Catriona pulled lightly on Knight's arm. "It was nothing. Please stop doing this. I hate it. You're behaving like my brother."
He pushed her hand away. "He was seducing you in a stable. It wasn't nothing. Damn it, I know what I saw."
"I was trying to court her," Alistair said slowly. "At least, until you charged in here like the Boar of Erymanthus."
That did it for Knight. Courting her, was he? Well, no one had asked his opinion on the matter. No one had sought his advice, and he wasn't having any more of it. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it to Wendell. "I don't feel like waiting for a duel. I'd prefer to kill you now and sleep well tonight."
Sir Alistair removed his watch from his vest pocket. "I may have a few years on you, but I've not lost a fight yet."
"Don't you dare hurt each other on my account," Catriona said in genuine horror.
"Get outside," Knight said, not looking at her, all his attention focused on the man whom he could have cheerfully pummeled into the ground. "I'll deal with you after I'm done here."
Olivia pushed her way between the two men, holding a pitchfork to Knight's chest. "You are done, do you hear me?"
"Put that pitchfork back, Olivia" he said as he stared down at the prongs pointed at his chest. "You look bloody ridiculous."
She refused to move, beyond caring if she did appear ridiculous. "I don't know what you think you saw, but whenever it was, it never happened. Does everyone here understand me? I have enough of a scandal broth in the ballroom to handle, what with Catriona flying off into that vision like one of Macbeth's witches."
"Well, really," Catriona said. "Comparing me to an old crone."
"Be quiet, Catriona," Olivia said. "No one wants to marry a notorious woman, which, accidentally or not, seems to be the path you have chosen to follow. Still, you are family, and no one will denounce you in my presence."
Catriona sighed at that but said nothing, not even when Knight glanced at her with one eyebrow raised as if to say she deserved the set-down. Assessing the icy anger in his gaze, she decided she could have handled the situation better alone. Men always made a mess of their private affairs.
"Knight," she said, but his attention was drawn to the other man with deadly intensity; her voice did not seem to penetrate his anger.
"Perhaps it would be better to finish this on the moor," he said to Alistair in an uninflected voice. "Are you with me, Wendell?"
She heard Olivia draw a breath, sending a look of panicked appeal to Wendell, who betrayed no reaction beyond a brief nod of assent to Knight. Cat understood immediately what the unspoken communication meant, she who had lived among the rough men of the Borders, cattle thieves and seasoned soldiers who taught their sons to fight at the slightest insult. The moor. A meeting place for a duel, desolate, the cry of crows a counterpoint to the gunfire that erupted in the mist.
"You will not shed blood in my name," she said in a low voice that cut through the wall of tense silence.
"You might have thought of that before you allowed yourself to be caught in this situation," Wendell said.
Olivia whirled on him. "I was the one who asked Alistair to keep Catriona outside until she had calmed herself, although this is hardly what I had in mind. Therefore, I am as much at fault as Alistair. Do you want to duel with me, too, Knight?"
"That is ludicrous," he said.
"If you continue this," she said, "I shall pack my bags and be gone by morning. To Holland, and I shall never return."
This announcement brought another awkward silence, during which Wendell gently wrested the pitchfork from her hands. "Holland, Olivia?"
Sir Alistair released a sigh. "I am the cause of this consternation. I lost my head. I suppose it is what comes of living alone too long with no one to please but myself. Olivia. Catriona. I offer my deepest apologies." He glanced at Knight. "Does that satisfy your honor, my lord?"
Knight said nothing.
"There," Olivia said, closing her eyes for a moment. "It is over, and all is well. There is to be no more talk of dueling or brawling like two drunken misfits in a barn. Everyone can stroll back inside for dinner and behave as if we were the best of friends."
Knight did not relax his rigid stance.
"Excellent advice, Olivia," Sir Alistair said, his expression rueful. "But I, however, will take my leave. I've no wish to be the source of further trouble at your table. I'm afraid your brother is not amenable to forgiving my lapse in manners, and perhaps I will serve you best by returning to my solitude."
