The Pride of Lions

by Marsha Canham

  Catherine turned away.

  “Catherine! Catherine!” Harriet came through the front door like a small hurricane, her hair straggling down her back, her gown rumpled from her having fallen into a fitful sleep in a chair. “You weren’t going to leave without saying good-bye, were you?”

  “You were up with me most of the night,” she murmured, the words muffled within a frantic hug. “I did not have the heart to disturb you.”

  “I want you to write me every single day, do you hear? Every day, no matter what!” She lowered her voice to a fervent whisper. “And if that brute mistreats you in any way, Damien and I will fly to your rescue. We will absolutely fly.”

  “I will write,” Catherine promised softly, her heart lodged in her throat again. “I promise. Every single day.”

  The desperate exchange of embraces ended abruptly at the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Raefer Montgomery, his broad frame cloaked in a flowing greatcoat, rode into view. He was astride the gigantic black stallion Catherine had seen in the clearing, and his face, glowering out from beneath a tricornered beaver hat, was as bleak and grim as the cloud-ridden sky. Dressed all in black, with his black eyes and his black stare, he seemed a larger-than-life specter out of some terrifying nightmare.

  “Well, Mrs. Montgomery? Have you dispensed with your farewells?”

  Catherine flushed at the coarseness in his manner, at the deliberately mocking inflection he gave her new name.

  “I’m ready.” She gave her brother a final, quick hug before stepping up to the coach.

  Montgomery waited until Damien had handed her inside before he touched a gloved finger to the brim of his hat. “My thanks for an interesting and eventful evening. We must get together and do it again sometime.”

  Damien opened his mouth to respond, but Montgomery had already wheeled the stallion around. The attending coachman closed and latched the door, and before Catherine could lean fully out and wave a hand, the driver was cracking the whip over the heads of the matched bays, reacting smartly to a barked command from her new husband.

  Sir Alfred had spared one of the smaller carriages, a vehicle that could seat Catherine and her personal maid, Deirdre, in relative comfort, as well as transport her two massive trunks in the boot. Constructed of glossy black oak, the side panels were chased in brass and emblazoned with the Ashbrooke family crest as well as the stamp identifying Sir Alfred as a member of the British Parliament. The team of bays was handled by a driver and coachman, both on loan until Montgomery reached London.

  Judging by the speed at which they raced along the road, Catherine assumed he wanted to set a new record from Derby to London. The trunks rattled and shook so much she feared the bindings would not hold. The thunder of the horses’ hooves was so loud and incessant that a constant vibration hummed in her ears and she could not relax, could not even contemplate trying to recoup the hours of sleep she had lost during the long night. Deirdre O’Shea, normally a bright and cheerful companion, was pale from fear and doubtless could not have bolstered her own spirits, much less those of her mistress.

  Montgomery made no attempt to see her or speak to her during the long morning, and it was not until well past noon that he deigned to spare a thought for her mental or physical comforts. By then she was in fine fettle, ready to slap his face or gouge out his eyes at the least provocation.

  “How thoughtful of you to inquire after my necessities,” she said seethingly. “How considerate of you to stop every few miles that we might stretch our legs or ease our thirst with a sip of water. And how very kind of you to instruct the driver to slow down for bends in the road and to do his utmost to avoid every pit and rut across the county.”

  Montgomery was standing by his horse, stroking the beast’s neck, but showed no reaction to her outburst aside from a faint tug at the corner of his mouth.

  “Have you nothing to say?” she demanded, stamping her foot with frustration.

  “If the accommodations were not to your liking, you should not have come.”

  Her eyes blazed violet fire as she planted her hands on her waist. “You know very well I was given no choice in the matter.”

  “People always have choices.”

  “Really? And what were yours, pray tell? You looked even less pleased than I did—if that is at all possible—and yet you went through with the wretched ceremony anyway.”

  His eyes lifted from their indolent study of her mouth. “It seemed the most expedient way of getting through an awkward situation.”

  “Expedient? You call entering into a marriage that neither of us wanted … expedient?”

