Catherine

by Raine Cantrell

  Somewhere, sometime, she had stolen past his guard. The welter of emotion he experienced at this moment owed nothing to sex and everything to some deeper, tender feeling.

  He battled it away.

  “What’s wrong? Don’t you…want me?”

  “Want you? If I wanted you any more, Catherine, I’d die from waiting.”

  He brought her raw, hungry, blatantly sexual demand in his kiss, with his touch.

  She sensed there was something different, but passion made its own demands. She responded to it, and to him, joyfully, willingly, her body arching up against his.

  With a low sound, he took her breast in his mouth. Each tug, each nip of his hungry mouth shot a blaze of heat through her. And she wanted more. A small part of what she had missed. The dizzying sensations that made you think you’d never survive them, and made her realize that she couldn’t live without them. He feasted on her. There was no other word for it. And Catherine wondered if she could die from the pleasure.

  Her hot, damp skin quivered beneath his caressing hands. He had given pleasure to women, but not like this, not with the driving need to give her more without thought to himself. Not that Catherine neglected him as he brought her up to the first peak and drove her over. She rolled on the bed with him, her greedy hands stroking his body one minute, moving with frantic haste in the next.

  Mad. The woman drove him mad.

  He wanted to savor. To seduce and coax. She was writhing under him. He couldn’t get enough. The scent that was hers alone came with every breath, heated and heady like the finest champagne. And her eyes. Dark blue, nearly black with passion, intensely focused on his face.

  No matter how he touched her, or where, the deep shudders of her body had him believing she was innocent of carnal pleasures. Her voice was a sultry plea, luring his desire to new heights. He had never felt so powerful, or needed the way he needed her.

  He claimed her mouth with a wild kiss, drinking her cry and greedy for more. He rolled to his side, cupping her, a tremor passing from her flesh to his. Her fingers dug into his shoulders and she arched to his touch. Her cry for more broke whatever control he had.

  “Now, Catherine. I need to be inside you.” His voice was a husky demand. Some deep, primitive male force rushed him to possess. “I want to watch you take me.

  Her answer came with her hands on his hips. She arched up in welcome. He drove inside her with one hard stroke. Her cry froze him.

  “God. Catherine. I can’t believe this.” His eyes searched hers. She gloved him so tightly, his muttered “Don’t move” could have been an order to himself as well as to her. He felt his muscles tremble from the strain of holding himself away from her when all he wanted to do was sink into waiting heat.

  He drew breath, once, then again, as if he couldn’t get enough air. She was a widow, not a virgin.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You can’t. I want you too much.”

  Still he struggled for some vestige of control. She was so hot and tight, and wet. The effort was beyond him.

  Catherine touched his cheek. There had been pain. It was almost two years since Louis had died. But need was stronger by far. She couldn’t think what to say, all she could do was show him.

  She lifted her hips. Her hands skimmed his sweat-sheened back and pressed him to her.

  She felt as helpless as he did to resist the urge to mate. The room tilted and swirled before she closed her eyes. He drove her to match a frenzied pace in the race to where dark pleasure waited.

  Violent shudders shook her body as peak after peak, each one higher than the last, revealed what she had known and longed for, was a pale vision to what was happening now.

  The scents were thick, the breathing labored. His dark voice whispered in her ear. Her heart pounded in cadence with his. Nothing could stop the storm that hurtled them toward completion. She heard his strangled cry. Her own was lost in his kiss.

  Drained, he collapsed on her. “I’m sorry, Catherine.” It was a harsh whisper. He knew he should move, but he hadn’t the strength to do more than breathe.

  It was minutes before she understood what he had said. “Sorry,” she murmured, squeezing her eyes closed. He was sorry he had made love to her? Dear Lord, how do I… what can I say?

  “Forgive me.” He managed to pull back to see her face. She was turned away as if she couldn’t bear to look at him.

  “Catherine, please, I never meant to hurt you.”

