Windswept Page 15

  She gazed at him in wide-eyed fear as the feeling of invasion intensified. “Evan? Are you sure that this is the way?”

  He gave her a strained smile. “I am quite sure.”

  His arms were tense as they bracketed her body. He seemed to be controlling himself only with the greatest effort. Though she appreciated his concern, it didn’t lessen the strange feeling that she was his captive, her thighs widened to receive him . . . her breasts pressed beneath his chest . . . and that hard part of him delving into her as if to reach her soul.

  He would never let her go, his glittering eyes seemed to say, and his hard mouth, too, as he bent to take her mouth in a long kiss.

  Then he gave a hard thrust that planted him fully inside her. There was indeed pain, but it wasn’t the terrible one she’d feared. Instead, a fleeting feeling, as of something small tearing inside her, came and then was gone.

  She wiggled her hips, curious to see if that was all, and he seemed to take that for an invitation, for he drew out and drove in again, his mouth devouring hers. He was marking her as his, and she felt it in every thrust of his hips, every stab of his tongue.

  And she wanted to be his, she discovered, as his movements began to warm and then excite her. She didn’t understand why the feel of him inside her sent hot, melting pleasure spreading throughout her body, but she didn’t stop to think on it. She simply let the enjoyment overtake her, push her on and up toward some height she could only glimpse.

  “Ah, darling, you feel so good,” he muttered against her mouth, scattering kisses over her cheeks and jaw. “You can’t know . . .”

  “I . . . I can . . . I do . . .” She met his thrusts, at first timidly and then with abandon. He felt wonderful, as if he belonged inside her, as if she’d been waiting all her life for him to join her in this incredible dance.

  He plunged deeper and harder and faster, each thrust carrying her higher, like a runaway coach racing up the slopes of Black Mountain. The brush of his taut belly against hers, the tantalizing look of hunger in his face, the delicious slide of him inside her made her insensible, until she no longer thought of anything but opening to him, pushing against him more and more and more . . .

  The world exploded. “Oh, Evan!” She grasped him close as wave after wave of bliss inundated her. “Yes, oh, yes!”

  “My darling!” he cried out and drove into her with one mighty thrust. Something warm and liquid filled her as they strained against each other. Then he sank against her body. “My sweet . . . darling . . . Catrin . . .”

  He lay atop her, twitching a little as she shook beneath him. Then, as her body calmed, she dropped into a contented peace, warmed by the feel of him against her and the aftermath of what they’d just shared.

  After a moment, she felt him nibble her earlobe. “Are you all right?”

  At the sound of his voice, so calm and normal, her innate shyness reasserted itself and all she could manage was a nod. Then it hit her. She’d done it. She’d given her innocence to Evan, despite all the reasons she shouldn’t have. By heaven, she was a ruined woman.

  Yet she didn’t feel ruined. She felt alive and full of joy. Was this what she’d missed all these years? No wonder widows took lovers. Once they’d tasted this, they weren’t likely to want to abandon it.

  Then again, she couldn’t imagine sharing this with anyone but him. It wouldn’t be the same; she was sure of it.

  Evan slid off to lie at her side, resting one hand on her belly as he propped his head up on the other. “Was there very much pain?”

  “Only a little.”

  “Good.” Not looking at her, he traced circles around her navel. “And was I right? Did you end up enjoying it?”

  His uncertainty gave her a start. Didn’t he know? He always seemed so sure of himself.

  That drove away her shyness. She stared up at the features she’d come to know so well. “It was the most wonderful thing I’ve ever felt.”

  When he met her gaze, his eyes shone. “I’ve never had that with any other woman.” He dropped a kiss on her nose. “But from the moment I saw you, I knew it would be special.”

  Special, she thought with a little stab of disappointment. Yes, it had been special for her, too, and so much more. Now what was to happen between them? What would he do? Leave her? Stay?

  She didn’t want to ask and ruin the pleasure of the moment. But as he covered her mouth in a tender kiss, only one thought played through her mind.

  After this, what next?

