Secluded with the Rogue

Chapter 8

Eight

R osalyn discovered a high-necked, severe, black gown that her mother must have had made for the occasion of some relative’s funeral and a lovely green silk. She’d thought to give Mindy the black gown and wear the other herself. In the end, she admitted, it was to her benefit to look somber and dull.

She and Mrs. Sullivan had helped Mindy into the green gown, and it was good fun, much like when, as a child, she’d dressed her dolls. She couldn’t begrudge the girl; though the style was out of date, Mindy looked exquisite. The dress brought out the color of her eyes and complemented the blond curls at her forehead and neck. A housemaid who’d returned early had dressed Mindy’s hair, giving her the look of an elegant, happy newlywed.

Throughout dinner, Logan couldn’t tear his eyes from the girl.

Even Cathmore took notice. “Mrs. Logan,” he said, “you look lovely tonight, very festive. I hope my staff has made you feel welcome.”

“Oh yes,” Mindy said. “Mrs. Sullivan picked out the dress for me. She said I can keep it.”

Cathmore raised his eyebrows at Rosalyn. “Miss Crompton , you’re wearing black again. Are you in mourning?”

Suspicion niggled at her. He hadn’t used her real name—he was toying more with her, the despicable man, and she must be careful. “I am. And black is practical for traveling.” And she would be traveling as soon as this blasted dinner was over. Hunting out clothes and accessories for Mindy had allowed her time and resources to assemble warm clothing, food and other necessities.

She’d even made a furtive foray to the stables and reunited with old Joseph. The poor dear didn’t hear well, and probably he hadn’t truly recognized her, but he took her along to see Clarence, the mule she remembered from her childhood. With the bare-bones staff celebrating Christmas, it would be easy enough to saddle Clarence and pick her way through the snow to one of the shelters. She’d see that someone at the coaching inn returned him.

“Are you traveling tonight , Miss Crompton ?” Cathmore asked.

Heat rose in her. She pursed her lips, struggling for an answer that wasn’t an outright lie. “I have grown comfortable with black. I’ve only just recently come out of mourning for a close family member.” She inclined her head in a queenly gesture. He couldn’t very well make a joke out of that.

But he surprised her again and smiled, the blackguard. “I don’t know whether to believe you, Miss Crompton .”

She clamped her hands in her lap, yearning to slap him. Dark locks brushed his forehead over eyes glowing with mischief as he lounged back, assessing her. Heat flamed within her, his gaze stirring that infernal pooling between her legs.

“What is unaccountable,” Cathmore said, glancing between her and Mindy, “is the similarity of your eyes, ladies. Both of you have eyes the identical shade of a most unusual green. It puts me in mind of a seaside visit to Italy.”

“I’m told I have my father’s eyes,” Mindy said.

She turned sharply and studied the girl. Mindy’s face bore no signs of slyness, or intrigue, or deceit.

“Who was your father?” Cathmore asked her.

A chill passed through Rosalyn, the air rippling like a ghost had come to stand next to her. Mindy cast her gaze down at her chapped hands, the hands of a barmaid who’d found herself dressed as a lady and planted at a lord’s polished table.

“I am sorry,” Cathmore said. “We will speak of other things.”

“No,” Mindy said. “It’s that I don’t know his name. Me mam, I mean, my mother, wouldn’t tell me. Only that he was highborn, and too short on blunt to help her. She said I met him once when I was little, but I don’t remember.”

The ghost laid a hand on Rosalyn’s head and pressed the blood from it so that she had to grip the edge of the table.

How old was Mindy? Younger than Rosalyn, but Nelly hadn’t known exactly. Nelly had left the village and gone into service when Mindy was barely more than a child. Nelly only knew that Mindy had gone to work for Ned Morgan and then married him. Nelly had said naught of the girl’s father, and Rosalyn hadn’t thought to ask.

Cathmore was studying his wineglass. The bloody villain . He knew exactly what he was doing.

“He sent me a gift when I went off to serve Ned Morgan,” Mindy said.

