Ransom grinned. “She will come.”
“Did you demand it?” Holden couldn’t help asking.
“Yes,” Ransom admitted. “And why shouldn’t I? I am her husband, and as you have reminded me on more than one occasion, I must treat her as a wife.”
“You’re up to something,” Holden frowned, “and I don’t think it bodes well for the girl.” Ransom smiled. “Have you changed your mind about taking advantage of a wife?”
The smile faded from Ransom’s face. “There are no advantages to having this wife, Holden, as you may some day discover.”
Ransom’s attention shifted beyond the door. He made his way to the parlor door as Catherine took the last few steps. “In here, madam.” He saw Catherine pale.
Chapter Seven
* * *
Catherine stopped on the last stair. He could sense her fear and saw evidence of it in the way she gripped the banister. Could it be that she, too, recalled her afternoon encounter and guilt plagued her?
“What is it you wish, sir?”
Ransom gazed down at her. He did not care for the gown she had chosen. It was plain and dowdy. Perhaps she thought to win his pity with the reminder of her poverty. “Join us, madam,” he stepped back to allow her entrance.
“Ahh, Lady Kent,” Holden smiled at her, taking her hand and bending to raise it to his lips.
“P-please,” she stammered and drew her hand away. “Call me Catherine.”
“Yes, by all means,” Ransom sneered from his place across the room. “There is no need to be formal, not with her.”
Holden scowled at Ransom. “I should be delighted.” His scowl was replaced with a smile when he addressed Catherine. “Please, let me get you something to drink. A sherry, perhaps?”
“No. Nothing, thank you.”
When Catherine was seated at the table, Ransom noticed she plucked at her skirt with trembling fingers. Obviously, Holden also noticed, as he seemed to be fawning over the chit. Of course, he did not know of her afternoon, or of the young farmer who had spent it with her.
Ransom rolled his glass between his hands. “How was your day, madam?” She refused to look at him, but her reply tumbled quickly enough from her lips.
“Satisfactory, sir.”
Ransom arched one dark brow and made no effort to hide his sarcasm. “Indeed? How pleasant for you.”
Clearly she understood what he referred to and parroted his own word. “Indeed.”
His anger smoldered with her apparent avoidance of the issue. He glared at her. How could she sit there looking more like a child than a harlot? Even in attire more befitting a servant, she was enchanting. Had she purposefully drawn her hair into a severe knot to accent her features? Did she realize how enticing the creamy softness of her nape was with the tiny wisps of her intriguing hair upon it?
He turned his back to struggle with the rising proof of his desire. How dare she tempt him after teasing playfully with the first man to come along. “I’m so pleased you were satisfied with your visitor,” he sneered.
“Y-yes,” she stammered. “He had fine wares and—”
“Enough!” Ransom ordered as his mind envisioned her in a less than casual meeting with the young man. He spun to face her, his eyes filled with fury. “I won’t have you behaving like a common slut!” he roared, missing the stunned expression on her face. “You are not to practice your wiles on the men at Devil’s Head, or any who visit.”
Catherine sprang to her feet. “You . . . you arrogant ass!” she cried and raced for the door. Before she could escape, he grabbed her arm and spun her about to face him.
“I mean it, madam,” he snarled. She wrenched her arm free at no small cost to it and headed for the stairs. “Halt!” he demanded. When she abandoned her retreat, he spoke sternly. “Go sit down to dinner.” He saw her pause, obviously considering defiance, but grinned victoriously when she made her way toward the dining room. “Shall we join her?” he asked Holden without taking his eyes off Catherine.
Holden shook his head as he followed Ransom. “She has fire, I think, and more courage than most.”
Ransom arched a brow and the side of his mouth lifted. “Perhaps, my friend, but only time will tell just how brave she is.”
* * *
Ransom inhaled deeply. “Roasted chicken,” he sighed.
“Ummm, and creamed cabbage with potatoes,” Holden remarked on the vegetable dish.