Olivia looked clearly uncomfortable. "Perhaps that is for the best after all."
Sir Alistair glanced wryly at the man who stood before him like a belligerent warlord, waiting for the slightest opportunity to take revenge. "Aye, I believe it is."
******************
Catriona gazed down at her soup in silent misery, feeling the curious stares of the other guests like pinpricks in her skin. Well, now everyone hated her, even Olivia, who was the last person she had wanted to disappoint. Cat hadn't cared about the party at all, but she had cared about pleasing Knight and Olivia. She had cared about Knight more than she should, giving him the power to hurt her, and so far no one had heard a word from Howard and Smythe.
The only kind looks she had received since the hour of social ostracism had come from the servants' hall. Mrs. Evans had taken her aside and squeezed her hand. "There, there," the kindly Welshwoman had whispered. "We who have been chosen as special ambassadors of the supernatural understand your agony. Be brave, dear. Our rewards shall come in due time. If not in this world, then the next."
But staring around the dining room, Catriona felt only a lingering embarrassment and soul-deep weariness from her ordeal—that and the occasional jolt of frigid anger from Knight when he deigned to look at her at all. Still, he hadn't laughed at her vision when Olivia had explained what had happened. He had even offered to ride to Lady Bennett's himself until he realized that Olivia had sent the servants to investigate.
Lord, by the look of him, his cold glare gripping her heart, he would never let her live down her encounter with Sir Alistair.
She stared at her soup bowl and reflected briefly on Sir Alistair's stolen kiss. It had been . . . well, nothing. She had felt absolutely nothing except a faint discomfort where his chin had grazed her cheek; there was a bit of stubble he'd missed shaving that had scratched her.
Yet when Knight had kissed her, she had felt everything, giddiness, warm blushes, a garden of butterflies in her stomach, too much, really, for one young woman to handle. In a rush of emotion, she remembered how much she enjoyed being held in those powerful arms, the firm possession of his lips on hers. Could that be what Arabella had meant? Was it dangerous to lose your heart to a man who reduced you to such a state? It was certainly unsettling to lose control over your emotions, and, oh, she wanted it back. She didn't want to feel this poignant agony any longer.
She frowned, peeking around the floral centerpiece for another glimpse of him. Judging by the frown carved on his handsome face, kissing her was certainly the last thing on his mind. Clearly, she had ruined everything between them, but was she actually to blame?
And the worst was yet to come.
Lady Bennett had surely reached her estate by now. In her mind's eye, Cat could see the elderly noblewoman mounting the stairs one at a time, terror awaiting her. The image promptly dissolved as a servant whisked away her untasted soup, tsk-ing in concern under his breath at her lack of appetite. She could only pray that Lady Bennett's footman had taken the warning to heart.
At the first chance, Cat decided she would plead a pounding headache and escape to her room where no one could glare at her. She would go into hiding for a hundred years until the emotional wounds of this evening became a scar. Unless, of course, Knight and Olivia demanded that she leave in the morning. It seemed likely neither of them would be able to forgive her, and certainly no one would forget in a hurry.
And the worst was yet to come. The vision was yet
to unfold.
******************
Knight pushed away the plate of poached salmon in parsley sauce and refused the tender duckling that Mrs. Evans had made especially for him. He could see the misery on Catriona's downcast face and reminded himself that she deserved it. He hadn't talked to her once since Sir Alistair rode away but had grabbed her hand and half dragged her back to the house, Olivia admonishing him to be gentle every step of the way. Gentle? Gentle? If the Scottish hellion wanted forgiveness, if she thought he would laugh this off lightly, she was wrong. He wanted to punish her. He wanted her to ache inside as he did.
She had wounded him. She had brought out something so painful and savage in his nature that he hadn't been able to control his own actions. He was appalled at his capacity to go from a pleasant mood to barbarity in a matter of moments.
Yes, he realized it wasn't her fault that Stone had kissed her, but she needn't have behaved so blithely about the matter of her potential disgrace. And what would have happened if Knight had not arrived at precisely that critical moment, he wanted to know? Or perhaps he didn't.
