Gypsy Lady (33 page)

Until
last night, until she had given herself to him so wantonly and acknowledged in
her deepest being that she loved him, she had felt she was still herself: still
the same Catherine who had so gaily planned his downfall with old Ilone, still
the same Catherine who had vowed so fiercely in London to bring him to his
knees. But that was before he had married her and before last night. Now she was
lost on a sea of uncertainty. Without that burning sense of injustice to
uphold and sustain her, she felt curiously bereft —as if somehow she had lost
herself.

It
was in this delicate, wavering mood of confusion that she made her way into the
smaller sitting room, determined to avoid a meeting with Jason until she could
compose herself. She was planning on ordering her horse brought round, hoping
that once away from the scene of their recent intimacy she could find some
solution, when her cousin Elizabeth's impassioned voice froze her in her steps.
The door between their apartments was open, and Elizabeth's penetrating tones
came clearly to Catherine.

"How
could
you? Didn't those times you made love to me mean
anything? How could you make love to me one night and run off with her the
next?"

"Juste
Ciel!
Elizabeth, we've been through all this before. I
don't love you, I never have! I enjoyed your body —what man wouldn't? I never
made any bones about it! But I love
no
woman!"

His
voice was cold, and Catherine was unable to move, shivering as each word
destroyed any faint illusions that his feelings for her went deeper than common
animal lust. Elizabeth's next words only drove the icy pain deeper into her
heart.

"Do
you love
her?"

"Don't
be silly! I just said I love no woman." Jason snapped, a thread of anger
underlying the words and saying anything to get rid of her.

But
Elizabeth chose to ignore the warning and cried, "Then why did you marry
her?"

"Because,"
he ground out crudely, "it's time I had a wife and eventually, a son, to
inherit my estates. Your cousin is young, and strong enough to give me as many
children as I wish!"

"I
could have done the same!" Elizabeth exclaimed stubbornly.

"No,
you couldn't have," he said brutally. "With Catherine, I can be
certain my sons will be
my
sons
and not the offspring of the last man you opened your thighs to."

There
was an outraged gasp and the sound of a stinging slap. Then Jason said in a
level tone, "I deserved that. But you shouldn't have come here uninvited
and thrown our past association in my face. And you have no right to question
my motives for marrying your cousin. I think you had better leave. You've said
enough, and I have nothing more to add to our distasteful conversation."

"We'll
see about that!" Elizabeth spat nastily. "I wonder what your bride
would think of your coldblooded reasons for marrying her. I wonder too, if she
would like to know she's nothing but a brood mare for a host of little
Savages?"

"The
question doesn't arise. You will leave here, and you will
not,
if you value your life, have anything to do with
my wife!"
The threat was very apparent in his voice, and
Elizabeth nearly choked on her rage. There was a moment of silence, and then
Catherine heard the outer door slam angrily.

Numbed
by what she had overheard, her thoughts in shambles, Catherine stood enveloped
in icy despair, incapable of moving. The very idea of Jason sharing those
intimate moments like the ones he had given her just last night with another
woman made her distinctly ill, and the knowledge that the woman had been
Elizabeth, her own cousin, made the thought even more nauseating.

She
put a shaking hand to her mouth, fighting the overwhelming urge to be sick,
and giving a small moan, fled to her bedchamber. Her whole body was trembling
with reaction, and every word she had overheard was branded on her brain. She
sank slowly down to the floor near her
bed,
and the
memory of Jason's lovemaking on this very bed, this very morning, nearly made
her gag. She had to get away! Knowing what she did now, she would go mad if he
touched her again. She couldn't possibly bear it! Feverishly she gazed around
the room, and her desperate eyes fell on the jewel box on her dresser, still
open from this morning when Jeanne had placed a string of pearls about her
neck.

It had been an ugly scene
with Elizabeth, and Jason was heartily glad to see the last of her.
Sacrebleu!
What a shrewish woman! What a termagant! She
should have known better than to face him like an avenging angel. No one had
any right to question his affairs or his reasons for taking a wife, least of
all Elizabeth. He rang for Pierre and ordered a light luncheon served on the
balcony. He half expected Catherine to join him, and when she didn't, he was
conscious of a faint disappointment.

La
petite
was probably still sleeping soundly, he thought
tenderly. A picture of her as she slept, her lips rosy red and her cheeks
flushed from their lovemaking, leaped to his mind, and he nearly left the table
and sought her out. But, no, last night had been all and more than he had ever
dreamed for, and just now it would be intolerable if she had changed back into
the fighting, volatile creature
who
had haunted his
dreams for so long. She was like some spirited, half-broken filly
who
shied away and fought the saddle so violently that each
time they had to begin anew. Bemused by thoughts of her, he leaned back in the
chair, visions of Catherine filling his brain. Eventually he shook himself
free of his nearly tender mood. If he wasn't careful, he'd be mooning over his
own wife like some lovesick boy!

