Jacquie D'Alessandro (27 page)

A spurt of something that felt suspiciously like jeal
ousy shot through her at the thought of Andrew sitting on a blanket with his employer’s daughter, eating a frozen delight that she’d brought him.

“The girl who brought you the ice—what was her name?” Spencer asked, voicing the question Catherine hadn’t had the courage to speak.

“Emily,” Andrew said, softly, looking down into his bowl.

“Was she nice?”

“Very nice.” He looked up and gave Spencer a slight smile that looked more sad than happy to Catherine. “In fact, you rather remind me of her, Spencer.”

“I remind you of a
girl
?”

Andrew chuckled at his horrified expression. “Not the fact that she was a girl, but because she…struggled to find where she fit in. She did not feel very comfortable around people. Indeed, except for me, she had very few friends.”

Spencer’s brow puckered as he pondered this. Then he asked, “Are you still her friend? Do you correspond with her?”

There was no mistaking the pain that filled his eyes. “No. She died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“As am I.”

“When did she die?”

He swallowed, then said, “About eleven years ago. Just before I left America. I bet she would be pleased that we’re all enjoying this treat. And I especially wanted to make strawberry because I know it is a favorite of both of you. Who would like some more?”

“Me, please,” said Spencer, holding out his bowl.

The adroit subject change had not escaped Catherine, and she wondered if there was more behind it than simply
not wanting to discuss a sad subject. Andrew’s pain when he’d discussed this Emily was palpable, filling her with sympathy for him. The conversation had also piqued her curiosity.

Amid many appreciative murmurs, they each enjoyed another bowl while laughing at Shadow—who’d awakened and showed a huge interest in the proceedings. “There’s just enough for one more serving,” Andrew said. “Since I know from experience that this is a favorite of stable masters, I wager Fritzborne would enjoy it.”

“I’ll bring it to him,” Spencer offered.

As Catherine watched her son walk toward the stables, his uneven gait forming the familiar lump of love in her throat, she was also acutely, painfully aware that she and Andrew were alone.

She turned to look at him and stilled at the compelling, serious look in his dark eyes.

“I missed you,” he said softly.

Three simple words. How did he cleave through all her hard-fought-for resolutions with three simple words? Her insides seemed to melt, and she was grateful she was sitting, for her knees felt oddly weak. As much as she hated to admit it, as much as she desperately wished she hadn’t, she’d missed him, too. More than she’d believed it possible to miss a person. Much more than she’d wanted to. And certainly much more than was wise. And now, with those three simple words, she feared that all her attempts to keep her heart unencumbered were doomed to failure.

He reached out and brushed his fingers slowly back and forth over the back of her hand, sending delicious tingles up her arm. “You said earlier that I lacked self-control, and I want you to know just how very wrong you are. I cannot even begin to describe the amount of control I am exercising right now not to kiss you. Touch you.”

“You are touching me,” she said, her voice breathless.

“Not in the way I want to, I assure you.”

Heat pooled low in her belly, and sensual images of all the seductive ways he’d touched her flashed through her mind.

“Do you still want to meet at the springs tonight, Catherine?”

“Yes.”
Desperately.
“Do you?”

“Do you truly need to ask?”

“No.” She could easily see the desire in his eyes. And if she didn’t change the subject, she stood in danger of saying or doing something she might well regret.

“This”—she spread her hand to indicate their picnic area and the collection of buckets—“was a delightful surprise. And very thoughtful of you.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I confess I have a surprise for you as well.”

“Really? What is it?”

She shot him an aggrieved look. “What are you always saying about a dictionary?”

He laughed. “
Touché
. When will my surprise be unveiled?”

“Are you always this impatient?”

His eyes darkened. “Sometimes.”

Heavens, she wished she’d brought her fan to dispel the heat this man inspired. “Actually, you may have it right now.” She slipped a small, flat tissue-paper-wrapped bundle secured with a bit of blue satin ribbon from the pocket of her gown and handed it to him.

