“I thought that was what you were grooming her for, to make a good match, to be some man’s bride,” Cat replied in an irritatingly reasonable tone.
“Yes, but not for years and years,” he snapped. Shrugging off her hands, he shot to his feet, any pleasure he’d felt at Cat’s touch replaced with annoyance and a strange feeling akin to panic.
He was ambitious for Meg to make a good marriage but the thought of anyone taking his daughter away from him caused a hollow ache to lodge in his chest. His little girl had been his for all too short a time.
“I know many girls wed at a tender age, but I don’t believe in that. It is wiser for a woman to be more mature, older…”
“Like around thirty perhaps?” Cat asked.
“No!” He glared at her. “But nineteen or twenty at least.”
When she had the impertinence to smirk at him, he bridled. “I have heard of many women who married later in life.”
“Or not at all,” Cat said with a rueful twist of her lips.
Martin regarded her curiously. He could only hazard a guess at Cat’s age, somewhere in her mid-twenties perhaps. God knows she could be prickly and hot-tempered, stubborn and far too independent. But for a man who had the courage to tame her, there was also a womanly tenderness to be found, to say nothing of her physical charms, those vivid blue eyes, the silky red hair, and the firm, ripe breasts. So why had she remained unmarried?
Although he expected to be rebuffed, he asked, “What about you? Did you never consider being wed?”
Was that a flash of some remembered pain he saw in her eyes? If so, she was quick to shrug it off.
“Not really. My stepfather tried to arrange a match for me when I was fifteen, if for no other reason than to be rid of me. He sought to bundle me off to a chieftain in a clan far to the north. He even had my portrait done and sent.”
Cat squared her shoulders defiantly. “Not that I would ever have submitted to such an arrangement, but happily nothing came of the scheme once O’Hare saw my portrait. It was a dreadful likeness. It made me look like a redheaded midget.”
“Er, but, Cat, you are a red-haired midget.”
“Varlet,” Cat said with a mock growl. Doubling up her fist, she took a playful swipe at his ear.
Laughing, he caught her wrist, making amends for his teasing by kissing first one knuckle, then the next and the next. The tension in her hand relaxed, her fingers uncurling. Their eyes met and locked. She splayed her hand on his bare chest over the region of his heart.
His breath quickening, Martin bent closer to brush his mouth against hers. Just one kiss could do no harm. A light friendly one, or at least that was what he intended until his lips met hers and Cat responded. She returned the kiss eagerly, her lips parting, breathing whiskey and warmth, filling him with fire.
Pressing his hand atop hers, he held her palm captive to his racing heart. This…this was not wise, he told himself, but his head no longer seemed to be in charge.
He angled his mouth to deepen the kiss, her tongue engaging his in a fiery duel. She wrapped her arms about his neck and he hauled her hard against him, feeling the softness of her breasts through the thin chemise.
They traded kiss upon kiss with a desperate hunger. Martin fumbled with the ties of her chemise, nearly tearing the fabric as he shoved it off one shoulder. He emitted a low groan, his loins tightening as he cupped her breast. Warm and supple, the globe fit perfectly in his hand.
As he trailed kisses down her neck, Cat arched back, clinging to his shoulders. She gasped and caught her lower lip between her teeth as he bent lower, fastening his mouth over the rosy crest of her nipple.
Even as he tasted her, reason fought to reassert itself. Somehow he managed to draw back, wrench himself away from her. Cat let out a low cry of protest and he dragged his hands back through his hair, feeling as though he could have yanked out a handful in sheer frustration.
Panting, they stared at each other. A red flush stained Cat’s cheeks, but the expression that stole across her features was not one of shame or modesty. Only pure consternation.
“Ah, Holy Brigid,” she cried. “What the devil are we doing?”
“I—I don’t know.”
They sprang apart, moving away from each other. As Cat fumbled to draw up her chemise, Martin reached for his shirt and dragged it over his head. Any residual pain in his arm went unnoticed due to the far greater ache in his groin.
