“Satisfied?” he asked.
“I saw a slave once — like this, but never—”
“Never a white man? But then, sweet Catherine, I trust you have seen few white men without their clothes — Forgive me. I made a vow to remain impersonal. It seems I cannot, with you. No, the scars were a gift from my father. He had a penchant for the whip. No doubt you will have heard he killed Mother in that way? It was not his intention, but it is true, all the same.”
“You need not explain to me,” she said hurriedly.
“Because you think we will never meet again, other than as the most distant of acquaintances? Do not be too sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have a theory—” he said slowly. “But in case I’m wrong — I will keep it to myself.”
Though she had said there was no need for an explanation, she was disappointed when he passed over it. She was also annoyed that he refused to answer her question.
“I am sorry. Monsieur, but I am afraid it will be impossible for us to meet on terms of friendship,” she told him evenly.
“I agree. Nothing so pallid. I had the best of intentions, but if you intend to refuse to acknowledge me in the future, perhaps it is time I made the most of my opportunities.” There was humor in his voice, but she did not care for the look in his eyes as he came toward her.
“So demure, sweet Catherine. All helpfulness and concern. And completely unaware of the firelight shining through the thin stuff of your gown, or the soft press of your warm curves against me. Such an innocent temptress, such a tempting innocent.”
“Please—” she said taking a step backward. “You wouldn’t? Not now?”
“Does it matter so much? Now? Is it such a large thing to ask — in remembrance?”
“At least before you did not know—”
“No, I did not know,” he interrupted, smiling, giving her words an entirely different meaning.
She knew what the panther’s prey felt like now, she thought wildly, as she retreated. She knew that mesmerized fear, the invidious weakness, allied to a strange and frightening willingness to be caught. As that realization struck her, she whirled and ran. Sharp pain drove into her foot before she had taken a second step, and she lurched off balance, falling.
Navarro caught her in a wrenching grasp that made him draw in his breath.
“Your stitches,” she cried. “You’ll tear them out.”
“Not if you will be still,” he answered on the ghost of a laugh. He lifted her onto the bed, dropping down beside her.
She twisted away from him, bending her knee to peer at her foot. “I think there is something—”
She had stepped on one of the jet studs that had been stripped from Navarro’s shirt when he removed it. A prong that held the stone in place had embedded itself in the skin of her foot, but to her chagrin, it did not even bleed when Navarro plucked it out. He held it up for her inspection, then tossed it carelessly onto the table, soothing away the ache with his thumb.
Catherine felt the impulse to thank him, but gratitude did not seem to be an emotion she should be feeling toward someone with the intentions of the man beside her. But did he have any such intentions after all, she wondered, for he rolled away from her, flinging one hand above his head on the pillow while the other pressed against the bandaging at his side.
She watched him a long, cautious moment. When he did not move, she asked, “Are you all right?”
“I’m not sure,” he murmured.
“So it is bleeding again.”
He did not answer, only allowing his hand to fall away.
Catherine raised on one elbow, and leaned over him, testing the tightness of the wrapping, searching for the stains of fresh blood, finding nothing.
“I don’t see—” she began, and then her face was seized and she was drawn across his body to meet the hard, triumphant pressure of his lips.
“You, my sweet Catherine, could give a man his coup de foudre,” he whispered against her ear.
“Let me go,” she hissed, “or you will think a thunderbolt has struck you indeed!”
“I will let you go — only to remove this nun’s habit.”
“Never,” she cried.
“It is a matter of indifference to me,” he said with a faint shrug, “whether you go home with it torn, or whether you go at all—”
“That’s blackmail,” she said, jerking violently away from the trail of kisses he was blazing across her throat. Instead of winning free, however, she only landed herself on her back with Navarro above her, and the hem of her underdress twisted about her knees.
Navarro placed his hand on her thigh and began slowly to ease the material upward. “I believe you are right,” he agreed pensively, his narrowed gaze almost unreadable through the thickness of his lashes.
Catherine stared into his eyes, suspicious of that masked laughter. More in disbelief than outrage she whispered, “How can you?”
“Easily,” he answered, and the light was blotted out as his face came down and his mouth covered hers.
The agitated babble of voices was muted by the walls of the closed bedchamber. The two on the bed had only just become aware of the commotion when the door burst open to crash against the wall.
Marcus, his arm in a sling of black silk, entered with rapid steps, and a slightly nonplussed expression as if he had expected to find the door locked.
A female figure in mauve-gray stood in the opening. She surveyed the pair before her with a supercilious gaze from hard, black eyes. “Charming,” she drawled. “Dare I suggest that we are quits, my dear daughter?”
The manservant, a gray tinge to his skin, slipped into the room behind Yvonne Mayfield. “I am sorry, Maître,” he said, lifting trembling hands. “I tried to keep them out, but they would not heed me.”
Navarro made an absent gesture of dismissal, then sat up unhurriedly, giving Catherine time to adjust her bodice and push the hem of her gown down. He spoke only after the door eased to behind his servant.