Surprised pleasure flared in his eyes. “A gift?”

“It’s nothing really,” she said, suddenly feeling very self-conscious.

“On the contrary, it’s extraordinary.”

She laughed. “You haven’t opened it yet.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s still extraordinary. How did you just happen to have this in your pocket?”

“I retrieved it from my bedchamber after I’d written my note to Philip—before I rejoined you in the foyer.”

He untied the ribbon, parted the tissue paper, then lifted the white linen square. “A handkerchief. With my initials embroidered on it.” Staring at the material, he gently rubbed his thumb over the dark blue, silk thread letters that had obviously been done by an inexpert hand.

“The night in the garden,” she said, her words coming out in a rush, “when you showed me the bleeding hearts, you didn’t have a handkerchief when you thought I was crying—not that I
was
crying, mind you—but since you didn’t have one, I thought perhaps you could use this.”

He said nothing for several seconds, just continued slowly to brush his thumb over the letters. Then, in a husky voice, he said, “You don’t care for needlework, yet you embroidered this for me.”

A self-conscious laugh escaped her. “I tried. As you can plainly see, embroidery is not my forte.”

He looked up and his gaze captured hers. There was no mistaking his pleasure at her gift. “It’s beautiful, Catherine. The finest gift I’ve ever received. Thank you.”

Warmth suffused her, then quickly turned to heat when his gaze dropped to her lips. Her breath caught, anticipating the brush of his lips against hers, his luscious taste, the silken sweep of his tongue.

Shadow chose that moment to flop himself down in front of her, belly up, paws dangling, in a shameless bid to be rubbed. With a start, Catherine recalled where they were, then pried her attention away from Andrew’s distracting gaze. She tickled her fingers over the pup’s soft belly, much to his canine delight, while Andrew tucked
his new handkerchief into his pocket. “You realize that Spencer is now going to want a dog,” she said.

“Would that be so terrible?”

Catherine carefully considered before answering, then said, “As much as Spencer and I both like dogs, I’ve always feared having one.”

“Because you thought the dog might jump on him? Knock him over?”

“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “I was only trying to keep Spencer safe.”

“I wasn’t criticizing. Actually, when he was smaller, I think it was a prudent, wise decision. But Spencer is no longer a child.”

“And a man should have a dog?”

“Yes, I think he should.”

“He hasn’t brought up the subject in a number of years—although I suspect that is about to change.”

He clasped her hand, and she suppressed a sigh of pleasure at the feel of those callused fingers enclosing hers. “I saw the dogs who sired the litter, and neither one was large. Fritzborne mentioned that he’d be happy to have a dog stay in the stables if you didn’t want the beast in the house. Said a dog would keep all those cats in line.”

Catherine pondered a bit, then said, “There is no denying that Spencer is no longer a small boy. And he’s careful. Strong. Such a young man certainly deserves a puppy if he wants one.” She shook her head. “Everything seems to be changing, and so quickly. I swear it was only yesterday he was a babe in my arms.”

“Just because something seems to happen quickly, doesn’t mean it’s bad, Catherine. In my experience, it usually just means those things are…inevitable.” Before she could think up a reply, he said, “Here comes
Spencer.” He withdrew his hand with clear reluctance, then reached into his waistcoat pocket and slipped out his watch. After consulting the timepiece, he looked at her with an expression that scorched her. “Seven hours and thirty-three minutes until midnight, Catherine. I pray I can last that long.”

He wasn’t the only one saying that particular prayer. Tonight their affair would reach its inevitable end. A bit sooner than she’d anticipated, but surely that was for the best.

Yes, surely it was.

A
ndrew walked toward the springs, trying to unravel the knotty problem that still seemed to have no solution. What to do about Catherine?

Of course, he knew what he
wanted
to do, had taken steps toward that end in London, but his every instinct warned him it was too soon to profess his love and ask for her hand. For the hundredth time he cursed the fates that necessitated his leaving tomorrow. While he’d obviously made progress, he hadn’t had enough time to win her
heart. To convince her to change her views on marriage. To find a way to tell her the truth about his past. Pray that that knowledge didn’t turn her against him. He needed time, which he unfortunately did not have.

