Catherine shook her straying thoughts aside. She had work to do and little time to squander. She advanced on his desk, hurrying around its bulky size to squat down in front of three rows of drawers.
The bottom, she decided, eyeing the three drawers decisively. She eased it open, her arms straining against its weight.
Papers stacked to the top occupied the entire drawer. She sighed. This was going to take time. And it did.
A full hour later she laid the last paper aside and gazed out the window. She failed to notice the clouds that hovered outside promising an afternoon rain. She was steeped in thought.
Lucian privateered for England and had provided handsomely for the Crown. He had been supplied with maps and charts of every English ship that left English shores and foreign ports. He would know her father's shipping routes and the cargo they carried. He would have no trouble falsifying documents to show that the Marquis Randolph Abelard had traded with the enemy. Lucian had skillfully fashioned documentation that proved her father guilty of treason.
Catherine sighed heavily and shook her head. Bitterness consumed him like a starving animal scavenging for food. Until he quenched that insatiable hunger he would not rest.
She replaced the papers as she had found them. If there were false papers proving her father's guilt, then there were also papers proving his innocence. Lucian had said that he intended to present the papers to Catherine when he returned her to her father, so that proved their existence. But where would he hide such important documents?
A hasty check of the other drawers determined that the papers didn't occupy the desk. She glanced about the room. Where? Where would she hide important papers she would want no one to discover?
Wrong, her mind argued. Where would Captain Lucifer hide papers he wanted no one to discover?
The room was a virtual cubbyhole of hiding spots. Everywhere Catherine looked tempted her eyes to peek. Shelves upon shelves of books, chests made from bamboo or bright red lacquer and cabinets with locks, where in heaven would she start?
"Looking for something?"
Catherine jumped, startled by Zeena's voice. She was relieved it wasn't Lucian who had found her prying in his office, though Zeena's discovery of her could border on a problem.
Quickly her mind grasped a reasonable answer. "I was searching for something to read. Something entertaining."
Zeena raised her brow. "You read?"
Catherine smiled. "Yes, all women in my country and of my social status read."
"This is a remarkable accomplishment," Zeena said skeptically. "The native women here possess no such skill."
Catherine sensed the woman didn't believe her and wasn't surprised by her question.
"Demonstrate for me?" Zeena walked to a bookshelf and ran her hand down the row of books, stopping at a slim volume and slipping it out. She held it out to Catherine.
Catherine took it, opened the book and shook her head. "This is in Latin. I can't read Latin."
A sly smile tempted Zeena's lips.
Catherine didn't care for the innuendo her smirk represented. She returned the book to its place on the shelf and searched for another one. Happy with her selection, she drew the book out opened it, and began to read, "‘In the year of our Lord —’"
Zeena stared in awe as Catherine continued to read the passage from the holy book. "I have never heard a woman read," Zeena admitted when Catherine finished the passage.
"My father taught me." She felt a stab of regret. She had failed her father. She had fallen in love with a man who despised him, and she had given that man a forceful weapon to help defeat her father.
"Your father must be a special man to offer you such riches." Zeena possessed an astute nature and it pleased Catherine immensely that she so easily recognized the marquis's attributes. "He is very special to me. He encouraged me to learn and helped me when I thought I would never succeed."
"Few men have tolerance for females. They think us unintelligent creatures whose sole purpose is to please them and give them children."
"Our choices are limited. Marriage and motherhood."
"Guidance and nurture," Zeena corrected with a smile. "Wise women like us are far too superior to simply accept marriage and motherhood. We take our life tasks seriously and use our wisdom to guide our men and nurture our children. No easy tasks, but worthy ones."
The idea that Zeena thought her wise astounded Catherine and she voiced her surprise. "I never thought of myself as wise."
Zeena shrugged. "Most women don't recognize their own worth. You have accomplished much for one so young. Your wisdom will mature as you do. You are destined to become a very wise woman."
Catherine sighed. "I could use a little of that wisdom now."
"Do not hide from the truth, face it," Zeena cautioned.
"How do I know the truth?"
"Your heart will provide the answer."
"It isn't my heart I question," Catherine said with a sad shake of her head.
Zeena nodded knowingly. "Some hearts must heal before they can trust and love again."
"What if a heart remains bitter and scarred?"
"Then the love was not true. Remember, seek the truth. Always seek the truth — for him as well as yourself."
o0o
Catherine considered Zeena's words later that afternoon. She had gone for a walk in the garden. A spectacular garden designed by a horticulturist named James Bartlow, who had fled England just before his debts would have condemned him to the workhouse.
His work was sheer artistry. He had lovingly combined the island flowers with flowers Lucian must have brought back from foreign shores. The blend of color, the variety of flowers and foliage, and the intricate pathways leading to small gardens within gardens gave the impression of paradise.
Catherine favored the rose garden. It sat tucked away from prying eyes, offering solitude and beauty. The roses stole one's breath away. Every single rose in the garden was blood red.