“I am sorry,” he said, his fingers clumsy and wooden as he did up the lacings on his shirt.
“Bah to your apologies,” Cat said. “You are not the only one to blame here.”
“But I am the master of this household and for me to take such advantage of a lady beneath my roof—”
“I am not a lady and you most certainly are not my master. You are merely a man and I am a woman. What happened just now was…was perfectly natural.”
“Natural, but wrong.”
“Oh, yes, indeed. Very, very wrong. You—you have your ambitions, your Lady Danvers to consider.”
“Yes, Jane,” Martin replied, surprised by his lack of enthusiasm, appalled that he could not even conjure up an image of the lady’s face at the moment.
“And—and all I want is to return to Faire Isle,” Cat stammered. “I certainly don’t need the entanglement of—of taking a lover.”
“A lover!” Martin cried. “No, of course not. There is no question of anything like that between us.”
“So no harm done.” Cat attempted to smile. “It is not as though we are a stallion and mare in season. We both possess enough reason not to give way to such impulses again.”
“No. Decidedly not,” he agreed. But when he risked a glance in Cat’s direction, the longing that still simmered in her blue eyes was near enough to draw him straight back to her arms.
He turned away and shrugged hastily into his doublet, not paying much heed to whether he buttoned it crooked or straight. When he dared look at Cat again, she had uncorked her flask and was taking several deep gulps of whiskey.
Fighting fire with fire, he was tempted to jest. Recollecting that it was his teasing that had sparked the mischief between them in the first place, he swallowed the remark.
Instead, he said in a tone of false heartiness, “It will be light soon. We’d best get to bed.
“Alone,” he added hastily. “You to yours. Me to mine….” He trailed off, realizing he was blithering likean idiot. He just needed to close his mouth now.
Cat nodded and corked the flask. For a woman who had not appeared the least embarrassed when he’d kissed her or nibbled on her breast, she suddenly looked adorably shy.
She said, “I fear I was terribly ungrateful before. I didn’t even really thank you for this.” She hugged the flask close to her.
“You’re very welcome, but I told you. It was nothing, a mere trifle.”
“No,” she insisted. “Your gift means a great deal to me.”
“Cat, if I gave you a thousand silver flasks, it wouldn’t be a tenth of what you’ve given me. You have no idea how much it has eased my mind having you here to help me protect Meg. You make me feel as though I am not quite so much—”
Alone. He nearly said and was stunned. Until that moment, he had never realized that he was.
“Not quite so worried,” he finished lamely. Summoning up a smile, he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.
“Good night, petite chatte,” he said softly.
But he doubted Cat heard him as she darted past him and out the study door.
CAT CURLED UP ON THE WINDOW SEAT IN MEG’S BEDCHAMBER, keeping as still as she could so as not to disturb the slumbering girl. Still unable to sleep, Cat clutched her precious flask and watched the first streaks of light break over the rooftops.
Good night, petite chatte. Martin’s adieu lingered in her mind.
Little cat. Her mouth twisted in a reluctant smile. Cat would have gutted any other man who dared call her that. Why then had she allowed Martin to get aw
ay with it? Nay, even enjoyed hearing the absurd endearment fall from his lips? And why had she allowed him to give her such a costly gift?
She traced her fingertips over the silver flask and sighed. If she was going to torment herself with such unanswerable questions, she supposed she might as well ask the most difficult one.
Why had she stayed up all night waiting for Martin, frightened out of her wits that something dire had happened to the wretched man? She could tell herself her fear had been on Meg’s account, but that was only partly true.
The child would have been devastated by the loss of her father, but Cat was disconcerted to realize Meg would not have been the only one.
When Cat had fretted and worried over his absence, the thought that Martin might never walk back through that door, that she might never again see his teasing smile, hear his hearty laugh, had brought a strange tightness to her throat.
Cat leaned her head wearily back against the wall. Oh, what folly was this? Martin le Loup was a charming rogue, but she had known such handsome rogues before, and she saw too clearly all the flaws in this one.