Rosalyn’s blood came back with force, pounding in her ears. The rage rising within her drove away the ghost, but left her immobilized. She wanted to scoot her chair back, but she couldn’t move.

“His message said he was sorry there hadn’t been more. Said I could sell it if need be, but if I kept it, it would bring me luck.”

The good Christmas pudding flipped in her stomach. The sight of her white knuckles filled her vision.

“But he took it, damn him, Ned Morgan. Said the ring was a man’s signet, said no woman should have it. He wore it every day as if he was lord of the manor hisself.”

“It’s only a ring,” Logan soothed. “I’ll take care of you now, love.”

The comforting tones cut through the hammer pounding inside Rosalyn’s head. Logan offered young Mindy not only comfort, but warmth, and devotion.

“Yes,” the girl said, tenderly accepting all of her new husband’s gifts, “but ’twas all I had of him.”

Mindy had lost the ring, but Mindy had Logan. One man had loved her enough to present her the ring, the other had given his heart and his reputation. Mindy had him and their child.

Rosalyn had no ring, no love, not from anyone, not anymore.

Cathmore still held his fork. Rude it might be to leave the table while the host was still eating but she couldn’t stay, she couldn’t endure the thoughts overwhelming her, clouding her vision, choking her breath. She pushed back her chair and stumbled to her feet, managing a shaky walk to the door.

As soon as it closed behind her, she picked up her skirts and took flight, running up the stairs, down hallways, and into the Rose Bedchamber.

Inside, she closed the door and turned the key in the lock. Her mind churned, calculating, coming each time to the same terrible conclusion. Mindy was only a year or two younger. Mama had died when Rosalyn was five.

Fierce anger gripped her. The bed beckoned, as it had in her childhood when Mama was there to comfort her. She wanted to throw herself on the brocade bedspread again and pound out her tears, this time at the lies and betrayal.

Except, she was no longer a child, but a woman who had much to do and a cold night ahead. There was no time to indulge tears, not if she wanted to make good her escape.

Quickly she removed the necessities from where she’d stashed them against Cathmore’s prying and stuffed them into the valise. Her cloak, still not entirely dry, hung near the fire. She threw it on and took one final look around this room, where so much love had been showered on her, unable to quell a fresh onslaught of grief.

Mrs. Sullivan had said her mother’s picture still hung in the connecting dressing room. It beckoned her to one last exchange of love.

A little voice of sanity reminded her the dressing room was his. But he was, no doubt, happily sawing at his steak, breaking the crust on a fine pie, and poking relentlessly at someone else’s misfortunes.

She marched through her mother’s dressing room and pushed open the door to the master’s suite. A fire had been laid, a lamp lit, and there, on the wall was her mother’s shadow. Tears pressed against her eyes as she grabbed the lamp and stepped closer, placing the light on the high chest where it cast a heavenly glow.

She’d perched on Mama’s rose bed and sketched a poor drawing of her beautiful mother with her fiery hair, her great blue eyes, and her swollen belly. She was making a baby, and Rosalyn begged her to let her see it. She’d longed for a little sister or brother to play with. Her mother had laughed and said she must wait.

Sometimes, Rosalyn would catch a hint of something in those blue eyes and ask, Are you sad, Mama? And her mama would smile and bring the sunshine back.

Tears clouded her vision and streamed down her cheeks. She hadn’t known. Her mother, Mrs. Sullivan, Cousin Abigail, the women in her life had protected her.

The room swayed, the air growing thick. Feet unsteady, she crumpled to her knees, unable to breathe, choking with anger, and sorrow, and fear. If a true lady like her mother could be betrayed, what hope could there ever be for such as herself?

S trong arms came around her, the scent of male cologne engulfing her.

Cathmore . Oh, blast it . He’d found her.

She hiccupped, struggling to breathe.

“Shhh,” he murmured. He sat on the floor next to her and pulled her to him, sweeping the tears from her cheeks. “Shhh, Rosalyn. Breathe.”

She shouldn’t take this comfort. She couldn’t trust him.

Oh, but it had been so long since a man had comforted her. That man, she now knew, had been a cheat and a liar. This one probably was as well.

