He squeezed her hands, then stood. "Is there brandy in the cabinet in the dining room?"
"Yes, but really, it's not necessary."
Ignoring her protest, he said, "Will you be all right while I get the bottle?"
Feeling a shadow of humor, she said, "Believe me, I'm not going anywhere for a while."
He scooped the kitchen cat from under the table and set it on her lap. "Here. There are few things more comforting than a purring cat." Then he took a candlestick and left with long, soundless strides.
Catherine leaned back in the chair, stroking soft feline fur. It was a good thing Michael had given her the tabby, because her fragile peace of mind vanished along with him. She had not realized how safe he had made her feel until he was gone.
When she glanced down and saw the scorched hem of her nightgown, panic began rising again. She pulled Michael's jacket closer around her shoulders. It still carried his body heat. When he had wrapped the garment around her, the tenderness of the gesture had brought her near tears again. She had not felt so cared-for since she was a child.
Tartly she reminded herself that she had escaped unscathed and there was no excuse for hysteria. A towel was draped over the arm of her chair, so she lifted it and blew her nose. Then she concentrated on soothing the nervous cat. By the time Michael returned, the tabby was purring and Catherine had regained a semblance of calm.
"Drink up. You need this." He splashed brandy into two glasses and gave her one, then settled in the opposite chair. He sat casually, one arm resting on his upraised knee, but his watchful gaze was on her face.
"Thank you." She sipped the brandy, grateful for the way it warmed her bones. "Since we couldn't live without fire, I've had to suppress my fear of it. I didn't know how much terror was lurking inside me. If you hadn't been here, I probably would have stood like a frightened rabbit while I burned."
"You're entitled to your fear," he said quietly. "Quite apart from your parents' tragedy, far too many women have died or been horribly injured in accidents exactly like yours."
"Thanks to you, that didn't happen." She leaned back in her chair, rubbing the cat's chin with one finger as she drank.
Odd how the fire that had terrorized her was now so pleasant, its ruddy glow finding auburn highlights in Michael's hair. At their first meeting, she had found his austere good looks unsettling. He had reminded her of a finely honed sword, a quality she had glimpsed in other men who were born warriors. Very quickly she had discovered his humor, but it had taken near-catastrophe for her to recognize his kindness.
She did not realize that she had emptied her glass until he rose and poured more for both of them. She regarded the brandy doubtfully. "You're going to get me tipsy."
"Perhaps, but with luck you'll sleep soundly."
She thought of the nightmares she had experienced after her parents had died, and took a deep swallow. Wanting to talk about something safe, she said, "Charles Mowbry mentioned that you were a member of a group called the Fallen Angels. It that a club?"
He made a deprecating gesture. "It's only a foolish label that fashionable society slapped on four of us who have been friends since Eton. It originated in the fact that two of us have archangel names, and the other two, Lucien and Nicholas, acquired the rather sinister nicknames Lucifer and Old Nick."
She smiled. "I've known a lot of young officers over the years, and from what I've observed, I'd bet that you enjoyed having diabolical reputations."
Laughter showed in his eyes. "We did, actually, but now that I am respectably adult I don't like to admit it."
"Are you all still friends?"
"Very much so." His expression was wry. "Nicholas's wife, Clare, said we adopted each other because our families were less than satisfactory. I suspect she was right. She usually is."
The oblique comment made Catherine wonder what Michael's family was like. Now that she thought of it, when his noble relations were mentioned, he was always curt to a point just short of rudeness. But it wasn't hard to see him as a fallen angel, handsome and dangerous. "What are your friends like?"
He smiled a little. "Imagine a great long wall blocking the path as far as one can see in both directions. If Nicholas came to it, he would shrug and decide he didn't really need to go that way. Rafe would locate whoever was in charge of the wall and talk his way past it, and Lucien would find some stealthy way to go under or around without being seen."
"What about you?"
His smile turned rueful. "Like a mad spring ram, I would bash my head into the wall until it fell down."
She laughed. "A good trait for a soldier."
"This is actually my third go-around in the army. I first bought a commission at twenty-one. The military situation was very frustrating, though, so I sold out after a couple of years."
She made mental calculations from what he had told her of his battle experience. "You must have bought another commission "after Wellington went to the Peninsula."
He nodded. "It was appealing to know that real progress was finally being made against Napoleon." His expression became opaque. "And there were… other reasons."
Painful ones, from his expression. "So you sold out when the emperor abdicated, then returned yet again." She tilted her head to one side. "Why do men fight?"
He gave her a bemused glance. "Having spent your life among soldiers, surely you know the answer to that."
"Not really."
"Well, the army and navy are honorable careers for gentlemen, particularly younger sons like me who need something to keep us out of trouble," he said dryly.
"Yes, but that doesn't explain why many men take pleasure in what is so terrible." She thought of the army hospitals she had worked in, and shivered. "Half the soldiers I know are panting for another chance to be blown to bloody bits."
He swirled his brandy as he thought. "There is no greater horror than war. Yet at the same time, one never feels more alive. It's both a heightening of life and an escape from it. That can become a drug."