  13

  ·s the first streaks of dawn brightened the room, Evan slid from the bed. Years of getting up at dawn on the farm had made him an incurable early riser. But Catrin slept blissfully, her lips curved in a secret smile and her hair scattered across the pillow like crushed ebony silk. Though he ached to twine each curl around his fingers, he didn’t want to wake her. She needed the rest.

  He shouldn’t have taken her the second time, sore as she must have been. Yet once hadn’t been enough for him . . . nor her, either, judging from her enthusiasm. He bore marks on his shoulders where her fingernails had dug into him as she’d writhed and cried out her enjoyment.

  The memory aroused him again, damn it. But he must give her body a chance to adjust. Despite her passion, she’d been a virgin. The thought doused his arousal like a cold bath. He’d never taken a woman’s innocence. Now what was he to do about it?

  After finding his freshly pressed clothes on a stool outside the door, he dressed quickly. He needed to think, and he couldn’t do it here, with Catrin looking so luscious. He’d want to touch her . . . kiss her . . . make love to her again. He’d best find somewhere quiet, where the servants wouldn’t notice him.

  As he slipped from the room, his mind raced. One thing was certain—he couldn’t simply walk away. How could he endure never again being with her or talking to her or holding her?

  He walked down the hall to the stairs. Why did she affect him like this? Though he couldn’t deny the appeal of her elfin looks and lithe body, he’d met women more beautiful. But none had made him feel like a king.

  Women of her class had always been aware of his unsuitability. In London society, he’d been classed as “Justin’s friend, a genius but a farmer’s son.” A man had once described him as “not a bad chap really, if he weren’t a penniless Welshman. You know what I mean.”

  What he’d meant was “an immoral scoundrel who’d as soon steal your sheep as buy them.” How did that popular English rhyme go? “Taffy is a Welshman, Taffy is a thief.” It didn’t matter that Evan’s work was highly respected, that he behaved like a gentleman, that he had lofty friends. As soon as he came around any gentleman’s daughter, his background was all that mattered.

  Of course, Catrin knew nothing of that. Was that why he wanted her, because she represented the unobtainable? Perhaps he simply longed to have someone like him for who he was.

  No, he didn’t think so. Even before he’d known who she was, she’d intrigued him. Catrin emanated a captivating blend of intelligence and shyness. She was bright but didn’t know it . . . pretty but uncertain of her appeal . . . wealthy but didn’t care.

  What was more, she’d grown up in the same limbo as he, never quite fitting in and trying to hide how much it mattered. Watching her bravely navigate those treacherous waters brought out all his protective instincts.

  That was the trouble. Now he felt responsible for her. He ought to offer marriage, even if she refused and clung to her ridiculous belief in that curse.

  God, but she would make a marvelous wife. Not only would she be the rare woman who understood his work and his absorption with it, but she would be perfect in every other way . . . considerate, passionate . . . refined.

  Just like Henrietta had been.

  His smile faded as he hurried down the stairs, remembering the night Henrietta had broken with him because of what she’d seen him do in a temper. But at least he hadn’t harmed her. What if he ever lost his temper with shy, delicate Catrin and . . . and hur
t her? It would destroy her.

  It would destroy him. No, marriage wasn’t wise . . . to Catrin or anyone else. Besides, Catrin didn’t expect or want him to marry her. She truly believed in that bloody curse.

  So what other choices were there? He couldn’t, wouldn’t, end their liaison. She’d crept into his heart, and he couldn’t tear her out. But could he stand being her sometime lover, coming here when he could, living from visit to visit as he carried on his real life in Cambridge?

  No. Yet the only other choice was to persuade her to return with him.

  He paused at the bottom of the stairs, glancing around at her well-appointed manor. How could he ask her to leave all this to live in a scholar’s lodgings, sneaking about like a pariah? That wasn’t for Catrin.

  He headed toward some doors that looked as if they might lead to a parlor, where he could be alone.

  There was one choice he hadn’t considered: He could give up his position as fellow and live here with her. He snorted. Right. Ask her to be considered a whore by all who knew her and to bear him bastard children. Even if she agreed, he could not.

