The Huntress (11 page)

“Where else in hell do you think I could stay? The better places would never welcome a woman traveling alone with no husband or maid. Especially an Irishwoman. I am fortunate I didn’t have to bed down with swine.

“But I would have been better off with the pigs,” she raged. “How I hate this damned country. ’Tis peopled by no one except villains and thieves.”

Storming by Martin, she punctuated her words with fierce gestures.

He reared back to avoid being flailed by her fists. “You have no thieves in Ireland?”

“Yes,” Cat snapped. “The goddamned English.”

She took another furious turn about the room, realizing that she was carrying on like a lunatic. But it was easier to give vent to her anger than think about the one beloved object among her missing belongings, the one thing she could not bear to lose.

When her rage finally burned itself out, she sank down despondently upon a wooden stool, her fists balled in her lap. Martin hunkered down in front of her.

“I am sorry,” he said gravely. “So what did you lose that is of such great value?”

“Nothing. What makes you think—”

“Because you don’t strike me as the sort of woman to weep over lost clothes or a pocketful of coin.”

“I am not weeping!” But to her horror, Cat felt her eyes prickle. She twisted her head away from him, but he caught her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

His eyes were far too sympathetic. It had been a long time since any man had looked at her thus.

“Tell me what you lost. I’ll get you another.”

“You c-can’t.” She thrust his hand away from her face. But he persisted, curling his fingers over her fist, coaxing her with the softness of his eyes, the kindness of his smile.

“It was nothing. I am merely being stupid, fretting over the loss of an old leather jack that I keep filled with usquebaugh.”

“You are grieving over the loss of your
whiskey
?”

“Not the whiskey, damn it.” Cat swallowed hard. “But the flask…it belonged to my da. It—it was all I had left that was his.”

Martin pressed her hand. “You still have your memories and for that I envy you. I have no idea who my father was. I am the illegitimate offspring of a Parisian whore.”

“Bah, there is no such thing as
illegitimate.
Not in Ireland.” She added sadly, “At least not in the Ireland I once knew. Under the old Brehon law, everyone is considered legitimate because we are all born with souls. It has nothing to do with our parents being married.”

“What a fine and sensible law,” he remarked wistfully. “Unfortunately, there is nothing I can do about your father’s flask. But I can buy you clothes—a new gown, shoes, stockings, corsets, anything you need.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” Cat cried, drawing her hand away. She felt mortified enough to have nearly dissolved into tears in front of Martin without compounding her humiliation by accepting his charity. She leapt up from the stool.

“Your pardon. I don’t mean to seem ungracious, but I have never yet been reduced to accepting gifts from any man as though I were his—his mistress.”

“My mistress? Hardly!” Martin straightened to his feet. “No, consider the new gown as—as merely a courtesy to a friend of Ariane’s. And besides,” he smiled. “At some point, I would like my breeches back.”

“Fine. You can have them now. And the shirt as well.” Her lips thinning into an obstinate line, she started to undo the ties at her neckline.

Martin seized her hand to stop her. Looking torn between vexation and amusement, he demanded, “Are you always this infernally proud and stubborn? Be reasonable, Cat. Even if your clothes hadn’t been stolen, you can’t tramp about London in boots and breeches. This isn’t Faire Isle. Some Puritan preacher would have you arrested for indecency. Whether you like it or not, I have to furnish you with a proper gown—”

“Indeed you won’t,” Cat said, pulling indignantly away from him. “I have a gown. As soon as your laundress sees fit to return it to me.”

“That shabby thing. I wouldn’t rub down my horse with it. If you insist upon remaining here and being part of my household, you must be respectably attired.”

“A plague upon your respectability.” Cat jabbed her finger against his chest. “Let me make one thing plain, le Loup. I won’t be part of your household. I am not here in your service, but to protect Meg. And I will be the one to decide what I wear. I have never—”

She gasped as he seized her shoulders and stopped her mouth with a hard kiss. His lips were warm and rough, sending a shaft of heat through her.

Cat sprang back as though she’d been scalded, for a moment unable to catch her breath, let alone speak.

Martin likewise leapt back, looking stunned by his own action.

“What—what the devil did you do that for?” Cat demanded.

“I—I am damned if I know,” he blustered. “It was your fault. Always arguing about everything. You drive me to distraction. It was the only way I could think of to get you to shut your mouth.”

He expelled a loud gust of breath. “Besides, it was nothing, merely an—an English custom. Men here often buss women by way of—of friendly greeting.”

“Well, I am not English and neither are you. So you had best be remembering that.” Cat wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Try that again while I am here and your friendly lips will be too swollen to be
bussing
anyone.”

“Don’t fret yourself, mademoiselle. I’d sooner kiss a hedgehog. They are a good deal less prickly.” Martin glowered. “And I never agreed you could stay.”

“If I had asked for your agreement, I’d be sore troubled about that.”

