Catherine laughed, and her laughter was like music. Not a high, tinkling sound as a pianoforte made, but a lower thrum, like a bass drum used to call men to war.
“Have a care with my girl, Mr. Waters. She needs protecting from prowling beasts, do remember,” Mrs. Angel said.
Catherine finally spoke. “Mama, please.”
Mrs. Angel did not acknowledge her daughter’s protest, nor did she heed it, but kept her blue-eyed gaze firmly fixed on him. Alex bowed, and took her mother’s hand.
“Catherine need fear nothing so long as I am with her.”
Mary Elizabeth missed the byplay between him and Mrs. Angel altogether. She was not one for subtleties of any kind, as she found them a complete waste of time. “The lion is secure in his cage, and is no danger to anyone. Come, Alex, the Tower awaits.”
Mrs. Angel only raised one elegant eyebrow at him. The Tower’s lion clearly was not the first beast that came to her mind.
* * *
The Tower was not quite as large as Catherine had imagined it would be. Nestled next to the bustling Thames, so close to the City, the noise of the streets was overwhelming as Mr. Waters handed her down from the duchess’s open carriage.
She stood with her half boots touching the worn stones of the path that led up to the walls of the Tower of London. Somewhere in there were the black ravens that were said to keep England whole, and the king safe on his throne. She assumed that he and his ministers took great care that the ravens were well fed, and stayed close to home. It was only a superstition, but it didn’t do any harm to look after a few birds.
She stood frozen in place, feeling overwhelmed both by the history of the place and the bustle of the street behind her, until she felt Mr. Waters’s hand on her arm. Mary Elizabeth had forged through the crowd and had moved on ahead to the Tower’s gate, where she had already struck up a chat with one of the yeomen. Dressed in the beefeater regalia of Henry VIII’s reign, the man unbent enough to lean down and listen to whatever she was saying, and to smile at her. Catherine felt a surge of envy that her friend was so relaxed in such a strange place, and confident enough to speak with any man, about anything at all.
Mr. Waters drew close to her, shielding her from a group of lords and ladies who moved toward the gate. The moat was long gone and the water gate filled in with dirt, but many wanted to look at it and to speak of it, and of the doomed yet never forgotten queen, Anne Boleyn.
“It is a bit much,” Mr. Waters said. “I did not realize it would be so crowded on a Tuesday. Please forgive me.”
Catherine looked up at him, peering past the rim of her bonnet to see genuine concern on his face. He was watching her as if he feared she might faint right there. She laughed, and smiled at him. “I do not hold you responsible for the tourists of London, Mr. Waters. I am not quite as delicate as you seem to think.”
“You are more so,” Mr. Waters countered. “You are too good for this world.”
Catherine felt her cursed, telltale blush rise as it always did, but this time, she did not look away from him. She kept her eyes on his, wanting to see whether or not she could do it, whether or not he might look away first. He did not, and she found herself caught in the snare of her own game. For as she stared at him, she noticed for the first time that his deep brown eyes were rimmed in a light gold, and that his dark hair, while long and tied back in a queue, had slipped its moorings and fallen a little over one eye.
Her gloved hand longed to push it back, to slide in behind his ear perhaps, or to bind it back in the leather thong he wore at the nape of his neck. She wondered suddenly if he wore it long because he was Scottish, or simply because he was old-fashioned. She couldn’t touch him—certainly not in public, and certainly not with such intimacy, then or ever.
He pushed his hair back on his own and, without a word, took her to join his sister. They were at an impasse, it seemed. But at least he was no longer annoyed. And she was no longer afraid.
Catherine decided to go against her rules of propriety, and spoke of what was in her thoughts, in the hope that Mr. Waters might listen. “My father always said that he would bring us here,” Catherine began. She had to swallow hard, for the very mention of her father, even five years later, made her feel melancholy. Mr. Waters’s arm beneath her hand gave her strength, just as it had at the Almack’s assembly. She wished wildly and without sense that he might stand by her for the rest of her life. She dismissed that thought at once, and returned to her tale. “Margaret was deemed too young, both for the journey to London and to take in the views of the Tower. Papa passed on before he could bring us.”
