Resisting Her Enemy Lord

by Helen Dickson

  Temper flared in Catherine’s eyes as hot, angry words bubbled to her lips. ‘Then you were mistaken and I will make it plain here and now that I have no intention of changing—and if I do not meet with your expectations then you can go to the devil and be damned. Now, where are our horses? I would like to return to Oakdene. The city is such a dismal place on days such as this.’

  * * *

  The following two days John spent at the army headquarters at Windsor. He was impatient to retire from his military duties so he could go to his home in Sussex, but every day there were fresh tasks to undertake and it was expected at any day that the King would be brought back to London.

  He had not seen Catherine since they had returned from London. He was surprised that, hardened soldier though he was, he was unable to cast her from his mind. With a warmth flooding and throbbing through his veins, he remembered how it had felt to hold her, how soft and yielding her lips had been when she had kissed him with such tender passion and how her body had moulded itself innocently into his own. Constantly he found himself dwelling on her warm femininity.

  * * *

  Oakdene was quiet when John returned from Windsor. He looked in the downstairs rooms, but there was no sign of Catherine. A clattering of crockery came from the kitchen. After asking one of the servants to have hot water brought up to his chamber, he went upstairs. Just about to enter his room, he paused in the open doorway when Blanche approached carrying some linen. Her blue gown, which provocatively outlined her contours, was cut revealingly low and the upper part of her breasts enticingly displayed. Her hair was arranged to fall sensually over her shoulders. Unable to ignore her, John smiled. The smile encouraged her for she came to stand close.

  ‘Some hot water is being brought up for you, John. I’ve brought some clean linen.’ Brushing past him, she swept inside his chamber, placing the linen on the end of the bed.

  This was the first time he had been entirely alone with her. No man could not be moved by Blanche’s beauty. She really was all temptation for any man, but there was only one woman who could tempt John and he was impatient to see her.

  ‘Is there anything else you need? Anything I can get for you?’

  ‘I have everything I need, Blanche. Thank you. How is Edward?’

  ‘Sleeping—he spends most of his days sleeping. He’s having his meal in his room later—not that he has an appetite these days.’

  Her use of the word appetite was open to two interpretations, one of which was risqué and, he thought, intended. John chose to ignore it and stepped away. As he did so he caught the gleam in her eyes, a gleam that belied the feminine allure. It was not attraction he saw in those narrowed depths, but cold-hearted calculation, and it acted like a bucket of cold water being poured over him. Every muscle tensed. He walked to the door. ‘Excuse me, Blanche. The servants will be up with the water for my bath any minute.’

  Not to be got rid of so easily, she slowly moved towards him. ‘You know, John, Edward is so glad you are here. He’s come to rely on you over the years. You have seen how ill he is.’

  ‘In which case it must be a relief to him to have Catherine here. She will be a comfort to him, I am sure.’

  Blanche did not want to hear about Catherine. Hearing the door open and close downstairs followed by light footfalls on the stairs, she continued to walk towards him, tripping on the edge of a carpet—intentionally, John was convinced. When she fell forward and it looked as if she might land on the floor, he immediately reached out to save her. When he would have steadied her she fell into his arms. Raising his eyes, he saw Catherine standing in the doorway. He was incredulous, then felt a surge of anger. For mischievous reasons of her own, Blanche’s staged trip to fall into his arms so that Catherine would see had been well-timed. Making no attempt to disengage herself, Blanche turned her head, then, feigning a look of surprise, she stepped back.

  ‘Catherine—my goodness! What must you think?’

  ‘Excuse me. I don’t think anything. Perhaps the next time you wish to be alone with John you should close the door.’

  Blanche’s voice was sweet and mock-apologetic as she said, ‘Forgive me, Catherine. I never heard you. Must you creep about?’

  ‘I don’t creep, Blanche,’ she retorted with all the condescension she could muster. However, she merely smiled at John—who had been rendered speechless—and lifted her eyebrows in mockery before she turned her back on them both and carried on to her own chamber.

  Thankfully the servants chose that moment to arrive with the hot water. With a soft laugh and telling him to enjoy his bath, having achieved her aim, Blanche left.

  * * *

  Catherine was angry and hurt by what she had just witnessed. She was certain that Blanche was taunting her, but Catherine was determined not to let her get under her skin and arouse her to an expression of her personal feelings. She strongly suspected that the situation had been manipulated by Blanche and that John was too much of a gentleman to defend himself at Blanche’s expense.

  * * *

  The house was quiet when Catherine went to sit with her father the next afternoon. He like to have her read to him, even though he always fell asleep halfway into the story. She was surprised to find John seated by the bed, the two men in quiet conversation. They seemed comfortable together. John rose when she entered and crossed to the door.

  ‘Please don’t leave on my account,’ she said, stepping back on to the landing. ‘I was passing and thought Father might like some company. I can come back later.’

  ‘I was about to leave,’ he said, pulling the door to behind him before she had time to step away. ‘I have things to do. You look pale,’ he said softly, keeping his eyes on Catherine with uncomfortable steadiness.