“I hoped you would enjoy this dish,” Catherine said to Holden. “The farmer’s wares were all fresh and I thought they would make a tasty addition to the meal.”
It was the longest string of words Ransom had heard her say since she had arrived. Although a mundane comment, he winced at her words. She was very clearly explaining what a fool he had made out of himself by reading more into the exchange than there was. Or was she? Perhaps she was telling him he had guessed correctly.
He hated the contradiction of her.
Ransom bolted out of the chair he had just taken. Without a word, he left the room for the privacy of his library. He decided it was the last time he would demand that Catherine join him for dinner. It would be far better to resume his old way of life and ignore her completely. If she wished to take lovers, let her, as long as he didn’t number among them.
He poured a drink and downed it to wash away the image of her with another man. The image aggravated him and he didn’t like it. Not one bit! Whether he wanted her or not, he refused to be cuckolded. Returning to the dining room to let her know exactly what he thought, he found only Holden at the table. “Where is she?”
Holden stuffed another piece of chicken into his mouth and mumbled around it, “Went to help Alice in the kitchen.”
Ransom made his way to the kitchen, but halted before he reached the door. There was no need to include the staff in his argument with her. He would find a better time to demand her complete celibacy. The tension eased in his shoulders. He returned to the dining room and resumed his chair to enjoy his meal.
“Anything wrong?” Holden was clearly amused.
“No, nothing.”
“Are you sure? You’re behaving rather oddly.”
Ransom did not wish to discuss his odd behavior. In fact, he had no idea why things were different now than as they had been before. “If you wish to open your mouth, Holden, I suggest you put food into it.”
Without a word, Holden complied.
* * *
Catherine twisted her hands in anger as she paced the yard. It took her a while to figure out exactly what he had implied, but when she did, she was aghast. How could he think such a thing? Her own duplicity came back and haunted her.
“Damn you, Sabrina,” she breathed out harshly, fully aware that she was now marked by her cousin’s reputation.
She had hoped to make a life in this new land. In her heart, she knew she neither owed allegiance to England, nor did she belong to this new place. Her hopes were pinned on the possibility that she could set down roots here. But Ransom had crushed those hopes all too quickly—and for the wrong reasons.
She thought if she could explain to him the whole truth, it could stop his verbal assaults, but then again, it might uncap the dormant volcano. She had used him and, if it were known, he would look like a fool. One thing she knew beyond question, this man would hate appearing the fool.
Ready to return to the house, she made it as far as the kitchen. “Let me help you, Alice.”
Alice shook her head. “You should be havin’ your dinner, not helpin’ me.”
“The . . . captain is discussing business with Mr. Blakely.” She took a plate and looked into the pot on the stove. “I’ll eat here and help when I’m through.”
“But it ain’t right for—”
“That is an order,” Catherine said, but smiled to soften her command.
More than an hour later, the kitchen was in order. Certain the men had left the dining room, Catherine excused herself and made her way to her room. Ransom’s deep voice cou
ld be heard from the library, so she skirted it.
She settled for a good wash in the basin, afraid a return to the kitchen for bath water might draw Ransom’s attention. She donned her oversized nightgown and climbed into her bed.
“There must be some way to make things better,” she yawned, more taxed by the day than she thought. She slipped beneath the quilt and made herself comfortable. “I’ll work on it,” she mumbled, “tomorrow.”
* * *
Ransom threw his glass across the room. “Calculating bitch!” he swore. He winced when the glass shattered, almost as if he wondered where it came from. He’d been drinking ever since Holden had left almost two hours earlier. He was failing in an effort to come to grips with the intensity of his feelings for Catherine. Not feelings, he thought, more like an itch he refused to scratch.
Somehow she had gotten under his skin. That fact alone deeply troubled him. Should he be stuck with her for the duration of his life, he would be a raving maniac well before his dotage. She antagonized him by her sheer presence, especially since she seemed to adapt so readily to her new life.
