Windswept

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Certainly, his body’s response to her wasn’t gentlemanly. With the swell of her breasts and her slender throat rising from a froth of lace and painted muslin, she resembled a delicious confection. And like the coarse creature he was, he wanted to devour her.

  He shook his head. What was he thinking? No matter how enticing her looks, she’d acted suspiciously in London. She was a privileged woman who’d thought nothing of lying to him yesterday.

  He rose to offer a sketchy bow. “Good morning. You seem fully recovered from your ‘illness.’ ”

  The stain on her cheeks deepened. “I-I suppose I deserve that. I behaved very badly yesterday. I’ve come to apologize.”

  “I trust you received your shawl?”

  Her voice was the merest whisper. “Yes.” She gestured to the chair Mrs. Llewellyn had recently vacated. “May I join you?”

  “Certainly, Mrs. Price.” He remained standing until she was seated, then settled back into his chair. “I do have the name correct, don’t I?”

  She flinched. “Don’t you think you’ve rubbed it in quite enough?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You haven’t yet apologized.”

  “You haven’t given me the chance!”

  “True. Then again, I don’t have to, after being misled and then turned away on your whim.”

  Her lips tightened. “Why are you making this so difficult?”

  Because flustering her gave him a petty satisfaction that he didn’t want to examine too closely. “I become cantankerous when I’m lied to.”

  “Will explaining why I lied make you less cantankerous?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Very well. I’m . . . I’m not good with strangers. I know it sounds silly, but when I heard you were heading toward Plas Niwl, I panicked and said a lot of nonsense to put you off because you made me nervous.”

  He could tell from her evasiveness that at least part of what she was saying was a lie. “I wouldn’t have guessed it from the way you came up out of the lake wearing nothing but your shift.”

  Never had he seen a woman grow so red. “B-but that’s just it,” she stammered. “After you’d seen me like that, I knew I could never face you again.”

  “So why are you here now?”

  She met his gaze, looking miserably humiliated. “I told you. To apologize.”

  “That’s a bald-faced lie. You wouldn’t be here at all if I hadn’t left your shawl at Plas Niwl to show that I knew who you were.”

  She stood abruptly. “I’m sorry. Obviously I underestimated how much I offended you. So if you’ll excuse me—”

  As she turned away, he jumped to his feet. “Wait!”

  She halted, her back to him.

  He would get nowhere with the woman if he drove her away. “Please, Mrs. Price. Sit down. I promise I’m finished being a beast about yesterday.”

  “You have every right to be angry. It wasn’t right of me to take advantage of your misconception about Grandmother. I should have set you straight.”

  “Enough, I beg you. You’ve made your apology, and I accept it. All right?”

  When she turned to look at him, her eyes misty with tears, he felt a stab of guilt. Softening his voice even more, he asked, “Won’t you join me for tea?”

  She hesitated, then pulled out the chair and sat down, folding her hands primly on the table.

  “I’ll fetch Mrs. Llewellyn and order us a pot,” he murmured.

  “That’s not necessary. I just breakfasted. I don’t need anything.”

  With a shrug, he took his seat. When she stared at her hands, obviously uncertain how to go on, he said, “I hope you’re not going to get all skittish again. After all, we have much to discuss. You write essays on Welsh folklore, and I’m researching a book on the subject. We have a great deal in common.”

  For the first time since she’d entered the Red Dragon, she flashed him a brilliant smile, which fairly crushed his male defenses. “We really don’t. I’ve only scratched the surface of Welsh literature, whereas you have mastered it.”

  The awe in her voice struck him with surprise. “So you recognized my name.”

  “Instantly.” She ducked her head. “I’ve read many of your essays and three of your books. I even own a copy of The Development of Celtic Languages.”

  Despite himself, he smiled. “I’m flattered.”

  “Oh no, ’tis I who am flattered, nay, astonished that you even know my name.” She flashed him a timid glance. “When Bos said you’d read my essays, I could hardly believe it.”