“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
Marcus, his gaze taking in the conditions of the room with its signs of shared intimacy, brought his attention to bear with a start. He allowed his mouth to curve in a sneer. “Surely that is obvious — by now.”
“Do I detect a question,” Navarro asked with a bored expression. “Can it be you are in doubt? That you wish to know if you are too late? The answer is yes, much.”
The fists of the other man clenched and he took a step toward the bed, only to be checked by a low, throaty laugh.
“You were always a daresome devil, Rafael. But you must not torture poor Marcus. He has suffered through hell enough this night, as have I. His remorse knows no bounds — or ends. Isn’t that true, Marcus?”
At this prompting, Marcus turned from Navarro. “Catherine,” he said earnestly. “I cannot tell you how much I regret this, how sorry I am that I involved you in something that has brought you such shame and dishonor. I will do everything in my power to help you forget, to make it up to you, somehow. I acknowledge that the fault is mine and mine alone. I want only to spend my life atoning for it, if you will consent to marry me.”
Catherine did not know how to answer. Embarrassment at Navarro’s frankness had thrown her thoughts into chaos. More than anything else, she wanted to be alone to sort out her feelings, to repossess herself, to think in quiet solitude of what had taken place and what she was going to do about it. But the man in the bed beside her did not give her the chance to even put that much into words.
“Very noble,” he said to Marcus in a grating voice. “But then you should be used to taking the women I leave.”
Even Yvonne Mayfield gasped at the blatant cruelty of that insinuation. Catherine felt suddenly cold inside. Her sense of recoil was such that she edged away from Navarro where he leaned, apparently at his ease, against the headboard.
“Navarro — before God—” Marcus protested, his gaze going to Catherine’s whi
te face.
“You’re very protective of a sudden, are you not?” Navarro told him. “It is to be regretted that you did not have a thought to her care and safety earlier. Now, it may be that I have a naturally suspicious nature, but I find your ready sacrifice hard to credit — except, of course, that a rich wife whom you have saved from certain disgrace must be forever grateful. That, I find, makes excellent sense when applied to you, Marcus.”
“Are you insinuating that I have offered to marry Catherine for the sake of her fortune?” he demanded, a mottled flush of rage on his cheekbones. “Why, if it was not for this injury I would make you regret those words!”
“By all means. Don’t let that prevent you. I never let such a small thing interfere with my pleasure.”
“Mon Dieu,” Yvonne Mayfield breathed, and moved to stand at the side of the bed near her daughter. “And I was very nearly envying you, my poor Catherine. Take my hand. Come away with us. Pay no heed to this barbarian, this panthère diable.”
But Navarro reached out, imprisoning her wrist. “Not so quickly. I believe Catherine will find what I have to say of interest — as might you, Madame, if you care at all for your daughter. They say at the Exchange that Fitzgerald is run off his feet, his creditors sleep before his door, and his note of hand is no longer accepted in the gaming rooms. Doesn’t it strike you as strange to find this man arranging an elaborate compromising situation around a girl of wealth? Think of it.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Marcus said in a strained voice. “He bears me a grudge and will do anything to strike back.”
Navarro ignored him as if he had not spoken. “Taking advantage of a distraught moment, he persuaded Catherine to attend a quadroon ball with him, but made no provision against a gossiping coachman and little for any of the men known to her who could be expected to penetrate her disguise on close inspection. In fact, there might have been a plan for just such an accident, for some friend of his to ‘recognize’ her and blurt out her name. The position would have been the same as now, with Marcus contritely offering his hand in marriage — except for my advent on the scene. But he is prepared to stomach even that for the sake of the riches that will be his as Catherine’s husband.”
Yvonne Mayfield turned a shrewd look in the direction of the other man. “Can this be true?” she asked. “Clever, and so very plausible, considering my daughter’s impetuous nature. I suspect I even contributed my share toward its success, did I not?”
“It’s a lie,” Marcus said, appealing to Catherine. “It was foolhardy, perhaps, to risk so much, to allow you, Catherine, to risk it also — and I will admit it was stupid of me to overlook the coachman — but it was no more than that. I never foresaw such serious consequences. I did not plan it, please believe me.”
Catherine’s mother stared at him a long moment, her face, with its hint of soft roundness, unreadable. Her movement, when she turned to Navarro, held a studied grace, but there was a marked absence of her usual sultry undertone when she spoke.
“So far as I can see, it matters little what Marcus intended. The harm has been done, and now we must bend our minds to repairing it. Marcus offers a means to this end. The only one that presents itself, so far as I can see.”
“Do you nurture hopes of a second declaration, my dear, Madame?” Navarro asked.
“Tell me they are unfounded and I will hope no more, but I had more faith in your sense of spite than that—” She frowned. “Though if that is your object, I’m afraid I find you maladroit.”
“Ah, but I depend upon your support, Madame,” said Navarro.
The eyes of the older woman flicked Marcus with veiled contempt. “And you shall have it.”
Catherine, listening to the exchange, seeing the glance of understanding that passed between Navarro and her mother, wondered what they were discussing. They seemed to have come to an agreement of some kind. Resentment began to rise inside her.
