Raven's Vow

by Gayle Wilson

  “Raven,” she begged softly.

  His eyes, shimmering with some emotion she didn’t understand—one she’d never been allowed to see before in their depths—lifted to hers.

  Considering what she’d suggested in the park about spending time with him, Raven wondered if she could mean… Slowly he denied that incredible possibility. Catherine was hurt. No longer the elegant sophisticate he’d enticed to marry him, she was as vulnerable now as an injured child. What kind of bastard would he be to take advantage of this situation, no matter how long he’d waited? Banishing the desire that had already begun to smolder deep in his body at whatever he had seen in the tear-misted eyes, he took over the task she was unable to perform.

  Catherine marveled again at his fingers’ dexterity and gentleness, despite their size. “Your hands are too large….” she began. For these absurdly small buttons, she intended to add, but somehow the thought didn’t reach her lips.

  He glanced up from what he was doing, the firm line of his lips straightening even further. “I can’t help my size, Catherine. I’m sorry you find it distasteful.”

  “I don’t find your size distasteful. Why would you say that?” she whispered.

  “Sit up,” he directed, instead of answering her question, his hand supporting her shoulders firmly.

  He slipped the sleeve of the shirt off her left arm and then very carefully off the discolored right shoulder. His eyes examined the injury and then moved over the swell of her breasts, exposed by the low, ribboned neckline of her chemise. Again his body reacted, becoming painfully hard and tight. He wanted to press his mouth into the shadowed recess between those ivory globes.

  Catherine saw his lips whiten under the pressure suddenly exerted to prevent that response, and then the breath he took before he deliberately lifted his gaze to her face.

  “Put your arm around my neck,” he forced himself to say impersonally, bending to lift her. He carried her as he had in the park and laid her on the high bed, where the covers had already been turned back. Too inviting. Too intimate.

  She had controlled her reaction to the pressure on her injured knee by biting her lip, determined not to let any sound escape this time. She closed her eyes against the pain in her head. He had put her down as carefully as if she, too, were made of Venetian glass, one arm remaining behind her back to support her until he’d arranged the pillows to serve that same purpose.

  Finally it was over, and she was in control enough to open her eyes and face him without any tears, tears he had accused her of employing to get her own way. And there was, of course, a great deal of truth in that assertion, but she would never have resorted to that stratagem to hold him if it were not for the uninhibiting effects of the laudanum.

  “Would you pull the draperies, please?” she asked.

  She watched him stride across the chamber, his masculinity out of place in its decidedly feminine atmosphere. He swept the draperies across the window, effectively shutting out the strong light and leaving the room in a dim, artificial twilight.

  When he had done as she’d asked, he returned to stand looking down on her. She hadn’t bothered to pull the sheet up. Since he had helped her undress, it seemed that in struggling to cover her body now she would certainly be guilty of the false modesty he’d accused her of. She lay very still, hoping the throbbing in her head would ease as it had before.

  “Thank you,” she said finally, thinking that perhaps he was waiting for permission to leave. After all, she had begged him to stay. She would explain that it was all the effects of the drug sapping her willpower, but now it was too much trouble. She’d tell him later, when she felt better. When everything was not so difficult and confusing. Later, she thought, the last conscious thought she would have for several hours.

  “Just where you told me it would be, Mr. Raven,” the groom said, running his hand over the mare’s rump. The furrow he had been instructed to look for was raw and ugly, cutting across the gleaming hide of the horse.

  “That old bastard,” Raven said under his breath, feeling again the horror he’d felt as he’d watched the mare racing away from him. This fear was from the realization of the tragedy that might have happened.

  “But. why anyone would shoot at her ladyship—begging you pardon, sir—at Mrs. Raven, I can’t imagine.” Jem knew that was the title his mistress preferred. She had made that clear to the staff.

  Shaking off the remembrance of his helplessness this morning, Raven met Jem’s serious brown eyes. “They weren’t shooting at her,” he said softly. To test the truth of what he already knew, he aligned his body in the same position in which he had been standing after he’d dismounted. The bullet that had cut the long gouge in the horse’s rump would have passed directly through his body had he not bent to adjust his wife’s stirrup. The marksman had definitely not intended the mare—or Catherine—to be his target.

  I’ll see you in hell…. Catherine’s father had threatened.

  Damned fortune hunter! The words had been echoing in Raven’s brain for several hours now, ever since he’d put together this morning’s attempt at murder with the proposal Catherine had made to her father about giving her trust fund to her husband. And having made that connection, John Raven knew with certainty who wanted him dead. Montfort had already tried to kill Henning for that same reason.He’d shoot you, or hire someone to do it, Catherine herself had told him.

  Deliberately he pushed away the circling memories.

  “See to the mare, will you, Jem. And keep your mouth shut. There’s no need to worry Mrs. Raven.” Turning, Raven stepped out of the stall and disappeared into the shadowed stable.

  Behind him, in the pleasant dimness of the hay-scented enclosure, the groom ran a soothing palm over the mare’s flank. Jem shook his head, a slow movement full of regret. He’d grown to like the tall American he had come to work for when his mistress had married. But as he had warned John Raven from the beginning, it didn’t pay to cross the Duke of Montfort. Especially where his only daughter was concerned.

