Dangerous to Hold (2 page)

She rose gracefully and thrust the pistol into her belt, gathered her writing materials and locked them in a carved commode that flanked the hearth.

She was almost at the door when Marcus called out, “Wait!”

“Señor?”

She had stiffened at his peremptory tone, and
Marcus immediately moderated it. “You visit me, don’t you, and I’m English?”

“I come to be alone, señor, and for the candle and the fire. And yes, to nurse you when Juan cannot come. But now that you are well, you see how it is. My brother would be very angry if he knew I was here.”

Marcus was staring at the carved commode. “This is your room, isn’t it?” Another thought struck him. “You come here to write?”

She inclined her head gravely.

“What is it you write?”

“How do you say … my
jornal, diario.”

“You keep a journal?”

“Sí.”

“And what do you write in it?”

“Things that are dear to a woman’s heart.”

“And what is dear to your heart, Catalina? Do you dream of love?”

Her smile was hard to read. “Doesn’t every woman?”

“No. Some women dream of fine clothes and precious jewels and a soft life.” His lips parted slightly and he inhaled a slow breath. “Could a woman like you dream about a man like me, a poor soldier with nothing to offer but a hard life?”

“She might. You are very handsome, I suppose, in your English way.” She studied his dark hair, and deeply tanned face.

“Some people,” said Marcus, “say I could pass myself off as a Spaniard.”

“¡Jamás!
You are too big. Juan cannot find clothes to fit you.”

“I presume my uniform was ruined by those French lancers?”

“And the blood you lost.
El Grande
said you were very brave.”

“And you are very beautiful.”

For a long, silent interval, she gazed at him, but when she spoke, all she said was, “Remember, señor, no more Isabella.
¡Jamás! ¿Comprende?”
She was unsmiling.

“Jamás,”
promised Marcus. “Will you come to me tomorrow? I’m quite harmless. No, really, I mean it.”

“We shall see.” She closed the door softly as she exited.

Over the next three weeks, Marcus gradually regained his strength, and the more his strength returned, the more he strained at the bit to be up and doing. These were critical times. Wellington and his armies were falling back toward Lisbon while the French regained lost ground. When they finally made a stand, the British would be vastly outnumbered. And here he was, an experienced cavalry officer, stranded in the middle of nowhere, going nowhere. He might as well be marooned on a desert island.

The other English soldiers, who had all been rescued by
El Grande
at one time or another, were not as impatient as he was. Their injuries were superficial, and the senior officer, Major Sheppard, kept them busy, helping the women guerrillas who had been left to guard the monastery. Marcus could sometimes catch glimpses of them from the small turret window that overlooked the courtyard. There were six Englishmen in all, three cavalry officers whom Marcus knew slightly, a young ensign, and two enlisted men, Riflemen of the 95th. Had Marcus not been gravely wounded when the guerrillas brought him to their hideout, he would have been billeted with the other English soldiers in the monastery’s crypt. He was still not well enough to be moved and his fellow officers took turns visiting him. The enlisted men, as was the way of all enlisted men, kept pretty much to themselves.

Catalina kept away during these visits. Except for Marcus, she avoided the English. She came to him every evening and stayed until the candle burned low. Sometimes, she wrote in her journal, but more often than not they talked. She was curious about him, as he was about her. She told him about the Spanish peasants, and their terrible sufferings at the hands of the French soldiers, and he told her about England and the life he would return to if he survived the war.

There was one thing, however, that he kept to himself.
He was not the ordinary soldier he pretended to be. She knew him as Captain Marcus Lytton of the 3rd Dragoons. In fact, he was a wealthy English lord, the Earl of Wrotham, and the possessor of vast holdings in England. Though his title was no secret in army circles, he never permitted anyone to address him by it. He despised it when people played up to him because of his title, or conversely, how it distanced him in the minds of men he liked and respected.

With women it was a different matter. Sometimes, Marcus used his wealth and title quite unscrupulously to lure them to his bed. He had discovered that a woman’s head was easily turned by the attentions of a man of property, however worthless that man might be in himself. As a consequence, his opinion of women in general was not very high. He saw them as grasping opportunists who would sell their bodies for a few worthless trinkets.

This was not how he thought of Catalina. He admired her courage and dignity. Her life was hard, but it was the life she had chosen. With her face and form, she could easily have found a rich protector or have become a rich man’s wife. Instead, she had thrown in her lot with the partisans. Marcus wasn’t sure how she would feel if she knew who he really was. He didn’t want to change anything between them. She saw him as a man and what she saw she liked. Marcus was very sure about that. When they were together, the air between them was charged with a sexual energy. Sometimes, when he forgot to guard his expression, she would stop in mid-sentence and, ignoring his protests, quietly leave the room. But she always came back, and he knew that she wanted him almost as much as he wanted her.

Three days after the torrential rains had stopped,
El Grande
and his band of guerrillas returned to the monastery. Marcus watched their arrival from the turret window. They were a motley lot, some dressed in peasant homespun and others in the jackets of various French regiments, booty they’d stripped from soldiers they’d killed. Their black horses were in better condition than the men
who rode them, and Marcus’s respect for the partisans rose.

He turned slightly when the door opened. Catalina came to stand beside him at the window. She was wearing a long white dress, and her dark hair streamed over her shoulders. Her eyes were misted with unshed tears. Marcus forgot about the men in the courtyard.

“The fords are passable,” she said. “You will leave tonight. All the English are going.”

He didn’t want to frighten her, so he did no more than clasp her hands and bring them to his chest. “Listen to me, Catalina.” He spoke earnestly, trying to convince her of his sincerity, though she might not understand all his words. “This isn’t the end for us. I’ll find a way to come to you. Do you understand? Even if we have to wait until the war is over, I’ll find you. I give you my word.”

