My Seduction

by Connie Brockway

  He’d come to tell her he was leaving her to the care of the monks, but now that he stood before her, he found himself reluctant to do so. She was so damned pretty, even pale and fragile looking, much like starlight. And just as unreachable.

  Something had changed in their relationship, a shift in her manner toward him; there was an accessibility to her that he craved to take advantage of even though he knew that to do so would be the sheerest folly. But he could not walk away. “Andromeda?”

  “The constellation,” she said with a shade of pride. “Named for Andromeda, the daughter of Cepheus, the king of a seafaring people, and his beautiful queen, Cassiopeia.”

  “Tell me more,” he suggested, half expecting her to turn him down. He was a scarred commoner and a soldier. She was a lady. She might have tolerated his company when she’d had no alternative, but surely she’d cut herself off from him now. Kindly, of course. She would rebuff him with exemplary good manners.

  “If you sit down.”

  There was only one place to sit, and that was beside her. “I would rather stand.”

  “And I would rather not get a crick in my neck. You’re very tall, you know. And you do rather loom when you are trying to drive home a particular point you wish to make, which you do often. At least to me.”

  He looked down at her, startled and was amazed to see that she was smiling. Teasingly. It completely undermined every intention he had of leaving quickly.

  “That is, unless you feel in need of the advantage afforded by your loftier position?”

  He sat. “My position is, as you well know, in every way inferior to your own,” he said gruffly. “Now tell me about Cassiopeia.”

  “Well,” she began, “Cassiopeia boasted that her beauty was greater than their neighbor’s, a lady sea goddess. Now, not only did this statement prove deplorably bad manners, but it showed an appalling lack of judgment, because Greek goddesses are not renowned for their charity. They are, however, right proficient with vengeance.”

  She grinned impishly, and he saw the young woman that circumstance kept hidden too often. It might have been better had she remained that way. This young, bright-eyed Kate was too captivating, too vivacious by half.

  “Are they?”

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded solemnly. “We mortals are pitiful amateurs when it comes to vengeance, Mr. MacNeill.”

  He did not bother arguing. He had his own notions about vengeance and his proficiency with it.

  “The offended goddess demanded that her papa, who happened to be Poseidon, penalize the mortal queen for her vanity,” Kate continued. “Being a fond parent, Poseidon agreed, forcing King Cepheus to make a terrible choice: He must sacrifice either his daughter or his country to a horrific sea monster.”

  “Unpleasant alternatives,” Kit prompted, for Kate had stopped speaking, her teasing smile fading. “Which did he choose?”

  “He chose to be a hero to his people.” She spoke in a determinedly light voice. “He had his daughter Andromeda chained to a rock in the midst of the sea to await her fate, not only abandoning her but leaving her without any weapons with which to defend herself.”

  She was no longer speaking of a mythological princess, he realized. She was speaking of herself, her sisters, and her father.

  “What happened?”

  “Perseus,” she said with forced airiness. “He was speeding along high above the earth on his winged sandals when he spied this poor, miserable girl latched to a half-submerged boulder. He flew down, demanded the particulars of her situation, and adjudged correctly that to act might prove extremely lucrative to an enterprising young hero.”

  “A born politician,” Kit said with a smile, and for a second Kate’s brittleness melted.

  “Indeed!” she agreed. “Then, as quick as the bronze on brass, Perseus slew the evil monster, rescued the girl, and accepted part of Cepheus’s kingdom as a reward. And everyone lived happily ever after.

  “Much later, when all the principals of the story were dead, the gods decided it made a pretty enough story for a celestial tapestry, and so”—her voice softened— “there she is.” One slender finger pointed out a cluster of stars. “The Chained Maiden.”

  “Did she ever forgive her father?” he asked.

  Her face remained lifted to the bright night sky. “Forgive him for what? He did what a king does. Though I don’t doubt Andromeda found that an easier sentiment to embrace once she was off her rock and safely ensconced in her rich, handsome husband’s palace.” Her tone warned him not to press further, and he allowed her the evasion.