  He opened a door and found what appeared to be her study. A half-knitted shawl lay draped across a delicate writing table with spindly legs and a fragile chair that would probably collapse under Evan’s weight.

  Even the bookshelves had feminine touches. Curious to see what kind of books she preferred, he scanned the titles. Scholarly works. Tomes about myths and legends. And she did indeed have a copy of The Development of Celtic Languages. That made him smile.

  Suddenly he came to a shelf slightly out of kilter. When he pushed on it, it swung in a fraction. A secret compartment, of all things. Who’d have thought Catrin would have such an archaic safe—if she even knew it was there.

  He pushed it in all the way. The shelf slid open on well-oiled hinges, and sunlight glinted off something metal. When the shelf shuddered to a stop, he stared at the object, his blood running cold. Before him sat a massive bronze chalice.

  Memory slammed into him, of the night Justin had been murdered and had shown him the chalice Catrin wanted to buy. This chalice.

  “Oh God.” He picked it up to examine it, praying he was wrong and knowing he wasn’t. He’d have recognized the hideous vessel anywhere. It had the same strange etchings, the same unusual coded letters.

  A sense of betrayal sliced him so deeply, he reeled. If Catrin had the chalice, then she had indeed met with Justin. More importantly, she’d lied about it, so convincingly that he’d abandoned his suspicions.

  His sweet, shy Catrin wasn’t what he’d supposed at all.

  The ramifications so overwhelmed him that at first he didn’t hear the door open. But when a soft voice said, “Evan?” he whirled around, the chalice still clutched in his hand.

  She looked like an angel in her white wrapper, with her raven curls in a tangle on her shoulders . . . her lips full and red . . . her eyes still dazed from sleep.

  But she wasn’t an angel—a fact that was confirmed when she caught sight of what he held and went pale as death.

  That drove a stake through his gut. “Come in and close the door,” he commanded. “It’s time you and I had an honest discussion of what happened in London.”

  Catrin’s heart pounded as she crossed the threshold. This was horrible. “I know what you must be thinking, but—”

  “Shut the door!” he hissed.

  She did as he said. How would she ever explain this?

  He shook the chalice at her, his eyes glittering like the coals of hell. “This is the chalice you claimed you didn’t buy from Justin.”

  She swallowed hard. She’d never seen Evan like this. Even when he’d fought David, he hadn’t been so angry. “Yes. You know it is.”

  With a curse, Evan hurled it across the room, knocking a painting off the wall. She jumped back a step. By heaven, what would he do?

  She heard steps running down the hall toward the study, but Evan didn’t even seem to notice.

  “Let me see if I’ve assessed the situation correctly.” He advanced on her in a fury. “Obviously, you lied about failing to acquire it.”

  Unable to speak, she backed away. Facing David’s anger had been bad enough, but facing Evan’s was like staring into the open mouth of a dragon.

  He swept his arm across her writing desk, sending papers and quills and an ink bottle flying. Then he pounded his fist on the cleared top. “Answer me!”

  “Y-yes. I lied.”

  “Did you also lie about never meeting Justin? Did you actually buy this from him? Or did you have it stolen before he could reach the inn?”

  That sparked her temper. “Now see here, you know I could never do such an awful thing!”

  “Yesterday I knew it.” Gritting his teeth, he approached her. “But that was before I learned how easily you lie.”

  The unfair words tore her apart. “How dare you! You lied to me from the moment you came here.”

  “I was trying to get at the truth. You, on the other hand, were covering up a crime, which is ten times worse than what I did!”

  “A crime?” How could this man have spent such a beautiful night with her and then accuse her of . . . “What are you saying? That I murdered your friend?”

  The word “murder” seemed to bring him up short. “I don’t think you drove the knife in yourself.” He took a shuddering breath. “But you could have hired someone else to murder him. Either you had him waylaid before he reached the inn, or you sent men after him when your meeting didn’t work out as planned.” His gaze hardened. “You wanted that chalice badly. I’ve known that all along.”