It was quite one thing to find that Catriona melted in his embrace like a snowflake and quite another to catch his little snowflake melting in the arms of someone else. Well, not exactly melting. Knight would be fair even if he was furious. In retrospect, she had appeared to be rallying a rather ineffective protest.
Protest or not, the whole situation had put him in a thoroughly foul temper. He was going to wait a half hour for the servants to return, and if they did not, he would ride over to Lady Bennett's himself to check on her. Not that he believed in visions, but Catriona and Olivia certainly did. In the meantime, he felt like drinking an entire bottle of brandy—no, actually, he felt like hitting Reginald Witt over the head with one.
The Honorable Half-Wit, as he was known to his friends, was either unaware of the scandal over Lady Bennett or uncaring, as he made an utter ass of himself to attract Catriona's attention across the table. Obviously smitten, he plinked a melody with his spoon on a row of wine goblets, until he caught Knight glowering at him. At that smoldering look from his moody host, Reggie shrank down in his chair like a chastened schoolboy.
"Are you quite done playing with that damn spoon?" Knight demanded.
"Urn. Yes. Yes, I am," Reggie mumbled, grinning like a satyr.
"Good," Knight said, not grinning at all. "Don't do it again."
His voice carried across the table, earning a sigh of disapproval from Olivia's pursed lips. He raised his brow at her, refusing to be cowed. A rebellion was brewing inside him. He just might grab Reggie by the neck and put his idiotic face in that plate of mashed potatoes.
"Would you like to make a toast, Knight?" she said with a forced smile. Then she added in an undertone, "Nothing untoward, if you don't mind. We have guests."
"Do we?" His smile was lethal. "I hadn't noticed."
His gaze swept past her to Catriona. Her fey beauty drew his eyes like a magnet. It apparently affected half the other men at the table the same way. Knight lounged back in his chair, mentally murdering them one by one. Instead of looking wilted by her disgrace, she appeared only more adorable, the distress on her delicate face appealing to the male instinct to protect.
"A toast?" Olivia asked him guardedly. "Or shall I ask Wendell to do the honor?"
An excited hush fell over the table. Aubrey, standing at the sideboard, put a finger to his lips to still the footmen at the sideboard. The guests regarded Knight in expectant silence, some still hoping for a dramatic finale to an unforgettable evening. For an instant, he and Catriona locked gazes, but instead of the hurt appeal on her face, he saw her in another man's arms. Then he raised his glass, his urbane voice betraying none of the turmoil that was tearing his heart into shreds.
"To Anton and Arabella. Long may the newlyweds enjoy their marital bliss."
A few speculative looks were exchanged, mainly by the females in attendance. Was Knight expressing his forgiveness for Arabella's betrayal, or did he truly not care? The popular vote decided on the latter. Nobody approved of what Arabella had done to him, anyway, and it wasn't like Knight to nurse a lonely heart with so many other eligible women waiting in the wings to win his affection.
Reggie raised his glass; glancing wistfully at Catriona, he shouted with a complete lack of tact, "To the marriage knot!"
Knight looked at Wendell. Both men broke into roguish grins. Then, as they had at countless similar affairs in the past, they said in unison: "The marriage noose, you mean."
* * *
Disaster struck over the dessert course. Mrs. Evans had prepared a strawberry trifle in the shape of a swan and tiered trays of petit fours and glazed plum tarts to tempt the appetite. But as the footmen milled about the table, serving the treats, the sound of men shouting on the terrace brought Knight out of his chair.
Before Wendell could join him, everyone had turned to stare at the figure who suddenly appeared at the French doors. Howard, his face white with fright, glanced around the room in genuine bewilderment. The poor man looked so shaken that Olivia could hardly scold him for forgetting his place.
"What is it, Howard?"
Knight grasped him by the arm and guided him back down the steps into the garden. Of course, by then it was too late. The guests had caught the scent of another scandal; truly, it was a memorable evening in the annals of dining in Devon.
