Till Next We Meet

by Karen Ranney

  “Did you never write them?”

  She shook her head. “There was no reason to.”

  He glanced down at his desk, aligned two of his quills, readjusted the edge of his blotter.

  “You disapprove?”

  He glanced over at her. “I think it would have been wiser to examine her references.”

  “I didn’t feel it necessary.”

  “You’re offended.”

  “A little.”

  “Would it offend you further if I asked for the name of her employers?”

  She stared at him, truly annoyed. “I haven’t an idea, Moncrief. That was well over a year ago.”

  “And you didn’t keep the letters?”

  “I don’t have them with me, no.”

  “Are they at Colstin Hall?”

  “Yes. Do you want to send Peter for them?”

  “I think it would be best, don’t you? The more we know about Glynneth, the better.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “What is it, Catherine?” he asked, placing his hand atop hers. His hand was so warm, and she could feel the booming of his heart through his shirt. “You’re upset with me, and it’s more than Glynneth or my health. What is it?”

  Ask him about the letters. But she didn’t. Instead, she raised her head and looked him, feeling helpless, confused, and more than a little cowardly.

  He bent forward and kissed her.

  “You should be in bed,” she said when the kiss was done. “You were shot two days ago.”

  He didn’t answer, only kissed her again until the blood in her veins felt like heated honey.

  “I think you’ll find I heal quickly.” He kissed her again.

  Before she could protest, he led her back to the desk.

  “Step up,” he said, motioning her to the chair.

  She looked at him questioningly, but he only shook his head. She placed one foot on the chair and he helped her sit on the desk, right in the middle of his leather-trimmed blotter.

  “Moncrief—” she began, only to have her words smothered by another kiss.

  “I heal very quickly.”

  He stood between her knees, and fumbled with the buttons of his breeches.

  “Moncrief,” she said again, shocked.

  “I’m a wounded man, Catherine. I need some comfort.”

  She shook her head at him, half-amused, half-horrified. “On your desk, Moncrief?”

  “Would you prefer the floor?” He nuzzled her neck, placing a ring of kisses up to the back of her ear. She shivered. His good hand traveled up her skirt to rest between her thighs.

  “Although I think my balance might be off. You could always ride me, though.”

  She’d done that before, and found the position fascinating. Nothing like being taken on his desk.

  He stood closer, pulling her to the edge of the desk.

  Sighing in surrender, she braced her knees on either side of his hips and crossed her feet behind him, welcoming him with a sigh when he entered her. She was bent back against the desk, the inkhorn her pillow, but he removed it carefully and swept his hand across the desk impatiently clearing it of any other objects.

  She laughed, and he smiled, both ruefully aware of their impatience.

  He would have ripped open her dress if she’d not been able to loosen her laces.

  Moncrief cupped her breasts and placed a kiss upon each tight nipple, all the while surging backwards and then fully into her. She closed her eyes at the sensation of being so beautifully filled and wondered if someone could die of passion.

  The thought that he was overdoing slipped from her mind as he pumped once, twice, a thousand times into her. He kissed her again, and she spiraled into it, feeling as if each part of her body were molten hot. A tiny spark a pleasure traveled from the core of her outward, touching her fingertips and toes. She began to tremble, small, insistent tremors traveling up her legs and arms as she felt herself erupt.

  She awoke to hear Moncrief calling her name. With some difficulty, she opened her eyes at the sound of her name to find Moncrief looking at her in some concern.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “I didn’t know I was,” she said, touching her face with her fingers.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  She cupped her hand against his cheek and smiled up at him. “No. And you? How is your shoulder?”

  “If it pains me, the sensation has faded beneath pleasure.”

  A few minutes later, she placed her hand on his good shoulder, and he helped her sit up.

  He held her against him for a moment.

  “Catherine,” he said gently.

  She raised her head to look at him. There was no smile on his face now, and the glint of wickedness was gone from his eyes. Something altogether disturbing in his gaze, something solemn and important, made her look away.

  He tilted up her chin with one finger and placed the softest kiss upon her lips before helping her down from the desk. He held her there for a moment, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her on the forehead.

  “Will you tell me now?”

  The question was surprising. So, too, was her sudden wish to weep again.

  Lust was no longer an acceptable substitute for love, and wasn’t that a surprising thought.

  Chapter 27

  “Yes, Moncrief,” she said. “Something is wrong.” But she didn’t speak, only licked her lips and looked down at the floor. Finally, she looked back at him. “Why do you have my letters in your desk drawer? My letters to Harry. Why do you have them?”

  “Should I ask how you know I have them?”

  “I looked.” She didn’t appear the least apologetic, and he decided that now was not the time to broach the issue of his privacy.

  “I debated sending them back to you,” he said. “But I took them out of Harry’s trunk at the last moment.”

  “Why?”

  These past weeks had been an idyll, a time for him, a time he’d known he’d have to pay for eventually. Now might well be the time.

