Catherine

by Raine Cantrell

  She rolled away from Greg to glare at Lord Romeo. He sat staring at them, licking the fur of his forepaw. “It’s safe enough. He’s very protective, but I swear he’s never attacked anyone.”

  “If you believe I’m honored, you are mistaken.”

  Catherine bit her lip. She had to repair the damage. The cat paid no attention to another warning look as he lay on his side grooming his paw. She stood quickly, wincing as she put weight on her ankle. But it was a minor pain compared to the one coming to his feet at her side. She had to get him to reconsider his decision to leave. Suzanne would never forgive her if she failed in her friend’s directives. And there was her own pride, too.

  Ridiculous as it made Greg feel to be wary of a creature smaller than himself, he stood with his gaze locked on the cat’s whipping tail. The fact registered that the battle-scarred animal resembled the wild bobcats that populated the forested areas near the Hudson River in New York, where several of his friends built their summer residences. A quick look showed the lovely young widow deep in thought.

  He felt embarrassed. He had handled this badly, but considering only this day, his patience had been sorely tried. What else he could have done he didn’t know. His sister meant well, thinking he would find comfort returning to the land of their birth. It was obvious that his sister had no idea of the woman’s pets. Obvious, too, that she had been mistaken in her belief that widowhood added some maturity to lovely women.

  He brushed off his clothes. The suit was completely ruined with the addition of grass stains. He wouldn’t miss the cost of a new suit, but that was beside the point. The fact remained that he had made a decision to leave and leave he would. Lord only knew what else waited for him. On second thought, Suzanne’s devious turn of mind probably did, too.

  “I’ll pay for a new suit,” Catherine offered. Please let him say no. He’d never miss the money while she’d use her savings to buy his buttons.

  “Think nothing of it. I couldn’t accept. But you are kind to offer.” Greg had no one but himself to blame for agreeing to his sister’s harebrained scheme, even if she forced him into a bet with the best of intentions. His wrist stung from the scratches. He drew his cuff down to cover them. The last time he had been marked was for the most pleasurable of reasons, a brief affair with a statuesque German beauty whose appetite for men and her music proved too volatile for him. Assessing his condition, he decided he was lucky to still be standing.

  “About your leaving…” Catherine began.

  “There is no ‘about’ concerning it.”

  “I can’t return your money.”

  “Have I asked you to do so?” He stared down at the scraped leather of his boots. A disgrace. He would pay a year’s wages to have Martin with him.

  “No. You haven’t. But I want you to know that I am stuck with a cow. Purchased on your behalf.”

  Well, she had gotten his attention! He turned to look at her with an expression on his face that proved her assessment. Poet’s face, warrior’s eyes.

  “My dear Mrs. Hill, have I inquired as to how you spent the money I paid for a month’s stay?”

  “No. But—”

  “Please,” he requested in a very soft voice, “do not trouble yourself over the money. Consider it a gift.”

  Catherine straightened, ignoring the pain in her ankle. She bristled at his dismissive tone. She had never had a man remind her so much of her deceased husband. But when she replied, her voice was cool and very controlled.

  “You have made an error, Mr. Mayfield. I don’t accept gifts from strange men. I don’t accept money from any man. You paid for a month’s room and board. That’s what you’ll get. Because you are my friend’s brother. I should hate to write her that you quit before you began.”

  Just like every woman he had known—mention money and even the meekest mouse discovered a fighting spirit. But then he realized she didn’t want the money as a gift. And she had a point.

  And the bet, he added to himself. He had too much at stake to risk losing the bet between himself and his sister.

  “If you’d be so kind as to show me my room, I won’t trouble you further.”

  Catherine shook her head, a rueful smile on her lips.

  “Don’t tell me. That is a problem. But of course, that’s exactly what you’ll tell me.”