  “Are there any others maidens up there?”

  She released a small breath. “Not yet. But soon we might see the queen, Cassiopeia herself.”

  “How do you come to know these things? I cannot imagine that astronomy is requisite in a young lady’s education. But then, I would hardly know what a young lady ought to learn.” Who was he reminding? Her or himself?

  “It doesn’t matter what she learns,” Kate murmured. “Nothing can negate her vulnerability or her dependence. Except wealth.”

  Ah, yes. The lifeblood of the aristocracy, without which nothing works, nothing matters, and nothing is worthwhile.

  She looked over her shoulder at him, and her dark hair caught the fire of the setting sun. Her lips, ever a lure and an enticement, glistened—she had been sipping water or wine—and he remembered his suggestion—his threat—that she might drink from his mouth. His belly muscles tightened with lust, and she did not know. She was completely unaware of the devastation she was wreaking on his body.

  “But we were speaking of the stars, weren’t we?” She smiled, clearly resolving not to let anything mar the conversation. Though why she should take such pains with him, he could not imagine.

  “My father was an ardent astronomer. One of my earliest memories is of sitting on his lap late at night, looking through his telescope. If the nursemaid caught us, she’d tell my mother, and then there was the devil to pay!” She laughed, and his pulse quickened in response. He wanted to feel her melt against him again, lithe and indolent with sleep—or pleasure.

  He struggled to marshal his rampant thoughts. “Did your sisters find it as enthralling as you?”

  “No.” A remnant of childish scorn touched her voice, and she must have heard it, for she wrinkled her nose in self-deprecation. “Charlotte was just a tiny baby. Sometimes Helena would appear, but she always fell asleep within a few minutes and had to be carried back to bed.

  “But sometimes Grace stayed up to see the night sky.” Her expression grew melancholy. “She was always so inquisitive and so very precocious. She used to insist she was going to buy the stars and make them into a necklace.”

  Her fingertip moved slowly across the sky, pointing out a wide swath of concentrated stars. “The Greeks called it the ‘Road of the Gods.’ He taught me that.”

  Her father. Kit hesitated, pulled by an impulse he barely understood. He knew less about the relationships between parent and child than he did about the far side of the moon. But he’d seen her anguish, her sense of betrayal. God help him, compassion filled him. He didn’t want to feel anything for her, not compassion, not tenderness, not empathy or understanding. He would accept the lust that rode him because lust was safe. Distancing.

  “He didn’t mean to leave you and your sisters, Kate. He didn’t expect to die.”

  She stiffened, but her eyes remained fixed on the sky. “He didn’t have to die. He had a choice. You said so yourself.” Her dark gaze fell to his. “Offering himself like that was… irresponsible! He owed it to us to safeguard our futures by safeguarding his life! What I would dearly love to know is, why did he chose to die for you rather than live for us?”

  He did not take offense. He understood perfectly, to a degree he doubted any other man could. She had lost those things she held most dear through what she thought of as betrayal. Aye, that he understood.

  Abruptly, her eyes widened with mortification. “Oh! I am so so
rry. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that I thought he loved us—”

  He ignored her apology. “He did. But he had to do what he”—he searched for the right words—“what he had to do.”

  “I wish I could believe that.” She looked down at her hands twisting in her lap. “I know it is wrong to feel this way. It doesn’t matter, though, does it? Right or wrong. When a person feels something deeply, logic cannot dislodge it.”

  Dear God, was she a Sybil or a siren?

  She looked over at him helplessly. “How can I possibly explain?”

  “I understand.”

  She tilted her head questioningly, her realization that someone else shared a similar burden obvious in her midnight-colored eyes. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes. Of course you do.”

  Amazingly, he felt mostly sadness rather than the familiar black current of rage that usually swept through him at the thought of his betrayal, his lost comrades.

