Silk And Steel Part 19

He was being so wonderful, so solicitous, she began to feel guilty for the deception she waged. It had been going on for several weeks, since the day he had denied her permission to use the little stone cottage in the forest down by the stream. Though her husband had strictly forbidden it, Kathryn had ignored his dictates and begun working in the cottage. After all, she had reasoned, she was married to the man-at least for the present. That gave her a certain amount of leave to use what belonged to him.

Besides, she knew the only reason he had denied her use of the place was because he disapproved of her interest as a woman in what he termed "the vulgar practice of healing." Dabbling with herbs and potions and attempting to heal the sick was bad enough, but an interest in anatomy-it was still unacceptable even among the heartiest of men. Full-fledged riots had occurred when people simply discovered cla.s.ses being taught that included dissection of a human corpse. Physicians were tolerated. Surgeons, on the other hand, men who engaged in the actual process of cutting into human flesh, were considered among the lowest elements of society.

Such interests were hardly appropriate for the Marchioness of Litchfield, Lucien had firmly told her.

Still, it was her life's work, the only thing that Kathryn was really interested in. Certainly she wasn't the type to sit around and fiddle with knitting or embroidery, or fuss with water colors in a futile effort to paint. She could play the harpsichord more than pa.s.sably well and often found it soothing, but her love, her pa.s.sion, was studying the ancient doctrines of herbal healing and using them to help sick people get well.

She loved to learn about the human body, to try to understand how it worked. She wanted to know how bones mended, how blood moved beneath the skin, how best to heal wounds, how to treat or perhaps even prevent disease.

But the marquess couldn't understand that. Perhaps no one could. It wasn't the sort of thing a lady was supposed to be involved in.

Kathryn didn't care. She had found her calling and she was committed. Even before she had set up her small, secret laboratory in the cottage, she had been dispensing herbs and potions to some of the people in the village. Now that she had a place of her own, word had traveled quickly that she might be able to help, and already several of the local peasants had come to her for treatment.

She usually worked in the cottage in the afternoons when the marquess was off surveying the fields, working with his tenants, or poring over his ledgers.

Aunt Winnie knew where she was, of course, and surprisingly, she seemed to approve.

"My nephew can be ridiculously stuffy at times. He has always envisioned a wife who was docile and obedient, but such a woman would bore him to tears. You must follow your conscience, Kathryn. You must do what is best for you. In time, my nephew will learn to accept you as you are."

But Kathryn didn't think so. Which was why she was convinced the best course still remained annulment, even though her heart ached every time she thought of leaving Castle Running. Every time she imagined being married to any other man but the Marquess of Litchfield, which she would have to do to stay free of her grasping uncle. She would be old enough to marry without his consent, but until she reached four and twenty, if she remained unwed, he would continue to be her guardian.

She thought about the earl and wondered what he would do once the management of her fortune was transferred to the marquess and his solicitor, Nathaniel Whitley. The papers were already being prepared, and secretly she hoped her uncle was squirming, that he was frantic with worry and rage. If his limited funds left him dest.i.tute, so be it. If she had any concern whatever, it was for her young cousin, Muriel, a p.a.w.n in her overbearing father's hands.

Perhaps she would speak to Lucien about it, see that the girl received a monthly stipend of some sort and enough for a proper dowry.

Aside from that, she had no pity for the Earl of Dunstan. She was certain one day the man would burn in h.e.l.l.

Douglas Roth, Earl of Dunstan, sat at his desk in the exquisitely furnished study at Milford Park. Over the years, he had come to think of the masculine, oak-paneled room that had belonged to the late Earl of Milford as his. In fact, he considered all of Milford Park as belonging to him. For years he had imagined living out his life in the comfort and luxury of the parklike setting that had given the place its name.

Instead, thanks to his willful, conniving niece, he would soon be tossed out of the house like so much rubbish. He would be left to fend for himself and his daughter and, having spent most of the money he had earlier siphoned from her trust simply to maintain his extravagant lifestyle, he wouldn't be able to do so for long.

Douglas ground down on his jaw and his fingers tightened around the doc.u.ment he had been reading, crumpling the edges of the pages. It wasn't going to happen, he vowed. He wasn't going to let that deceitful little s.l.u.t ruin the plans he had made.

Hearing the knock he'd been expecting, Douglas rose from his chair and strode to the door. The man in the hall made a slight bow of greeting and walked past him into the room, taking a chair in front of the desk while Douglas returned to his seat behind it.

"Well, you know what I want to hear," Douglas said without preamble. "What have you done about it?"

His estate manager, Evan Sloan, a lean, hard man with a sharp nose and sandy-brown hair, sat back in his chair. "I've made a devil's bargain, you might say." Sloan had been in Dunstan's employ for years, an invaluable a.s.set both in running his estates-Kathryn's estates, he mentally corrected-and in a number of more personal matters.