Cat would have liked to have raised her eyebrow after his own cool fashion, but the best she could manage was a proud toss of her head as she strode to the door. But her dignified exit was marred by those damned large boots causing her to trip again.

Swearing after a fashion that would have blistered a sailor’s ears, Cat stormed from the study, slamming the door behind her.

Martin stood stock-still for a moment, uncertain whether he wanted to roar with laughter or bang his head against the wall.

He sagged down into the chair behind his desk, rubbing eyes that still felt bleary from being rudely jarred awake. Not that he had gotten much sleep after his meeting with Walsingham last night. He had tossed and turned for hours, cursing the day he’d ever let himself be caught up in all this damned English intrigue.

It had seemed like such a golden opportunity when he had first agreed to work for Sir Francis. Just acting as a courier, delivering messages, picking up a little gossip here, acquiring a little information there. Nothing too dangerous.

He had never expected to find himself entangled in plots to assassinate one queen, intrigues to entrap another, and, worst of all, obliged to spy upon people whom he liked and felt indebted to.

As if that was not complication enough, now he had this firebrand Irishwoman to deal with. God knows what had ever impelled him to kiss her. He preferred his women soft and gentle, with figures that were tall, willowy, and graceful like Miri’s. Catriona O’Hanlon was such a tough, fierce little thing.

Martin’s lips curled in a mischievous smile. It might be worth kissing her again just to see the sparks fly from her eyes. They were like twin blue flames. But a man who was sitting on a powder keg had no business lighting fuses.

Martin dragged his hand wearily over his beard. He was beginning to feel like an acrobat he had once seen juggle knives at a fair in Paris. One blink, one misstep on his part could spell disaster.

If anything were to happen to Martin, mayhap it would be a good thing to have Cat here, someone strong and resourceful enough to look out for Meg. Martin had no doubt that Cat was all of that, no matter how much the woman exasperated him.

He had been strangely moved to discover that Cat had spent the night curled up in front of Meg’s door. Bruised from the blow she had received yesterday, it had to have been damned difficult for Cat to drag herself from a comfortable bed and keep vigil on a hard floor.

Nor could he forget the intent look in Cat’s eyes when she had declared, “
I will defend Meg with my very life.
”

Martin had swaggered enough in his youth to know the difference between a boast and a genuine vow. Cat had meant what she said. She would die to protect his daughter, just as he would.

If only he and Cat could refrain from killing each other, perhaps it would be a wise decision to allow her to stay.

Allow
her? Martin pulled a wry face, wondering when the last time was that any man had ever
allowed
Catriona O’Hanlon to do anything. Likely never.

It seemed that Meg had acquired herself a gallowglass.

Chapter Six

C
AT LACED UP THE BODICE OF HER NEWLY LAUNDERED GOWN
and gasped at the sharp prick against the tender skin of her breast. Swearing under her breath, she delved inside the woolen fabric and drew forth a pin left by whoever had mended the gown.

Another
accident,
she would no doubt be assured if she complained. Just as her portion of the pork served at the noontime meal had been accidentally oversalted and burned. Or her cup of ale had a crack in it and nearly leaked all over her.

She seemed to be having an extraordinary run of bad luck today, Cat thought wryly. Ever since Martin had announced to his household that Cat would be staying with them for an indefinite period of time, and she was to be accorded every respect.

Agatha Butterydoor had received the command in fuming silence, biting her lower lip nearly raw. The old woman had been waging covert war ever since. And she had the rest of the household from the maids to the kitchen boy ranged on her side.

Ah well, let them do their worst, Cat thought with a shrug. The only one who concerned her was Meg. The girl had not spoken a word to Cat since she had learned that Cat was not leaving. Meg had merely stared, her eyes wary, obviously not welcoming the presence of someone privy to her secrets. This made Cat wonder what other secrets Meg might be harboring. Cat was determined to protect the girl, even if that meant protecting young Mistress Margaret from herself.

As Cat finished lacing up her gown, a soft breeze wafted through the open window of the small maids’ room where she was changing. Voices carried from the back of the house, one of them Meg’s. Cat strolled to the window and peered into the garden below.

Enclosed by a high brick wall, it was a small plot of land containing a modest vegetable and herb garden, a pair of apple trees, an apiary, and a rabbit hutch. The Butterydoor woman knelt picking turnips while Meg sat nearby, her legs dangling off a stone bench. The girl presented the picture of a quaint little gentlewoman, clad in a pink silk gown with a starched white ruff encircling her slender throat, her soft brown hair smoothed back beneath a bon grace cap.

She leaned forward a little, listening intently as the old woman regaled her with some tale.

“…and I entered the bedchamber where the poor man was laid out, all stiff and cold. His eyes were wide and staring straight at me, his face twisted into a terrible rictus as though he’d been snuffed out in the middle of a horrible scream.