  Kate’s eyes shimmered in the shadows. “How do you live with it? The betrayal?”

  “I don’t,” he said, his voice hardening. “I hold on to the belief I’ll find the truth and someday be able to confront the man who betrayed us.”

  “And if he’s dead? The man who betrayed you?”

  Why her? Why did this empathy, this deep, effortless honesty, have to be with her? “I don’t know.”

  “I do.” She said somberly. She leaned toward him. “Let him go. Whoever he is.”

  “I can’t. There’s a debt to pay, the debt I owe Douglas.”

  The earnest plea in her lovely face faded. “Certainly I am in no position to criticize that quality in you.”

  What did she want from him? A declaration that even if he hadn’t promised her family every effort on their behalf, that even if he hadn’t pledged an oath to serve her, he would still have done everything in his power to see her safe and cared for and content? That he would fight for her? Steal for her? Give up his life for her?

  Abruptly he stood up.

  “You’re leaving,” she said tonelessly.

  “Aye.”

  “A pressing engagement, no doubt.”

  He wanted to hear her laughter again. But another part of him wanted to hear an entirely different sound, wanted to hear her breathing catch in hunger and surrender. His gaze fixed unwillingly on the soft swell of her lower lip, the sheen of skin disappearing beneath the wool collar of her cape, the thin, blue-veined delicacy of her wrists, and the glow of her eye.

  Desire for her exploded within him so thickly that for a second his head swam with the rush of it. He had to get out of here.

  “MacNeill?”

  There was a well outside the garden walls. The water used to be icy cold. God willing, it still was. “You’ll be fine here. They’re deluded and naive, but decent men. They’ll see you fed and rested.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “I’ll be back in a few days.”

  “Will you—” She paused, her brow wrinkled. “Are you going back to that castle? Because I do not think it safe.”

  He laughed, and the lie came easily. “No. I told you. I will see you safely to your destination before I pursue my own concerns.”

  She relaxed, and his heart thundered in his chest that she had cared enough to ask, that she had worried over his welfare. It had been years since anyone had cared about his safety. There was a trap there. A snare.

  “And after you come back, we will go on to Clyth?”

  He should be thanking her for reminding him of where she was going and to whom and why. But he only felt a fire in his gut and a coldness settle over his heart.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He bowed formally, and before she could flay him with more innocent words, he left.

  TWELVE

  THE DANGERS OF FOLLOWING GARDEN PATHS

  My darling Helena,

  I beg you share the contents of this letter with Charlotte if and when she finds time in the Weltons’ hectic social schedule to visit you. You must not worry, dear, that I have only now written because my journey was interrupted by an Unfortunate Climatic Episode which has obliged us to take refuge in an unexpected and utterly charming little Scottish…

  KATE BIT THE END of her pen and considered her word. Abbey would only confirm Helena’s fears that she had been irresponsible in allowing Kate to travel without her. Tavern was worse.

  “…spa,” she wrote. And then, “ I hope, dear, that Your Employer does not impose too much on your Good Nature but I fear, knowing both you and her, that such hope is futile.”

  She hesitated.

  “You will, of course, burn this letter as soon as you have read it.”

  “You are lucky you did not develop an inflammation of the lungs, Mrs. Blackburn.”

  “Father Abbot!” Kate bolted upright from where she’d been sitting outside the greenhouse and nearly tripped over the end of the brown robe covering her.

  The abbot pretended not to notice. “I am interrupting your correspondence. Forgive me.”

  “No, no,” Kate hastily assured him. “I was just finishing a short letter to my sister, Helena. I don’t suppose there is anyone to post it?”

  “Yes, of course. We are not so far removed from the world as that. A messenger is due this afternoon. I will send it back with him.”

  “Thank you.” She looked around, uncertain what protocol demanded, wondering if she could be seated before the abbot.