He was stubborn, reckless, and impractical, with far too great a penchant for drama and the grand gesture. But such failings seemed of little significance set next to his kindness, his courage, his humor, and his generosity.
And his steadfast heart. He would do anything for his daughter and that was what truly worried Cat. Exactly what was Martin doing to secure this dazzling future he envisioned for his child? She still had no idea what business kept drawing him abroad at night, but she was certain it had nothing to do with the Crown Theatre.
When he had finally crept home in the wee hours, he had looked worn thin, almost haggard with whatever secret he was keeping. And this from a man who was usually so insouciant, so bounding with energy, being with him was like riding the tail of that fiery comet that still plagued the sky.
Whatever Martin was involved in, it had to be something dire and hazardous indeed to dampen the spirits of such a man. Perhaps the next time he set off at night, Cat might do well to follow him and—
What was she thinking? She had to sharply remind herself why she was here and that was not to protect Martin le Loup, but his daughter.
“The man is none of your concern. None of your concern,” she repeated to herself several times as though it were some sort of protective chant. One that wasn’t working, perhaps because her lips were still bruised and tender from the warmth of his kisses.
Christmas. It was still nearly five months away, she reminded herself fiercely. Five months in which to avoid becoming any further entangled with Martin. But Cat feared it might already be too late.
Fool that she was, she had gone and fallen in love with the man.
Chapter Fourteen
THE BELLS PEALED ALL OVER THE CITY IN WILD JUBILATION. One would have thought they signaled a great military victory or the birth of a royal heir. But it was merely the tribute that had to be paid whenever the queen embarked on her royal barge down the Thames. The sextons in each parish received extra compensation for performing this duty. It was a waste of good coin and an infernal racket all for nothing.
The English, Cat thought. But she curbed her disgust for the sake of her young companion. After weeks of keeping Meg confined to the house, it had finally seemed safe enough to allow the girl a brief outing to visit her father’s theater. The fact that she might also at last catch a glimpse of her much-admired queen only added to Meg’s excitement.
“Come on, Cat,” Meg said, tugging at her hand, urging Cat toward the throng of spectators on Southwark’s bank. Hats were doffed and handkerchiefs fluttered, as the crowd waved and cheered. A holiday mood reigned upon this warm summer’s day, but Cat was wary, ever on the alert. She studied the assembled crowd, scanning faces, especially those of the women, to make certain no one appeared unduly interested in Meg. But all eyes were trained toward the river.
As Meg dragged Cat to the bankside, Cat glanced over her shoulder, looking for Martin, and discovered that he lagged behind.
They had been keeping a discreet distance from each other ever since that night they had given way to passion and nearly mated right there in his study. Cat had taken herself sternly to task, seeking to curb her desires and her foolish thoughts as well.
Fancying herself in love with the man! A notion born of too much usquebaugh and too little sleep. But she was honest enough to concede her attraction to Martin, especially when he was looking as fine as he did today.
He was clad in a velvet doublet and the hue matched the vivid green of his eyes. His short black cape dangled gallantly off one shoulder, his tight trunk hose emphasizing the muscular contour of his legs. The feathered toque he wore perched jauntily on his head, enhancing his handsome, dark raffish looks.
He was a sight to stir the pulse of any female with good red blood in her veins. But Cat doubted the woman that Martin escorted had anything but milk water coursing through hers.
Lady Jane Danvers strolled beside Martin, her eyes modestly cast downward. They were trailed by her ladyship’s entourage, several male servants clad in livery and Mistress Porter, her maid, a sour-faced creature with gray-streaked hair.
The two women, their skirts stiffened with farthingales and their slow mincing steps, were the chief reason that Martin had fallen behind. Cat could have easily dispensed with their company.
But Lady Danvers had never seen the theater that she had invested in and Martin seemed eager to show it to her. Cat suspected that Martin was also anxious for his daughter to become better acquainted with the woman he hoped would become Meg’s stepmother.