  Deuce take it. “Actually, I have a confession to make. I’m not as familiar with your essays as I implied.”

  Instantly, that wariness she’d shown at the lake entered her expression. “But you told Bos—”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll laugh when I tell you. I came to Wales to research my book on folklore, but when I stopped in Carmarthen to visit my friends, the Vaughans, they told me this intriguing tale—”

  “The Vaughans?” Her face lost some of its wariness. “You know Lady Juliana?”

  “Yes. She and her husband have been my friends for years.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell this well-dressed knight’s daughter the whole truth—that his father had been one of Rhys’s tenant farmers, that if it weren’t for the generosity of the Vaughans, he’d be no better than a farm laborer right now.

  A genuine smile lit her features. “The Vaughans are wonderful people.”

  “Yes.” Then he added in a dry tone, “Of course, they were the ones who misled me about you in the first place.”

  “Oh?”

  “We began talking about legends of the region, and Lady Juliana mentioned the Lady of the Mists. I’d heard of the Lady of the Mists all my life, so I made some comment about the old woman. Juliana got this peculiar look on her face and began going on and on about your advanced age. I should have guessed then that she was jesting with me, but I didn’t. And she never set me straight.”

  “Why on earth would she do such a thing?”

  He shook his head. “There’s no telling with Lady Juliana. In any case, she told me about your writing and I remembered I’d read an essay of yours. She also suggested I see the lake. So I thought, why not take a jaunt up to Llanddeusant to see this old woman for myself? Perhaps I’ll put her in my book about Welsh legends. Then when Sir Reynald told me you were the Lady of the Mists—”

  “You became angry at me for having let you continue in your misconception.”

  “I also became intrigued.”

  Her eyes met his. Something passed between them . . . a frisson of awareness that shook him clear to his bones. Despite himself, he wondered what those eyes would look like glazed with passion . . . how that luscious mouth would feel under his.

  Damn it all. He was here to find out what happened the night of Justin’s murder, remember?

  “So you didn’t really want my help,” she said, clearly disappointed.

  “Not at first. But last night I realized it would be a good idea. You know the area. You know the local superstitions. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing me around and helping me collect information.” That gave him a perfect excuse for getting to know her and finding out all her secrets.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not nearly the scholar you are. I might not—”

  “Catrin!” exclaimed a voice behind Evan.

  Both he and Mrs. Price stood as Mrs. Llewellyn hurried down the stairs.

  Mrs. Price broke into a smile. “How are you, Annie?”

  “Fine, fine.” Mrs. Llewellyn hurried over, and the two women kissed cheeks. Then Mrs. Llewellyn held Mrs. Price at arm’s length. “You look well.” She cast Evan a sideways glance. “Doesn’t she, Mr. Newcome?”

  “Quite well,” he said, relishing Mrs. Price’s blush.

  “You are coming tomorrow, aren’t you, dear?” Mrs. Llewellyn asked Mrs. Price. “I know you generally avoid weddings, but—”

  �
�I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Good, good.” Mrs. Llewellyn turned to Evan. “You should come, too, Mr. Newcome. A wedding is the perfect place to learn about our local legends.” Mrs. Llewellyn cast Mrs. Price a sidelong glance. “And I’m sure Mrs. Price would enjoy having you accompany her.”

  Mrs. Price colored. “Oh, I doubt Mr. Newcome would want to—”

  “I’d be honored.”

  “That’s set then.” Mrs. Llewellyn winked at Evan. “I’d best get back to Tess before she has another fit of nerves.” She hurried toward the stairs, then stopped on the first step. “By the way, Catrin, David Morys may be here any moment. He promised to stop by and show me the verses he plans to recite for the wedding.”

  Mrs. Price’s face turned ashen. “Thank you for warning me.”

  After Mrs. Llewellyn left, Evan asked, “Who’s David Morys?”

  “The schoolmaster.” Mrs. Price glanced nervously at the entrance to the inn. “I’m sorry, but I must go.”