He also needed patience, which was becoming more and more difficult to come by. He’d wanted this woman, had loved her for what seemed like an eternity. Everything in him rebelled against taking months and months to court her slowly. He wanted her
now.

He greatly feared that any ground he’d gained would be lost once he left here. She’d only wanted a short-term liaison. He suspected that once she returned to her normal routine, she would not be eager to issue him a return invitation to Little Longstone. Indeed, such a visit might well turn into a source of gossip. It was one thing for him to remain a few days after escorting her here so she did not have to travel from London alone. It was quite another for him to make return trips simply to visit.

As he approached the last curve on the path before arriving at the springs, the sound of a twig snapping directly behind caught his attention. His first thought was that it was Catherine, but then he caught a subtle whiff of tobacco. He tensed and turned swiftly. Unfortunately he turned a second too late. Something crashed down on the back of his head, and his world faded to black.

Catherine stood at the edge of the springs and looked down at the gently bubbling warm water, waiting for Andrew to arrive. She’d wrapped her resolve around her like a suit of armor and tightly tethered her heart to prevent any risk of its escaping its confines. For years she’d been content with her solitary existence, sharing her life with Spencer, enjoying the waters and her gardens, her friend
ship with Genevieve. Andrew’s presence threatened to invade the safe haven she’d made here, stirring up all these confusing feelings, yearning, and desires she didn’t want. She desperately needed to regain her equilibrium. After tonight, she would. Tonight belonged to her and Andrew. Tomorrow they went their separate ways. And that’s the way she wanted it.

The muted sound of a twig snapping roused her, and her heart leapt in anticipation. Seconds later she heard what sounded like dull thud, followed by a low groan, then another thud.

“Andrew?” she called softly. Only silence met her. She stood on her toes and peeked over the stone outcropping that curved around the springs and peered down the darkened path. Seeing nothing but inky shadows, she listened for several seconds yet heard nothing save leaves rustling in the soft breeze. Had she imagined the sound? Or had Andrew perhaps tripped on a branch or tree root in the darkness?

“Andrew?” she called again, a bit louder this time. Silence. She cursed the fact that she hadn’t brought a lantern with her, but she knew the path to the springs so well she could navigate it with her eyes closed. Besides, she had not wanted to risk anyone possibly seeing the light from the house. Had Andrew also tried to avoid discovery and been injured as a result?

She stepped from behind the rocks and walked briskly along the path. The instant she rounded the curve she saw the prone form lying on the ground.

“Andrew!” Heart in her throat, she rushed forward, praying he wasn’t badly hurt. Just as she reached him, she was grabbed roughly from behind. A strong arm gripped her just below her bosom, imprisoning her arms against
her side, and jerked her backward, off her feet. She managed to cry out once before the attacker clamped his other hand over her mouth.

Catherine kicked and thrashed wildly, but it was quickly obvious she was no match for this man’s superior strength. He half dragged, half carried her toward the springs. And away from Andrew.

Andrew. Dear God, he must have been a victim of this brigand. Was he still alive? She redoubled her frantic efforts, twisting, kicking, but to no avail as she was dragged ever closer to the water.

Distant sounds, rising and falling like a rapid tide, permeated the thick fog dulling Andrew’s mind. A vicious ache throbbed behind his eyes, and he dragged his heavy lids open with a Herculean effort. He blinked and looked up at…the dark sky?

It required all his strength to push himself into a sitting position, an effort that forced him to close his eyes against the nausea and sharp pains radiating from his head. He pulled in several deep breaths, trying to assimilate what had happened and why the hell his head hurt so badly. He’d been walking to the springs. To meet Catherine. A noise behind him. Then…someone attacking him from behind. His eyes sprang open. Catherine.