  “It’s not ready. You’re three weeks early.” She was unsure what to make of him. Anger would be nice. She could deal with anger. A little pain, maybe embarrassment, those she could soothe. The good Lord knew she had plenty of practice during her marriage in dealing with both her husband and his cantankerous father. But she was uncertain how to deal with this cool resignation.

  “Perhaps Suzanne didn’t make it clear that we don’t take in boarders. This is a favor to your sister,” she stressed, needing to make the fact clear that it was her decision. “Truth to tell, I hadn’t given your arrival any thought in the bustle of getting Sarah ready for her trip.”

  “Sarah?”

  “The widow who owns the house. We were three widows living here together. Then Mary married last year. Sarah has gone to stay with her for her lying-in.”

  “Then you’re here—”

  “Alone,” she finished for him. “Me and the chickens. And Lord Romeo. You can rest in the parlor while I make up your bed. That is, if you’ve reconsidered your decision to leave?”

  “I’ve reconsidered.” As if I have a choice.

  “Come along then.”

  Greg cast a look of regret at his hat. One of the hens was nesting in it.

  Catherine turned and saw what he was staring at. “Oh, Miss Lily, how could you?”

  “Miss Lily? And that animal?” he asked, pointing at the cat.

  “Lord Romeo,” she answered in a choked voice.

  He shot her a forbidding glance. “There must be a story behind those names. Lord Romeo, indeed.”

  “It’s true. He has an amorous nature. Miss Lily’s temperament is match for a housekeeper my father hired when I was little.” His look showed what he thought of her explanation. She placed her hand on his forearm, gently directing him to the front door. The man seemed bent on goading her. She had apologized, she had offered to pay for his ruined suit and hat, all the while she wished she could send him packing. The money, Catherine, please remember the money and your friendship with Suzanne.

  The reminder was enough to bring a bright, false smile to her lips. She would not allow him to intimidate her. With the help of Mary and Sarah she had learned how capable she was to handle her own affairs. They would be proud, as she herself was, that she had not dissolved into tears. Really, the man looked at her as if she were some strange, unknown creature he wasn’t sure what to do with.

  “I assume there is someone to help with my luggage.”

  Catherine showed more teeth. “No one here but me. I thought I made that clear. But don’t let it worry you, Mr. Mayfield. I’ll manage it all.” Brave words when she could hardly put weight on one ankle, not to mention the aches and twinges that made every step an effort. “You will find that the West breeds hardy women,” she found herself adding. “Independent, self-sufficient ones.”

  Greg looked from the pile of luggage in the buckboard to the widow. He was a man who believed that everyone and everything had a place. The lovely young Mrs. Hill did not appear strong enough to lift one piece of his baggage, much less all of it. The woman obviously needed to wed. There were some things better attended to by a man. But until one came along, he was the only available male in sight.

  Traveling without the services of his valet was one more condition of his sister’s bet. This journey was the first time he had been inconvenienced with the concern of handling his own luggage. But he was learning.

  Organization was the key.

  “If you’ll see to making my room ready, Mrs. Hill, I will tend to unloading the luggage.”

  Catherine stopped. She considered her forgiving nature a weakness when dealing with men, and one she hoped
to curb, but his tone of voice made her wish she could breathe fire to singe the condescending male where he sat. He might as well have patted her hand and said, “There, there, little woman, don’t fret. I am a man. I am strong. I am here.”

  It was the most irritating, male tone of voice that spelled out to the much smaller, weaker female she had better leave such a task to him—the man.

  Catherine had absolutely no sense of humor when dealing with this attitude. It didn’t help him one bit that he was already reminding her of Louis. She could hear echoes of Louis’s voice proclaiming that she was far too delicate, too soft, too weak, too…female to do half of what she wanted to do. She couldn’t order the house, they had a housekeeper to do that. And maids, and a driver for her to go buy something pretty for herself. Louis believed she could shop day after day and enjoy it. One time she had strolled down to the corrals, where the men were breaking in horses. They had been married less than a month and she chafed at the restrictions imposed by him and his father. Louis was furious when he saw her and hustled her back to the house. She had no business being there, and none to be outside without a parasol to protect her skin.