He poured another drink in a new glass and devoted time to figuring out why she, of all women, infuriated him the way she did. At first he attributed it to the fact that he was wed to her. But he knew it was more than that. He had surmised in his youth that other women could be overlooked quite easily. So what was different about this woman?
Tension grew in his loins and he swore aloud. He knew exactly what was different, but he hated to admit it—from the moment he drew that ridiculous dusting scarf from her head, he desired her. All the anger came from frustration. He was at odds with himself and losing the battle. He laughed at the irony of it all. If he left her to her own wiles, he would continue to want her. But if he took her, he would allow his body to dictate to his mind.
He tossed back his drink, refilled it, and left the library for the sanctuary of his bedroom. It seemed the two rooms were becoming his oases. In order to avoid her, he sought the privacy of either—he knew she was forbidden to enter one and entered the other only when he was not about.
A candle burned at the base of the stairs and he snuffed it with his fingers, too distracted by his thoughts to feel any discomfort. He stumbled up the darkened staircase and pulled off the ribbon holding back his hair.
Moonlight glowed through the window of his room and afforded him some idea of where everything was. He stripped off his clothes and tossed them about the room. If she so enjoyed cleaning, he’d be pleased to give her something to enjoy.
For the first time since the woman had refurbished his home, he did not appreciate the clean bed. This time it felt sterile. He reached for the brandy set beside his bed and drank it, hoping he had finally had enough to make him sleep. Unfortunately, where his mind wanted rest, his body needed something else.
He slammed the pillow beneath his head. “Why did she have to be the one I wed? And those damned green eyes.” He rolled to his stomach to ease the strain on his manhood, but pressed between the cool sheet and his burning flesh, he knew he fought a losing battle.
He flipped to his back and tried to concentrate on the many times he slipped past the British in an attempt to aid his country. But instead of red coats and a union jack, he saw a swirl of golden hair blowing in the wind.
He groaned. Regardless of the argument, his body would have none of his logic. She was, after all, his wife. He could come up with no reason not to avail himself of her body. He tossed back the covers, rose, and donned a dressing gown. Driven to rid himself of this powerful need, he would be careful. If he withdrew as his seed rose, he would ensure no issue.
As quietly as possible, he made his way to her door. He didn’t intend to knock and give her warning. Despite her reputed sexual appetites, he doubted she wanted him. Not once had she enticed him consciously. In fact, he mused, she seemed to be afraid of him. But it didn’t matter. As long as she took care of his needs, he would be no threat and she could do as she pleased.
Catherine’s room was darker than his. The moon had not risen enough to illuminate this side of the house. Unfamiliar with the layout of her room, he inched about until he located the table with a candle. Only embers from a quick fire remained in her fireplace, but they were hot enough to ignite a tinder, then the candle.
Once the fire flickered to life, he cupped his hand over the flame and moved to her bedside. The moment her face fell under the soft glow of the candle, his breath caught deep in his throat. She lay on her side, her hand relaxed next to her cheek. Her hair was pulled loosely back in a soft braid, leaving the sides to caress her face.
With a need to touch her and see if her skin was as soft as it appeared, he reached to caress her cheek with the backs of his fingers and saw his hand tremble. The candle was set aside in case she awoke. He paused to swallow hard in an effort to steady himself. It took a moment for him to resume his quest.
She was as soft as a flower petal. He closed his eyes to enhance the sheer pleasure of touching her as his fingers traced her jaw. He felt her tense and looked down into wide green eyes.
* * *
She awoke thinking him a dream, but now she knew he was real—and standing before her in his dressing gown. She prayed he only wanted to talk, terrified of the alternative.
“Is . . . is something wrong?” He slowly shook his head. She drew away from his touch and the strange look on his face. “Then go away.” He did not move. She clutched her quilt to her chin. “I am tired. Please, just go away.”
“I will not keep you long, madam.” He reached for her quilt and yanked it from her hands.