“No, Cathmore.” She pushed his hand away.

“Oh, my dear.”

His tenderness sent a fresh wave of emotion swamping her, but she fought back, struggling to stand.

And then she was swept off her feet again and floating.

“Put me down.” She squirmed. “You’ve done enough. You’ve made your point.”

He kicked open the door to his bedchamber.

“What are you… Cathmore ?”

He plopped onto to the enormous bed and silently stripped the damp cloak from her, letting it drop to the floor.

Real fear gripped her now. He was powerful enough to take what he wanted. Hadn’t Logan told her as much?

“Rosalyn, Rosalyn,” he murmured. “You’re trembling, my dear.”

His strength coupled with gentleness sent new shivers through her. She shouldn’t take comfort here, but his embrace seemed to offer only consolation. She tucked her head to his neck and inhaled the starch of his neckcloth.

H ow long they sat like that, she didn’t know. Though she breathed, and he patted, their otherwise motionless bodies weren’t inactive. A dormant passion stirred within her, tremblings more powerful than she’d experienced the night before, as if a great chasm had opened within her soul and she needed someone to fill it.

Fear trembled through her and he must have sensed it. He turned her face to his and brushed his lips against hers, so sweetly that tears pricked her eyes again.

God help her, she wanted him.

He sat her up and turned her around. While he worked at the dress fastenings, she noticed the room. Papa’s old bedchamber was well-lit, the furnishings new. Perhaps Cathmore’s father had known of the old master’s duplicity and wanted to be rid of the ugliness.

The dress slipped around her shoulders, but the sleeves stayed tight, her arms trapped. He freed her hair and tossed it over her shoulder, making her neck tingle with warm kisses. She closed her eyes and let sensation wash over her.

Oh, this was wrong and there would be consequences. The wages of sin are death . But this didn’t feel like sin. He wasn’t married, nor was she. The haute ton already spurned her. Society couldn’t cast her much further adrift. And if there was a child…

Her heart swelled. If there was a child, she would manage. A man who would arrange for his aide’s love match would surely keep his bastard in shoes, and, if not, her income would suffice for a simple life.

She slid away from his hands and stood to face him. He dropped his gaze, hiding the glittering intensity there, and relaxed the determined line of his mouth. Despite her display of wantonness, he was reaching again for control.

She wanted him. She would do this. “I cannot move my arms, Cathmore. Kindly help free me.”

He smiled then, a boyish grin that made him look young, almost uncertain.

“Don’t leave. Stay here.”

“I will stay for the moment. And then I must leave. Tonight, I intend to be ruined.”

He frowned then, his glittering eyes showing more of his heart. “Never,” he said. “Never ruined. I will make everything right, Rosalyn.”

He freed her and pushed the dress to the floor and brought her into his arms. Even without the promise, she wouldn’t have resisted. She’d made her decision. She wouldn’t float along in her tidy spinster’s life, she’d let herself be swept away, just this once.

Or…no, she’d swim with this passion into deep waters. He wouldn’t allow her to drown, he’d promised. Somehow, she believed him.

Almost before she could breathe, he’d stripped her chemise and stockings in a swiftly erotic unveiling that left him grimly determined. Like a man possessed, he tore out of his own coats and shirt and trousers and faced her.

Her breath left her. She’d guessed at his muscular physique, but this revelation…broad shoulders, taut muscles, a chest dusted with black hair. His arms and legs, too, rippled with power. And his shaft…

She tore her eyes away and studied his face. She’d seen naked boys but never a naked man.

He laughed, a hungry, feral sound, like she was about to climb into his stewpot. The thought made her smile and his face transformed again, eyes wide with wonder and awe and something that looked like love.

It wouldn’t be, but she set herself free to imagine it, and entered his arms. He helped her onto the bed, oh so gently, and stretched beside her. She knew his need was great, and she dared to reach for him, but he pushed her hand away and growled something unintelligible. When she reached again, he snatched both of her hands and held them above her head, kissing her until she was thoroughly muddled.