Catriona stood at the forefront of the gathering crowd, her small body buffeted by the others, guilt and resignation on her face. "What did you do now?" Knight asked her quietly, resenting the instinct that rose again to protect her. For the first time, the edges of his anger began to crumble, replaced by concern.
She couldn't speak, motioning to Howard.
"Well, what is it, man?" Knight said, and suddenly he remembered that earlier affair, Cat's prediction, Howard and Smythe sent to Lady Bennett's estate. "Dear God," he said disbelievingly. "Don't tell me that the woman was killed."
Howard shook his head, his voice trembling. "No, my lord, but only because her footman persuaded the coachman not to drive her ladyship home. They left her at the parson's cottage and sneaked back to the house to make sure all was well."
"Oh," Catriona said in a rush of relief so profound that her bones turned to water.
"But all wasn't well," Howard went on, horrified by the memory. "Her butler was bound and gagged on her bed, and the housebreakers were lying in wait. I ought not to tell you what the footman found in the coachhouse, not in mixed company, my lord."
"What happened to the housebreakers?" Wendell asked, placing himself like a bodyguard between Catriona and the other guests on the uppermost step. Knight threw him a grateful look. She looked like a glass figurine in that flimsy dress, as if she would shatter if anyone so much as touched her.
Howard shuddered. "The parson's son had brought reinforcements from the village. They caught one of them on the moor. The other shot himself in the—"
No one as much as drew a breath in the silence that followed. By now, there wasn't a single person in the house who hadn't caught wind of the shocking news. A man was dead, a criminal by his own hand; two others were injured. One was Lady Bennett's stable boy, who had been stabbed while trying to defend the estate. Another man, a middle-aged groom well liked in the neighborhood, had been beaten so heartlessly that it would be a miracle if he lived through the night.
And the beautiful Scotswoman who stood on the terrace steps, like a young Greek goddess, had known. No one could decide quite what to make of her. Should she be regarded as a heroine or a social pariah? Then Reggie ran inside and brought her back a fringed shawl, wrapping it around her shivering form until Knight pushed through the gathering and elbowed him aside.
"I'll take care of her," he said firmly.
Reggie squared his shoulders, aware that everyone was watching him. "Well, I—"
Knight looked right through him, raising his voice to address the cluster of spellbound guests. "We have coff
ee and brandy in the blue room for those of you who wish a beverage before you leave. Under the circumstances, I think most of you would prefer to be home with your families."
Catriona made a covert move toward the steps. He clamped his hands down on her shoulders, his grip like steel as he nodded pleasantly to the departing guests. "Meet me in my study in an hour," he said under his breath. "Do you understand?"
She swallowed hard. "Are you going to kill me?"
"You'll have to wait to find out, won't you?"
Chapter 15
She vowed a hundred times that she would not go. Who was he to summon her like a serving girl? She simply would not go. He would have to drag her kicking and screaming down the stairs. But seventy minutes later, she found herself standing in the doorway of his study, drawn by a power deeper than she could deny. She should have known, that night when she saw the ring around the moon, not to lake that first step into his world. But then, as now, she couldn't stop herself.
For several moments, she wavered, watching him write at his desk. His neckcloth and black evening coat had been carelessly hung over the back of his chair. The breadth of his shoulders was the first thing she noticed, as she had on the night they met. But now she curled her fingers at her sides, stifling the temptation to throw herself into his muscular arms and seek sanctuary in his strength. Oh, she hated the delicious torment he made her feel.
He glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece, then looked at her directly, his gaze distant. "You're late. Sit down."
She took a couch in the corner, still clutching the shawl that Reggie had brought her earlier. My, his voice was unfriendly. No sanctuary in those strong arms tonight. She cleared her throat. "Is Olivia in bed?" she asked in an attempt at light conversation.
"Yes. With a severe headache, which is not surprising, is it?"
She pursed her lips. Well, light conversation did not seem to be in the cards for her, either. She sank down lower in the chair and closed her eyes, sheer exhaustion from the night's events taking its toll. But at least Lady Bennett was alive. Oh, thank God—
The Husband Hunt Page 17