  “That … and a damned nuisance. I told you, I was pressed for time. I still am, so if we could dispense with the rest of your righteous indignation, I’d like to see if we can’t reach Wakefield by nightfall. With luck we should be able to find a sympathetic—or greedy—magistrate thereabouts who will legally annul your father’s error in judgment.” His smile broadened and he arched a saturnine brow. “Unless, of course, I have misread the lovely flush in your cheeks each time you are addressed as Mrs. Montgomery and you would prefer to keep the designation a while longer?”

  Catherine’s anger drained away in a dizzying rush. She stared up at his bronzed features, totally at a loss for words. She was not even sure she had heard him correctly.

  He laughed softly. “My dear Mistress Ashbrooke, while I will admit to a certain misguided attraction to your more earthly charms, I would not now, or ever, consider them worth relinquishing my freedom. I would not relinquish that for you or, indeed, for any other woman.”

  The candor heightened the flush in her cheeks. “You have an aversion to marriage, sir?”

  “Distinct and everlasting, madam. But aside from that, do I honestly strike you as the type of man who would take an unwilling wife to hearth and home?”

  “I suppose … if I thought about it …”

  He laughed again. “If women thought about a tenth of the things they should think about, I warrant the world would be a far less complicated place to live in.”

  “Are you suggesting this was all my fault?” she asked, her eyes narrowing with renewed vindictiveness.

  “Are you trying to tell me you considered the consequences—all of the consequences—of using me to rouse your lover’s jealousy?”

  The heat in Catherine’s cheeks reached a searing level. “Lieutenant Garner is not my lover.”

  “A moot point. Obviously no one has ever cautioned you against pricking the vanity of proud men or wild animals; neither is completely predictable.”

  “And which of those categories do you fit into?”

  “I’ll leave the choice solely to your discretion,” he mused and bowed solicitously. “And I am still in a hurry, so if you don’t mind—” He tilted his dark head in the direction of the lunch Deirdre was laying out on a blanket, and with a haughty swirl of her skirts Catherine walked away. He followed the play of her hips beneath the gray velvet skirt, then all but ignored her for the next hour while he shared his cigars and chatted with the coachmen.

  6

  The afternoon passed in as much discomfort as the morning. Catherine’s only consolation for the bumps and bruises was the promise of speedy salvation at the end of the trek. An annulment at Montgomery’s suggestion was the best possible solution she could have hoped for. No arguments. No questions asked. No claims against her dowry. He was actually being quite civil about the whole thing, rather good-natured … almost indifferent. In fact, if she thought about it she could conceivably become just as angry at him for the exact opposite reasons. Did he think he was too good for her? An aversion to marriage … the scoundrel should have counted himself the luckiest man alive to have won the hand of Catherine Augustine Ashbrooke at the small sacrifice of a cut temple and a skewered thigh!

  “We are outside of Wakefield,” Montgomery announced, his cloaked form suddenly filling the coach door.

  Catherine was startled upright, amazed to discover that she had
actually managed to doze off, even more amazed to see the dusty purple hues of twilight framing Montgomery’s shoulders.

  “I would appreciate it if you ladies would remain inside the coach until I have completed arrangements with the innkeeper.”

  “And the Magistrate?” Catherine asked hopefully, rubbing her eyes.

  “Unfortunately, that will have to wait until morning.”

  “Well … as long as there are clean sheets on the bed and a hot bath waiting in my room,” she grumbled. “And food. I am famished.”

  He stared at her a moment. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Catherine leaned back on the seat. She felt grimy and dusty, but somehow elated to have the worst behind her. Three or four days, a week at most, and Hamilton would be in Wakefield to rescue her. With her annulment in hand they would not delay in making new vows, proper vows this time between two people who loved each other and belonged together for all time.

  She heard the returning crunch of boots on the hard ground outside and gathered the folds of her skirt and petticoats in anticipation of disembarking. The door swung wide again, and Montgomery reached a black-gloved hand inside to offer assistance. Primly she accepted it, and daintily she ventured one petite foot out onto the coach step, but that was as far as she got before stopping dead and gaping in horror at the “inn.”