  She reeled from him in shock. The man was serious. “You’re insane.” She must escape him and his crazy accusations. Turning for the door, she tried to open it, but before she could, he slammed it shut.

  Then he turned the key in the lock and pocketed it as he faced her. “Insane? I was insane to believe you innocent! I ignored all the questionable evidence and listened to you when you claimed you’d had nothing to do with it!”

  His voice grew bitter. “Even Quinley said I was a fool to believe you, but I was so . . . bloody enamored of you that I . . .” He speared his fingers through his hair. “I even threatened to use my influence to have him dismissed for incompetence if he tried to arrest you. What an ass I made of myself!”

  That he’d defended her to Quinley gave her pause. She watched as he paced, his eyes haunted. He didn’t believe this horrible thing about her. He couldn’t. He was angry and confused right now because he’d found the chalice, but once his anger passed he’d realize she was innocent. He must!

  A timid knock came at the door. “Madam? Is everything all right in there?”

  Evan’s head snapped around as Catrin recognized the voice of one of the maids. His hard gaze dared her to call out for help.

  She considered it; he was behaving like a crazed beast. Yet somewhere in his anger, Evan knew the truth about her. She had to help him find it, make him see she could never have done this dreadful thing.

  But she must tell the maids something or they’d fetch Bos to open the door. Catrin forced calmness into her voice as she called out, “I’m fine. I accidentally knocked over something. Go tell Mrs. Griffiths to see about preparing breakfast, and I’ll summon you if there’s a problem.”

  There was a moment of silence outside the door, then whispers as servants conferred. But seconds later, she heard footsteps moving away. Thank heaven.

  Evan cast her an insolent look. “You’re good at lying, aren’t you? I wonder what your servants would say if they knew what you’d done. Would your precious Bos strive to protect you if he knew the truth?”

  She refused to let him see how his words lacerated her. “Bos already knows what happened in London.”

  Evan blinked. “Everything? What you did to acquire that chalice?”

  “I’ll tell you exactly what he knows.” She strove for calm. She would never convince Evan if she lapsed into hysterics. “H
e knows I traveled to London with two hundred pounds. He knows I went to the Green Goat to meet Lord Mansfield. I felt uneasy in the road outside the inn.” She drew a steadying breath. “After I purchased the chalice from Lord Mansfield, some instinctive fear of danger made me leave through a back door and return to my lodgings.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “So you lied to Bos, too.”

  Tears burning her eyes, she moved closer. “I didn’t lie. That’s exactly what happened, and the only difference between what I told you at first and what I’m telling you now is that I did meet with your friend and buy the chalice. But everything else is the same. I swear I never did anything wrong.”

  Needing a connection to him, she touched his arm.

  “Take your hand off me!” he hissed, jerking back as if he’d been burned.

  Desperation clawed at her. “I didn’t have anything to do with Lord Mansfield’s murder! You must believe me!”

  “How can I?” His face filled with pain. “Everything shows your guilt. The missing letter . . . the lies to me and Quinley . . . the way you fled London without a word to anyone about your meeting with Justin!”

  “I don’t know what happened to the letter, but I fled London because I was afraid everyone would jump to the same conclusions you are!” She gripped the top of a chair. “I admit I lied about buying the chalice from your friend. But when he left, I swear he was whole and healthy and in possession of two hundred pounds!”

  Whirling away, he crossed the room. “Then why didn’t you tell me the truth about this monstrosity?” He kicked it. “If you were so bloody innocent, why did you lie even when you didn’t know my purpose here?”

  That wretched lie again. As usual, she’d been afraid to risk revealing too much of herself to anyone. And her reticence had served her ill.

  “I didn’t mean to tell you about it at all,” she said. “I feared from the beginning that you might be an investigator come from London to find out what had happened. I didn’t want to take any chances.”

  “The guilty fear taking chances, not the innocent. And the innocent don’t lie. They don’t run.” He gestured to her safe. “They don’t hide things in secret compartments.”