  “Catherine.”

  Raven’s voice seemed to come from a great distance away, but she had no doubt who was calling her. She forced open her eyes, finding the artificial gloom he’d created this morning had been replaced by the genuine darkness of evening.

  “Catherine,” Raven said again, and she turned her head to find him standing beside the bed. He had discarded his coat and was dressed only in a white shirt and pale blue-andsilver striped waistcoat above cream pantaloons. Surprisingly, his hair had not been pulled back into the neat queue in which he always wore it. It was loose, its slightly curling midnight blackness long enough to touch below his shoulders. She was fascinated by the transformation. Its surrounding frame softened the harsh planes of his face. She had always imagined Raven’s hair would be straight and coarse, but its appearance tonight seemed to contradict that. She had a sudden impulse to run her fingers through the dark strands to confirm her impression.

  “I thought it was time you woke up. I brought you something that will be more beneficial than what the doctor gave you.”

  “Almost anything would be better…” she began, and then stopped, embarrassed because she could vaguely remember clinging to Raven’s hand, begging him to stay with her. “What is it?” she asked instead, attempting to sit up, only to feel her head swim.

  “Be still,” he ordered sharply, putting the cup he’d been holding on her night table. As he had this morning, he slipped his arm behind her back and held her until he could arrange the pillows to offer more support for her shoulders.

  He picked up the cup to bring it to her lips, but even when her hand fastened around it, he didn’t remove his. Instead he held it steady, her cool fingers trembling over his warm ones, allowing her to drink some of the acrid liquid the cup held.

  “It’s my grandmother’s recipe,” he said, and she heard but didn’t understand the amusement in his deep voice. “Willow tea. It will help your head.”

  “How did you
know my head hurts?”

  “Because I’ve been thrown my share of times.”

  “Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

  “I told you. If you ride enough…”

  Once again he raised the cup, resting its rim against her lips. “Finish it,” he commanded.

  “I seem to be very trusting,” she said, sipping the bitter concoction. “I’ve never heard of tea made from trees. Maybe you’re trying to poison me. Are you tired of your clinging wife already?” Because she was terribly afraid he had found her tiresome today, with her tears and her demands, she raised her eyes to search his.

  “How could I be tired of my wife? Since she thinks I spend so little time with her,” Raven said, his lips lifting slightly.

  “I suppose I deserve that. You have my apologies for that remark. You may put it down to blood loss, my dear,” she said, echoing his words to her on the morning he’d kissed her.

  “And I haven’t yet been forgiven for that, either, I see.”

  “No,” she admitted. Why deny the obvious? She had just demonstrated that his words that day had made an impression.

  “Unforgiven for the kiss or for the excuse?” he asked.

  “I enjoyed the kiss,” she whispered. Apparently all the effects of the drug had not disappeared as she’d thought. She couldn’t believe she had told him that.

  “Did you, Catherine?”

  Wordlessly she nodded.

  He replaced the cup on the table and sat down beside her on the bed. She looked up to find the blue eyes studying hers. He took both her hands in one of his large ones and held them a moment. Raven was so close she could smell him. Could feel the heat from his body. If she raised her hand, she could discover if his hair was as soft as it appeared to be. Fighting that impulse, she lowered her eyes from the contemplation of his face. She had already revealed so much today of what she felt. Feelings that she had successfully hidden until now.

  “May I take it you would like to try it again sometime?” he asked.

  Slowly she nodded, knowing how true that was and wondering if he might kiss her now.

  “And our contract?” he asked very softly. “What should we do about our agreement, Catherine?”

  “Begin again,” she suggested, raising her eyes to meet his, daring to hope that that was what he, too, wanted.

  “With new rules?”

  “Without rules,” she said, holding her breath.

  “Are you suggesting that we might have areal marriage?”

  “I know you think I’m very young.”

  “I think you’re very beautiful. Especially now,” Raven said. He touched her chin, and she turned her head, rubbing it against his fingers. “But I also think you’re very vulnerable. And I’d hate to have you decide later that I’d taken advantage of that vulnerability. We could discuss this when you’re stronger.”

  He wondered where he had found the strength to suggest that.A vow, Raven, his grandmother’s whisper reminded him. Catherine seemed so fragile now—incredibly beautiful, but exquisitely fragile, in need of his care and protection. Not his lovemaking.

  “You think I suggested that in a moment of weakness?” she asked, wondering if she would ever find the courage to tell him how long she’d thought about that possibility.

  He raised his hand to touch with one knuckle the bruised temple, the evidence of her fall a livid contrast to the clear, translucent paleness of her skin. “A blow to the head can cause all sorts of complications,” Raven said softly.

  Such as making me fall in love? she thought. How he could fail to know what she felt? Or perhaps hedid know. Perhaps…

  “Catherine?” Raven said questioningly.

  But suddenly she saw nothing of what was occurring here in her bedroom, remembered nothing of the closeness they’d shared during the last twenty-four hours. Instead she was recalling the careless phrase he had thrown at her before their marriage, as an enticement to marry him. No wonder he’d put her off with that ridiculous excuse! He didn’t want her in that way. He had told her that. Idon’t need a mistress.