"Did it for you?"
"No, but there was a danger that it would. It's one reason I sold out." His expression changed. "Why am I prosing on like this? You must be bored senseless."
"Not at all. You've taught me more about the essence of war than I've learned in a lifetime surrounded by soldiers." She sighed.
"Your answer explains why there are always more men yearning- to fight, even at the risk of death."
As silence fell, she leaned her head against the high chair back, idly studying Michael's fire-washed features. He really was extraordinarily attractive, all lean, pantherish muscle. She could watch him for hours, memorizing the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, and the way his white shirt emphasized the breath of his shoulders. As his long, tanned fingers fondled Louis's ears, she wondered what they would feel like on her____________________
With a shock, she realized that the languid warmth in her limbs was desire. She had forgotten what it felt like.
Luckily she did not have a passionate nature. Even at sixteen, when she had thought herself in love with Colin, her common sense had been firmly in control of her behavior. After marriage taught her that passion was a wicked trap, she had never once been tempted to respond to the men who wanted to coax her into immorality.
She had learned early that her appearance could incite men to behave like idiots, which was not only embarrassing but potentially dangerous. Twice Colin had challenged men for distressing his wife. Fortunately the men in question had given apologies and no duels had resulted, but the incidents had made her realize that she must find a way to make men behave.
By the age of nineteen, she had learned the trick. A reputation for unswerving virtue was part of her method, coupled with a sisterly manner and a total absence of flirtatiousness. Realizing that they could never be lovers, men either left her alone or became friends and protectors. It had been years since a man had given her real trouble, and Michael was too much a gentleman to change that.
; Wanting to hear his deep voice again, she said, "You mentioned that one of your Fallen Angel friends had married. Do the others have wives also?"
"Lucien married this past Christmas- Eve." Michael-smiled fondly. "His wife, Kit, is like a gazelle, all long legs and shy eyes. But she has a mind like a rapier, and the courage of a lioness. I don't know if Rafe will ever marry. I think he prefers his life exactly the way it is."
"What about you?" She was immediately sorry she had spoken. Only the amount of brandy she had consumed could explain why she had asked such a personal question.
Unperturbed, Michael answered, "I was going to spend the spring in London with an eye to surveying the marriage mart, but Napoleon played ducks and drakes with my plans."
"He ruined the plans of many people."
Michael shrugged. "There will be other Seasons."
The thought of Michael seeking a wife among the brightest belles of society gave her a strange twist of regret. She had met Colin shortly before her parents' death, and married him a month after the double funeral, thinking his strength and love would support her in her grief. It had not taken long to realize that his emotions did not run deep, and that she was stronger than he in most ways.
She had no right to complain-but there were times when she longed to have someone to lean on. Instinctively she knew that if she had married a man like Michael, she would have a husband who would share the burdens of life-a man who could support her when she felt too tired to carry on.
Knowing she must not think of such things, she rose and gently deposited the cat in the middle of the warm chair seat. "I'd better go to bed while I can still manage the stairs."
She took a step, then wavered, her head spinning.
Instantly Michael was on his feet steadying her. She leaned against his shoulder until her head cleared. "Sorry," she murmured. "I haven't much of a head for brandy."
He guided her to the stairs with a hand on her elbow. "I'm the one who must apologize for corrupting you with strong drink."
His touch gave her a sudden, sharp memory of what it had felt like when he held her in his arms. How could she remember so clearly now when she had been weeping her eyes out then?
Striving for lightness, she said, "Nonsense. They call me Saint Catherine, you know. I'm quite incorruptible."
He smiled appreciatively, his green eyes alight with amusement. The intimate warmth of his expression almost knocked her from her feet again. With a sinking sensation in her stomach, she realized that she had never been so drawn to a man, not even when she was sixteen and infatuated with Colin.
Thank God that Michael had no improper designs on her. He might admire her looks, but he was one of those honorable men who had no interest in married women. She guessed that when he married, he would also be a faithful husband. His future wife was a lucky woman.
Since she and Michael could never be lovers, she must make him her friend. In the long run, that would be better, for-friendship lasted longer and hurt less than passion.
Yet as he escorted her to her room, she knew that if any man could lead her astray, it would be this one.
Chapter 6
The next evening Michael decided to dine at home to see how Catherine was faring. He arrived late at the sherry hour.
Anne Mowbry smiled and offered her hand when he entered. "I can't believe it! Every one of our stalwart officers is here tonight. I'd begun to think I had imagined you, Michael."
"I thought I had better put in an appearance before you forgot my existence and gave my room to someone else."
She chuckled, then turned back to Kenneth Wilding. Michael went to Catherine, who was dispensing sherry and looking as calm as always. As he accepted a glass, he asked quietly; "Any ill effects from last night?"
"A headache for my excesses, but no nightmares." She glanced at the coals, burning in the fireplace. "And I can look at flames without going into a flat panic."
"Good."
He was about to move away when she said, "Is the offer of escort still good? Lady Trowbridge is giving a musicale tomorrow, and I'd like to attend. She assured me that the string quartet she has engaged is quite extraordinary."