  The longer he knew Catherine, the more certain Moncrief was that he had underestimated her. The woman of the letters neither kissed with abandon nor laughed with glee. She was, for the most part, a somber and lonely soul, who had touched something in his heart. This woman, this enchantress with her mussed hair and her swollen lips and her eyes flashing fire at him was a greater challenge and a more earthbound delight.

  Now was the time to tell her of his deception, but he didn’t want to destroy what they were creating between themselves. Their relationship was gossamer thin and so fragile that a stiff wind might rip it apart.

  He gave her the truth, only not the full measure of it. “Because I didn’t think Harry deserved you.”

  “And you kept them.”

  “I did,” he said, almost daring her to question him further.

  She held up her hand in a gesture that strangely mimicked one of his. “When you send Peter to Colstin Hall, will you ask him to fetch something for me?”

  “We can go there ourselves if you wish.”

  “There’s no need,” she said, turning to leave. Her shoulders were straight, her whole bearing stiff.

  She hesitated, and he wondered if she waited for him to offer an apology for his actions, or perhaps a further explanation. He did neither.

  “I’ll send Peter. If he leaves now, he should be back by tonight.”

  “My important documents are in my father’s library,” she said. “In a strongbox in the second cabinet from the door. I’ll also need the box in his desk.”

  “I’ll convey that to Peter.”

  She only nodded in reply. The woman who’d laughed with him, who’d loved him with abandon only minutes ago had disappeared, and in her place was a pensive stranger.

  Had finding the letters altered her feelings for him? Not an encouragement for the truth.

  As he watched Catherine leave, Moncrief couldn’t help but wonder what she would do if he imprisoned her
in the keep. He would set up a boudoir at the top of the winding stairs and refuse to let her leave until she confessed that she loved him.

  It was an idea that had merit.

  “You’re right, daughter,” the vicar said, entering the house and removing his scarf and greatcoat. He handed both to the maid who stood waiting, then dismissed her with a waggle of his fingers. “Moncrief is vigorously alive at Balidonough. Whoever shot him did a poor job of it, I’m thinking.”

  Relief flowed through Glynneth at his words, but it was short-lived at best.

  “How do you know?”

  “The servants at Colstin Hall still need counseling, my dear girl. You’d be surprised how much wickedness flourishes in a master’s absence. The cook is disturbed about the downstairs maid, who’s been seeing too much of the groom. I spoke with all of them this evening. One of the men from Balidonough had been sent to fetch some of Catherine’s belongings. Naturally, he talked of the new duchess and the duke.”

  Her father had such a look of unholy glee on his face that she was worried.

  “What are you planning?”

  The vicar considered her for a moment and shook his head. “I don’t think I will divulge anything to you, my dear. You have a habit of ruining my very best plans. It was you, was it not, who poured out Catherine’s oatmeal posset at every occasion?”

  Startled, she stared at him. “How did you know that?”

  “A very simple deduction. Catherine would have died weeks earlier if she’d taken it. What I don’t understand is why you feel compelled to protect her. She was your lover’s wife.”

  She glanced down at the wooden horse a neighbor had carved for Robbie. Her son had a habit of leaving it everywhere. Twice she’d nearly stepped on it. Now she placed it on the table in a standing position, ready for him to play with it when he awoke from his nap.

  Catherine had unstintingly offered her friendship. Glynneth had been prepared to hate the woman who had married Harry and instead had only pitied her.

  She’d never known Harry, not truly.

  “Leave her alone, Father,” she said. “Leave both of them alone. We’ll make do.”

  He waved his fingers in the air much as he had dismissed the maid. “Do not bother your head about it, daughter. I will do what has to be done.”

  Peter returned that evening with the strongboxes from Colstin Hall. Instead of leaving them in the library, the former aide brought them to her chamber. Catherine thanked him and sat for a few long moments staring at them on the vanity.

  The first of the two boxes wasn’t large, but it was heavy, the bottom being layered with coins. She’d kept incidental papers here, and she retrieved Glynneth’s references without too much difficulty and placed them aside for Moncrief.

  The other box was larger since it had been crafted only for the storage of important papers. Here was the deed to Colstin Hall, the survey of her land, a copy of her parents’ marriage lines, and Harry’s will.

  She opened it with the key she kept with her, and pushed back the top. Finally, she found what she was looking for, the papers Harry had signed before leaving Scotland.

  She’d often wondered why her father had been so generous with his new son-in-law, why he’d purchased an expensive commission for a man he barely knew. Had he known of Harry’s gambling habits and his infidelity?

  With one hand, she held the apothecary jar, the other smoothed out Harry’s will.

  Harry wrote with a great flourish, his letters swooping and taking up too much of the page as if needing to call attention to his name. Moncrief’s writing, on the other hand, was not as large, but the characters were easily read and stronger somehow.

  If she hadn’t burned all the letters, she would have known earlier. But now, staring down at Harry’s signature, she realized she’d never seen it before this moment.

  How curious that she didn’t seem to be able to breathe. She sat encapsulated in a narrow little bubble of time. Nothing felt real at the moment. She wrapped her hands around the small jar and pressed it to her chest, as if doing so would ease her breathing.

  My dearest Catherine, I miss you so.