And he was loyal to a fault. For the money Douglas paid him, and the fact he lived in the comfort of a large, well-appointed manor house at the edge of the estate, it wasn't surprising.

"A bargain with the devil, eh? And just what sort of bargain is that?"

Sloan steepled his hands in front of him. "I've offered a reward of sorts, for the accidental demise of the Marquess of Litchfield."

Douglas shot out of his chair. "Good G.o.d, man, are you mad? You'll have half of England out to kill him. If they connect the matter to me-"

"They won't," Sloan said with quiet authority. "And there are only two men involved. One has already made an attempt. 'Brigands' set upon your quarry outside the Quill and Sword Tavern in the village near Castle Running. Unfortunately, that attempt failed. The second man is conveniently in the marquess's employ. He has a.s.sured me he can handle the job without causing any undue suspicion."

Douglas rubbed his chin, mulling the matter over. "The reward, I take it, goes to whichever of these men succeeds."

"Exactly."

Douglas sat back down in his chair, his fingers absently drumming on the doc.u.ment. "All right. Perhaps the idea is a good one. We shall see if this devil's bargain of yours actually works."

"It will work, I a.s.sure you. Both these men are competent in his own way. It's only a matter of time until one of them succeeds."

"Not too much time, I trust. I've been asked to leave the premises in the next thirty days." Douglas smiled thinly. "I have no intention of moving."

Sloan rose to his feet, correctly reading the words as a dismissal. "Nor do I, my lord."

Douglas watched him leave. As soon as the door was closed, he picked up the papers he had received from Nathaniel Whitley just that morning. Grinding his teeth, he tore them in half, then in half again. A thin smile curved his lips as he tossed them into the s.h.i.+ny bra.s.s waste bin.

Lucien was worried about his aunt. She had been oddly withdrawn all through the holidays. He had thought, now that the season was past, she would return to her usual good humor, and for the most part she had. But in some strange way she still seemed distant and a little bit forlorn. Kathryn had noticed it as well, and her concern on top of his own made him even more determined to discover the cause.

Seeking Winifred out was the reason he had come home early this afternoon from a meeting with one of his tenants. Still dressed in his riding clothes, he had summoned his aunt into the Red Writing Room, a cozy little parlor at the rear of the house that Aunt Winnie seemed to favor.

"Good afternoon, my lord," she said, appearing at the door in a gown of soft blue wool. "Reeves said you wished to see me."

Lucien beckoned her in, seating her on a sofa in front of the large gla.s.s window that looked out over the garden. He took a seat in a wing-back chair across from her and motioned toward the tea tray on the table.

"It's chilly out. I thought you might enjoy a cup with me. Perhaps you would pour for us."

"Of course." Smiling, she bent to the task, filling two porcelain cups, adding a bit of cream and a chunk Of sugar, as both of them liked. She handed him a cup and took one for herself, settling back against the sofa.

"I'm afraid I don't exactly know where to begin," he said.

Winnie smiled. "It is usually best just to jump right in."

"All right. Let me start by saying both Kathryn and I have been worried about you."

She looked surprised, her pale brows arching up, the gold-rimmed cup poised halfway to her lips. "Good heavens, why ever would you be worried?"

Lucien stirred his tea. "Something is bothering you, Winnie. I can see it in your eyes, and Kathryn has noticed it, as well. I want you to tell me what it is."

The cup trembled faintly in her hand. "But that's... that is ridiculous. Nothing whatever is bothering me."

He reached over and took the cup, set it back down in its saucer. "Please don't lie to me, Winnie. As the head of this family, your nephew, and your friend, I only want what is best for you. Trust me enough to tell me what is wrong."

Tears welled in her pale blue eyes. "I would tell you if I could. It simply wouldn't be fair."

"Why not?"

"Because it involves someone in your employ. If I tell you what happened, you might think differently about him and I wouldn't want that to happen."

Lucien's senses went on alert. "Has this man done something to hurt you? If he has harmed you in any way-"

"No, no. It is nothing like that. It's silly really. Men make advances to women all the time. I should have been flattered. If it were any other man, I might have been, but... well, I suppose I thought this particular man was different. Perhaps the fact that he is not is what has bothered me so much."

"There are any number of men who would find you attractive, Aunt Winnie. You're a very beautiful woman."

A hint of rose appeared in her cheeks. "Thank you," she said.

He smiled slightly. "Perhaps this man... whoever he is... simply couldn't help himself."

Winnie glanced away, her fingers toying with the folds of her pretty blue gown. "He is married, my lord."

Lucien frowned. "Married? For a moment I thought you were speaking of Nathaniel Whitley, since it is obvious how strongly he feels about you, but since Whitley is not married-"

Winnie's spine went straight, her face suffused with angry color. "Of course he is married. Nat married Emma Hanson two years after he and I... That is to say, Nathaniel has been married to his wife for nearly twenty years."