But
in spite of his resolutions, he couldn't' help the smile that lurked at the
corners of his mouth or the pleased sparkle that gleamed in the green eyes as
he left a note for his sleeping bride and went off gaily to Call upon Monroe.

The
meeting with Monroe lasted well into the evening. The negotiations were
proceeding at an alarming rate for Monroe. He didn't like rushing into things
and was a little put out at the way Livingston was handling things. Some of his
peevishness spilled over onto Jason, who spent most of the time listening to
Monroe argue with himself.

"Jason,
I tell you there's something suspicious about the way Napoleon is so eager to
sell. Tell me, why does he expect us to buy the whole territory when he won't
admit France even owns it?" Not waiting for an answer or expecting one,
Monroe rambled on, "As I mentioned the night of the ball, Livingston is
uneasy about the question of ownership, too. He feels we should push ahead and
worry about the title afterwards—but I don't know. It would be ghastly if we
committed the United States to pay France for the land and then discovered
France didn't own it! My God—it doesn't bear thinking about!"

Jason
was sprawled lazily on the couch in Monroe's office and reflectively studied
the brilliantly colored Aubusson rug beneath his feet. "Hasn't France
admitted yet that Spain has ceded the land back to her?"

"No!
Yet France must own the land—even Napoleon couldn't countenance a land swindle
of this size!"

"Well
then?"

"Well
then—nothing! If only Livingston would wait until we can hear from Jefferson.
The president should be consulted before we take such a drastic step."

For a
moment there was silence. Then with a note of wonder underlying his words,
Monroe said, "Think of it, Jason—by this one act, we'll double the size of
the country!" And so it went, one minute uncertainty, the next excitement
and awe at the prospect of what their work would mean to the United States.

Jason,
at Monroe's insistence, remained for supper, and it was with a light step that
he returned to the Crillon. The first inkling he had of something amiss was the
darkened rooms of Catherine's apartments. Frowning he carried his lighted
candle into her room where a bleak emptiness greeted him. The armoire gaped
open revealing a barren state, not one scrap of clothing in it, and as his gaze
roamed around the room he noted that all signs of her occupancy had vanished.
No longer did her brushes and perfumes lay scattered over the dresser. Idly,
the full impact not yet hitting him, he opened one drawer of the rosewood
chest, and as he half expected
,
it also had been
cleared of the filmy garments that only last night had been there.

Outwardly
calm, although the frown had deepened and there was an unpleasant twist to his
mouth, he prowled the empty room like a hungry wolf casting about for the scent
of the hiding rabbit. And he found it in an innocent- looking note folded on
the mantel. His name was scrawled on the front of it. With a hand that almost
shook, as if he already knew its contents, he reached for it. It was a solemn
little epistle that gave away none of the despair that had consumed Catherine
as she had written it.

Dear
Jason,

I'm
leaving you. I should not have waited this long, and I'm sorry you had to marry
me. Don't look for me—you won't find me. I'm going to someone who will take
care of me.

I
don't understand exactly how divorce is done, but I should think that after
awhile you could divorce a wife who had deserted you.

I
took all the things you gave me. Someday I will repay you—someday, a long time
from now, perhaps when we have both remarried and look back on this episode as
a time when we both went a little mad.

Catherine Tremayne

His
bleakness increasing with every line he read, Jason sat down abruptly on the
sofa studying the childish handwriting, his eyes finally riveted to the
signature. An angry pain shot through him. He had grown used to thinking of her
as his, and only yesterday, practically at this very hour, he had bestowed his
name on her. How dare she sign her name Tremayne! She was his wife! Catherine
Savage.

That
his thinking was illogical never entered his head. He must find her—she was his
wife! His woman! How could she leave him after last night? He would have sworn
that she had willingly responded to his passionate love- making and had enjoyed
it as much as he. How dare she desert him like this! He gave a bitter laugh.
And to think he had begun to grow fond of the idea of marriage to Catherine, to
believe that perhaps there was something to this love thing that seemed to
possess even the most intelligent of men.

Well,
his little gypsy lady had cured him of that foolish notion. Deliberately, to
soothe the savage hurt, all the more painful because it was so unfamiliar and
unexpected, he remembered every single time she had annoyed and infuriated him,
from the episode of the hideous hag in his bed to the fact that she had hidden
her real identity from him. Crime upon crime he heaped on her absent head until
he had determinedly strangled any love he might have felt for her. He would
never admit, even to himself, that she had meant more to him than any other
woman he had taken to his bed—except this one was his wife!

It
was unthinkable that she be allowed to do this to him. He would find her, and
if he didn't wring her lovely neck the minute he spied her, she would learn
that, like it or not, she would remain at his side and that there was no
question of divorce. Not now—not ever!

Coldly
he reviewed the possibilities open to her. The jewels and trinkets could be
turned into gold, which would keep her for sometime. But she had to have a
place to go, and there was no one in Paris she knew—except for her aunt and
uncle!