  He removed the question by gracefully taking a seat on the marble bench nearby and indicated that she might return to her stool. “How are you faring, Mrs. Blackburn?”

  “Very well, sir.” It had been two days since Kit had left, and she felt entirely herself again. At least, in the physical sense. “I must thank you again for your hospitality. Once I arrive at the marquis of Parnell’s home, I will ask that he compensate you for my care—”

  “It is completely unnecessary. We are a Benedictine order, Mrs. Blackburn. Serving travelers and indigents is our mission.”

  “Indigents?” Kate echoed numbly.

  The abbot smiled. “I did not mean to imply that you were of the latter category, Mrs. Blackburn. Excuse me for being unclear.”

  “Not at all,” Kate muttered. “It is just that …since my parents’ deaths, I have been closer to that state than I am comfortable admitting.”

  “It has been difficult for you,” he acknowledged mildly, “what with your maid deserting you and your driver absconding with your carriage.”

  Kate nodded. Kit must have related her situation to the priest.

  “Added to which, you were then forced to rely upon the good offices of a man you must regard as a stranger.”

  “He has done everything in his power to protect and serve me,” she answered a little coolly.

  “Ah!” The abbot smiled. “I am glad to hear that.”

  “Why?” Kate asked suspiciously. “Do you have any reason to suppose he would act otherwise? You do not know him then. He is a most honorable and capable gentleman.”

  “Of course. How felicitous that you recognize his value.”

  “Hm.” Kate’s back, which had unaccountably stiffened in the past moments, relaxed.

  “Is there is anything else I might see you provided?”

  She hesitated. She meant only to pass the time. “Yes. Tell me about Christian MacNeill.”

  Kit’s pace quickened as he headed toward the rose garden. His trip to the ruined castle and its surroundings had been fruitless. No one had seen any stranger who might have been the man who’d accosted Kate, and Kit had found little sign of his passage other then the tumbled wall where he’d tethered his horse.

  He’d returned to St. Bride’s earlier in the day and been met at once by the abbot, who had informed him that Kate was well—“blooming,” he’d said, launching into an uncharacteristic flight of fancy. Then, at the abbot’s insistence, he had taken a bath— and then, and then, well, he hadn’t been able to stay away any longer.

  She was his responsibility,
he told himself. And therefore it was for him to judge whether she suffered any ill effects from their ride across the moors.

  “Ah! I see.” Kate’s voice drifted over the stone-walled garden. Proper little English accent, pretty round vowels and crisp consonants.

  “And these are the parts that inform me it is male? Not very spectacular, are they?” Kate sounded a little disappointed.

  What the hell was going on?

  “They don’t need to be spectacular.” Was that Brother Martin? Irascible, misogynistic Brother Martin? “They only need to do the work of procreation and that they do well enough.”

  Kit pushed open the door to the walled garden and moved silently through the tangle of shrubs crowding the entrance until he spied Kate sitting outside the greenhouse on a marble bench alongside the crabbed old monk. She was studying a rose, carefully severed in half, that had been spread on the white marble surface between them.

  He could only see her profile, but her brow was puckered in concentration and her hair, plaited simply into one long sable rope, trailed down her back. Someone had found a novitiate’s robe for her to wear over her dress—perhaps as a buttress against her womanly charms. An ineffectual effort. It did nothing but enhance her femininity.

  Clearly, the abbot was correct. She was blooming with health. Kit settled his shoulders against the stone, enjoying the sight of her: the carnelian flush on the crest of her cheek, the little bump on the bridge of her nose, the tender nape of her neck, the manner in which the clear morning light shimmered across her dark braid. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine the silken feel of it spilling over his palms.

  Happily, his two days away had restored him to his sanity. He’d thought about Kate and her appeal for him and had decided it was simply a matter of proximity and the age-old problem of wanting things one couldn’t possibly have. He’d simply been howling at the moon again. Well, no more.