  Catherine shivered as she left the past behind. She had to take a deep breath and release it before she trusted herself to face Gregory Mayfield. Her hands curled at her sides. Her back was straight and her chin angled in what could only be described as a challenge.

  “Mr. Mayfield, we have begun on an…awkward note. But allow me to make one thing very clear to you. You are the guest here. You do not work. You rest. Enjoy the country. Eat what I cook. Sleep when you will, but never, ever tell me that I can’t do something. Now, sir, the parlor’s on your left as you go inside. Have a seat and wait for me there.”

  Awkward note? Was that what she called it? Greg found her term an understatement, to say the least, while her brisk, commanding tone set his neck hair on end. No woman—with the exception of his younger sister—had ever spoken to him in that tone of voice and gotten away without a tongue-lashing in the same vein.

  He gritted his teeth, cautioning himself not to overreact. He glanced at the sorry nag hitched to the buckboard and thought of his own team of perfectly matched bays. Bet or no bet, this situation was going to be rectified quickly. On his terms.

  “One moment, Mrs. Hill. It has struck me that you are putting your reputation at risk by insisting I stay without benefit of another woman in the house.”

  “Do you think we are living in the Dark Ages, sir. I am a widow. You may as well know the townspeople call us the merry widows. I assure you nothing I do would give cause to any gossip. There will be no improprieties. Set your troubled mind at rest.” It wasn’t exactly a lie that tripped easily off her tongue. She was attracted, but his attitude put a stop to that.

  Greg looked at her. She was goading him. He was sure of that. If he had thought of a provocative tumble before, she was simply provocative now. How dare she stand there so calm? From her scuffed boots to the masculine-cut trousers tucked into them, trousers that bagged at her hips but defined her slender waist with the aid of a rough, tanned strip of leather, to the narrow blue-and-white farmer’s shirt with its banded collar—to say nothing of the three buttons opened at the neck—there was nothing about the woman to demand and hold a man’s attention.

  Yet Greg found himself attracted to her.

  The thought was startling. He had known his share of beautiful women. And he had never noticed a woman whose natural beauty needed no artifice. One who not only appeared to take that beauty for granted but, more important to him, disdained it as a useful tool to get her own way. He could not accuse the widow of flirting with him.

  Fascinating.

  His gaze returned to her face as she stood by the front door waiting for him to enter the house. Her dainty features were framed by tousled blond hair. His usual arrogant manner used to dismiss underlings in the past was held in check when her direct gaze met his.

  Catherine stood there, refusing to look away. She chided herself for lying to him. Well, a little white lie. No improprieties? She had to get over worrying what everyone thought of her. She had been ruled by parents and later Louis with those words. Of course, she had no intention of dragging him off to bed as his question seemed to indicate. Despite their beginning she did find him attractive. She had often lamented to Mary and to Sarah that she missed sharing Louis’s bed. She was young, she had wants, and she refused to deny them. But it was one of the few regrets she had about being a widow. She firmed her resolve not to back down and continued to stare at him.

  Greg had seen eyes every bit as blue layered with steel over a poker table, but always on the face of a man. Almost instantly he reconsidered that. He was seeing the same militant look of his sister and other women in the newly formed Ladies Liberation League. He was tempted to ask the widow if she was a member but stopped himself.

  By all that is holy, what have I gotten myself into? He couldn’t answer his own question. She motioned to the open door. He swallowed. Hard.

  A familiar burning sensation rose from his stomach and set the center of his chest on fire. He stepped inside. It was useless to curse the illness that made anger and argument so painful. He stood within the cool, shadowed hallway. The very disorder that made meals an event to dread was bad enough. Coming as it did on the heels of the inflammation of the lungs that had kept him bedridden for almost two months was the reason he was here.

  Rest. Peace. Privacy.

  His minx of a sister took full advantage of the physicians’ warnings to make serious changes in his life or he’d end by killing himself. This trip was to help cure what ailed him.