  There are days when I wake and feel your hand on mine, your fingers lingering just for an instant before dawn arrives. I feel as if you are bidding me farewell from my dream. I remember when you said that you hated the darkness. I have begun to crave it, because sleep brings me closer to you. But perhaps I exaggerate. I feel close as well when I am writing to you. I am free to express my inner thoughts selfishly, I fear, because I have you as a captive audience.

  Thank you all for your prayers for me and my men. Any soldier can use the prayer of a lovely woman. Tell your vicar, however, that you need not share your time with him. I am certain you are part angel.

  She had shared her soul with him. She had confessed every deep and hidden secret with him. She had adored him.

  Why would Moncrief have written her?

  Because Harry couldn’t be bothered. Because he was bedding other women. Because she was lovesick and heartbroken and insisted upon writing a man who no doubt looked upon her frequent letters as an imposition and an unwelcome reminder that he was married.

  She folded her arms on the vanity and buried her face in them.

  Was she such a pathetic creature that he’d taken pity on her?

  Catherine forced her hand open, placing the jar on top of her vanity. Her fingers hurt from clenching it so tightly. Slowly, she spread her hands open and placed them palms down on her lap. She was trembling and altogether unprepared for the knock on the door.

  For a heart lurching moment, she wondered if it was Moncrief, but then she heard Wallace’s voice.

  “Your Grace!”

  She opened the door to find him stripped down to his shirt and breeches. “Your Grace, the keep is on fire.” He peered over her shoulder into the room.

  “Moncrief isn’t here, Wallace. Perhaps he’s at the distillery.” She didn’t doubt that he would be there, or somewhere else he shouldn’t be. Instead, he should be resting, recuperating from a gunshot wound. But “should” was not a word to be used around Moncrief.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  He bowed himself away from her, intent upon finding Moncrief.

  Catherine stood and walked to the window. Yellow flames shot from the top of the round, turreted structure, the fire evidently fueled by the stacked furniture stored inside.

  No moon shone in the sky; the night was clear and cold. The yellow-and-orange flames of the fire and the resultant smoke obscured the canopy of stars.

  Catherine pressed her hands against the glass, feeling the bitter cold against her palms, horrified at the sight of the keep burning. The wooden floors would be the first to go, then all the furniture, paintings, and trunks stacked on the first floor.

  When she finally saw Moncrief cross the courtyard attired in nothing more than his shirt and trousers, she left the room, racing down the steps. Wallace was gone, but she grabbed her cloak and a servant’s greatcoat and made her way to the fire.

  Moncrief was already organizing the men into two groups, each of them acting as a brigade of sorts, conveying buckets to the flaming keep. She wanted to shout at Moncrief to be careful, the revelations of only moments ago somehow fading in importance to his safety.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, coming to her side.

  “Nor should you.” She handed him the greatcoat and helped him don it over his sling. “You must not tax yourself.”

  His smile was crooked and thoroughly charming. “I told you I heal quickly.”

  She shook her head at him, then stared at the fire. “I never took a full inventory of the keep. Heaven only knows how many precious treasures are being destroyed.”

  “If they were that precious, they wouldn’t have been stored in the keep.”

  She glanced at him. How like him to put the loss into perspective.

  He smoothed a hand over his hair, leaving a soot mark on his forehead. She wiped it
away with her fingers, a gesture that surprised both of them.

  “Forgive me,” she said, unable to explain that she needed to touch him, or convey in some way how she felt about him. All the conflicting emotions she’d felt earlier surged through her.

  All those months she had grieved for a man who had never been, only to find, tonight, that he’d been resurrected right before her eyes. She remembered so many things that he’d said that brought his letters to mind, so many hints that might have proven his true identity.

  At first, she had been so wrapped up in her despair that she had not seen it. Recently, however she had been so immersed in delight and passion and even lust that she had ignored the signs as well.

  What a gift God had given her, to love a man of such promise and ability.

  But did he love her in return? Or had he only felt sorry for the widow and before that, the wife?

  “Go back inside.”

  “Can I not do anything?”

  “Arrange for Cook to make a meal and something hot to drink. It looks as though we’ll be here all night.”

  She nodded, then brushed an ember from her cheek. But it wasn’t hot. She glanced up at the sky.

  “It’s snowing.”

  The heavy flakes were mixing with the smoke, creating a strange combination of gray snow.

  “Get inside.” He gripped her cloak in one hand and pulled her close. “I don’t want to have to worry about you as well.”

  Catherine only nodded again, prevented from asking the questions she needed to ask by the circumstances and the too-interested bystanders. Hortensia was there with only a shawl to warm her. Standing close, and in animated conversation was Wallace. She nodded from time to time, but didn’t speak. Cook was there along with her helpers, and a battalion of maids were standing to the side.

  She made her way back to Balidonough, intent on Moncrief’s task, glancing back at the fiery keep from time to time.

  “A most forbidding welcome,” a voice said.

  She turned to see a man standing in the shadows.

  “Vicar?”

  “My dear, have I startled you? It was not my intent.”