Dangerous to Hold (23 page)

The minutes slipped by, and still she remained motionless. She sensed something wrong. First the lantern and now something else. But what? And then she had it. The door to the bailey had rusty hinges. It was impossible to open it without the thing wheezing like an old bellows. But now it seemed to be working smoothly as if the hinges had been … oiled.

She took the stairs one slow step at a time, pressing herself against the outside wall, her eyes scanning the gloom. At every other step, she stopped and listened. Suddenly, her foot went from under her. She flung back to prevent herself from pitching forward, and she landed with a thud on the stone stairs, her pistol still clutched in her hand. She heard something go rattling down the stairs, then the sound of breaking glass.

Her back had taken the brunt of her fall, but it was the pain in her left elbow which made her gasp. Hunched over, she rocked herself, waiting for the pain to recede.

When she tried to rise, her foot slipped and she fell heavily on her bottom. She touched the sole of her shoe, and her hand came away covered in oil.

After pocketing her pistol, she used her petticoat to wipe her shoes clean, and when next she descended the stairs, she felt her way with her hands. One step down,
she came upon a pool of oil, and beyond that, the broken pieces of a lantern. It looked as though the lantern had fallen from the wall and spilled its contents over the steps. That’s what everyone was meant to think, but she was unconvinced.

She heard it again, the faint sound of the door opening, and her head lifted.

“Catherine?” Marcus’s voice. “Are you sure she’s here?”

Another voice, Tristram’s. “I saw her on the walls not ten minutes ago.”

“Catherine?”

She heard Marcus and Tristram taking the stairs. “I’m up here. No, don’t come up. I’m coming down.”

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Marcus said, “I looked for you on the walls when I came in, but couldn’t see you. Where were you?”

It never entered her head to tell him the truth—that someone had deliberately tried to hurt her, or even kill her. He would only put the blame on Catalina and
El Grande
, and she had no reply to that. But someone had tried to hurt her, and she didn’t know what to think.

She tried not to sound as shaken as she felt. “I came in out of the rain and just sat on the top step thinking about things. I’m sorry. I forgot the time. Oh, I should tell you, one of the lanterns fell from the wall. It’s broken, and there’s glass scattered on the stairs.”

“I’ll get one of the footmen to see to it,” said Tristram.

Marcus was watching her closely. “Cat, are you all right?” he asked softly. “You’re very pale.”

She wanted to believe that the concern in his voice was genuine, but the suspicion that Marcus may have just tried to hurt her had taken possession of her mind, and she was numb with the horror of it. Perhaps he’d known all along that she was Catalina. Perhaps she had walked right into his trap. Her hands were trembling. Somehow, she had to hide what she suspected or the game would be up.

“Cat?”

“I’m fine. Really. I can’t think why you’re making such a fuss.”

Tristram held the door for her, but she managed to brush her fingers casually along one of the hinges. Just as she suspected, she found oil.

“You may not have noticed, but there’s a storm brewing,” Marcus said curtly. “I was told you were walking on the ramparts and came to fetch you. Don’t you know that when lightning strikes, the worst place to be is on the castle walls? I thought you had more sense.”

She saw, then, that he had her cloak over one arm. And just as though he commanded the heavens, lightning streaked across the sky, the thunder rolled, and the rain came down in torrents.

He flung her cloak around her shoulders, and flanked by Marcus and Tristram, she crossed the bailey at a run.

Since Catalina was a Catholic, it made perfect sense for Catherine to go occasionally to the priest of the small Catholic church at the edge of town to make her confession. Sometimes he came to the castle to talk to her. What no one knew was that Father Granger was Major Carruther’s man and Catherine made her reports to him.

She left her carriage in the lane and entered the church unescorted. With the exception of Father Granger, the church was empty. His back was to her, and she saw that he was replenishing an iron stove with coal from a blackened scuttle. The weather had turned cold and she was wearing a warm pelisse with a sable collar that matched her muff. Her gaze wandered, taking in the marble statuary, the stained-glass windows, the candles on the altar. Then, after dipping her fingers into the font of holy water, she made the sign of the cross and entered the confessional. Father Granger followed her at once.

His face was obscured by the screen but she could hear the rasp of his breathing. The time had come for her to tell him that there had been an attack on her. They would assume, of course, that Marcus was behind it. It was what they’d been waiting for, a sign that Marcus had
been lying to them all along, that he was, in fact, the man who had murdered all those English soldiers. It meant he knew that she was Catalina, and that this elaborate scheme of his was a ploy to lure
El Grande
out of hiding so that he could kill him too. Once she made her report, it would all be out of her hands. Whatever the consequences to Marcus, it was none of her business.

“What is it, child?”

The priest’s voice brought her back to where she was. She stared at the screen with panicked eyes. She knew how she was supposed to think. Logic. Deduction. Putting two and two together to come up with the right answer. But where Marcus was concerned she found it impossible to be logical. Everything in her recoiled from the thought that he was a murderer. It wasn’t true. It simply couldn’t be true—and she was willing to stake her life on it.

“I have nothing to report,” she said.

There was a moment of silence. “And that’s all you have to say?”

It was all she had to say to
this
priest. If
El Grande
had been here, it would have been different. He wasn’t like Major Carruthers. He saw to the heart of things. He would understand why she couldn’t betray Marcus, and he would trust her instincts. Someone else had to be behind this attack on her, and if
El Grande
were here, they would sort things through together.

Names came to her mind, but as quickly as they came, she discarded them. She couldn’t believe a member of Marcus’s family wished to harm her. Then who—

“My child,” said the priest, and paused.

Catherine’s thoughts snapped together. “That’s all I have to say,” she said.