  The building was no more than a run-down country cottage. The walls were mud and mortar, the roof was thatch, rippled like the surface of a pond. Wooden shutters leaned drunkenly from the oilcloth windows, and there was more smoke escaping through cracks in the roof and walls than from the half-rotted chimney.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” Her voice cracked with fury.

  “On the contrary. The landlady takes her hospitality very seriously. It may not be much to look at from the outside, but I am assured of the tastiest meat pasties in two counties and the best black ale in all of England.”

  “A tavern. You have brought me to a tavern?”

  “You shall have a clean room for the night. It will not be as fancy as you may be accustomed to, but—”

  “The walls could be painted with silver and the floor with gold,” she hissed. “The King himself could be lodged in the next room, for all I care. I will not spend so much as a single hour in this hovel, much less challenge providence by sleeping under that roof.”

  “My dear Mistress Ashbrooke—” He slipped his hand under the crook of her arm, but she jerked back angrily. “All right, then, my dear Mrs. Montgomery—” His arm curled around her waist and he lifted her clear off her feet, crushing her to a shocked silence against his chest. “You can either walk through that door and up to your room under your own power, or you can be carried up the stairs like a sack of grain.”

  She gasped. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Madam, you do not know the meaning of the word,” he said silkily, “but if you would care to learn …”

  His voice was as ominous as the dark gleam deep in his eyes, and Catherine pushed her fists against his chest to break his hold. “You are even more despicable than I had imagined. Morning cannot come too soon to please me.”

  “I share your sentiments completely, madam, but until then you will behave yourself. You will walk inside the inn and you will smile pleasantly at Mistress Grundy, for she is quite beside herself at the thought of providing for a lady of quality.”

  Catherine bristled at the sarcasm and wrenched out of his grasp. Deirdre, stepping out of the coach behind her, clutched the portmanteau she was carrying tighter in her arms and joined her mistress in staring at the posting house.

  “Faith, Mistress Catherine … is it here we’re expected to sleep?”

  “So I have been informed,” Catherine replied tartly, her gaze clashing with Montgomery’s. “But only for the one night. Tomorrow we shall endeavor to find respectable lodgings where we need not tolerate any manner of vermin.”

  She took Deirdre’s arm for support as they walked toward the lighted doorway. An effort had been made in some century past to plant a garden along the pathway, but the weeds had long since taken over. Inside the rickety door, the prospects were no less discouraging. The lower floor was an ale room, dark and airless, smelling of rancid food and unwashed bodies. A fireplace occupied one wall, hung all around with pots and cooking utensils and vile-looking strips of dried meat. A dismal fire was producing more smoke than light or heat. The ceiling sagged threateningly between thick-hewn beams, and a narrow flight of steps—more like a ladder than a stairwell—rose from the center of the room, dividing the public tavern area from what she supposed to be the living quarters. She could only suppose, because there was a sagging rope bed visible behind a sheet of canvas hung to provide privacy.

  Of course, there could be some other purpose for the bed and curtain being there, something to do with providing hospitality to the patrons, but she did not care to contemplate it.

  She took a reflexive step backward, only to come up hard against Montgomery’s body. She flinched from the contact and spun around to glare up at him, convinced he was doing this deliberately. Out of spite, perhaps? Or revenge for the humiliation of being forced to marry her?

  “I wish Hamilton had run you through. I wish it with all my heart.”

  “Perhaps next time.”

  “You doubt there will be a next time, sir? Lieutenant Garner is not so easily pushed aside. If he says he intends to finish what he started, you had best believe he will.”

  “In that case, perhaps I should give him a good reason,” he murmured. “Perhaps we should finish what we started out in the garden last night.”

  Catherine gasped and stumbled back out of his reach. A very short, very stout, very red-nosed woman scurried out of the taproom and executed a clumsy curtsy.