She stopped speaking then, for her heart was bleeding, and she did not want that sorrow to make her cry. She breathed deep, and Mr. Waters pressed her hand once, gently, before he let it go.
“I am sorry for your loss. Perhaps we should turn back. I would not cause you pain for all the world.”
His honeyed voice was deep and soothing, a balm for once instead of a temptation. Catherine drank it in, along with her next gulp of air. When she was certain she was in control of her emotions once more, she smiled up at him, tilting her head so that he might see her face.
“You do not cause me pain. I am glad to be here. I am glad to be here with you.”
She blushed anew at that unguarded statement, and wished she had not spoken at all. But she saw no censure in his gaze, only kindness. He turned the conversation back to safe topics, letting her regain her bearings as they walked on. “We will have to bring Miss Margaret with us the next time we come. She will love the lion.”
Mary Elizabeth had listened to their exchange in uncharacteristic silence. She still did not speak as she led them past the place for viewing the crown jewels, straight into the royal menagerie. The lion sat in his cage, just as Mr. Waters had said he would. Mary Elizabeth became bored with the king of beasts almost at once, and began to ask yet another beefeater how he would defend the Tower if London were invaded.
Catherine heard the question just as she caught Mr. Waters’s eye. They exchanged a conspiratorial look, united in their effort not to laugh out loud. With Mary Elizabeth in the care of the Tower guards, Mr. Waters brought Catherine closer to the lion, who did not seem interested in them at all. Catherine moved closer still, and knelt next to the cage. She had to resist the urge to reach out her hand and pet the beast inside.
“Don’t get too close, Miss Middlebrook. He still has his teeth.”
“The poor thing must be so lonely here, far from home.”
“Lonely or not, step back, please, for my sake. His keepers must see to his comfort. I would rather bring you back to your mother with all your limbs intact.”
Catherine smiled at him again and obeyed. “I’m not foolish enough to touch him.”
Mr. Waters seemed to relax as soon as she stepped back from the cage to stand beside him.
She felt buffered by his presence, as though the rest of the crowd in the room simply did not exist.
“It is wise never to try to touch wild things.”
She looked up at him and knew that he was no longer speaking of the lion. She felt as if she stood at the edge of a precipice. Never in her life had she been tempted to impropriety, but this once, she spoke. She leaped into the void, her pulse hammering in her ears. “Not even when those wild things are beautiful, and touch your heart?”
There was a long, stilted silence in which she wished very fervently to die. Mary Elizabeth was not just a terrible influence on her; she was also a force that might ruin Catherine’s life. Catherine stood frozen, unable to look away from him, wishing that some kind soul might come to her side and distract them both, saving her from her own folly.
Sadly, no one came.
Mr. Waters spoke at last, and she could hear in the distant tone of his voice that he was not pleased that she had been so bold. “Especially then, Miss Middlebrook. Wild things are
dangerous.”
She had never felt so humiliated, or so unwomanly, in her life. She cursed herself for being a fool, for speaking of her infatuation with him so openly. He had looked away and was scanning the crowd as if searching for the door.
Maybe, if she waited, he would look back at her and acknowledge the truth of what she had spoken. There was something between them, something odd that seemed to grow of its own accord every time they saw each other.
She waited, but he did not look at her again. He simply offered her his arm and led her to Mary Elizabeth’s side. His sister was regaling the beefeater she had cornered with a description of a stronghold in Edinburgh, one that had left her unimpressed, it seemed, in relation to the Tower.
Catherine could not listen but kept her eyes down, fighting off the blush of mortification that seemed to have permanently painted her cheeks. She had spoken of her nascent feelings for him, and he had given her a gentle set down, then ignored her, as any gentleman would when a lady forgot herself and overstepped the bounds of propriety.