It
was in a black mood that he set out for the hotel where the earl and countess
of Mount were staying. It was unfortunate, but when "he was ushered into
their
apartments,
he discovered Elizabeth seated on
the satin couch next to her mother. The earl was standing, elegantly arrayed
in evening wear, before an empty fireplace, and the welcoming smile he gave
Jason instantly destroyed any idea that his wife had taken shelter with her
relatives. The earl was a guileless man and if Jason's erring wife had come to
Tremayne for help, the earl would not have greeted him so.

The
Tremaynes were on the point of leaving for a soiree being held at the palace of
the
comte
de l'Arotis and Jason, not wishing to give
rise to more scandal, made a hasty apology and remarked, "I see I must
have misread my wife's note. I thought she said she was visiting you, but as
she is not here, I assume I have not yet learned to decipher her scrawl."

The
earl smiled, very real amusement gleaming in his blue eyes. "Catherine's
writing has long been the despair of her family. But considering how old she
was before she had any schooling at all, it's lucky she can write as she does!
She is not here with us, though. I have not seen her since yesterday in your
apartments." Edward turned to his wife and asked, "Catherine has not
been here today, has she?"

Ceci,
still intensely annoyed that her niece had managed to capture such an eligible
connection, muttered peevishly, "Of course not! What reason would she have
for calling here?"

"Just so!"
Jason answered curtly,
cutting off the soothing remark that hovered on the earl's lips. Bowing
politely, he departed, his thoughts already so far removed from the Tremayne's
that he missed the malicious smile Elizabeth flashed in his direction. And
Elizabeth, with the memory of Catherine's face as it had been this afternoon,
filled with despair and unhappiness as she pleaded with her for help, smiled
all the more viciously. If Jason hadn't been filled with cold fury, he might
have questioned that smile, but as it was, Elizabeth's knowing smile never
permeated his consciousness.

Returning
immediately to the Crillon, he sent for Jeanne and received another nasty
shock. From the apologetic concierge, who came to his suite, he learned that
Jeanne had left the service of the Hotel Crillon just this afternoon, without
notice, and as far as he knew was now in madame's service. Was something
wrong? Had madame been displeased with Jeanne? Giving the man some sort of answer,
Jason escorted him from the room.

Growing
more coldly angry and furious by the minute, Jason started cursing the moment
the man had left. Damn her! So now she had a maid with her, did she?
In a way that made the search easier
and
harder.
Two young women would be easier to find than
one, but the fact that Jeanne spoke French gave Catherine an advantage he
hadn't counted on. But would she stay in France?
he
questioned himself. No, of course not! And he was a fool not to have guessed
that like all runaway wives she must have made for home and mother!

It
was too late tonight to start for England, but he barked out orders for Pierre
to have his curricle waiting at dawn and spent what remained of the night
tossing on the bed. As the long hours passed he lay there alternately cursing
his runaway wife and then—suddenly aware of the danger that could befall a
beautiful young woman without a male protector—worrying that no harm would come
to her—before he could get his hands around her slim throat!

By
the time dawn arrived his first thunderous fury had abated, but it left in its
wake a deep, icy anger that was all the more dangerous for its very coldness.
His pride was in shreds, and it was lacerated, arrogant pride that drove him
merciless across France and England to Leicestershire once more. No one had
ever treated him as she had done, and by heaven she was going to suffer for it!
He stopped at The Fox only long enough to learn the directions to Hunter's
Hill, and minutes later he was turning his exhausted horses down the neat
oak-lined drive leading to the Tudor mansion that was Catherine's home.

Hunter's
Hill had been built of mellow red brick in the reign of Elizabeth the First,
and if his reasons for being here had been less urgent, he might have taken the
time to admire this very handsome example of Tudor architecture, but he had no
interest in such things at the moment, and after throwing his reins to the
startled gardener, he rushed up the steps and demanded entrance from the
gray-haired butler who answered his impatient knock.

The
butler, taken aback to be greeted by a tall, broad- shouldered, haggard-eyed
stranger, was inclined to argue; but Jason, after a nearly nonstop dash across
two countries and almost at the end of his reserves, was in no mood to be
trifled with. In a voice like splintered ice he threatened softly, "My
good man, if you don't take me immediately to your mistress, I shall be
compelled to remove you from my path and seek her out—in her very bath if necessary!"

His
mouth forming an amazed "oh" of shocked surprise, the butler ushered
the grim-faced young man into a small parlor where Lady Tremayne sat idly
embroidering the sleeve of a pink muslin gown.

Jason,
so certain that he would find his wife, was for
a
moment
numb when he discovered himself in the presence of only her mother. And in the
following minutes it was forcibly borne upon him that not only was Catherine
not here, but that until he had entered the room Lady Tremayne had had no
knowledge of Catherine's whereabouts since the night Catherine had vanished
from the gypsy encampment!