He thought of the last words she had uttered, that what they had done was wrong. He knew that as well as she did. He should not be harbouring any kind of romantic thoughts about her and knew very well that he should not kiss her again.
* * *
With the noise of the inn below, Catherine climbed into bed, hoping that sleep would soon claim her. But her head was too full of the day’s events and what would be waiting for her when she reached London. Thoughts of John soon invaded her mind and she was shocked by the force of her feelings. She closed her eyes tight in an attempt to banish his face from her mind, but she could not banish the essence of the warm animal magnetism that had filled her when they were together, when his lips had kissed hers. When her eyes had flickered open his lean and handsome features had been starkly etched. A strange feeling, until that moment unknown to her, had fluttered within her breast and a flood of excitement had surged through her.
Her face became soft and wistful as she stared at the shadows created by a solitary candle burning on a table by the window. Her arms hugged her slender waist, as if they sought to simulate a lover’s embrace, which was but a memory of their kiss. Breathing deep and closing her eyes, she felt again the ache in her breasts when they had been crushed against John’s hard chest and the warmth of his breath against her lips.
She felt bemused, utterly and completely bewildered by her feelings, by her emotions, which made her so unsure of herself. What was the matter with her that she should desire the embrace of a man who had not appeared in her life until three days ago? Why was she so conflicted? And how different he was from Thomas. She had been Thomas’s wife and had found no softening in her heart for him, yet now her mind envisioned the dark, handsome face of the man who had taken her from Carlton Bray.
Thomas’s rough, careless handling of her when he had taken her to his bed had left her scarred, this she knew, but since she had met John, ever since she met the flesh and bone of the man, she had felt there was more to it than she could ever have imagined. When John had taken her in his arms he had aroused feelings inside her in the most startling way. She did wonder what her life would have been like had she married John instead of Thomas. As soon as the thought took hold she reproached herself. She told herself firmly that she was no starry-eyed girl. She was cautious now. Wiser. It would not do to think along those lines. To show emotion was a weakness and if she was to avoid putting herself in the power of John Stratton it was imperative that she kept her feelings closed at all cost.
* * *
The following morning—Catherine having slept so badly from her lumpy mattress and feeling so little rested that she was up before cockcrow—they left the inn as soon as they had eaten. The rain which had been falling for most of the night ceased as the coach pulled out of the inn yard. The sun broke through the clouds and sent them scudding back to the east, giving way to a huge sweeping canvas of blue sky. In order to make good time, they travelled at speed, stopping only for the briefest of meals and to rest the horses.
Alone for long hours inside the coach, her eyes were constantly drawn to John when he rode alongside. An unaccustomed warmth stole through her when she remembered their embrace of the night before, the awareness of her body coming alive beneath the caressing boldness of his lips and the pleasure this had given her, making her aware of her own body’s weakness and its readiness to betray everything she fought against. Sensing her watching him, he would meet her gaze boldly. His own held a silent challenge, seeming to possess a keen ability to know the reason for the confusion which would swamp her at times and cause her to flush crimson like a young girl and avert her gaze.
* * *
It was when they took respite from the journey that John found himself alone with Catherine. She was outside the inn, sitting on a low wall, her woollen cloak drawn close about her, waiting for their journey to resume. He sensed that what they had done the night before continued to concern her and he could not blame her. He was astounded to discover how close he had come to losing control. Catherine affected him deeply. Her openness drew a whole new response from him and, after many years of war and riding from one end of the country to the other, he felt a peculiar kind of freedom that was entirely new to him, a process that had begun when a woman attired in breeches had walked into his life. But from the very beginning he had vowed that his emotions would not become involved. She was newly widowed. He could not make her the instrument of his desire.
Sitting beside her, he turned towards her. ‘I want to apologise for my behaviour last night, Catherine. You were right. It was madness and not what I intended. I think we let the moment get the better of us.’
‘Yes, I think so. You took a liberty. Do you make a habit of kissing recently widowed ladies?’
‘Not usually,’ he said, taking her hand and contemplating her slender fingers, relieved that she did not snatch it away. ‘In truth, you are the first—and the last, I expect. It was a mistake. If it were to happen again, it would spoil something that I value highly—our friendship. I respect you and your privacy, yet I realise that what I want to do offends against both of us. We neither of us conform to what convention demands. Freedom, no encumbrances, clearly appeals to us both.’ He kept an edge to his voice, but his expression revealed nothing of his thoughts and his eyes were carefully guarded. ‘That must not happen, not when we are soon to part.’
‘No, it must not.’
John sighed heavily, seeing her fine-boned profile expressionless as she stared straight ahead before she turned her head and her clear green eyes held his own. He had known no other like her and could not help but wonder at the grit of her. ‘You are a courageous woman, Catherine. I feel deeply the burden of your present predicament and I am concerned about you. I feel that despite your outward show of bravado, you need protection.’
‘Thank you, John, but you needn’t feel under any obligation. Do not be anxious on my account. If I can survive the ordeal of the past four years at Carlton Bray, I can survive most things.’