A scraping sound, followed by a muffled grunt, coming from the area near the springs caught his attention, and he forced himself to stand. He staggered a few steps and had to press his palm against a tree trunk for several seconds until the dizziness passed, and his equilibrium returned. After his vision cleared, he moved silently down the path. When he rounded the curve, the sight that met his gaze stilled everything inside him—breath, blood, heart.

Catherine, struggling mightily, was being dragged be
hind the tall rocks surrounding the springs by a dark-clad figure. They disappeared from sight and Andrew dashed forward. He’d taken less than a half a dozen steps when he heard Catherine cry out. Her wail was silenced by a loud splash.

Blood pounding in his ears, Andrew raced ahead. He rounded the rocks and instantly assessed the situation. The bastard was looking into the bubbling spring. Clearly he’d thrown Catherine into the water, as she was nowhere to be seen. And she hadn’t surfaced…

With a roar of outrage, Andrew grabbed the man by collar and lifted him off his feet. Their eyes met, and a shock of recognition radiated through Andrew. “You bastard,” he growled. His fist flashed, smashing into the man’s nose. He then heaved him backward, against the rocks. The man’s body hit with a thud. With a groan and blood running down his face, he sank.

Andrew didn’t wait to see the bastard hit the ground. He jumped into the gurgling spring. Warm water closed over his head, and he fought the panic seizing him in a vise grip. His feet hit something hard and he pushed upward. His head broke the surface, and he pulled in a gasping breath as his feet settled on the bottom and warm water swirled around his chest.

He waded farther into the pool, swishing his hands under the water, his eyes frantically scanning the surface. A few feet in front of him he caught sight of what looked like a piece of dark material. He grabbed for it and tugged.

It was Catherine. Her gown. He jerked her upward, getting her head out of the water. She lolled like a limp rag in his arms.

“Catherine.” His voice came out in a harsh rasp. Cradling her with one arm, the water swirling around them, he pushed the wet hair from her face. His fingers en
countered a lump just above her ear, and his jaw clenched. She must have hit her head when that bastard threw her in.

“Catherine…please, dear God…” He lightly shook her and firmly patted her cheeks, willing her to breathe, unable to draw a breath himself as he stared down at her pale, wet, motionless face. He gathered her closer, squeezing her to him, whispering her name, begging her to breathe. To open her eyes.

Suddenly she coughed. Coughed again. Then gasped for breath.

“That’s it,” Andrew said, patting her sharply between the shoulder blades. After several more choking coughs, her eyelids fluttered open, and she gazed at him with a dazed expression. She blinked, then lifted a shaking wet hand to his cheek.

“Andrew.”

That hoarse whisper was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. “I’m right here, Catherine.”

“You were hurt. But you’re all right.”

He most certainly was not. In the blink of an eye he’d nearly lost everything that mattered to him.

Fear flashed in her eyes and she squirmed in his arms. “There’s a man, Andrew. He grabbed me, and must have injured you.”

“I know. He’s—”

Andrew’s gaze froze on the empty spot where he’d last seen their attacker slithering down the rock wall. In his desperate attempt to pull Catherine to safety he’d momentarily forgotten the bastard. Obviously, he’d only been stunned. He quickly scanned the area, but saw nothing.

“He’s gone.” Holding tight to Catherine, he waded to the edge of the spring and gently set her on the smooth rock ledge. By the time he’d exited the water, Catherine had risen to her feet.

“Can you walk?” he asked, alternating his watchful gaze from her face to their surroundings.

“Yes.”

He slipped his knife from his boot, cursing himself for not gutting the bastard when he’d had the chance, but all his thoughts had been focused on getting to Catherine before it was too late. And he’d nearly been too late.

“I hurt him,” Andrew whispered next to her ear, “but clearly not badly enough. I hope he’s off licking his wounds and won’t make another attempt tonight, but I can’t be sure. We’re going to walk as quickly and quietly as we can back to the house. Do not let go of my hand.”

She nodded. Gripping his knife in one hand and tightly clasping Catherine’s wet hand in the other, they started down the dark path. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the house without further incident.