“Catherine,” Marcus said, trying to come nearer, blocked by the formidable figure of Yvonne drawn up before him. “Don’t let them turn you against me. I have loved you so long, so patiently. Haven’t I asked you to be my wife many times before this? I want to care for you, to protect you, and, if tongues wag, to have the right to still them for your sake. Give me that right, Catherine. Say you will be my wife.”
It was an affecting speech. If she had never heard Navarro’s theory of Marcus’s machinations, she would probably have given him the answer he wanted.
“I’m sorry, Marcus,” she said, shaking her head. “I have no wish to be wed. And I cannot help but feel that all this — is a little premature.”
“You heard,” Navarro said beside her. “You have your answer, and so there will be no mistake, I will add this. What I take, I hold. And I protect my own. Though I forget, you need no reminder of that, do you?”
The certainty of his words and the possessive grip on her arm grated on Catherine’s nerves. With a quick twist of her wrist, she freed herself and slid from the bed, careless of modesty in her need to get away from the overwhelming presence of Navarro.
“Catherine—” Marcus pleaded.
But she shook her head, pushing her skirts into place as she moved only to halt as the slim, chestnut-haired man exploded with laughter.
“You—” he said chokingly, pointing at Navarro. “You marry her? That’s carrying vengeance a little far, even for a Spaniard. But I would take care. You go too quickly. First you must obtain the lady’s consent.”
“A problem that need not concern you. You have had your conge. And now you will forgive me if I find your presence a trifle de trop?”
There was nothing for Marcus to do but execute his bow and take his leave. He did so with ill grace. They heard his bootheels pounding along the hall and down the stairs until the door slammed behind him.
“Bien,” Yvonne Mayfield said. “Good riddance to that one, so it would seem.”
“Uncharitable, are you not?” Navarro asked, rising from the bed with a lithe ease, and moving around it to stand leaning against the footboard.
“No more than you,” the older woman replied. “But I suppose my disappointment is not as great an excuse?”
“If you are disappointed, it is your own fault,” he told her cryptically.
Yvonne sighed. “Yes, I imagine you are right I did encourage him to dangle after Catherine. We are all of us fools at times.”
“If you are referring to me—”
But Catherine’s mother shook her head. “No, no. I — will leave you now. I see no sign of a wrap that I would permit Catherine to wear, but my own cloak is downstairs. I will fetch it. Then, if we may command your escort home, we may manage to brush through this affair with a measure of dignity.”
Catherine had seldom seen her mother so dispirited or subdued. She watched with a sense of wonder as, with her back straight, Yvonne Mayfield disappeared through the door.
“A perceptive woman, your mother,” Navarro said.
Catherine slanted a brief glance in his direction. Did he think she should be grateful that her mother had left her alone with him? She was not. She had nothing to say to him, now, or ever.
When Navarro began to walk toward her, she shied nervously and would have retreated if he had not reached out to restrain her. She resented the hand he placed on her chin, tilting it so that she faced him, but she stood still in his grasp, staring straight ahead.
“There are shadows under your eyes, ma petite. You are weary, are you not, too weary to be practical or cold-blooded. Too weary to think straight. Shall I give you the opportunity, the undoubted pleasure of throwing my offer back into my face? It would raise your spirits, I’m sure, to be able to do so. But no, I think not. It would not do to force you to make a stand, one from which it might be hard to negotiate a surrender — No, I will not ask you to marry me, sweet Catherine. Go home. Go home and hate me. It is better than crying. Hate me, and realize finally that the insults I have spoken here in this room forced the truth into the
open. They saved you from marriage to a man who would have tricked you into a shameful and loveless alliance for the sake of your fortune. Think, petite, and forgive me. Then sleep.”
The touch of his lips was tender on her eyelids. She felt the weight of a cloak wrapped about her shoulders, and her mother’s arm around her.
Blindly she moved from the room and down the stairs. And, when she left the house, the fresh air of dawn was cold against the wet tracks of tears down her face.
5
An endless cadence of remorse rang in Catherine’s ears. After a time she recognized Dédé’s voice coming from a distance, perhaps in the next room.
“Oh my baby, my innocent, my Catherine. I deserted her, Madame. I left her to the hands of that man. Why? Why did I not go with her? Why did I not see that she would do something desperate? Ma petite enfant, ma pauvre jolie petite fille. I have failed her. I have failed you, Madame Yvonne. I will never forgive myself. The fault is mine. All mine — I will carry the grief of it all through my life. Punish me, Madame.”
The nursemaid had put Catherine to bed the night before with all the clucking and scolding of a mother hen recovering a lost chick. Catherine had found neither the strength nor the will to explain what had happened. Morning would be soon enough. Now it seemed morning had come, but her mother had taken the burden of that chore upon herself.
“Forgive me, Dédé,” Yvonne answered, her voice calm, “but I cannot allow you the luxury of accepting all the blame. A portion of it must be mine.”
“How can you say so, my madame? You are an angel.”
“With slightly tarnished wings. I am aware of my weaknesses, Dédé. I have no need or desire to deny them. We both failed Catherine last night. We cannot fail her again. Something must be done.”
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