She wandered among the rosebushes, every so often reaching out to delicately touch a fragile bloom while she allowed herself to speculate.
The truth, wherever would she find it? Many questions perplexed her. An important one being why would her father's name spill from a dying man's lips? And if there was truth to the accusation then why would a man who abhorred forced labor condemn someone to suffer it?
She shook her head, confused. Where would she more than likely find the answer?
Your father.
The thought prickled her skin. Could her father put an end to Lucian's torment?
"Lost in your thoughts, madam?"
Catherine swerved around at the sound of Lucian's voice. He resembled a sun-drenched god standing there in nothing but his breeches. And the beauty of the roses that surrounded him warred for attention with his stunning red hair, silky and shining in the afternoon sunlight.
Your father, her silent voice warned.
She guiltily cast her glance away from him. The issue of the documents, her reason for being here, must be addressed. She could no longer ignore it, pretend it didn't exist.
"Something weighs heavy on your mind," Lucian said, approaching her from behind to gently span her waist with his hands and turn her to face him.
She took courage in hand and lifted her chin. "We must talk."
"I had a different purpose in following you here."
There was no mistaking the sensuality in his voice. And suddenly she recalled her fantasy of rose petals on bare flesh when making love. The notion of velvet-soft petals teasing her skin sent gooseflesh running up her arms and a flutter to her stomach.
"Please, Lucian," she whispered, the strength of denying him and herself such pleasure fading with a glance at the flaming roses surrounding them.
"This is important to you?" he asked, stroking her slim neck.
"Extremely," she managed to answer.
His hand dropped away. "Then we will talk, but —" His words drifted off and his lips found hers.
He stole a breathless kiss. "It will be a short discussion."
Her breath quickened even more, and not from passion. She feared his reaction to her questions, she feared his unwillingness to cooperate, and inevitably, if the conflict was not resolved, her father's demise.
She took a step away from him, needing distance between them. "My father," she said, not certain where to start.
He stiffened, his shoulders appearing broader, his chest wider.
She continued. "My father is in grave danger, as you well know."
His hands tightened into fists but he remained silent.
Tears threatened, but she held firm to her emotions. She loved Lucian. Loved him more deeply then she had thought possible. But his bitterness and anger consumed him beyond reason. She had no choice. She had to confront him.
"You falsified documents that ensured my father would be accused of treason."
Fury swept across his face and he took a step toward her.
She backed away from him, his anger tangible and frightening.
He stopped. "You searched my desk?"
Her hand instinctively flew to her chest, protectively reaching for her pearls. She felt only the simple white cotton dress she wore. "You gave me no choice."
"I gave you much more," he said gravely.
It wasn't necessary for her to gather her thoughts to answer him. She smiled sadly and shook her head. "You gave me your protection, kept me from harm, but in turn —"
She paused and took a deep breath. "In turn you have made me your prisoner, kept me as your mistress, and refused me any information concerning my father's dire situation."
He took another step toward her. "Your father's situation is not as yet critical. I supplied documentation that has eased his problems for the moment. And only because you kept your word and came to me."
A wave of relief settled over Catherine. Her father, though momentarily, was safe. "He has been in touch with you."
"Repeatedly he has demanded your return."
"And you have denied him."
Lucian advanced on her again, his steps sure and steady, almost like that of a mighty predator playing cat-and-mouse with his prey. "I will not bargain for your return. You are mine until I decide otherwise."
"My father —"
His hand shot up in an angry wave cutting her off. "Will find no peace from the problems that plague him as of yet."
"He is not well," Catherine implored.
"I do not care if he suffers."
"I care, and that is the reason that brought me to you."
Another step brought Lucian to stand directly in front of her. Behind her spread several rows of fiery rosebushes, their blooms open wide, their thorns thick and sharp.
"What do you want from me, Catherine?"
His voice was emotionless, but his eyes —
They were cold, as cold as the ice that covered the pond back home in winter. She shivered even though the hot island sun drenched her with its heat.
Courage, Catherine, courage.
She addressed him with the emotions of a woman deeply in love. "I want happiness for us, but I want my father's safety secured. Please, send the documents clearing his name."
A harsh challenge gleamed from his eyes. "And if I don't?"
Catherine accepted his challenge and used her only weapon, the truth. "I have nothing left to bargain with. Please —"
She paused and then whispered. "Do this for me."
He raised his hand waiting for her to take it.
Lord, how could she love a man who wronged her father? How could her body flare to life by the simple summons of his hand? How could she crave him so unabashedly that nothing mattered at the moment — not even her father.
She felt ashamed, not of her need for him and not of her failure to her father. She felt ashamed that she had failed Lucian himself. She had hoped to heal his heart and soul with her love. A love so strong that no bitterness, hurt, or anger could stand in its way.
Don't give up. Never give up. Her father's voice challenged her.
Catherine shoved his hand aside and threw her arms around his waist, hugging her face to his bare chest, resting her warm cheek near his heart.