‘I made my assessment regarding your success at doing that the first day we met. You have developed a strength and independence that is a rarity indeed in the women of my acquaintance.’
She smiled, looking down at her hand still held in his. ‘I suddenly realised that, were we to have remained longer at Carlton Bray, I would be in danger of becoming too dependent on you. The aftermath of the terrible days when the castle became the focus of Parliament forces had left me feeling cast adrift and it was too easy to surrender to your embrace.
‘It wouldn’t have been at all difficult to carry on kissing you, but you are right. It would be best not to do anything to destroy our friendship—although I cannot deny that I enjoyed the kiss.’ She tipped back her head and laughed, her eyes alight with mischief. ‘I doubt I would raise any objections if you were to repeat what you deem to be an offence against us both.’
She faced him, slender and proud, and when she laughed like that John caught his breath at the promise she gave of unfettered, vibrant woman. His mouth quirked in a half-smile as his heavy-lidded gaze dropped to her soft lips, lingering hungrily on her mouth.
Suddenly his face became sombre. He continued to hold her hand. Catherine looked at him, sensing a change in him. ‘John? What is it? You look very serious all of a sudden. Is something wrong?’
He shook his head. ‘No—at least, I hope not. There is something I think you should know before we reach Oakdene, something your father should have told you, but I suspect, for reasons of his own, he has omitted to do so.’ He wanted to tell her the truth, wanting not to hurt her while knowing she would be when he disclosed what had been quietly troubling him since meeting her.
A coldness entered Catherine’s veins and something crawled along her spine, touching an instinct, a premonition of impending disaster. ‘Tell me. What is it, John?’
‘Blanche gave birth to a child, James, three years ago. The fact that
you haven’t mentioned him tells me that you are ignorant of the fact.’
Feeling as if the breath had been knocked from her body, rendered silent, she looked at him with blind incredulity. ‘I am. A—a child—my brother?’ What she felt brought a stabbing pain to her heart and tears sprang to her eyes. She had a brother—a half-brother—and no one had bothered to tell her. ‘I see. It shouldn’t be such a surprise discovering that Blanche has a son, but why have they kept it from me?’
‘It was not my place to tell you, but I am of the opinion that you should know. It will be less of a shock when you arrive at Oakdene if you know about it. Your father should have written to you to tell you the happy news.’
‘He did write—four years too late and summoning me to London, with not a mention of a son. Have you seen him—James?’
‘No. Whenever I’ve been at Oakdene he was secreted away in the nursery.’
‘Father should have told me. He must have known that I would find out eventually. Thank you for telling me, John.’
‘People take different views on things like that. After the past years of strife I suppose there are those who think it’s better to get through life as easily as one can—and if ignorance is more soothing than knowledge, then let us remain in the dark.’
‘That is a strange philosophy. Do you approve?’
‘Clearly not, otherwise I would not have told you. But I am sure there are many things you have opinions about, Catherine, and my approval or disapproval is not one of them.’
The moment was interrupted by the coach driver waving to them, indicating that they were ready to move on. John released her hand and they stood up.
‘Come. We have a journey to finish.’
Mounting his horse, John felt a deep, unutterable sadness. The pain inside Catherine must be terrible and for the first time since he had known her father, Edward Kingsley, he felt anger towards him for ignoring his beautiful daughter for most of her life.
* * *
For the rest of the journey, preferring not to dwell on the news he had just imparted, but on the evening before when he had held Catherine in his arms, John derived immense pleasure from the memory he carried with him. Not even the succulent meal he had devoured at the landlord’s table before their departure could compete with the comeliness of Catherine’s adorable assets. On a more serious note, he knew he must fight to keep tight rein on his desire where she was concerned. He was in no position to form any kind of relationship with her until the outcome of what he knew was waiting for her at Oakdene House had been resolved.
Chapter Four
Catherine sat in the gloom of the coach, the shafts of winter light through the small window reflecting her mood. Everything outside was muted as though to match the feeling in her. She tried to feel pleased that she had a sibling, but she was terribly hurt and disappointed that no one had thought to tell her about him.
The air was filled with an early winter chill as they passed under the gatehouse into the well-maintained grounds of Oakdene House, a mile south-west of London. A wide avenue of stately oaks led to the house. Built in warm red brick, its lines pure and simple, with tall lead-paned windows, the sight brought a hard lump of emotion to Catherine’s throat. Her gaze swept over the exquisite gardens which her mother had loved so much. They consisted of green lawns and clipped box hedges, of flowering shrubs and trees with variegated leaves and a charming little summer house.
The coach pulled up in front of the house, the horses steaming from their exertions. Her heart beating in hard thuds of trepidation, Catherine climbed out. The massive oak door was opened by a male servant she did not recognise. The loyal staff who had served the Kingsleys over the years had dwindled somewhat since she had left, but some of the faces she would recognise.
As she stepped into the wainscoted hall with its gleaming parquet floor, the years she had been absent were rolled away. She had not been back since her marriage to Thomas, but everything was still the same. The large hall was panelled in oak and a carved staircase rose to the upper floors.