She cried out and tried to retrieve her covers, but Ransom placed both his hands firmly on her shoulders and pressed her back on the bed.
He towered over her. “Be quiet!” he ordered. “I will neither hurt you, nor will I expect anything but a moment of your time to ease me.”
Catherine realized her greatest fear would come to pass if she failed to stop him. She began to struggle. “Stay away from me, you . . . you barbarian!” He moved his hands down to the buttons of her nightgown. She slapped at him furiously. He avoided most of the blows, and those that fell seemed not to harm him.
“I may have lost some of the polish of your London dandies,” he snarled, “but I vow not enough that you would notice.” Aware that nothing she could say would make a difference, she continued to struggle. “Stop it!” he growled, frightening her with the intensity of the order. Her pause gave him the opportunity to grip the front of her gown. She gasped when she felt the remaining buttons pop and heard the ribbons tear.
He stepped back. Catherine first thought she had suc-ceeded in convincing him to leave her. Then she noticed the strange look in his eyes and glanced downward. Her torn gown exposed her to the waist. Obviously her bared breasts held his attention. Without thought, she swung her fisted hand hard enough against his cheek to knock him off balance.
The instant she heard him yell, she slid off the far side of the bed. She gripped her tattered gown together and turned. “You ass!” she cried as he shook his head, obviously in an attempt to clear it. “Y-you bastard!” She grabbed a small vase and threw it mercilessly at him. It whizzed past his head and crashed against the wall.
Ransom stood and glanced back at the shattered pieces. “This is not Whitehall, madam,” he snarled. “I will not permit you a temper tantrum to get your way like one of your lovers might.”
He began to move around the foot of the bed. She picked up a pitcher from the nightstand, holding it over her shoulder in preparation to throw it. “I have never been to Whitehall, nor am I given to t-tantrums,” she stated in hopes he would understand what she was trying to say.
Still holding her weapon, Catherine watched him. He stopped some distance from her. After a moment, she lowered the pitcher, but remained on guard. Unsure of what he was thinking, she frowned when he began to chuckle.
“This is not funny!” Catherine yelled and stomped her foot for emph
asis.
Ransom advanced slowly with a rare smile on his lips. “No, madam, it is not funny.” He paused a few feet from her and the smile faded. “You see, I am stuck with you. I do not find the situ . . . sishu . . . It is not amusing, yet it does have one benefit.” She shook her head and drew back the hand still holding the pitcher. He took a step closer but appeared to lose his balance for a moment. “I have decided you can see to my needs to . . . to earn your keep.”
Catherine found his words hard to believe, and even harder to understand. She sniffed at a strange odor and gasped. “You’re foxed!”
“That, too, is your doing,” he slurred as he lunged for her.
Catherine swung the pitcher the moment he made his move. The pottery shattered against the side of his head, dousing him with water in the process. She knew she hit him hard by the way he struggled to stay on his feet. Afraid she might have injured him and even more afraid he would regain his senses, she watched him fall onto her bed.
She stood back and watched him try to shake off the effects of her attack. In moments, she realized he was losing the battle. First, he dropped to his elbow, then fell face down on the tangled blankets.
“Lord Kent?” She leaned a bit closer. “Ransom?” He did not respond. Encouraged by his silence, she slipped across the room to secure her robe. Covered, she made her way to the far side of the bed. She peered down at him and could see he was breathing deeply. “Drunkard!” she fumed. Pleased with the last word, she picked up the candle.
With utmost haste, in case he should wake, she left her room in search of a safe haven for the night. She didn’t think it was wise to remain on the same floor. He could wake and seek her once again. Lifting her hem, she made her way down the stairs in search of somewhere safe to spend the night.
She considered seeking asylum with Alice and John, but did not wish to explain her situation. Instead, she opted for the parlor. Lap robes stored in a chest would be sufficient to keep her warm for the night. She settled herself onto one of the sofas. For a few minutes she let the candle burn. Ordinarily she did not fear the dark, but this night was an exception.
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