“Yet when I examined him, I could find no sign of any disease or injury. But it was clear to me what had killed him, as obvious as the nose on your face, Mistress Meg.”

“What, Aggie?” Meg asked breathlessly. “What killed him?”

The old woman lifted her trowel and pronounced in sepulchral tones. “He died of an evil thought.”

Cat expected that Meg would shake her head at such nonsense, but there was still too much of the child in her. She shrank back, her face blanching so white, she looked as though she might be ill.

Rot that garrulous old fool to be filling the girl’s head with such horrors, Cat thought. Her mouth set in a grim line, she marched off to put a stop to it.

As Cat hastened down the stairs, she tiptoed past the closed door of Martin’s study, then stopped. Assuming her regular stride, she berated herself for a fool. She had no notion if Martin was even in the study and she could hardly avoid the man forever, not if she was going to be living in the same house.

But that was exactly what she had been trying to do all day and she well knew the reason for it. That blasted kiss. The realization made her so disgusted with herself, she stomped the rest of the way through the hall.

It wasn’t as though she were some innocent maiden to get all flustered over a stolen kiss. The embrace had meant no more to her than it had to him. For her, it had been merely an irritation, not all that good…

Cat’s mouth twisted ruefully as she headed toward the back of the house. No, in all honesty she had to admit, the kiss had stirred in her a sweet ache, a flood of memories.

It had been such a long time since she had experienced such intimate contact. The last man she had kissed was that Irish rebel she had helped hide from the English. Banished from her stepfather’s clan, Cat had been living a rough existence herself, hiding and hunting in the Wicklow Mountains.

What had that rebel’s name been? Ciernan? Conner? They had spent an entire night taking comfort in each other’s arms before going their separate ways at sunrise. It saddened Cat that she could not remember his name or even his face.

But she could remember how he had made her feel, passionate, alive, reassured that she was a woman still despite her rough woolen breeches and calloused hands. If only for one night.

She sighed. Martin’s fleeting kiss had reminded her that at seven and twenty, she was not an old woman yet. She still had the need for a man’s touch, desires that as a daughter of the earth she knew were perfectly natural.

Desires she would not be indulging anytime soon and certainly not with a rogue the likes of Martin le Loup. But damn the man! He could be disconcertingly kind and gentle when she least expected it.

His expressive eyes had been warm with sympathy when she had grieved over her stolen things, nearly blubbering like an idiot over the loss of her da’s flask. The memory of that embarrassed Cat far more than the kiss.

It had been nothing but a cheap leather jack, but to Cat, it had felt like one more piece of her past slipping away from her, and she had lost so much already.

Still, it was not the way of Catriona O’Hanlon to go all weepy in front of any man. Le Loup and his sympathetic eyes be damned. She’d not be letting him past her guard again.

By the time Cat emerged from the kitchen door, Meg was nowhere in sight. Only Agatha remained, kneeling over the vegetable plot. She paused long enough to give Cat a baleful glance before returning to her labors, shaking the dirt off a large turnip she had just plucked.

Cat strode over to her, skirting past the basket Agatha was filling and a small wooden cage occupied by a plump, speckled toad.

Cat nudged the cage with the toe of her shoe. “If you are planning to slip that between my sheets, I should warn you you’ll be wasting your time. I’ve had far worse in my bed.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Agatha gave a scornful sniff. “I have more important uses for that toad than frightening you, mistress. My cabbages are full of grubs.”

“And you expect to get rid of them with a
toad
?”

The old woman looked up at Cat and shook her head in disgusted disbelief. “Do you receive no education over there in Ireland? Everyone knows the best way to get rid of grubs is to tie a string around a toad and drag it around the garden three times forward, three times back.”

When Cat snorted a laugh, Agatha glowered. “Find that amusing, do you? You don’t believe it works?”

“I believe you’ll succeed in annoying the toad just fine and I daresay the grubs may find it entertaining.”

“That shows all you know,” Agatha muttered. “And an ignorant wench like you thinks to replace me, looking after my little poppet, trying to win her favor away from
me.
” She forcefully yanked up another turnip.

“I am not trying to win Meg’s favor from anyone.”

“You’re plotting something nasty, of that I am sure. You may have fooled master, but you haven’t fooled me.” Agatha shook her spade threateningly. “But I warn you. I have my eye on you, wench.”

“You’d do better to keep your eye on young mistress, which is what I plan to do. Believe it or not, we have the same interest, Mistress Butterydoor, and that is Meg’s safety.”

“No one could care for the young mistress better than I do.”

“Then you might show some sign of that caring and not terrify the girl with tales of dead men who died of evil thoughts.”

“You were spying on me?” The old woman cried, her chin wobbling with indignation. “What passes between me and Mistress Meg is none of your concern.”