  “Hurt me?” She looked at him. The green had almost disappeared from his eyes. “Why? Why would you think you hurt me?”

  “I was rough. Too hurried. I—”

  Her hand covered his mouth to silence him. “Listen, I…” She tried to breathe evenly, but passion’s aftermath brought tiny tremors that left her so weak she could barely speak. “No. You didn’t hurt me. This was the most wonderful—”

  “Wonderful, Catherine?”

  It was strange to think she needed to reassure him. And a smile for the thought teased the corners of her lips.

  “Yes. Wonderful. Glorious. Exciting. Fireworks and—”

  “Like a Catherine wheel and—”

  “Sparks. Lots of fire.” His grin made her smile deepen. She lifted her arms around his neck. “Did you… I mean, was it…” Suddenly shy, she stopped.

  “Wonderful.” He kissed her nose. “Glorious.” His lips skimmed her cheek. “Exciting and filled with fireworks and fire, and you nearly,” he whispered against her lips, “killed me.”

  Words weren’t enough. His lips cherished her mouth. And Greg discovered he was very much alive, and the desire had not abated. It was not sated. Not even close. Desire flamed anew, despite his lingering guilt that he had shown Catherine, his new lover, all the finesse of a merchant sailor on leave.

  He redoubled his effort to be gentle and found, to both their delight, that going slowly brought sensual torment, tenderness brought her tears of joy, and laughter played a role in lovers’ games.

  As the afternoon’s shadows blanketed the room, he cradled the woman who had touched his heart within his arms.

  He knew that what he felt—and he didn’t trust himself to name it as yet—went beyond the shattering pleasure they had shared.

  He kissed the top of her head. What was she thinking? What did Catherine feel about him now?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Catherine mentally echoed his question. She lay there with her head nestled on his shoulder, content beyond words. She listened to the ever decreasing pounding of his heart and felt the gradual slowing of her own. Sensation drifted like fragments of clouds through her mind.

  She felt the wonderful, powerful, glorious feeling of being a woman who had pleased her lover. Happiness, she decided, could be touched. Her hand caressed his still-damp chest, her fingers trailing softly through the dusting of dark brown hair. His hand rose and caught hers, stopping the lazy caress, only to offer one of his own.

  She savored these quiet moments, storing all she could in memory. She was touching happiness now but didn’t fool herself, it was a fleeting thing. When he left, there would be pain, and the bleak loneliness.

  But she was too pleasure-drenched to allow dark thoughts to overwhelm her now.

  Only the thought of his leaving her wouldn’t be banished. Her life would be empty without his laughter. Even his complaints about the animals. Damn him.

  This was a terrible mistake. She couldn’t love him. Love him?

  “Catherine, what’s wrong? You are suddenly tense.”

  Love Greg? She couldn’t. She didn’t.

  He shifted so that he could look down at her. Her eyes were open but didn’t meet his penetrating gaze.

  “You appear unhappy, Catherine,” he whispered. He stroked her cheek, then brushed the hair from her shoulder.

  “No. I’m not,” she murmured, rallying herself not to reveal this most troubling thought. She couldn’t be in love with him. It wasn’t poss
ible. She offered her lips for a brief kiss, wishing they never had to move, wishing they could lie here forever, wrapped in warmth.

  With a sigh, she closed her eyes and felt him settle back down on the pillow. Catherine hoped he didn’t see her hand move to cover her heart.

  Long ago, when she and Sarah and Mary had been young ladies discovering young men, they had talked about the possibility of falling in love with someone so quickly and decided the idea was far-fetched. But it had happened, or so it seemed, to her.

  Love, she had learned, was something that people grew into over time shared learning about each other. It simply didn’t happen like this. Act in haste and repent in leisure. How many times had she told herself that? So many, she grew tired of repeating it.

  She glanced at him, seeing that he slept, and smiled. What she felt was akin to love. It wasn’t just his looks which made her heart rate soar, but all the kindness he showed. He was so secure in his masculine role that he had no need to shout and bluster, order and demand to prove he was a man.