After locking the door behind them, Andrew lit an oil lamp and took a moment to examine the lump on her head. She winced when his fingers gently probed the tender spot, but she assured him, “I’m fine.”

“All right. I want to search and secure the house.” He lit another lantern, then handed it to her. “Stay close to me.” He wasn’t about to let her out of his sight.

“I want to check on Spencer,” she said, her eyes filled with concern.

“That’s first,” he agreed, leading the way up the stairs.

After ascertaining that Spencer was safe, Andrew whispered, “Stay here with him. I want to check the rest of the rooms. Lock the door behind me and do not open it for anyone except me.” He held out his knife. “Take this.”

Her eyes widened, and she audibly swallowed. But she took the weapon, determination gleaming in her eyes.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

Andrew nodded, then left the room. Once he’d heard
the lock click into place behind him, he immediately headed toward his bedchamber. After making certain no one lurked in the room, he pulled his pistol and another knife from the leather satchel in the bottom of the wardrobe.

“I’m ready for you now, you bastard.” Dozens of questions buzzed through his mind, the loudest of which was
why,
but his questions would have to wait.

Slipping the knife into his boot, he carried the lantern in one hand, hefted the comforting weight of his pistol in the other, and set off to search and secure the house.

Catherine stood in Spencer’s bedchamber, clutching the knife, her ears straining to pick up any foreign sound, her gaze never leaving her son’s face, which was gently illuminated by the oil lamp she’d set on his desk. Her wet clothing stuck to her like an uncomfortable second skin, and she pressed her lips together to keep her teeth from chattering. She wasn’t certain if the shivers racking her were more the result of being chilled or due to the shocking fright of this evening.

Spencer stirred, let out a small sigh, then settled, and Catherine squeezed her eyes shut. She’d thought the danger was over, had been convinced that the shooting in London was a random accident and not related to her connection to the
Guide
and Charles Brightmore, but clearly she was wrong. Dear God, what had she done? Guilt and self-recriminations wrapped a noose around her neck, strangling her. Andrew could easily have been killed. She could easily have drowned. And God only knows what sort of threat her actions had wrought upon her family.

She kept her silent vigil, heart pounding with every creak of the house, praying for Andrew’s safety. When
she finally heard a soft tapping on the door, relief wobbled her knees.

“Catherine, it’s me,” came Andrew’s quiet voice from the corridor.

Holding her lantern aloft, she opened the door, quite certain she’d never been so relieved to see anyone in her entire life. He motioned for her join him in the corridor. After she’d done so, he quietly closed Spencer’s door, then clasped her hand and led her in silence directly to her bedchamber. The instant the door closed behind them and they were ensconced in privacy, he set both their lamps on the marble hearth and drew her into his arms.

Catherine slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest, absorbing his hard, fast heartbeats against her cheek.

“The house is safe,” he said softly, his words warm against her temple. “No intruders. I locked all the doors and windows. I woke Milton, briefed him on what happened, and instructed him to tell the rest of the staff in the morning.” He leaned back and tipped up her chin. “I know who did this, Catherine. I saw him. Recognized him. And I swear to you, I’ll find him.”

“Who is it?”

“A man named Sidney Carmichael.”

Catherine frowned. “He attended my father’s birthday party, as well as the duke’s soiree.”

“Yes. He is—or rather was—one of the potential museum investors. I spoke to him just yesterday in London.” His brow creased with a deep frown. “In spite of the dark, I know it was he. I just don’t understand
why
he would do this. He hadn’t yet handed over any funds for the museum, so he didn’t stand to lose any money.”

Catherine’s stomach twisted. She wished she didn’t have to tell him, but there was no other way. Drawing a
bracing breath, she said, “I’m afraid I know why, Andrew.”

His gaze sharpened, but instead of demanding an immediate explanation, he said, “I’m anxious to hear your thoughts, but first we must get you into dry clothing before you become ill. Turn around.”