She took a breath, and reminded herself of Lord Farleigh’s regard. He was open about his interest, and would dance with her the following night. She must set Mr. Waters out of her thoughts, and out of her life, altogether.
Catherine was not sure how she would see her way through the rest of the afternoon. She thought of her grandmother, and of the pride inherent in the tilt of the old woman’s head, in the way she carried herself. She drew her shoulders back, as her grandmother had taught her to do. She schooled her face into the hint of a smile that her grandmother had told her made men run mad, wondering at the mystery behind it.
But there was no mystery to her. She was a girl, a green girl from Devon, a debutante with only enough coin for one Season. She could not afford to feel affection for Highlanders who would never marry her. She certainly could not afford to express that affection openly, no matter if her heart was touched or not.
And how was she to know anything about her heart? She was a girl, searching for a husband who would honor and care for her, and her family, for the rest of her life. Her heart and all it contained simply did not signify.
She smiled her small smile at Mary Elizabeth, whose keen eyes clouded over at the sight of it. “Are you all right, Catherine? You look peaky. Did you eat a bit of bad cheese when you were out riding with Lord Farleigh?”
The idea of Lord Farleigh offering her a spoiled bit of Brie while they careened behind his matched grays in Regent’s Park made her laugh out loud. So much for being a lady of mystery.
“We did not partake of cheese on our drive,” she said.
“Well, you no doubt need a bit of diversion after all of this lion gazing. Lord, but they should keep the thing outdoors! The stench alone is enough to make a woman swoon, if she were the swooning type.”
Catherine laughed again, careful to keep her gaze on Mary Elizabeth’s face and away from her brother altogether. “You would never swoon.”
Mary Elizabeth took her brother’s arm as he led them out of the keep and into the sunlight of what had once been the bailey. The clouds had cleared away entirely, and the sky was as blue as any in Devon. Catherine found herself tilting her face to the sun, drinking in the warmth past the concealment of her bonnet. She felt Mr. Waters’s heavy gaze on her, but she knew by now not to look at him.
“I might swoon under some circumstance I have yet to encounter,” Mary Elizabeth said as her brother handed her into the duchess’s open gig. “Perhaps if I killed a man.”
Mr. Waters spoke at last. “I would swoon if you killed a man, Mary, and Mother would have your hide.”
Mary Elizabeth frowned at the mention of her mother, but shrugged off the thought with her next breath. “Mama is in the Highlands, and I am here. I might kill twenty Londoners before she could even ready her carriage to come and fetch me home.”
“The English frown on killing in the public streets, Mary Elizabeth,” Mr. Waters said. He sat between the girls, and the carriage, with its single large seat, could barely contain him and them both. His knee pressed against Catherine’s through the thin muslin of her skirt, and his thigh distracted her, radiating heat like a hot brick in winter.
Catherine chastised herself for noticing and instructed herself to be a lady. She need not concern herself with Alexander Waters. She must forget him, even as he sat beside her, and keep her mind on Lord Farleigh—a marrying man, and her future.
Mary Elizabeth waved one hand. “Fine and dandy, Alex. I won’t kill anyone. I’m just saying, if I did, I might well swoon.” She looked at Catherine across her hulking brother. “Catherine looks as if she will swoon dead away right now in this bright sun. Get us to Gunter’s, quick time, Alex. We’ve not a moment to lose. A strawberry ice is just the thing to fortify a young lady in the warmth of spring.”
“Gunter’s it is. We can’t have Miss Middlebrook swooning on us. Her mother would not be pleased.”
“You did vow to protect her, Alex. You always keep your word.”
“That I do, Mary, that I do.”
Catherine ignored this entire exchange as if it had not been spoken. She wished herself home, listening to Margaret play the pianoforte, or back in Devon, tucked away in the garden of her childhood, long before she knew Alexander Waters even existed.
Ten
His angel had spoken of her heart.