  “He must be a dreadful man to make you run off so quickly.”

  She forced a smile. “Not exactly. But if you’d be so good as not to tell him I was here, I’d appreciate it.”

  “May I know why?”

  Averting her gaze, she murmured, “It’s a personal ­matter.”

  Though he wanted to pry, he dared not alarm her. “You will let me accompany you to the wedding, won’t you?”

  A smile touched her lips. “If you wish, Mr. Newcome.”

  “Evan,” he corrected her. “There’s no point in standing on formalities if we’re to work together.” When she blinked at him, he added, “You know, on the book. I’d still like you to help me.”

  “I’d be honored. And you must call me Catrin.” She glanced again at the door. “Now I really must go.”

  “Good day, Catrin.” He caught her gloved hand and lifted it to his lips, surprised by the strength in the small-boned fingers that curled around his. He brushed a kiss across the leather, wishing it was her bare skin.

  When he released her hand, the color rose in her cheeks. “Good day, Mr. . . . er . . . Evan,” she mumbled, and left.

  He stared after her, wondering at the perverse impulse that had made him kiss her hand. Even knowing she wasn’t as innocent and sweet as she seemed, he felt this absurd attraction to her. The whole time she’d talked, he’d wondered what it would be like to cover her mouth with his.

  How would she respond? Would she tell him he was being too forward, as Henrietta had done the first time he’d kissed her? Or would she blush prettily and kiss him back?

  Best he not try to find out. She might be shy, but she still hadn’t sufficiently explained why she’d lied to him. And why would a shy woman travel to London and meet with a stranger in an inn to acquire a chalice that hadn’t seemed worth the two hundred pounds she’d offered? It didn’t make sense.

  The woman was hiding something, and he intended to find out what. So he mustn’t let his attraction to her stand in the way.

  5

  Catrin’s hand tingled as she left the inn, all because Evan Newcome had kissed it.

  By heaven, if this was what happened after one brief encounter, how would she survive spending half the day with him tomorrow? Why had Annie suggested it?

  She sighed. Because Annie was scheming to find her another husband. But a reclusive Welshwoman like her couldn’t possibly attract a distinguished gentleman like Mr. Newcome—Evan.

  He had to be a gentleman. He dressed like one, and his position at Cambridge bespoke someone with money and connections. Though she might be of equal station, she couldn’t compare to the women in his circles.

  At least her friend wasn’t trying to match her up with David. Thank heaven Annie saw right through the handsome schoolmaster’s dashing air to the cold-as-stone heart inside.

  Unfortunately, when Catrin rounded the corner, she practically ran into him. She hadn’t escaped soon enough.

  “Catrin!” he cried. “I heard you’d returned. You’ve been back from London a week, haven’t you?”

  She ignored the chiding note in his voice. “You know how it is after one has been away, even for a short time. All the servants are in a dither about this or that and there’s a great deal to do.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” He scowled. “I don’t have servants.”

  As usual, David resented her moderate holdings. The second son of a squire in Merthyr Tydfil, he’d had the choice of becoming a merchant, a cleric, or a teacher. His dislike of “the vagaries of trade” and his hatred of the church had landed him a post at a Merthyr Tydfil school for a few years before he’d left abruptly to become headmaster of Llanddeusant’s small grammar school.

  Although he wasn’t brilliant, his position afforded him a high status and provided him with a decent living. It also enabled him to move among the gentry and indulge his interest in Welsh poetry and antiquities. Yet he seemed continually to feel that it wasn’t enough.

  Which was probably why he persisted in courting her, despite her obvious lack of interest.

  He took her arm in a disturbingly possessive gesture. “I’m glad I’ve finally met up with you. We need to talk.”

  “I’d like to, but I really must get home. Mrs. Griffiths is waiting for me to go over the household accounts.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you for four years. Can’t you spare me a moment?”