"It would be my pleasure."
As they set on a time, dinner was announced. The meal passed smoothly. Michael was becoming used to the ache of yearning he felt whenever he was near Catherine. Thank God she saw him only as a friend. If there had been the least hint of reciprocal interest on her part, the situation would be impossible. He would have had to find another billet even if it meant living in a woodshed.
After dinner he had to put in an appearance at two receptions, but he left both as quickly as possible. He needed a solid night's sleep. The previous night had been haunted by painfully vivid thoughts of Catherine. Whenever he closed his eyes, he had seen her candid aqua eyes, smelled the intimate fragrance of rosewater and woman on her satin skin, felt the seductive pressure of her body against his.
Finally he had fallen into a restless sleep, only to dream of making love to her in a world where she was free and they could be together without dishonor. He had woken exhausted and depressed. Why the hell couldn't he become obsessed with a woman who was eligible?
Because he had never done anything the easy way in his life. His friend Lucien had pointed that out upon several occasions.
The house on Rue de la Reine was still, though a scattering of lamps provided dim light. He was about to go upstairs when he heard a man's voice. Thinking it sounded like Kenneth, he turned down the hall that bisected the house. He came to the cross passage and looked left. Then he halted, feeling as if he had been punched in the stomach.
In the shadows at the end of the passage, Colin Melbourne was embracing his wife, his mouth devouring and his hand up her skirt. Catherine was flattened against the wall, invisible except for her dark hair and the pale folds of her gown. As Michael watched, paralyzed, Colin unbuttoned his breeches, then thrust into her. She whimpered with pleasure.
Michael suddenly had trouble drawing enough air into his lungs. No doubt the Melbournes should be envied for having such a passionate relationship after so many years of marriage, but seeing them together nauseated him. Thank God they were so engrossed in each other that neither had noticed his presence.
He was retreating when a female voice giggled. "Ah, mon capitaine, mon beau Anglais…"
He stopped dead, then swung around. Colin's forehead was pressed against the wall, revealing his partner's face. The woman was not his wife, but one of the Belgian maids, a dark-haired wench about Catherine's height. Her head was thrown back and her mouth was open, revealing large, irregular teeth.
Michael's sick feeling vanished in a flood of pure rage. How could the filthy bastard betray and humiliate his wife like this, and under her own roof? He deserved to be horsewhipped.
It took all of Michael's control to turn away. Blood throbbing in his temples, he climbed the stairs two at a time. He had intended to go to his room, but there was light under Kenneth's door. He knocked, then walked in without waiting.
His friend looked up from a letter he was writing. "What happened? You look like murder."
"I feel like it." Michael slammed his shako onto the bed, almost breaking the plume. "Colin Melbourne is down in the west hall humping one of the maids. Christ, has the man no decency?"
"Not much," Kenneth said calmly. "I've heard he'll mount anything in skirts. He's usually fairly discreet, but if a wench is willing, he wouldn't say no, even in his own house."
"How can he?" Michael growled. "How could any man with a wife like Catherine look elsewhere?"
"I wouldn't presume to guess. But why are you so shocked? Society is full of men with the morals of tomcats, and women who are no better."
Michael stalked across the room, knowing Kenneth was right, but still outraged. "Does-Catherine-know how her husband behaves?"
"I'd be very surprised if she didn't. She's an intelligent" woman, and she knows the world. In this case, rather better than you d
o. If you're thinking of-telling her what you. saw, don't. She wouldn't thank you for it."
"I suppose you're right," Michael said reluctantly. "But Catherine deserves better than a womanizing, narrow-minded oaf.-"
"Whatever his failings, Melbourne manages to keep his wife satisfied. It's none of your business if he has a regiment of dollymops, Michael." Kenneth's brows drew together. "Perhaps I should repeat that. It's none of your business."
Michael stared out the window into the night. Again, Kenneth was. right. No outsider could really understand a marriage, and he had no right to interfere, even for well-intentioned reasons. God knew, his good intentions had led him to hell before.
But this time was different. Was it, or was he merely, demonstrating his dangerous talent for self-deception? Saint Michael, going off to slay all the wrong dragons.
Behind him, Kenneth said softly, "She's married, Michael."
"Do you think I'm not aware of that every moment?" he said tightly. He took several deep breaths before turning to his friend. "Don't worry-I'm not going to lay a finger on her, or on him, for that matter. I just wish for her sake that her husband was decent and honorable, like Charles Mowbry."
"Maybe she's the sort of good woman who finds a wicked man irresistible," Kenneth said dryly. "I've never seen a hint that she regrets her choice of husband."
Michael smiled humorlessly. "There's a poker by your fireplace. Do you want to hit me over the head with it, in case I haven't gotten the message yet?"
"I'll refrain, unless I see you going after Melbourne with blood in your eye." Kenneth dipped his pen in the inkstand and absently sketched a tiny weasel in the margin of his letter. "Speaking of which, Melbourne has been amazingly polite to me the last few days."
Michael sank into a chair. "My fault. He irritated me so much that I told him about your noble birth. Sorry."
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