  ‘Am I? I wasn’t aware of it,’ Catherine replied, trying to hold on to her composure, pretending that she couldn’t feel John’s eyes on her, querying, trying to probe, gently. As their eyes met his dark brows lifted in bland enquiry. Catherine caught her breath and felt heat scorch through her body before hastily looking away, ashamed that his look made her legs weaken and her heart to race, as it had on that other occasion when he had kissed her so devastatingly and sent her young, innocent heart soaring heavenwards.

  ‘Catherine—about yesterday when you—’

  ‘Please don’t think you have to explain anything to me, John.’ The last thing she wanted was to give him the satisfaction of knowing it troubled her.

  ‘Nevertheless, I would like to. Blanche had brought some linen to my chamber. She tripped and would have fallen had I not been there to prevent it.’

  ‘How convenient—for her as well as you,’ she quipped, unable to help herself.

  ‘Believe me, Catherine, Blanche is a friend and nothing more.’

  Knowing he spoke the truth, she began to relax for the first time since they had returned from London. ‘Of course she is and I’m sorry if I sounded churlish.’ She gave him a teasing smile, mischief dancing in her eyes. ‘Although I can’t say that I blame her for fluttering her eyelashes in your direction. You are a handsome man, John. I think Blanche sees the day when she will be a widow and has decided to up her status in life. An earl would satisfy her very well. Have a care. She is already sharpening her talons.’

  ‘Blanche is not my type.’

  ‘And what is your type?’ she asked. ‘You must be very hard to please.’

  ‘I am.’ He shook his head slowly, chuckling softly. ‘Believe me when I say your suspicions are totally unfounded. There is only one lady in this house that interests me.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, John, I insist that you introduce me to her one day. There must be someone in the house who has escaped my attention.’

  ‘I will make a point of it. Edward has told me it is a relief that you are here. I entertain him with the latest gossip from Windsor and news of the King. How is it to be home—with your father?’
r />   ‘It has not been the perfect reconciliation, but I believe we understand each other.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘It’s strange to see him so helpless. I always thought he was invincible.’

  ‘No one is invincible, Catherine.’ Raising his hand, he touched her cheek. ‘You look tired. Are you sleeping well?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, John. I sleep very well.’

  ‘I imagine you’re missing the clean air of the Welsh Marches. When did you last ride out?’

  ‘When we rode into London.’

  ‘Then tomorrow I will ride with you again—if that suits. It will do you good to have a change of scene.’

  Her heart lifted a little at his suggestion. ‘Yes—it would. It’s a pity it isn’t summertime. When I was little my mother would take me to the river,’ she said, thinking wistfully of those past days. ‘We would take a picnic and walk by the water.’

  ‘Then that is what we will do—although I think the river is rather ambitious. We shall have a picnic of our very own.’

  ‘What? In the middle of winter? Where is the pleasure in that? It would be quite impossible.’

  ‘Whenever I hear that word I am always challenged to disprove it.’

  Catherine laughed at him. ‘It’s far too cold to sit about eating outdoors. Far better to be inside in front of a cosy fire.’

  He scowled at her in mock reproof. ‘I would never take you for a fair-weather woman, Catherine. I have appreciated many a meal out in the open surrounded by my fellow soldiers—whatever the weather. I can highly recommend it.’

  ‘Very well, John, you have persuaded me. I will arrange it with Mrs Coleman for tomorrow. Now go away while I sit with Father. He’ll wonder what we’re talking about.’

  ‘Wait,’ he said, as she was about to push the door open. ‘Have you told him that you know he was the one who told Thomas that he has a son?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. After much thought I think the matter is best left. He is very ill. There’s nothing to be gained by upsetting him.’

  ‘Yes—I agree. Nothing can be done about it now.’

  After saying his farewells to Edward, John left them to return to Windsor. Catherine sat in the chair he had occupied beside the bed.

  ‘I’m happy to see you getting on with John.’

  ‘Yes. He’s been very kind. You’ve known him a long time, I believe.’

  He nodded. ‘I met John through his father, Charles Stratton, at the beginning of the conflict. Charles was influential in my decision to support Parliament.’

  ‘John told me how you were wounded at Edgehill. Why wasn’t I informed?’

  ‘It was nothing. I didn’t want a fuss. John is a fine man—none finer. He’s made of different stuff to his cousin Thomas. I got to know him well and at each battle I marvelled at the speed and decision with which he went into action. Whenever he came to the army headquarters at Windsor and I was at home, he would always make a point of coming to see me. We spent many an hour in conversation—and he plays a mean game of chess.’ He turned his head to her, studying her closely for a moment. ‘You should seriously think of marrying again, Catherine. You are too young to remain a widow for the rest of your life.’

  ‘I’m in no immediate hurry to wed. I sincerely hope you are not about to suggest someone you consider suitable.’

  ‘No,’ he replied after a moment. ‘I’d not force you—only suggest—advise—whatever you care to call it. You’re a grown woman, a widow. You must decide these matters for yourself.’