  She sighed. He was right. She’d let this go on long enough, even if she’d done so unwittingly. “Only if you walk back with me to Plas Niwl.”

  With a nod, he fell into an easy pace up the road beside her.

  As they passed two young women, David drew admiring glances with his sculpted features and dramatic shock of dark hair falling casually on his forehead. Most of the local women thought him a gallant and poetic figure, and he cultivated that image.

  Today, however, his eyes were fixed on Catrin. He only waited until they were alone before asking, “Did you get the chalice?”

  A pox on him. If she told him she had, he would renew his suit, forcing her to reject him outright. Wouldn’t a lie be kinder?

  You lied to him before, remember? That’s the coward’s way out.

  But she was a coward when it came to David. “I’m afraid not.”

  His jaw tensed. “That wretched Lord Mansfield refused to sell it to you?”

  “It wasn’t the right one. And you know it has to be to break the curse.”

  He fell into a brooding silence that made her wish she hadn’t told him about the curse four years ago. But at the time, she’d thought it would be an easy way to put him off without hurting his feelings. Or his pride. She’d shown him the diary and told him about the curse and how she couldn’t marry because of it.

  She’d even let him examine the diary to determine its authenticity. It had seemed a good idea, since he knew more than she about antiquities. And when he’d confirmed it to be over two hundred years old and had agreed that she dared not marry, she’d assumed the subject was dead, especially since he actively courted other young women.

  So she’d foolishly made the mistake a month ago of telling him she’d located the chalice, because she’d wanted to know whether he thought, from Lord Mansfield’s description, that it could be genuine. Unfortunately, that had renewed his interest in her.

  “Are you planning to search elsewhere?” he clipped out.

  “I have nowhere else to look.”

  He stopped short. “Perhaps I could find it. If you’d let me peruse the diary again and review your family ­records—”

  “No!” This was so difficult. She hated confrontations. But if she didn’t discourage him now, she’d never persuade him to find someone else. “I knew the possibility of locating the right chalice was slim. If I’d had any idea you were still hoping for marriage between us, I would have quashed the idea at once. I doubt you want to marry me badly enough to sign your own death warrant.”

  “What if I said I didn’t believe in your blasted cur
se? That I’d take my chances with it?”

  “Can you really ignore four generations of dead husbands?”

  He blanched. David had a decidedly superstitious bent to go along with his love of poetry and antiquities. He didn’t live in the real world, so it was easy for him to believe the world wasn’t real.

  Suddenly his eyes darkened and he drew her close. “We don’t have to marry.” He bent his head. “You’re a widow. You have a right to your pleasures.”

  Her heart faltered. “You forget that I’m a widow in name only.”

  “I didn’t forget,” he said huskily. “But if no one knows, it doesn’t matter. No one would judge you for taking a lover.”

  “Everyone would judge me, because everyone knows! Willie died before we could even have our wedding night. So if I . . . if we . . .” She shoved him away. “I’m not the kind of woman to do what you want. Please, forget about me.”

  “I can’t,” he said brokenly. “I think of you all the time—your sky-blue eyes and your raven hair, the way your smile brightens a room and your lilting voice turns prose into poetry. I think of you alone at Plas Niwl, and I can’t stand it. I want to take care of you, to look after you.”

  And my holdings, she thought cynically. “But I don’t want you to die. Nor can I carry on a scandalous affair with you. Everyone already gossips about me more than I can bear. Find someone else, David. Until you do, I think it best we keep our distance from each other.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” he said in an ugly tone, then caught her and brought his mouth down on hers.

  Shock held her frozen. David had never kissed her. And she didn’t like it at all.

  She shoved at his chest, but he forced her flush against him, making her all too aware of his arousal. He thrust his tongue against her clenched teeth, and when she refused to part them and tore her mouth free, he began to kiss and suck her neck, holding her so close that her arms were pinned between his.

  Frightened by his surprising strength, she struggled. Oh, why had she let him walk so far with her? Why hadn’t she rebuffed him more ruthlessly?