Cat herself had been curious to finally get a look at the lady. The woman was pretty enough, but quiet, prim, and dull. Garbed in her ecru silk gown, her fair hair bundled beneath a bon grace cap, her ladyship could have faded into the hazy afternoon and never been missed. At least not by Cat.
Martin was certainly attentive enough, speaking softly into Jane’s ear. As though if he raised his voice a shade too loud, the poor thing might swoon, Cat thought contemptuously. But she could see where Lady Danvers’s gentleness and air of vulnerability would appeal to a man like Martin with his romantic notions of chivalry and flair for drama. Her ladyship was the kind of woman he could kneel before and vow to slay all her dragons.
Very different from herself, Cat reflected. I am the dragon.
She was startled out of her glum reflections when she realized Meg had slipped free of her grasp. Cat experienced a moment of panic until she spotted the girl a short distance away.
Watching her mother drown had given Meg a certain fear of water. But her desire to see the queen consumed all else, overcoming both her wariness of the Thames’s flowing current and the strangers thronging the bank.
The girl attempted to push her way through the crowd to reach the edge of the shore. Darting over to her, Cat clamped her hand down on Meg’s shoulder.
She bent low enough to growl in the girl’s ear. “Meg, you promised. If we allowed you to leave the house, you swore to keep close to your da and me.”
“But, Cat, I can’t see the queen,” Meg wailed.
And you are not missing much, Cat was tempted to retort. But she was not proof against Meg’s beseeching green eyes.
Elbowing a stout merchant in the ribs, pressing past a skinny matron and her daughter, treading on the toes of a gangly sailor, Cat helped Meg move forward. Ignoring the curses and glares she received, she managed to work Meg to the front of the crowd.
The barge was nearly past the bend of the river, twelve burly men in scarlet straining at the oars, the queen barely visible beneath her golden canopy. Cat hunkered down and hoisted Meg up onto her shoulder, not an easy feat.
The girl didn’t weigh much, but to make a good impression upon Lady Danvers, Meg was attired in voluminous skirts of her own. As Cat cautiously straightened, she could see little beyond the froth of pink silk. But she was rewarded by the sound of Meg’s delighted gasp as the girl
clutched at Cat’s head and cheered along with the rest of the crowd.
Her shoulder muscle straining, Cat held Meg aloft as long as she could. As the cheering died and the crowd around them began to disperse, Cat figured the barge must have passed from view.
As she bent to lower Meg down from her shoulder, Cat lost her balance. Teetering backward, she twisted, using her body to break Meg’s fall as they both hit the ground.
Cat bit back an oath at the jarring impact. Knocked breathless for a moment, she sprawled on her back, wincing at the jab of Meg’s elbow as the girl scrambled off of her.
“Oh, Cat, are you all right?” she cried.
Cat could do no more than nod. She had taken far worse spills in her life riding the mean-tempered ponies in her stepfather’s stables. But she had landed hard on her rump. As she sat up cautiously, she grimaced, knowing she was going to have a mightily bruised tailbone.
Regaining her feet, Meg peered anxiously down at her. “Are you certain you are not injured?”
“Only my dignity,” Cat muttered.
“And fortunately, you don’t have a great deal of that,” a cheerful masculine voice asserted.
As Martin loomed in front of her, Cat felt a hot tide of color wash up in her cheeks. She realized that in her fall, her skirt had hiked up, revealing a fair amount of leg. Before she could react, Martin tugged her hem back down. Stealing his strong arm about her waist, he helped her to rise.
She might have been tempted to lean against him for a moment, but she was too aware of Lady Danvers and her maid approaching. Cat straightened stiffly, dusting off the back of her gown, feeling very much the fool.
But Martin looked more amused than vexed. His eyes dancing wickedly, he said, “I know how you feel about the queen, Mistress O’Hanlon, but you really must try to curb your enthusiasm.”
Cat scowled at him. Before she could retort, Meg piped up, “Don’t you be teasing Cat, Papa. You know it was me who wanted to see the queen.”
“And did you finally get a good look at your great heroine?” Martin asked.
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