It was early morning, very early, and Amy Spencer never,
never
rose from her bed before noon. None of her friends ever did. Yet here she was again, donning her plainest coat and bonnet just so that she could go around town, unrecognized, with the man who had turned her life upside down. She’d stopped giving parties. She rarely went to the theater. And her carriage with its distinctive trimmings was never allowed out of the coach house. As a consequence, her popularity was slipping, and she could not seem to care.

She glanced out the window and saw that it was raining. Perhaps he wouldn’t come for her. It would be better if he didn’t. There could never be anything between Robert and her, and she never tired of telling him so. She was too old for him, too experienced, too jaded. Besides all that, she’d learned that he was Spanish and not Irish as she’d assumed at first. They were too different. They had nothing in common. Then what in hell’s name was she doing going out with him again? This could only lead to heartbreak.

She didn’t care. At least she now knew that she had a heart to break. He made her feel—not young again—but untouched by all the sordid circumstances of her life. He’d told her that soon he would be returning to Spain to take up his life there. It was for the best, but until that day arrived, she would cherish their few days together.

That didn’t sound like Amy Spencer. What the hell had got into her?

Miss Collyer poked her head around the door. “He’s here,” she said in the tone of a breathless schoolgirl.

Miss Collyer wasn’t the only one who felt breathless around Robert.

He was waiting for her in the vestibule. She’d known many handsome men in her time, but no one had ever matched Robert. Of course, looks meant nothing to her—she knew better than anyone that beauty did not bring happiness. It was Robert, the man, that drew her with his beautiful wise eyes. Sometimes it seemed to her that he knew far more about life than she.

“I thought we’d go for a picnic,” he said, and before she could draw on her gloves, he pressed a kiss to her bare wrist.

Another chaste kiss that inflamed her. Oh God, she was playing with fire. She didn’t mind getting burned but she was determined that when this was over, Robert was going to return to Spain unscathed.

She smiled up at him. “Haven’t you noticed? It’s raining cats and dogs.”

He laughed. “The English have such quaint ways of expressing themselves. You mean it’s a downpour.”

“That’s exactly what I mean. So how can we go on a picnic?”

“Have a little faith in me, Amy. I know what I’m doing.”

He had a way of bringing a conversation from the trivial to the profound. He was doing it now.

She answered him seriously. “Let’s not talk of that now. Let’s just enjoy these few hours we have together.”

They came out of the door hand in hand. He said, “I’ve hired a carriage to take us to Chelsea. We can have our picnic inside while we watch the boats on the river.”

It was a closed carriage, but she knew he hadn’t chosen it only because of the rain. They both wanted the anonymity. He wasn’t free to tell her what his reasons were for secrecy, and as for her, she did not want any ugly gossip to touch Robert because of who she was.

When they were on their way, he removed one of her gloves, then laced his fingers through hers. “Now don’t be frightened,” he said.

She looked at their joined hands and felt the power of his touch all through her body. It had never been like
this. Still looking at their joined hands, she said softly, “Robert, you’ve never been with a woman in that way, have you? I mean—”

“I know what you mean. And the answer is no.” She looked up and caught his smile. “Priests don’t as a rule,” he went on. “And afterward, when I left the seminary, there was no woman I wanted to marry.”

“And with you marriage would have to come first?”

He grinned. “For me it must be marriage or nothing.”

He’d relieved her worst fears. He was safe from her. Now he would go home to Spain, meet some nice young girl, and they would live happily ever after. She couldn’t bear it.

“Now it’s your turn,” he said. “Tell me why your life took a different direction from your sister’s.”

She didn’t mind the question. From the very first, it had seemed so natural, as if they had known each other all their lives, to share their innermost feelings about things. Last time they were together, he’d told her why he’d lost his faith. He’d been studying to be a priest when the French had tortured and murdered every member of his family. He’d become a partisan. And later, when the war was over, he’d been sickened at the man he’d become. He hadn’t been able to remain in Spain. There were too many painful memories.

She answered him matter-of-factly. “I wasn’t happy at home, and eventually I took up with the wrong set, the fast set. One night, one of those ‘friends,’ a man I thought I loved, raped me. Later, he apologized, and said that he’d been overcome by his emotions. He wanted to marry me, to make things right, but for complicated reasons it had to be a secret marriage. I still loved him and so I forgave him and we eloped. But he had lied to me—he had never had any intention of marrying me. Instead he set me up as his mistress. And that was the beginning of my career as Amy Spencer.”

“Wrotham!” he said with disgust.

A look of surprise crossed her face. “Why do you say that? No. It wasn’t him. He came into my life much later than that. I didn’t even know Marcus at the time.”

“Then why does Catherine hate Wrotham?”

He was looking at her closely, not saying anything, not condemning, and suddenly she had to tell him the whole sordid story. “I once saw Marcus at Vauxhall Gardens when I was with these friends. There was talk, you know how it is—everyone thought he cut such a dashing figure. After all, he was young, wealthy, and titled. It happened that when I got home that night, I had a ferocious quarrel with my aunt. She said horrible things to me—that I would never amount to anything and so on. I flung the first name I could think of at her.

“‘As a matter of fact the Earl of Wrotham is in love with me!’ I told her. ‘So I might yet turn out to be a countess.’ And the more she poured scorn on the idea, the more I elaborated on it. Very soon after, I was lying to Cat too.”

She touched a hand to her eyes. “She found me the night I was raped. I wasn’t a pretty sight. She demanded to know if Wrotham had done this to me. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that the man I loved had done it. Cat kept after me, and finally I said, ‘Yes.’ It just seemed easier.”