  “Milady. I’m ever so sorry for the mess ’ereabout. We wasn’t expectin’ ’Is Lordship ter bring a lady back with ’im. I’ll ’ave the linens in yer room changed in a lick.”

  “Her Ladyship would also appreciate a bath, Mrs. Grundy.” Montgomery’s smile oozed charm like snake oil. “Is that possible?”

  “Wa-a-ll, I trow I could send up a washtub.”

  “That would be fine.” Prodded by a gentle nudge from a black-gloved hand, Catherine moved toward the stairs. The banister, as such, was a frayed length of ship’s rigging, which she held gingerly as she placed her feet carefully on each cracked and sagging riser. Deirdre, who had observed the exchange between her mistress and presumed new master, followed at a discreet distance, her knuckles white where she gripped the portmanteau that contained all of Catherine’s personal articles and jewelry.

  The upper floor, Catherine discovered, was partitioned into four small rooms, none of them as large as her dressing room at Rosewood Hall. Having braced herself to expect the worst, she was somewhat relieved to find the tiny bedchamber surprisingly clean. The walls were wood, not canvas, and whitewashed; the bed was old, but solid and draped in a canopy that was not more than a decade old. The only other furniture was a small spindle-legged nightstand and stool. There was no rug to cover the bare planks of the floor and no curtain on the high square window.

  “I’ll ’ave the washtub sent up right away,” Mrs. Grundy said, offering another lopsided curtsy.

  “Please … do not trouble yourself,” Catherine murmured. She caught a warning glance from Montgomery and added, “I’m much too tired to bother with a bath tonight. A simple wash will do fine.”

  “Aye, I know what ye mean, milady. Never ye mind. I’ll send yer up some nice ’ot broth and mutton pies ter fill yer belly.”

  Catherine forced a smile. “That would be lovely.”

  She peeled off her gloves and tossed them on the faded coverlet, dimly aware of the landlady excusing herself and bustling off down the stairs again. She leaned her brow on the bedpost and sighed, suddenly weary beyond all recollection.

  “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Montgomery asked. “And you must admit, the room is reasonably clean.” />
  Catherine straightened and faced him. “I will admit,” she said quietly, “that I would prefer not to have to look at your face again until the morning.”

  After a brief hesitation his husky laugh pricked the fine hairs across the nape of her neck. “It would be my pleasure to oblige, madam.”

  He bowed with a flamboyant swirl of the black cape and departed, leaving Catherine to stare at the closed door. She heard his boots echo on the floorboards and mentally cursed every step he took, hoping against hope a plank would give way and plunge him to his death below. The footsteps went only as far as the room next door, however, where they were met by the scrape of a chair and a muffled greeting.

  Deirdre, seeing the weariness on her mistress’s face, set the pormanteau aside and hurried over to check if there was water in the cracked pitcher that sat on the nightstand.

  “Oh, Mistress Catherine, I do wish there was something—”

  “What the bloody hell did you bring her here for?”

  Both Catherine and Deirdre were startled by the outburst and turned to stare at the partition wall. They waited, holding their breaths, but whatever was said next was ordered into more reasonable tones by Montgomery’s sharp reprimand. It was Catherine who noticed a bright sliver of light halfway up the partition—a knot in the wood or a crack from aging—and, curious despite herself, she tiptoed over to the wall and pressed a rounded violet eye to the gap.

  Deirdre was plainly shocked. “Mistress Catherine!”

  “Hush. I just want to see who he is talking to.”

  There were two other men in the room with Montgomery. One was of medium height, rangy-looking and thin, as if he had not had a good meal in some time. His cheeks had only the sparsest of dirty brown hairs covering them, making him appear to be not much older than Catherine. The second man, who’d had his back to the wall, paced forward in thought, turning at the far wall to provide a glimpse of his face. He was almost as tall as Montgomery, but lean and graceful in his movements, with the somber, contemplative features of a man who might have been a poet or a philosopher. Both of the strangers were dressed casually in loose-fitting home-spun shirts, leather jerkins, and plain breeches.