Lucian wrapped his arms around her and spoke softly. "I can promise you nothing, angel." And with those words spoken his hands moved along her white dress and slowly dragged it up her trembling flesh until he yanked it completely off her, leaving her naked and vulnerable.
He then stepped back and out of his breeches and once again summoned her to him. "Come to me."
The scent of roses grew heavy around her and heat rushed through her body. She trembled and stepped toward him — collapsing in a dead faint.
Chapter Twenty-three
Catherine woke from her faint in Lucian's bed upstairs. A linen sheet covered her naked body and Lucian sat beside her on the bed, his breeches back on.
He patted her forehead with a cool cloth. "Feeling better?"
She nodded though her stomach felt queasy.
"I didn't mean to upset you, angel."
"It was the heat," she attempted to reassure him.
"Possibly," he said, and returned the cloth to the ceramic bowl on the table beside the bed.
She sighed and moved uncomfortably beneath the covers, her stomach rumbling.
"You aren't feeling well, are you? His voice held concern and sympathy.
"I feel tired and my stomach is upset," she admitted, realizing she wanted nothing more than to slip into a peaceful slumber and forget all her problems and her troublesome stomach. She wanted to get away from the world if only for a couple of hours.
Lucian smoothed the covers over her, and then stood. "Rest, I will send Zeena up with some mint tea to soothe your stomach." He turned to go.
She weakly called out his name. "Lucian."
He returned to her and took her outstretched hand.
She pulled him to her and kissed his cheek softly.
"Rest," he ordered sternly, and hastily left the room.
After seeing that Zeena would look after Catherine, he walked to the beach, stripped off his breeches, and dove into the sea. He swam like a drowning man attempting to save himself.
His hard-muscled arms sliced the water with the strength of a mighty oar and his legs propelled him with the speed of a ship that caught a gusty wind.
He needed this exercise, this draining of his strength, this punishment of his body. With every stroke, with every aching muscle, he thought of Catherine and the pain he had caused her.
She asked only for her father's safety. She asked nothing for herself, instead she gave freely of her love to him. She loved him, Captain Lucifer, without any restrictions. And what did he offer in return?
Lucian dragged himself out of the sea to collapse on the warm sand. He closed his eyes against the glaring sun that beat down on him, and gave freedom to his troubled thoughts.
He offered only anger and bitter resentment to Catherine, and why? Because she was Abelard's stepdaughter.
Santos had been right. He had allowed his hatred for the man to consume his life and in so doing he blinded himself to all things but his revengeful need.
He had been unable to see Catherine's purity, her innocence of heart, her ability to love so unconditionally. He had even failed to note her intelligence and courage when faced with such a monumental task of protecting herself against the infamous Lucifer.
He recalled her strand of pearls, her protection. And how she had released them that evening from her hand, presenting him with the precious gift of her trust and her virginity. And what had he managed to do? Cause her more pain and worry.
Was the revenge he craved that necessary to his future? Or was Catherine his future? Could he forget? Could he allow himself to love her without regret, or would the past always surface to haunt him?
Since his return home with Catherine his nightmares had disappeared. He found himself forgetting this bitterness and looking forward to his days while ye
arning for the nights. He loved waking up in the morning with Catherine cuddled against him or wrapped around him. He enjoyed their daily swims, their shell-hunting expeditions, their trips to the market square where she easily made friends with the islanders. And where she laughed and excitedly inspected the island jewelry and bright printed material and tried every fruit available.
She belonged here with him on his island, and every message from Abelard had been a warning that eventually Catherine would leave here. Leave him unless —
He sat up staring at the deep blue sea, the brilliant yellow sun that hovered in the clear sky and the seabirds that squawked before diving into the water to claim their food.
This was home and he loved it. He wanted to live out his life here, raise a family here, and marry Catherine here.
He stood, his decision made. It was time to bury the past and move on. He would clear her father's name and then offer Catherine marriage. His proposal would be made without restrictions. Except one.
He would hear Catherine once again saying "I love you." He smiled and walked to the water's edge eager to wash the sand from his body and shed the last remnant of his past.
Lucian returned to the house to find another letter from Abelard waiting for him.
Santos followed him into his study after handing it to him.
"Catherine?" he asked, breaking the seal on the letter.
"Zeena has seen to her. She gave her a special blend of teas that will help ease her stomach and allow her to sleep comfortable."
Lucian nodded. "Good, I was concerned she was taking ill."
"Zeena thinks it's just a mild upset stomach."
Lucian's expression changed from concern to anger. His lips tightened, his jaw grew rigid and his eyelids flared with fury. "Abelard has discovered that I privateer for England. He correctly assumes that was how I was able to provide false evidence to the Crown concerning his so-called illegal activities. He suggests that for whatever reason I seek to destroy him, to do so and be done with it. But he implores me to spare Catherine. He writes eloquently of her innocence, her love for people, for life, for simple pleasures. He begs that I don't rob her of her innocence."
"He's willing to give his life for hers, exchange Catherine for him. They appear to care deeply for each other," Santos said, watching the play of mixed emotions cross Lucian's face.
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