better. But the blood rushing in her ears and the warm zing of Valentine’s touch on her cheek made it impossible to think. She could not even remember her numbers. She knew three was a number, but what came before?
Valentine tilted his head down so that his eyes were level with hers. “What you do not understand is that you will come to my bed willingly. You want me as much as I do you.”
She shook her head, not managing to move away from him at all. Instead, she actually worked her cheek against the rough palm of his hand. She felt his calluses against the skin of her face and wondered how they would feel on other parts of her body. Lord, Valentine was right. She did want him.
“I don’t want you,” she lied. “Last night, I was tired. I was not myself.”
He put a finger over her lips. “Last night your defenses were down, and you acted on your true impulses. You are afraid of men. How could you not be after living with a man such as your father?”
She felt as though a fist slammed into her belly, the shock and surprise so real she hunched over. “B-but that was just a dream. It wasn’t real.”
The finger pressed against her lips again. “You don’t have to lie to me, Catie. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Catherine took a deep breath and looked away.
Valentine’s hand stroked her cheek. “He hurt you, didn’t he?”
“No!”
“Locked you in a closet.”
“I never said that.”
“Not with words, no. But I need to know what to believe. Tell me the truth, did your father force you into this marriage?”
“I already told you—”
“I need to hear it again. The truth.”
Catherine clenched her jaw. How many times
did she need to prove herself? She was tired of defending her innocence. “I told you the truth, and I don’t care if you believe me. Lord knows I’m used to being doubted.”
Tears stung her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. Valentine reached forward to wipe them away. “You’re right. I should trust you. I’m sorry I doubted you before. You’re not a liar.” He lowered his head so that his forehead touched hers. “How can I make you see that there’s more to the world than the way you grew up? How can I show you that there can be tenderness between a man and a woman? And there can be passion. It can be so exciting you forget to breathe. I can make you forget to breathe.”
“No.” She began to withdraw, and Valentine caught her hand.
“I know you’re afraid of men. You protect your emotions because you had to survive with your father. But I’m not your father.”
She shook her head, unable to put her fears into words. She’d never felt so close to anyone as she’d felt to him last night. She’d never needed anyone as she’d needed him. But she didn’t deserve him or his promises of happiness and security. She’d never felt truly safe or happy. She didn’t know what it was to have that.
“You’re my wife,” Valentine said. “I want you in my bed. I want you in every way a man wants a woman. Let me show you how it can be.”
“No.”
“Yes. Don’t you think you deserve pleasure and happiness? Don’t you think you’re worthy enough?”
She stared at him, wondering how he’d managed to read her innermost thoughts.
But Valentine was looking into her eyes, and his own softened at what he saw. He released her hand and cupped her cheeks with both of his hands. She allowed it, though his touch unsettled her. “You are so beautiful and so strong. Look at the misfortunes the world has dealt you, and yet you approach every new challenge as though it were an adventure. Let me show you how you deserve to be treated.”
“No.” She tried to pull away again, and he allowed it. “No, I don’t want you to touch me.”
“Very well then.” He held his hands out in a gesture of surrender. “You kiss me.”
