by Olivia Ritch
When she reached the foot of the stairs, Kathryn slowed her pace, ready to face the man into whose life she had somehow fallen. Should she tell him about the portrait? There were consequences and rewards on both sides of that argument. If she did tell him, then maybe he would believe her and offer her assistance in getting home or maybe he would think the opposite, that she was a stalker come to find herself an eligible rich widower. The possibility that showing him the picture would lend credibility to her story was very tempting.
She took a calming breath and pushed open the study door, fully expecting him to be standing like a statue with his hands behind his back.
Instead, he was lounging casually in the chair by the hearth, a book open on his lap. He stood immediately upon seeing her.
“M’dear Miss Ragland, you have joined me. I was beginning to wonder if you had forsaken our entertainments?” he inflected the words playfully and she wondered if he had been suggesting an illicit hidden meaning.
“I’m so sorry. I noticed you had a visitor so I took my time. Was that wrong?”
He bowed over her hand, released her, and motioned to the chair adjacent to the fire arranged opposite his. “No, you were quite right. That business was unexpected and I appreciate your forbearance.” She noted the brittleness in his voice. He seemed like he was trying really hard to sound nonchalant and she was very good at recognizing dissembling.
“Was there a problem, something wrong? You seem stressed out a little,” she prodded him.
“Stressed out? No let me guess, anxious, worried, concerned.
American slang you told me earlier, correct?”
“Very good, Captain, you are a fast study.”
“Fast is not a compliment.”
“Oh? Where I come from it means quick-witted. What does it mean to you?”
“Of loose morals,” he said blandly.
“Oh. Not a compliment. Very well, Captain, then you are quick witted. There?”
“Unwieldy but much more appropriate.”
The unexpected laugh lit her face and sent golden rays of light dancing from her honeyed hair and earthy eyes. She was really truly 63
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exquisitely gorgeous. Not in a portrait artist, perfect chit of the ton way, but in a dazzling, goddess, Valkyrie-like unusual natural way. He really could not believe how susceptible he had become to her beguiling face in such a short time.
“So, can I be nosy and ask about the visitor?”
“Nosy, you, Miss Ragland?” his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Michael hoped to vex her, somehow distract her into not asking why Jules had called. He didn’t know what to tell her yet as he was not one to lie but he just wasn’t ready to share any of his suspicions. He certainly did not know her well enough to suppose how she would respond to
‘someone tried to kill you in your room with poison laced tea’. Yet, she still managed to surprise.
“I-I need to know who he is. I’ve…seen…him before.”
All of Michael’s senses focused on her words. She had been in the inn, on the street, in Michael’s own house with him and nowhere else, or so she had said. None of those were places where Jules could possibly have been so she must have seen him before coming to Hawthorne. That realization unnerved Michael and that recurring pang of jealousy was unwelcome. Very real and potent, but unwelcome nonetheless.
“Do you know my friend, the Earl of Weatherford?”
“No.” She hesitated and he thought she might not answer. “Is he French?”
“Miss Ragland. I cannot follow your mind. What makes you think the Earl is French?” Bloody hell, she had seen him or known him to be French. What was she about?
“He looks like…” all the English spies that I’ve read about who blend in so well behind Napoleon’s own lines because of their gorgeous French features “…he’s got Mediterranean blood. Does he?”
“Yes, you are very perceptive. Julian Thornton’s mother was a French émigré who married the Earl of Weatherford and settled happily here in the English countryside in the 1780s long before Napoleon fully destroyed the Bourbons and made himself Emperor. She was reputed to be the most sought-after beauty of her time but was quite happy to settle here with the reclusive Earl.”
“Did the French Countess love her English Earl?”
“I understand…with a passion…” he answered wistfully.
“Her son must look very much like her.”
Demmit to hell, he was a dark Lucifer. Of course, he looked like the former beautiful Lady Weatherford. What was Kathryn about noticing Jules’ good looks? A pang of jealousy spiked swift and sharp through Michael. He had never in his life been jealous. His brother had been a 64
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jealous fool, and his cousin Harold and his Father some of the time, but he had never been jealous. He was the second son. Second sons were notoriously not jealous people. Now, he was jealous because this woman had noticed his friend.
Kathryn Ragland was a wanton houri to be asking him about another man, a beautiful one was she not? No. In fairness, she was flesh and blood, susceptible to Julian like so many were and he was envious, plain and simple. “Her beauty was widely regarded and Julian…he is well-received by the ladies.”
“I am sure he is. Thankfully, I’ve never been a fallen-angel type myself.”
Surprised, he asked, “What, you are not enamored of the Earl?”
“Well, your friend, who looks very French, is amazingly gorgeous from what I could see but in a very threatening, unapproachable way. My tastes run to earthy and wholesome.”