  Love. What would it be like to love and be loved by him? She knew he adored Suzanne’s children. His sister mentioned time and again the unstinting generosity of his attentions to his nieces and nephews. Louis had wanted to wait to have children. They were too young to be saddled with them. As if she had ever thought of nurturing a child as somehow being tied down.

  But what other name could she give to what she felt for Greg? She had to accept her feelings as valid. This was all part of her new life. No one could tell her what she felt, or what to do about it. And if she couldn’t accept it and keep it secret from him, he would run back east and lose his bet with Suzanne. She never wanted to be the cause of him losing anything. Not even a moment of sleep.

  But if she said nothing, didn’t give away to him a hint of this powerful new feeling that held her in thrall, she could steal these weeks they would have together.

  And afterward…

  Afterward might be bittersweet, but she would be the only one hurt. She could survive that. She would survive that to have him as her lover. It was better than having nothing at all.

  She leaned closer to him, her sigh whisper soft. First she fell at his feet, now she had fallen in love. Strength came from an unexpected source. Memory supplied her with the changes Louis had made once she admitted that she loved him. He had ordered her life to suit himself from that moment on. She had sworn no man would have that power over her again. The fact that Greg was nothing like her deceased husband mattered little. Men were men when it came to their women.

  Her eyes drifted closed, her breath falling into cadence with his. She could dream, and she could wish, and keep her secret safe.

  In his sleep, one arm wrapped around her to draw her closer. She smiled against his shoulder, lulled to join him in the warm haven only replete lovers knew.

  “What the hell is that smell?” Greg’s curse as he bolted upright jarred Catherine from sleep.

  “Smell?”

  “It’s…oh, Lord, it’s that damn cat!”

  “Lord Romeo?” Catherine, having been tumbled to the far side of the bed, struggled to sit up. The cat was perched on the footboard, his lovely white and orange stripes covered with bits of straw mixed with… “Oh, I know that smell.”

  “So,” Greg declared as he lunged for the cat, “do I. I’ll kill him this time.”

  With an agility she was forced to admire after their hours of lovemaking, Greg, unconcerned for his naked state, went running after the cat.

  She was given no chance to explain that Lord Romeo, when feeling he’d been neglected, rolled in the manure pile.

  Dressing quickly, she snatched up Greg’s robe from his room. Really, the man had to do something about his penchant for running about the house nude. But her eyes feasted on every lithe, gracefully built inch of him.

  “Go upstairs and dress,” she said when she found him flat on his stomach in the parlor. His arms were lost beneath the settee, where he cursed as he tried to grab the cat. She heard the loud hissing and prayed Lord Romeo didn’t do Greg serious damage with his claws.

  “Greg, please, let me get him. If you want to help, put on your robe and heat some water. I’ll have to bathe him.”

  “You go rest. I’ll tend to this.”

  “Go rest?” she repeated, more to herself. Was she suddenly aged? Suddenly so decrepit by a little bed sport that she had to rest?

  “No.” His lack of response made her repeat it. Loudly. “I said no. I won’t leave. And I won’t be ordered by you.”

  His dire mutterings were all directed at the cat. She stood and tapped her foot, arms crossed over her chest as irritation turned to anger. He paid as much attention to her as he did a piece of furniture. She could have been a ghost who spoke, but he couldn’t hear.

  Greg wiggled as far as he could under the settee. Lord Romeo waited for his chance, then darted out the side. Greg scrambled up and went after him towards the kitchen with Catherine following.

  Lord Romeo sat on the windowsill, fur bristling, hissing for all he was worth.

  “That repulsive creature belongs in the barn.” He pumped furiously to fill the large kettle with water.

  “Greg, cats are very good at cleaning themselves.”

  “But he’ll remember this bath and refrain from ever rolling in a manure pile again.”

  From the pantry, he rolled out the tub.