Pleasure built and crested and spilled within her, more intensely than the night before, and then he was on her, covering her, parting her legs and entering her gently, and then going deeper.

Searing pain tore her apart. He caught her cry with a kiss, stroking her cheek, her arm, her head, and froze in her, shushing her, comforting her, until the worst had passed.

He withdrew and entered again, and the pain lessened. Again, and there was less pain. Again and again until the pain changed to a tiny whisper of pleasure that built with each thrust, and she caught Cathmore propped above, watching her, his face grim and determined.

His hunger undid her. Bliss exploded in her and then, as though he’d been waiting, he found his release as well. His rumbling roar drowned her choking laughs and cries.

He collapsed and rolled to his side, taking her with him. He lay quiet so long, she thought he must be dozing. She wriggled, and his arm firmed around her, his fingers toying with a lock of her hair.

His hooded eyes studied her, completely unreadable.

Unease swept through her. Look him in the eye and you will see the truth of it, her cousin had said. Very well, she had given herself away all for a game. She’d understood that.

“You are so beautiful, Rosalyn.”

Her heart twisted. Papa had often called Mama beautiful. In the end, Mama’s beauty hadn’t been enough.

He chuckled. “Fearless and bold, too, like the Montagu family motto.”

She wasn’t fearless. In fact, fear stirred in her again joined by a breath of anger. She wasn’t fearless and bold. She had been reckless. In the aftermath of taking his satisfaction, he was making fun of her.

“I’m cold. I’ll tend the fire.” She broke free and rolled away.

He propped himself up on his forearm. “Come back to bed, my love.”

Her face flamed. His love?

When she slipped her chemise over her head, he groaned. “No, no. Feed the fire but don’t disturb my view.”

She sent him a glare and struggled into her gown as well, fastening the neck as she padded to the fireplace.

That brought him clambering out of bed, oblivious to his own nakedness.

She spun away and picked up a piece of firewood, her panic rising. It wouldn’t do to indulge more intimacy. He was building a family dynasty, and hers had already fallen. She tossed in the wood and picked up another piece.

“Rosalyn,” he said. “Take off these clothes and come back to bed.” He lifted her chin with two fingers and studied her.

Her eyes were watering. She couldn’t help it. It must be the fire.

“I will not,” she said, determined to not be ruled.

He freed her chin, took something from the top of the mantel, and pressed it into her hand. “I want you to have this.”

When she uncurled her shaking palm to look, the signet ring winked up at her. He had cleaned the blood and grime from it and polished out the wear and tear. The band glowed in the rising flames, the shafts of grain in the crest waving in the dancing light.

Memories danced around the sight. Her father’s voice, telling her she was beautiful, that the ring was lucky. Mindy’s story. She could picture her father, their father, passing on that promise of good luck to Mindy as well.

Good luck, indeed. The fire in her face was hot, but the gap in her unfastened gown brought a new chill. Cathmore had taken the maidenhood of the last Montagu—well, the last legitimate Montagu—and she could have the ring in payment, or so he thought.

She might now have no more claim to virtue than Mindy, but she was a woman free of a man’s interference, and she had given herself freely.

“No, Lord Cathmore.” She swallowed, easing the trembling in her voice. “You have misunderstood. No payment is required.” She tossed the ring at him and it bounced away into the corner of the fireplace.

“No, my love. You don’t understand.” He reached for her, but she pulled her arm back and smacked him with the wood.

It would have been like an ant smiting a tree trunk, except that Rosalyn caught the edge of his jaw and then he stumbled striking the other side of his head on the mantel edge. He crashed to the floor and didn’t get up.

Her heart froze. Was he dead ?

If Cathmore was dead, she would die, too, would want to die. She found his pulse and watched his chest rise and fall, and her own heart started beating again.

If Cathmore had the blood of thickheaded Highland warriors, a mere blow to the head—well, actually two mere blows to the head—couldn’t harm him much.

But when he awakened, he’d be furious.

She pulled on her boots and her cloak. Ignoring his faint moan, she locked his outer door, pocketed the key, and hurried back through the dressing rooms to get the rest of her things.