Dressed in a gown of sombre black, Mrs Coleman, the housekeeper who had been at Oakdene for as long as Catherine could remember and who was expecting her, came forward to welcome her home. There was a bright, cheery smile on her round face and tears of gladness in her eyes. She was a pleasant, capable woman, elderly now and smelling faintly of lavender water, but still able to run the household efficiently.
‘It’s so good to see you back after all this time, my lady,’ she said, bobbing a curtsy. A plain collar and cuffs relieved the stark black of her gown and on her white hair was a white cap, the keys of the house hanging heavily from her waist.
‘It’s good to be back, Mrs Coleman. It’s been a long time. You are well, I hope.’
‘I am—apart from a few aches and pains which are to be expected at my age. I must tell you how eagerly we have all awaited your coming.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Coleman. That’s reassuring to know.’
Mrs Coleman stepped back when a door opened and her stepmother swept into the hall. Catherine’s heart sank. Blanche was not old enough to be her mother. Only eight years separated them in age, but there was a vast difference between them in temperament and form. Blanche was shorter in stature compared to her stepdaughter and more voluptuous. She was also outspoken and had delighted in undermining Catherine and taking her to task over something or other when she had married her father and come to live at Oakdene House. In fact, living in the same house together before Catherine had married Thomas, she had constantly made life downright unpleasant for her and a wall of antipathy had sprung up between them.
With dark brown hair, flashing brown eyes and full red lips, Blanche was a handsome woman. She carried a certain elegance and charm, but a coarseness in her manner and her eyes betrayed the truth of her nature. They were small and calculating, deep and dangerous and ever watchful. She was such an overpowering person that most people felt subdued in her presence, but Catherine refused to be put down by her domineering manner.
She might be the wife of a Parliamentary man, but, attired in dark blue velvet with a fine lace collar and cuffs, she was by no means a Puritan. Her appearance was benevolent and smiling, but Catherine was not deceived. She offered no words of welcome—Catherine did not expect it. The arrogance in her demeanour was not diminished by the many years they had been apart. She managed a faint inclination of her elegantly coifed head and a frosty smile, before settling her austere gaze on her in a cool and exacting way. Impersonally her eyes raked Catherine with the cold, speculating expression of a long-standing opponent.
‘So, you have come back,’ she commented wryly and with a practised smile, giving Catherine a flash of sharp white teeth from between her parted lips.
There were hidden connotations behind that smile and Catherine was not quite sure how to read them, but whether meant to insult or compliment, the two of them were to live in this house for as long as Catherine remained in London and it would not do to be constantly at daggers drawn. There was nothing like a smile to confuse a foe or charm a friend and Catherine’s lips curved graciously.
‘As you see, Blanche,’ she replied pleasantly, slipping the cloak from her shoulders and handing it to the servant who had opened the door to them.
‘Do you intend to stay long?’
‘As long as my father needs me. How is he?’
Blanche gave her an arch look. ‘He is very ill. The journey from Newcastle was too much for him and he is confined to his bed for most of the day. I do not want him upset.’
If Blanche hoped to see a flicker of emotion pass across Catherine’s face, she was disappointed, for, used to Blanche’s barbed comments, Catherine’s expression remained unchanged.
‘Of course not. I assure you I have no intention of upsetting him. He sent for me. Now, if you don’t mind, I will go and see him.’
‘Later, perha
ps. The physician came to see him this morning and the visit exhausted him. He’s sleeping at present—which he does for most of the day.’
Catherine studied her through narrowed eyes. Having no wish to start any battles, though it grieved her not to see her father just now, this was one time she would concede. ‘I see, then I will see him later.’
‘Yes, that would be best.’ She looked beyond Catherine when the door opened and John stepped into the hall. Bestowing her most dazzling smile on him, she stepped round Catherine and went to greet him.
Catherine turned to Mrs Coleman. ‘Has my old room been made ready, Mrs Coleman?’
‘It has. I’m sure you would like to change after your long and tiring journey. I’ll have some hot water sent up.’
‘Thank you. I would appreciate that.’ When the elderly woman would have proceeded her, Catherine stopped her. ‘There’s no need to come with me. I know the way to my own chamber.’
Catherine picked up her skirts and let out a long sigh as she mounted the stairs, aware that this was the way an encounter with Blanche had often left her in the past. They were at loggerheads most of the time, which was why she always avoided her company. The sound of Blanche’s tinkling laughter drifted up to her from below and echoed along the landing with merciless mockery.
Memories of her childhood came flooding back when she opened the door and stepped inside her old room. Everything was just the same—the big tester bed and hangings. A fire burned in the fireplace, adding a warm glow to everything. Going to the bed, she ran her hand down the rich fabric of the hangings and, with a heavy sigh, went and sat on the cushioned window seat looking out over the gardens. For a moment it was as if time stood still and she was a child again, hearing her mother calling her name.
She remained where she was until water was brought up by a maid who said her name was Molly. She was pretty and pleasant and eager to please and told her the mistress had instructed her to be her maid for the duration of Lady Stratton’s stay.
Resisting Her Enemy Lord Page 7