Lucien smiled at her softly, a ray of understanding beginning to dawn. "Emma died two years ago, Winnie. I thought you knew. I'm sure Nat thought so, too. I realize you have only lived at the castle for the past six months, but since you and Nat were formerly acquainted, I a.s.sumed word of Emma's death must have reached you."

"Emma is... Emma is dead?" Winnie rose to her feet on shaky legs, her cup of tea forgotten.

"Yes. I'm sorry."

She turned and stared off toward the garden, but she wasn't really seeing it. Her hands bit into her skirt and he could see that they were trembling. "If Emma is dead, then Nathaniel is a widower."

"That's right. Losing Emma was quite painful for him, but over the past two years he has mended."

"Nathaniel said..." She swallowed, still staring off toward the garden. "Nat expressed an interest in me... in pursuing a relations.h.i.+p, that is. I thought he was making improper advances. I thought..." She turned to face him, and Lucien saw tears in her eyes. "I refused him-quite rudely. Nat would think the reason was... Oh, dear G.o.d, what have I done?"

Winnie started toward the door and had almost reached it before she realized Lucien was staring after her. "I'm sorry, my lord, I'm afraid I must take my leave. There is a matter of some importance I must see to in the city."

He set his teacup down and rose to his feet. "Yes... I can see that there is. I'll make the necessary arrangements. You and your maid may leave first thing in the morning."

He joined her at the door and Winnie swiped at the tears on her cheeks. "I would prefer to leave today, if you don't mind. I can be packed and ready within the hour."

"That isn't a good idea, Aunt Winnie. It'll be dark in London when you arrive. I would rather you waited-"

She reached out and gripped his hand. "Please, Lucien. I must go. I beg you not to stop me."

He had never seen her quite so unraveled. There was obviously more to the story than he knew, but whatever it was, perhaps this trip to London would correct the matter and his aunt would be returned to her old self again. He made a slight nod of his head. "I'll send a couple of footmen with you. You may leave as soon as you wish."

Winnie squeezed his hand. "Thank you." Turning, she hurried out the door.

Lucien watched her leave, still a little concerned but glad to have had a hand in righting whatever misunderstanding had occurred between his aunt and Nat Whitley. He ordered the carriage brought round and didn't see her again until she was out the front door and halfway down the front porch steps.

Lucien walked out on the porch behind her. "Have a safe journey and I'll see you the end of the week." Winnie smiled and waved and continued down the stairs. "By the way," he called after her, stopping her at the bottom. "Where has my wife gone off to this afternoon? No one seems to know where she is. I've been looking all over, but I haven't been able to find her."

The color in Winnie's cheeks slipped away. For an instant, her gaze flicked off toward the stream that meandered through the woods. "I'm afraid I don't know," she said, still not looking him in the face. "Perhaps she's gone into the village."

A muscle tightened in his cheek. "I suppose that must be it," he said, but he didn't believe it. Not for a minute. Winnie was lying, and she wasn't very good at it, especially when her mind was already halfway to London. She was covering for Kathryn-but why?

His aunt climbed the iron stairs of the carriage and settled herself inside next to her maid. As the vehicle rolled away, she waved at him through the window, but her glance strayed once more off toward the stream.

In that instant, Lucien knew exactly where his wife had gone, and a shot of angry disbelief made the back of his neck go hot. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!" Striding back into the house, he stopped for a moment in the entry. "Reeves!" he called out. "Fetch my cloak and be quick about it."

"Yes, my lord." The butler returned with the heavy woolen garment and Lucien swung it around his shoulders. Furious at Kathryn and cursing himself for a fool, he strode out of the house and off toward the stables to fetch his horse.

It didn't take long to reach the small stone cottage that had once served as the caretaker's house, and as soon as he crested the rise, he saw his suspicions were correct. Kathryn's pretty little mare was stabled in the lean-to at the rear and a plume of pale gray smoke drifted out of the chimney.

Lucien cursed roundly and started down the hill.

"I hope it helps, Mrs. Finch. Boils can be very dangerous, to say nothing of how painful they are."

"Right ye are, dearie." The bony little woman grinned, exposing dark gums and the stumps of rotting teeth. "Me backside's feelin' better already."

Kathryn imagined it was. She had applied an ointment fas.h.i.+oned mainly of goldthread and pork grease, a salve she had discovered in the journal of a physician who had served with the army in India. It had worked wonders on the men he had treated. Kathryn hoped it would work for Mrs. Finch.

The woman's bony arm rooted around in the woven basket she carried, finally locating a small stoppered crock she handed over. "Here ye are, dearie. Some of me best plum preserves. And thanks be to ye again."