  Catherine, keeping out of his way, couldn’t help but offer advice. “He won’t get in the tub. He won’t let you bathe him. I wish you’d stop being so…so male, and let me do it.”

  “I won’t decapitate the cat. Much as I’d like to.”

  “That remark is unworthy of you. After all, you are a gentleman. And I love Lord Romeo. If you harm him, you might as well harm me.” She skirted the table and went to stand in front of the dry sink. “Come to me, love,” she crooned to the cat, breathing through her mouth as the stench of him hit her full force.

  “Stop mollycoddling him, Catherine. It’s no wonder that animal practically walks all over you.”

  She turned at that. “My, you change moods faster than Rafe McCade can draw his gun. Who whispered how perfect I was? I did hear you say it only minutes ago. Now I’m a doormat for my cat!”

  He threw up one hand to stop her. The movement irked her to no end. She glared at him, while Greg offered a smug look.

  “Catherine, as a lover you are perfect. One thing has nothing to do with the other. You’re a woman, a softhearted woman. That,” he announced, pointing at Lord Romeo, “is a creature bent on keeping his territory. Believe me, you don’t fully understand. You’re not male. There is no more to be said. He is a small animal, and I am a strong and most determined man. There will be no contest between us. He goes into the bath.”

  Catherine bit her tongue and marched out.

  Greg watched her go with a rueful smile. But he was proven right minutes later—there was no contest.

  Upstairs, Catherine stood in the hall. There had been times as a child when only learning the lesson firsthand made an impression on her. Greg, if the horrid sounds were an indication, was learning a lesson firsthand, too.

  She turned and went into her room.

  She had just reached for her hairbrush when Greg came rushing in. “Where is he? Are you protecting that cat? We are going to settle this once and for all.”

  Looking at his drenched body, then at the impotent fury of his gaze, Catherine didn’t laugh. But she was only human. “You’re very wet.”

  “Now, there’s a perspicacious observation,” Greg muttered, tearing the quilt from the bed, then bending down to look under it. “Do you know there is a…wait a moment.” He stood holding an ecru corset. “French strip.”

  “Give me that.” She rushed to snatch it from his hands and held it tightly to her chest. “And how did you know it was a French strip corset?”

  He drew himself to his full height. “Catherine, if I answer you, I will no longer be considered a gentlema
n.”

  “Oh!”

  “Stop saying that. Now, where’s the cat?”

  “He’s not here.”

  “You wouldn’t tell me if he was.” He turned his back toward her and heard her cry out.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “What did you expect? You weren’t very clear with your warning, you know. You might have mentioned that animal has twenty legs with forty razors concealed on each one. Those few scratches on my back are minor. Look what he did to my hands. And when I get my hands on that mangy carcass—”

  “Stop. Let me take care of these for you. I did try to warn you. You were being very male and not listening.” She poured water into the basin, then drew him closer. “This will likely sting,” she said, and giving him no time started to wash his hands with soap. She was as gentle as could be, her brow knitted with concern as she washed his hands, then carefully dried them. “There’s a jar of ointment in the pantry that Mary left. But you must promise to use it twice a day.”

  Defeated, Greg went to sit on the edge of the bed. “I can’t understand it.” He swiped at his dripping hair. “He let me carry him to the tub. Limp as an old rag. Then the brute howled when I dropped him in.”

  “Dropped him?”

  “He slipped out of my hands when I grabbed the soap. He locked those damn claws wherever he could.”

  “You shouldn’t have tried it, or let him go immediately.”

  “Thank you for your concern. Let him go? Let him stink up the whole house?”

  “Greg…” She came to stand beside him. With one hand she pushed back his wet hair. “Did you let him out?”

  “There wasn’t much choice. I almost fell.” He absently rubbed his hip where it had slammed into the table. “You might have come down. You had to hear all the commotion.”

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  She returned quickly with a cold cloth wrung out for his hip and salve, which she applied to his scratches.