He stood looking at her, body turned half from her toward the fire, and she tilted her head in question. His jealousy had receded only a little but with her, for some inexplicable reason, he had to know. He just couldn’t help himself. “What of me Kathryn? What do you see?” Even as the words came from his mouth, Michael could not believe the impulses that had brought him so low. No matter, he still had to know.
Kathryn regarded him for a long while knowing her answer would reveal much more than he was probably interested in hearing but she realized on some primal level her complimenting his friend had possibly wounded his pride. She would tell him the absolute truth.
Taking a deep breath to gird her loins and calm her skittering nerves, she spoke. “You, Captain, are maybe the sexiest man I have ever met, maybe ever seen.” She stepped back, kept her hand to herself and the smile from her eyes so he could not misconstrue her compliments for making a pass at him. “You have…please don’t think I am trying to flatter you, but rather am just being honest…the most…hottest body I’ve ever seen. Captain, you’re well…you’re…melting hot. There, all that’s the truth.”
Michael had let his head fall back against the seat at her candid words about his being sexy. He wasn’t sure sexy and hot and melting were words he would ascribe to himself but they were all very flattering, warming, words of desire that made his pulse race, and his heart pound in his breast as he watched her totally comfortable recitation of his charms. Never in his life had any woman looked him in the eye and told him he was ‘the most’ anything. They had flattered, cajoled and hungered greedily for him but no one had ever unmanned him with the 65
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kind of genuine direct assessment that Kathryn had.
That she sat across from him completely comfortable with what she had done fascinated him even more. She was just being honest she said, or was it candid. She complimented Julian for his Byronic beauty but in the same breath said …
“Captain, I have just paid you a compliment and I realize that we are now well past the hour in which you promised me entertainment. What’s it going to be? Are you singing, doing a two-step, a monologue, maybe miming, piano, dueling with swords? Out with it!”
“Kathryn Ragland,” he said as he stood, then bowed with a ridiculous flourish, “be treated to a poetry reading.”
Kathryn bit back a look of surprise. “Poetry? You? Who are you reading?”
“Me.”
“You? You write poetry?” She was incredulous; it made him laugh.
“I assure you, you will recognize this as my work.
There once was a lady so fair
With golden streaks in her hair
She showed up in town
Without even a gown
And he whisked her off to his lair!”
“No way!” She laughed so hard tears began streaming down her face and he joined her because, well, her joy was infectious. “I always knew you were a predator…is this your lair? Do I need to worry?”
Michael regarded her almost stoically and replied.
“There was a lady fleet of feet
He picked her up from nearby street She questioned where he might lead
He answered that she wouldn’t bleed She fought her aches to stay astride He fought his welling desire to hide”
“Did you write that one down or just come up with it right now off the top of your head?” She was staring at him and he tilted his head and shrugged. Right now with her he was somehow acting the ridiculous romantic. He crossed the space separating them and she stood to meet him. Kathryn reached for his face and Michael turned his check to accept her palm. A lance of desire raced through the contact. He put his hands 66
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on her shoulders to bind her but in reality to steady himself from the wave of physical need that was roiling up into his breast. “I am going to kiss you very hard,” he growled, his burning eyes pinning her gaze.
“Yes,” she whispered. “You do that…and I will respond very urgently.”
He crushed his lips against hers and she melted instantly into his chest, parting for him instinctively, reaching for his nape while pulling one knee to his hip as if she was going to crawl up his front. He was stunned. Hers was the reaction of an experienced woman. She was no virgin. He pulled back from her to search her eyes.
“Michael, where I come from…this is not so foreign,” she said, her voice a low seductive whisper. “I am not going to ravish you or demand you marry me.”
“I admit, I am surprised at your…” He had pulled away from her further but did not release a loose hold on her lower back.
“Interest? Response? It’s okay. You don’t offend me. I realize it was too much for you. Can I just go ahead and tell you the truth?”
“You seem to always tell the truth Kathryn. Please.” He could not actually step away from her or relinquish her touch even though he was taken aback by her blatant sexuality, absently rubbing the length of the long muscles of her back with his hands.
“I’m not a virgin and…I like some of the activities that men and women do together, the pleasures we can give each other. But I want to make clear, if I do anything with you it’s because I want to and it feels good, not because you are the master here or that I expect anything in return. Is that clear?”
Using his catlike reflexes, he grabbed her waist and pulled her to him. “Kathryn, you are so much more…than any…than any…” he could not finish. Than any woman who has been in my life, in my home, part of me.
“It’s okay, Michael. I’m sorry I freaked you out. You are really hot you know and your poetry turned me on.”
“You are turned on? I think I like that and I do know what it means.
You want more pleasure.”
“Yes, touch me Michael. Here.” She took his hand and spread it across her belly. She moved his hand on her breasts, then around her back, and then he took over and ranged down to cup her bottom. He learned her body with his hands and he could sense she was already far gone with passion from the kiss and the caressing. He traced across her midsection to her most sensitive place and her ragged breathing was too much for him.