  * * *

  The following day was cold with a light covering of snow, but the bright sunshine was an encouragement to leave the house. John, who had spent the night at Windsor, arrived mid-morning. Catherine was dressed in her serviceable breeches beneath her cloak and her hair was fastened back beneath her hat. She pulled on her kid gloves and, with her crop tucked beneath her arm, gave the hamper of food to John to carry. Together they went to the stables, which were relatively quiet apart from a couple of grooms going about their chores.

  ‘I would have asked for one of the horses to be saddled in readiness,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t know what time you would arrive.’

  ‘We’ll soon have you saddled up and be on our way.’

  ‘As you see,’ Catherine said, walking down the length of stalls, ‘there are few horses left to choose from. Before the war, horses, after politics, were my father’s abiding passion. Possessing some prime horseflesh, he was immensely proud of his large stable, which was envied and praised by many hereabouts. He loved to hunt and he adored his gun dogs and falcons almost as much as his horses.’ Stopping in front of one of the stalls, she opened the door where a brown mare was munching hay from a trough. ‘This is Lady. I would have selected the horse I rode into London, but she became lame when one of the boys was exercising her yesterday. Lady should do nicely. She’s not been ridden lately so she’s in need of some exercise.’

  John entered, patting her. The mare responded by arching her neck and whickering softly. ‘I’ll take a look at her before we set off,’ he said, heading off to the tack room.

  Catherine stood and calmly watched him prepare to saddle Lady. Before doing so he stood back and looked at her from every angle, picking up a hoof and going on to examine her teeth with a thoroughness that did not surprise her. She sensed that everything he did would be controlled, certain and sure. Distracted, she noted that he had a supple body, vigorous and arresting. With his wicked smile and dark hair—a rogue wave spilling over his brow and shining like glass in the sunlight slanting through the windows—she thought he would have made the most handsome pirate.

  Satisfied that the horse was in good health, he quickly saddled it up and slapped its flank before giving Catherine his full attention. Observing the soft flush on her cheeks, he raised a questioning eyebrow and studied her for a long, drawn-out moment. Catherine watched as a slow smile curved his lips. The sparkle in his eyes gradually evolved into a rakish gleam and she felt her flush deepen. She had no way of discerning the working of his mind or where his imagination wandered.

  ‘There,’ he said, ‘you can take her out.’

  In the yard John locked his hands together to accept Catherine’s small, booted foot, and was not surprised at the agility she displayed when he raised her up to the saddle. Striding to his own mount, he swung himself up on to its back. It was a spirited stallion and John controlled him superbly. The lean, hard muscles of his thighs gripped the horse and he kept him on a tight rein to control his high-stepping prancing as they clattered out of the yard into the open countryside. Urging their horses into a lunging gallop, they crouched low over their necks, thundering over the snow-covered turf with ground-devouring strides. They rode at full speed, side by side, leaping low hedges in graceful unison. After a while they slowed their horses to a leisurely canter.

  * * *

  A lightening of spirits seemed to come over Catherine. She appreciated being away from the house if just for a little while. She was pleasantly aware of the emptiness of the scenery all around her, the smell of the crisp, cold air and the snow-covered ground. They rode over a humped-back bridge spanning a wide stream that tumbled on its way to its destination. The path they were following led on to open ground littered with large boulders. Deciding this would be a suitable place to eat, they paused by one of them and dismounted.

  * * *

  John unfastened a blanket from his saddle and unrolled it on the ground. Catherine sat gracefully on the blanket, resting her back against a boulder. Her face was rosy, her eyes bright from the ride. Removing her hat, she shook out her hair. John was completely transfixed by the heavy mass tumbling about her shoulders. It was thick and silken, shot through with tones of russet and gold and the gloss of good health. He could not hide that he liked what he saw and he found himself smiling with pleasure.

  Forcing
his mind to think of other things, he placed the basket of food between them and opened it, dipping in to find roast chicken, cheese, bread and butter and fruit. Spreading a cloth on the blanket, they ate in companionable silence, each content to gaze at their surroundings and appreciate the fact that they were here, away from the solemn atmosphere that prevailed at Oakdene. They talked and sometimes were silent, content just to be together, each aware of the bond that was growing between them. They talked of the past, of their childhoods and the people who had moulded and influenced their lives.

  When they had eaten, John sat on the blanket close beside Catherine, resting his back against the boulder. A slow, lazy smile swept across his handsome face as his eyes passed with warm admiration over her shapely legs encased in breeches and riding boots stretched out in front of her. He watched her tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her face was in repose—vulnerable, thoughtful, like a child waiting for something exciting to happen.

  In his experience with women—and his experience could not be truthfully termed lacking—he had been most selective of those he had chosen to sample. Yet it was difficult to call to mind one as delectable as the one he now scrutinised so carefully. Even now, even though she had been a married woman, having known her for several weeks and held her in his arms on occasion, he found there was a graceful naivety about Catherine Stratton that totally intrigued him.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked gently.

  Catherine turned her head and found him studying her. ‘Nothing too profound. Just things in general.’

  ‘Care to tell me about them?’

  ‘They’re hardly worth discussing.’ She sighed, her gaze taking in the panoramic view. ‘This is a beautiful place,’ she said, her gaze caressing the gentle rise and fall of the countryside.