"You're welcome, Mrs. Finch, and good day to you." Kathryn closed the door with a satisfied sigh and returned to the book she had been reading, a volume of medieval Suss.e.x folk remedies the d.u.c.h.ess had discovered at Carlyle Hall and sent over as a Christmas present.

She had just sat back down in the comfortable old wing-back chair in front of the hearth when she heard the sound of the door slamming open and the marquess strode in. Kathryn shot to her feet so quickly the book tumbled out of her lap and landed in a heap at her feet. For an instant, she stared down at the ancient ma.n.u.script's bent pages, but she didn't reach down to pick it up. Instead, she tipped her head back and stared into the snapping black eyes of her husband.

His jaw muscles worked and his mouth looked thin and grim. Then his gaze moved away from her face to the vials and beakers on the narrow table along the wall, past the small clay pots on the windowsill where tiny green shoots of various herbs pushed up through the loamy soil. She had found a rickety wooden table in the attic and asked the cooper to brace it and shorten the legs to make it lower. Now it served as an examination table.

Though the cottage was clean and warmed by hooked rugs she had purchased from a vendor in the village, stacks of books littered nearly every available surface, many carted down from the marquess's library in the castle. Kathryn winced as he recognized several familiar volumes, then his hard gaze fixed once more on her.

"Perhaps my memory has begun to fail, but as I recall, when you asked for permission to use this place, I said no."

Kathryn swallowed and forced herself not to look away. "I realize I've gone against your wishes, my lord, but-"

"Gone against my wishes? Is that a polite way of saying you disobeyed my orders completely and did exactly as you pleased?"

She bit down on her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. The marquess was a formidable man when he was angry and he was beyond angry now. "The cottage wasn't being used and I needed a place to work. I was hoping you would approve. Since you didn't, I was left with no other choice."

"That is the way you see it? That you had no other choice but to disobey my wishes?" He clamped his jaw so tight a muscle jerked in his cheek. It took all Kathryn's will not to turn and run.

Instead she lifted her chin. "I'm your wife-at least for the present-I felt that gave me a certain amount of lat.i.tude."

His eyes ran over her, smoldering eyes that seemed to sear into her skin. "At least in that, madam, you are correct. You are definitely my wife." He took an ominous step closer, bringing them toe to toe. "The mistake I made was in not making certain you understood that completely. I believe it is past time I remedied that situation."

Kathryn gasped as Lucien gripped her shoulders and dragged her hard against him. His mouth crushed down over hers, and for an instant she simply stood there, feeling the heat of his lips, the hot glide of his tongue as he thrust it between her teeth. His arms tightened around her, drawing her closer still, and she could feel his hardened arousal.

Surprise changed to awareness as something in his manner s.h.i.+fted. His hands came up to cradle her face and she heard him groan. The kiss began to gentle, to seduce as well as demand, and desire rose like a hot wind out of nowhere. He tasted the corners of her mouth and his tongue slid like silk along her bottom lip. Her skin p.r.i.c.kled and heat melted through her, pooling low in her belly. The slow, languid kiss turned hot once more, and Kathryn returned it with burning impatience, her own desire swelling with every heartbeat.

Unconsciously her hands slid up his lapels to twine around his neck and her legs began to tremble. He must have felt it, for he eased her backward till her hips touched the wall, giving her a measure of support. Another wet, fiery kiss and Kathryn softly moaned. He tasted the side of her neck, nibbled an earlobe, then began to unb.u.t.ton the back of her simple gray wool gown. Looking down at her with scorching dark eyes, he tugged the pins from her hair one by one, and she heard each soft ping as they hit the stone floor, felt the weight of the heavy ma.s.s tumbling down over her shoulders.

"G.o.d... Kathryn." Lucien tangled his fingers in the softly curling strands, pulled her head back, and kissed her, ravis.h.i.+ng her mouth and taking her deeply with his tongue. Kathryn kissed him back with the same fierce pa.s.sion. She was trembling all over, hot and dizzy and weak.

With skillful, determined movements, he slid the gown off her shoulders, unfastened the tabs on her petticoats, and shoved the garments past her hips to the floor. Clad in just her chemise, stockings, and garters, she clung to him as he lowered his head to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, kissing them through the fabric, soaking the thin cotton with his tongue, watching as her nipple throbbed into tingling awareness.

"You belong to me, Kathryn," he whispered, sliding the strap of her chemise off one shoulder. "You're my wife now and that is the way it will stay."

"But... but what about... ?" He silenced her with a hot, hungry kiss that tore little whimpering noises from her throat. Then he was caressing her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s, circling the tip with his tongue, and Kathryn's knees gave way beneath her. Only his sure grip kept her from falling. He eased his knee between her legs, setting her astride his thigh, and a hot, fierce ache bloomed at her core.