Her voice trembled. “Once, just once, I want to feel your lips on mine.”

He kissed her chastely, no more than a gentle pressure of mouth on mouth. He was drawing away when her teeth bit savagely into his lower lip. His head jerked, and in the next moment, she struck him across the face with her open palm.

He wasn’t angry, he was frozen in shock. Then he remembered that she was an innocent, and he blamed himself for frightening her. “Catalina,” he said, “don’t be afraid. I would never hurt you.”

She backed away from him, and he saw the blood, his blood, smeared on her lips. He heard the tread of boots on the stairs, and laughter, and a man’s voice above the din, calling her by name. And even when she tore her dress from hem to waist, exposing bare thigh, Marcus still stood there stupidly, not understanding what was going on.

She called out in rapid-fire Spanish, and there was a sudden silence on the other side of the door. Then she whipped out her dagger as if to threaten him, and she said in a deadly tone, “
El Grande
will kill you when he sees how you have tried to rape me.”

Comprehension ripped through him like a bolt of lightning. It wasn’t the first time a woman had tried to
compromise him, but it was the first time a woman had succeeded. His bloodied lip, her torn dress, and the mark of her blow that still stung his cheek—the evidence against him must seem incontrovertible.

He went for her just as the door crashed back on its hinges. She discarded the dagger and flung herself into the arms of the man who crossed the threshold. Marcus had an impression of a young man, younger than Catalina, with dark ascetic looks, then several armed partisans pushed into the room and hauled Marcus back, shoving him against the wall. He was so incensed, felt so betrayed, that he fought them like a madman. His injuries were forgotten. He felt no pain. Every muscle bunched and strained as he tried to throw off his attackers so that he could get to the girl. It took three of them to subdue him, but it was not until the knife at his throat drew blood that he finally quieted.

He could not follow her outburst, but one word jumped out at him—“Wrotham.” Now he understood everything. Somehow, she had discovered who he was and she had made her plans in meticulous detail, down to the moment her brother would return to the monastery. He could not contain his bile. She had duped him as though he were a green boy. Everything was a sham. She wasn’t attracted to Marcus Lytton the man. She wanted what every woman wanted, position and money.

When she had run out of words,
El Grande
set her aside and crossed to Marcus. Not a flicker of emotion showed in his dark eyes. His accent was flawless. “Is this how the English repay a friend’s hospitality?”

Marcus did not answer. His eyes blazed with hatred as they fastened on Catalina. “You lying bitch! I should have taken what you were offering while I had the chance.
¡Puta!
”

El Grande’s
blow sent him to his knees. Marcus swallowed a mouthful of blood and gritted through clenched teeth, “I will never marry her.
¡Jamás!”

Another blow followed, and Catalina cried out. When
El Grande
lifted his fist again, she threw herself in front of him. Her voice was low and pleading, and she
went on at some length. Her brother heard her out in silence.

He barked out an order and Marcus was yanked to his feet.
El Grande
moved back and smiled deprecatingly, a boyish smile that made him seem harmless. Marcus had trouble believing that this was the legendary guerrilla leader whose very name struck terror in the hearts of his enemies.

El Grande
said, “You are fortunate that my sister loves you. You will marry her, señor, or your English comrades will pay for your sins.”

Marcus looked into those pitiless black eyes and he knew that he was beaten.

The wedding took place that very night under the stars in the monastery’s burned-out nave. The mass was short, for
El Grande
had arranged to conduct Marcus and his comrades to British lines under cover of darkness and he was impatient to get under way. Though the bride and groom held themselves stiffly, there was an air of jubilation among the partisans. It was known that Catalina had snared an English lord, and though the marriage was in haste, Juan had seen to it that everyone, including Marcus’s comrades, believed that the young people were in love. When the groom kissed the bride, only Catalina saw the violence in his eyes, only Marcus saw the loathing in hers.

As cheers erupted around them, he grasped her by the wrist and hauled her off to one side. He bared his teeth in a sneer. “You belong to me now, Catalina, not your brother. Think on that while I am gone. One day, there will be a reckoning, then, you scheming bitch, you will know your victory is hollow.”

He kissed her then, not as he had done before, reverencing her innocence, but as savagely and as insultingly as he could make it. Her head was forced back over his arm, and he plunged his tongue into her mouth. She jerked once, then went limp in his arms. His hands moved down her back, over her waist, and he dragged her against him, grinding his groin into the lower part of her body. The
partisans saw only two lovers locked in a passionate embrace and they roared their approval.

When Marcus let her go, she stumbled back, one hand covering her bruised lips. Her eyes were wide in her pale face, and he nodded, satisfied with what he read there.

His voice was low and chilling. “You’ve made a bad bargain, Lady Wrotham. Remember that when you sit dreaming of my wealth and title.”

He turned on his heel and did not look at her again as he shouldered his way past beaming partisans to the men who were eager to be off.

England, August 1815

Catherine heaved a sigh, straightened in her chair, and rubbed the small of her back with the knuckles of one hand. Long tendrils of vivid red hair had escaped their pins, and she took a moment to secure them to the loose knot at her nape. A dozen balled papers littered the floor at her feet; ink stained her fingers. She had been writing for hours and she still wasn’t satisfied. Though she wanted to stop, she had to continue. Her employer, Melrose Gunn, who was proprietor of
The Journal
, would expect to have her article on his desk by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. There was another reason for her determination to finish the piece. She really needed the money. She wasn’t a pauper by any means. There was this small house and an annuity from her father’s estate, but it was barely enough to meet her expenses. Doctors, especially army doctors, did not make a fortune from practicing their profession.