  “What’s wrong? Your head?”

  She could hear the concern, undeniable in Raven’s voice.

  “It’s nothing…” Her voice trailed off, the lump in the back of her throat growing too large to speak around.

  “Are you going to cry again?” he asked, using his thumb to wipe away the single tear that was sliding down her cheek.

  Swallowing, she shook her head. The resulting jolt of pain loosened a small, involuntary, sobbing breath. She put her hand up to her temple, closing her eyes. She felt Raven’s hand close warmly over hers.

  “Catherine?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s nothing. Just silly tears. I don’t know why I can’t seem to stop crying. I never cry. I despise women who weep,” she said disjointedly, turning her head slightly to move it out of contact with his hand.

  “I don’t think anyone would deny your right to a few tears. And no one will ever know.”

  “I’ll know that I’m turning into a disgusting watering pot. Please forgive me. And now if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll try to sleep again. I think your grandmother’s tea has helped. Thank you, Raven.”

  He said nothing for a moment, his eyes again studying her carefully arranged features. Catherine was glad she was accustomed to hiding her true feelings. If nothing else, her experiences in society had taught her to school her face to reveal nothing more than what she intended it should.

  “And our discussion?” he asked finally. She seemed to be backing away from the suggestion she’d made. Perhaps he’d been right. Too much emotion. Or the drug. The blow to her head.

  “I think you’re right. Perhaps we’d be wise to postpone any decisions until I’m feeling a bit stronger.”

  His lips tightened involuntarily, but Raven allowed nothing else of what he was feeling to show. He had promised her freedom, and by virtue of their marriage vows she was entitled also to his care.In sickness and in health. The rest could wait, as he had waited. Always it would be Catherine’s decision to at last givehim freedom. To free him from the constraint of his vow.

  Catherine couldn’t tell whether Raven was hiding a smile or was angered at her about-face. If only she knew what he was really feeling! But that always-controlled expression gave away as little as she hoped hers was now.

  “Of course,” Raven said, standing to follow her suggestion. “Sleep well, Catherine.”

  He bent and touched his lips to the darkened, abraded skin over her temple. There was no pain occasioned by the gentle movement of his mouth, but for some reason she felt hot moisture begin to sting her eyes again.

  “Thank you, Raven,” she whispered, closing her lids to hide that ridiculous reaction.

  She was aware that he stood for a long heartbeat by the bed, but she never reopened her eyes to look at him. Finally she heard his footsteps cross the room and the sound of the door opening and then closing behind him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Catherine didn’t fall asleep for quite a while after Raven left. She’d already slept too long. The pain in her head subsided and eventually the urge to cry had faded.

  Lying in the still darkness of her bedroom, she had come to realize that the next step was really up to her husband. She had offered herself to him like the lovesick schoolroom miss he surely thought her to be, and now he would have to decide whether he wanted to fall in with the suggestion she’d made.

  They had both known that eventually intimacy would have to find its place in their marriage. He had never denied that he would want an heir. And that was, of course, the major responsibility of every wife—to perpetuate the family line. Catherine’s own mother had been guilt ridden by her failure to produce a son who survived infancy, and her father had been forced to lavish all his attention on Catherine, his only child. She wondered suddenly if her father had had a mistress during his marriage, especially during the long last years of her mother’s illness.

  Catherine
wished there was someone she could talk to. She had a deep longing for her mother, dead now four years. There was no one to ask what a wife—a wife who had discovered she was very much in love with her husband—did when confronted by the painful reality that he had a mistress. Another woman who shared his attentions and perhaps even his affections. Who already shared, as Catherine had not, his physical responses.

  Her thinking was no clearer with the light of dawn which she watched first brighten her window and then creep slowly across the polished wood to bring to life the rich colors of the oriental carpet. She would have to face Raven again this morning, she thought, remembering the painful images of his body in another woman’s embrace, images that had played in her consciousness throughout the night, waking and sleeping. She was not, as were the other women of her class, sophisticated enough to dismiss the emotions aroused by those mental pictures.

  She was, however, in control enough to speak pleasantly to the maid who brought her morning tea. She smiled against the rim of her cup at the remembrance of Raven’s kindness yesterday. Kind and comforting to children, she thought, the smile fading.

  “They said you were awake,” Raven said from the doorway.

  She glanced up at the sound of his voice and felt again the heat of pure physical reaction. The navy coat deepened the blue of his eyes. His hair was again neatly confined, emphasizing the hard, very masculine contours of his face, the high, white cravat a startling contrast to the bronze of his skin.

  “May I come in?” he asked politely.

  “Of course,” she said, setting her cup on the night table.

  He stood at the end of the bed and placed his hands over the curving footboard, studying her face in the morning light. “Feeling better?”

  “Much better, thank you,” she said.

  The russet eyes met his with their usual serenity, the small chin courageously raised. He had spent half the night praying that he would find Catherine recovered, again poised and in command. And the other half practicing what he wanted to say to her.