“Everything to do with Meg concerns me.” Cat hunched down, draping her arm across her knee. “I won’t tolerate you or anyone else frightening her.”

“As if I would! Mistress Meg is right fond of hearing tales of my days as a searcher of the dead.”

“A
what
?”

“A searcher of the dead.” Agatha lifted her head proudly. “Before I came to Master Wolfe’s employ, I was a woman of some importance here in Cheapside. It was my duty to examine anyone who died and report on the cause. The parish paid me two pennies a body.”

Cat was hard-pressed to believe the foolish old woman could have been of much use at such an occupation. Unless she had seriously underestimated Agatha and she was more of a wise woman than Cat would have ever supposed.

Or more of a witch. Cat studied the old woman intently. Was it possible she had been gulled into overlooking a threat to Meg that was right under her very nose? Cat’s gaze traveled over the old woman. She wore an apron to protect her dark woolen gown, but she had not bothered to shove back her sleeves. A curious thing, considering the warmth of the afternoon and the fact that the woman was grubbing in the dirt.

“Roll up your sleeves,” Cat commanded.

“What?” Agatha scowled.

“You heard me. I have already checked the housemaids’ arms. Now I want to see yours. Roll up your sleeves.”

“I’ll do no such thing.”

Cat did not wait for her compliance. She tried to shove back the fabric on Agatha’s right arm. But the woman fought back like a tigress, slapping, punching, and scratching until they both tumbled into the cabbage patch. Cat landed half on top of the fierce old woman.

“Get off. Get off, you mad heathen,” she shrieked, pummeling Cat with both fists.

Cat persisted until she had thrust back one sleeve and then the other, exposing…

Nothing. No scar burned in the shape of a rose, only pale flaccid skin.

Agatha was nearly weeping with outrage, her withered cheeks mottled bright red. Cat drew back.

“I am sorry, Mistress Butterydoor,” she apologized. “But I had to be sure—”

“How dare you suspect me of being one of those evil creatures!” the old woman cried. “Me who has been Mistress Meg’s most devoted nursemaid for all these m-months.”

Agatha groped for her cane. Cat sprang up to help her but the old woman smacked her hands away. Somehow Agatha managed to get to her feet.

“Irish savage,” she choked.

“Mistress Butterydoor. Please, I truly am—” Cat broke off with a sharp intake of breath when the old woman thwacked her in the shin.

Gathering up her basket and her toad, Agatha hobbled toward the house, vanishing through the kitchen door. Cat watched her go, pricked with guilt, feeling like a wretched bully.

She might argue it was her duty as Meg’s protector to scrutinize every woman who came near the girl. But she could have handled her suspicions a trifle more diplomatically and gently.

She winced and bent down to rub her throbbing shin. She was going to have another spectacular bruise thanks to Mistress Butterydoor, but this time she deserved it.

She reminded herself that she wasn’t here to win friends or spare anyone’s feelings, but she sank down on the bench, despondent all the same. The light was fading. It would soon be time for supper and Cat was not looking forward to another burnt meal with the rest of the household drawing away from her as though she were afflicted with leprosy.

She shrugged, telling herself it didn’t matter. She had endured far worse in her stepfather’s house, the haughty O’Meara clan full of nothing but scorn for the “dirty little O’ Hanlon pagan.”

Cat had survived snubs and taunts, to say nothing of her stepfather’s frequent thrashings. But what had hurt the most had been her mother’s indifference to her daughter’s misery.

“You would get on much better if only you would try to be more pleasing, Catriona,” Fiona had scolded. “Act like a proper young lady, instead of some half-wild savage. Agree to be baptized in the holy Catholic faith.”

“But my father was never baptized,” Cat had protested. “Most of the O’Hanlons follow the old ways and you never seemed to mind it when we still lived with Da in Gran’s cottage.”

“Your father is dead and that life is well behind me now.”

And as she had looked in her mother’s cold eyes, Cat had realized that Fiona had already forgotten her great love for Tiernan of the Laughing Eyes and that she would have liked to forget the daughter she had got by him as well.

Cat was annoyed that the memory of those childhood days had the power to wound her still. She shook off the hurt, telling herself she was only the tougher for all the cruelty she’d endured amongst the O’Mearas. Too tough to be daunted by the snubs of a few puny English.

And it was a fair summer’s eve, the sun spreading its last golden light over the garden, a fat bee setting up a pleasant drone near the clover, wrens chirruping in the apple tree.

She thought wistfully that right about now she should be with Ariane and Justice in the garden at Belle Haven, sipping wine, watching the sun go down. Cat had felt set adrift ever since her father had died and she had been torn away from her beloved grandmother. But at least with Ariane and the other wise women of Faire Isle, Cat had experienced some sense of belonging. A borrowed home and a borrowed clan perhaps, but she expected that it was all she would ever know.

She wrapped her arms about herself, suddenly feeling isolated and alone.