  Fresh country air, good wholesome food, no worries. No business to tend, no sleepless nights, no…ah, he couldn’t go on. A pipe dream to achieve.

  And now he had the strong-willed widow to contend with on a daily basis.

  Where was the justice?

  He couldn’t forget Suzanne’s plan to help her widowed friend, who had refused all monetary assistance. He knew little of the circumstances that had brought Mrs. Hill to live with two widowed cousins in the same straits.

  Catherine, he recalled Suzanne warning him, had a great deal of pride.

  Having been recently force-fed a dose, Greg scowled as he strode into the parlor. There he stopped short. His gaze went to the comfortable-looking wing chair set in front of the windows. Beside it stood a side table and lamp.

  “Inviting,” he murmured.

  He slowly turned. The room appeared sparsely furnished. Not at all what he expected to find in a house filled with women.

  Where was the infernal feminine clutter so dear to women’s hearts and despaired of by men forced to navigate such rooms?

  A pottery vase, a few candlesticks and a clock decorated the mantel. A cut-glass decanter and glasses on a silver tray rested on the library table behind the settee.

  Greg smiled. He would be comfortable in this room.

  He walked to the windows. A twitch of the lace curtain revealed the lovely widow struggling to lift one of his bags.

  He wondered if Mrs. Hill enjoyed tasting her pride. He’d be damned if she was going to stop him from helping her.

  And for the first time, in much too long a time, he found himself looking forward to the next go-around with the widow.

  Chapter Four

  Greg stripped off his gloves, then removed his ruined jacket. He pulled off his string tie and tossed his clothes on the side chair angled toward the settee. His shirtsleeves were rolled up with lopsided results, for his labors of the past twelve years involved using a keen mind to make money, not caring for his own clothes. Just as he reached the doorway, he paused. As his anticipation rose at the thought of confronting the enticing widow once more, the burning sensation in his stomach subsided.

  He didn’t even consider that Suzanne might have been right about the changes he needed.

  Catherine paused in her effort to push one of the smaller trunks to the edge of the buckboard. S
he watched Greg’s lithe stride as he crossed the porch toward her. She saw his glance at the three smaller monogrammed leather bags she had already unloaded. “No heavier than the feed sacks I haul for the animals,” she said.

  “You’re stronger than you appear.”

  “Yes, I am. Don’t make the mistake most men do and let appearances fool you.”

  “Then you must do the same,” he replied.

  While he carried the bags inside, Catherine took the words to heart. He had lived in eastern society for the past sixteen years. A gentleman to the core, a stickler for the rules that governed polite society. Yet he had removed his tie and jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and come to help her. Suzanne, she thought, had a lot to answer for.

  She wiped the sweat from her brow. He presented a distraction she had no time or inclination to indulge. Living alone with him in the house for several weeks was going to prove a test of will. She didn’t like the physical attraction she felt for him. He returned to take the third bag inside. His dark brown hair was mussed as if he had run his fingers through it. One lock fell over his brow, giving him a rakish look. She glanced at his pale forearms, lightly dusted with hair, and the long, tapered fingers. She was staring at the spot he’d been at for only a few moments, struggling to understand the shimmer of warmth unfurling inside her.

  “Mrs. Hill? Mrs. Hill?”

  She was startled to find him leaning against the buckboard, staring up at her.

  “I owe you an apology, Mrs. Hill. I have arrived early and inconvenienced you. I suggest we start over. You will allow me to help as an expression of my sincerity.”

  His smile did not calm her insides. His apology was another surprise. It wasn’t his formal tone that made her hesitate, but Suzanne’s warning that her brother had an obsession to be in control at all times.

  That would make for some interesting bed sport. If her insides were warm, her cheeks felt hot. What had she been thinking? Foolish thoughts, no more. But control of situations was a problem for her. First with her parents, then in marriage, she had never been allowed to decide what to do with her time, with her life.