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Kathryn’s small hands had played over his back but since she had overwhelmed him, she had pulled back, obviously trying not to surprise him again. He needed more, to feel more. Michael grabbed Kathryn’s hand and pressed it to his erection. “Touch me,” he growled.
“Michael, you are so…hard.
She pressed her hand again and he rolled into her in response. It had been so long and she was…she was loving him so efficiently, her mouth, and those firm breasts under his palms. Trying to pull away only made her more vigorous and before he could disengage, the sensation bloomed beyond reason. He cried out and convulsed like a green lad.
“Michael?” He didn’t answer her and tried to turn away.
“Are you okay?”
“Kathryn, I-I... am so sorry.” Surely she could see the look on his face was of abject misery mixed with distinct pleasure.
“I want to hear you say you enjoyed that,” she whispered against his cheek. “I wanted to make you feel that way, Michael.” He pressed her close in a fierce hug kissing the loose curls on the top of her head and breathing deeply to recover from the heady pleasure she had given him.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Kathryn, Kathryn, you cannot imagine.”
They held each other for some time standing in his study in front of the low fire, then she slipped from his grasp and walked to the door. She turned to look at him, smiled simply and headed for her room.
Kathryn dreamed that night of riding free with Michael, thundering over the rolling hills, making love out of doors, lying splayed over his large rock-hard body and for the first time, she belonged in the picture.
She awoke the next morning with an amazing sense of calm and an annoying ache in her own most tender places.
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Chapter Seven
Michael was reading the news sheet when the door opened, having risen early to assure himself last night was no dream. What had happened had been the most pleasurable, and simultaneously lowering interlude of his life. Michael was expecting Kathryn. What he saw stopped him cold. Cassandra’s footman Jem was holding the door while his sister glided into the room gowned in a lovely blue morning gown, hair perfectly styled with a sunny smile on her gaunt face. Jem hesitated, clearly unsure where to seat her. Michael suspected that not once in the last five years had Cassandra eaten in this room. Certainly, she had never done so any time he had been here.
He jumped up rather quickly, shoving his chair and motioned for Jem to seat her at the other end. Once Cassandra was seated, Jem, who was well paid to anticipate his mistress’s needs reached for a piece of toast for her plate when she spoke. “I believe I will have eggs and sausages today, Jem.”
Stunned, thrilled, and altogether taken by surprise, Michael stared with wonder at the sight of Cassandra at the table as if it was a normal occurrence. It might have been for anyone else, just not for her.
Jem placed a perfectly organized plate in front of Cassandra and retreated. With a glance from Michael, he quit the room. “I met your guest Kathryn yesterday.” He couldn’t take his eyes off her; he was basking in the glow that was his baby sister, here at his table. “She has asked me to show her how to tend roses.”
“Roses?” He had yet to truly accept she was here and talking about the mundane subject of gardening.
“Yes, she says hers are skinny and weak and twisted while ours are
…I believe her word was ‘glorious’.”
It would be just like her to use a word such as glorious to describe his roses. His mother had tended them during his childhood but as her despair grew over his father’s failings and his complete abandonment of her, she had allowed the gardeners to take over. They were as immaculately kept as ever during her time but there was something missing to him. Kathryn would still find their natural beauty glorious.
That was like her wasn’t it? Positive, optimistic, seeing beauty everywhere.
“I do not believe I have ever met as charming a woman as Kathryn.
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She fairly bursts with life. I could not wait to join her this morning for breakfast. Is she joining us?”
“I am expecting her although she may be running late. I kept her up rather later than she is accustomed.” Her brows rose. He realized the implication. “Not that! I was entertaining her.” As her brows remained lifted, he was forced to explain. “After yesterday, when she went with me to visit the tenants, I was determined to show her a good time last evening.”
“And?”
“Of course, the only thing an old soldier can do well is tell stories so I spun her merry tales and she joined me. I believe we laughed until very late.” And then she pleasured me beyond my comprehension and I struggled to return to earth afterward.
He was grateful she let him off with that feeble explanation because they could hear footsteps approaching. Kathryn was rushing. He might ask Cassandra to tell her later that hurrying was unladylike, in the most subtle of ways of course. He wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings or curb her natural joy with life. Kathryn fairly burst in. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I overslept. Midnight is late for me and well my room is so dark and cozy.
And of course, no one came and woke me up.”
When she finally stopped talking, Kathryn took in for the first time the tableau. Cassandra. At breakfast. And Michael grinning like a Cheshire cat. As well he should.
“Cassandra tells me you have an interest in roses. Do you garden?”
“Well, Captain, I work at gardening although I’m not sure I actually garden. I mostly buy things that are already blooming and plant them and then work to keep them alive. My track record’s spotty, though.”
“And you have roses.” It was a blank statement but he recognized it for what it was. Cassandra offered it helpfully knowing Michael’s special passion for the roses his mother had loved so much.