Alex had thought he would lose the last of his good sense when she’d said that he had touched her, not just her body, but her tender feelings. He had felt a welter of emotion rise when she spoke, a tidal wave that threatened to swamp the ship of his reason and drown him on the spot.
He could not trifle with a young girl from Devon. He would not. He was a man of twenty-five, sworn to guard and protect her, even from himself. He could not look into the soft green of her eyes, pools of burn water running over mossy stones. He could not take her away from this place and keep her from the lust-filled eyes of all those Englishmen, none of whom she noticed. All of whom wanted her as much as he did, no matter how decorous their outward regard. He was not in the south to marry among the English, but to see his sister married. He could not hurt this girl.
So in spite of the rising tide of his own emotions, he did not look at her again. He did not answer her save to warn her away. And when he had felt her flinch as if he had slapped her, he’d cursed himself for a cad and a bounder. He had let his own interests and flirtation interfere with a lovely girl no older than eighteen, a girl with no man to defend her.
She had closed up like a rosebud and would not look at him again. It was for the best. He had done as he ought, as any honorable man would do, but all the same, he was in the wrong. He did not know how to make it up to her, and heal the breach between them without giving the girl false hopes. It was better for her to forget him altogether, for her to marry her Lord Farleigh, or someone just like him. Alex would see Mary Elizabeth safely married; then he would go home to the Highlands, and all would be as it should.
And yet, he had offended and hurt her, and his own heart was bruised. He knew nothing about dealing with young girls, or honorable women. He always kept them at a decorous distance, dancing once with them but never twice, never fetching an unmarried lady punch at a ball, never looking at any decent woman for long, but looking only to keep his own sister safe. He had only known this girl a few days, but it seemed a friendship of sorts had sprung up between them, in spite of his lack of good sense, in spite of his lust. He had bruised that tentative friendship, if not cut it off completely, before it could become full grown.
He was being an ass. What man kept a woman for a friend? Women were family, they were lovers, or they were dance partners for one dance. That was all. He knew better than to trifle with this way of looking at the world.
He cursed himself as he climbed down from the gig to fetch the girls’ ices. Father had always claimed that women were trouble. Only now,
for the first time in his life, was Alex beginning to see what he meant.
* * *
Mr. Waters said little after the discussion of killing Londoners. He maintained a wary silence, bringing them ices and then standing outside the carriage, nodding to the fashionable women around them. They eyed him as if he were a delectable tidbit far more enticing than the sweets on offer at Gunter’s.
Catherine cursed herself for noticing, and Mr. Waters for the fact that the ton ladies were right. She might take chocolate every morning for the rest of her life, and each cup would not be able to contain the decadence of one touch of the hulking Highlander’s hand.
“You’ve been in a sour mood since we came out of the Tower,” Mary Elizabeth said. “Are you feeling ill?”
“Just a bit peaky, as you said.”
“Well, I’ve a bit of something that will cure your ills.”
Mary Elizabeth looked toward her brother, and when she saw that Alexander had his back to the both of them, guarding them like a sentinel, she reached into her reticule and pulled out a silver flask with her initials on it.
“My father gave me this before I left home,” Mary Elizabeth said. “He told me to keep it, and my knife, always at my side. One never knows when one will need it.”
Catherine turned her back on Mr. Waters and looked at the pretty silver flask, intrigued. She wondered if she might get one of her own, and what it might contain.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Only a bit of the uisge beatha. It’s good for all that ails you.”
“Well, I’m not actually ill,” Catherine confessed. “Just out of sorts.”
Mary Elizabeth looked shrewdly past her friend at her brother’s forbidding back. “Ah. An afternoon in that one’s company will do that. Here, have a nip.”
Catherine took the flask and drank deep, only to splutter at the heat and the bite of the drink. She did not know what it was, but it certainly bore no resemblance to lemonade. Still, she felt daring drinking it, and knew from the careful way Mary Elizabeth tried to hide it from her brother that whatever it contained would annoy him. She drank deep one more time, before handing the flask to her friend.
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