The Pride of Lions (9 page)

The tall Londoner stopped and cast a fulminating glance downward. “If you want me that badly, you’ll take me as I am.”

He strode past Colonel Halfyard and walked angrily out into the courtyard. There were still some guests lingering in the mist-shrouded lantern light, talking excitedly among themselves, replaying every detail of the duel. They fell instantly silent when they saw Montgomery with his escort of dragoons, and most of them, picking up the scent of a new scandal, moved hurriedly to follow them into the manor house.

Once inside, Sir Alfred’s much shorter legs had to
scramble considerably faster to overtake the merchant and lead the way up the stairs and along the corridor to his library. He flung the doors wide and waited for Montgomery, Colonel Halfyard, and a dazed and disbelieving Damien Ashbrooke to enter before closing them again, leaving crisp orders with the dragoons that no one was to enter or leave without his express permission.

The library was a dark and somber place with its wood paneling and ceiling-to-floor bookshelves. A single three-pronged candelabra had been lit and set on the enormous gumwood desk, supplementing the less than enthusiastic flames that licked fitfully at the charred logs in the fireplace. Harriet Chalmers sat on a red damask settee and sobbed quietly into the shreds of her handkerchief. The Reverend Mister Duvall, invited as a guest to the party, looked both bewildered and uncomfortable as he waited by the hearth, his hands worrying the pages of a Bible.

Lady Caroline Ashbrooke sat on a leather chair near the reverend, and fussed with nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt. She was a beautiful woman, straight-backed and slender, whose fine, delicate features had been luminously duplicated in her daughter. Her hair was still a soft honey gold beneath the layers of rice powder, her complexion smooth and pure enough to disdain the use of paints and washes. Her eyes were a deeper shade of violet than Catherine’s, but where her daughter’s were bright and vibrant, sparkling with life, Lady Caroline’s were dull, as indifferent to her surroundings as twenty years of a lackluster existence could render them. Her affairs were no secret to anyone in the immediate family, not even her husband, who had taken his own mistress three weeks after their marriage.

She looked up now as Raefer Montgomery’s arrival caused the air in the library to fairly crackle alive with tension. Harriet stopped sniffling long enough to cast a shocked glance in Damien’s direction—a glance that
was interrupted by Sir Alfred summoning the reverend forward.

“We have arrived at an amenable arrangement, Mr. Duvall. Mr. Montgomery is more than willing to accept the hand of my daughter in marriage.”

The reverend cast a helpless glance toward the deeper shadows beside the window embrasure. “And, er, Mistress Catherine?”

She had been standing there so still, so utterly motionless, neither Damien nor Montgomery had noted her presence when they entered the room.

“Catherine!” Sir Alfred held out his hand, indicating she was to join them by the hearth. “You will oblige your mother and me by coming out of that damned corner at once. We have the means at hand to repair at least some of the damage you have brought about tonight. Catherine—
do you hear me?
”

The minister trembled visibly at the violence in Sir Alfred’s command. “R-really, Lord Ashbrooke, I don’t think—”

“Precisely. Do not think. Simply read the blasted ceremony and say the right words.”

“B-but the legality—”

“I am quite prepared to pay generously for any special dispensation you may require. In fact, I am willing to pay for a complete new roof for the chapel, if that is what it will take to dispense with any further delays.”

“It … it isn’t that, Your Lordship. It’s just …”

“It’s just what? God’s blood, speak up!”

“You cannot force your daughter into a marriage by threats and coercions. It would not be morally legal.”

“Poppycock! It’s been legal, morally and otherwise, for centuries gone by. That’s the root of most of society’s troubles these days, allowing flighty, empty-headed children to decide what is best for their future. My daughter will be married this night, sir. If not to Mr. Montgomery, then to the first thick-fisted lout I drag in from the stables.”

Catherine moved slowly out of the shadows. Her face was pale, the skin almost translucent where it was stretched over her cheekbones. For the briefest of moments she met and held her mother’s eyes, for Lady Caroline’s marriage had been arranged: a prudent union between two families of substance, with no thought whatsoever to affection, or even to whether the two parties concerned could tolerate each other. Catherine had hoped for so much more.…

Damien hastened to her side and grasped both of her ice-cold hands in his. “Kitty … you don’t have to go through with this. He cannot force you. You can come back to London with me and—”

She raised a hand and pressed her fingers over his mouth. “My dear brother, my dearest friend … he is not forcing me. He has simply explained the advantages and disadvantages of refusing to do as he asks. It will be all right, I promise.
I
will be all right. Just … help me get through this unpleasantness, and you’ll see. Everything will be all right.”

She was calm. Too calm, Damien decided, and far too docile when she should have been screaming and breaking things. She was up to something. There was a definite glimmer in her eyes and a shallow, calculated quality to her breathing that was making her mouth dry and her pulse race.

The Reverend Mister Duvall cleared his throat and Catherine took her place before him. There was one final moment of tension as the thunderously dark-featured Raefer Montgomery let his frosted gaze settle briefly on each face in the room, imposing his contempt and disgust upon them in equal measures. With the barest breath of a curse he moved to Catherine’s side and stared straight ahead, his fists clenched as tightly as his jaw.

The reverend began droning the oft-repeated rites and vows of the marriage ceremony. He dared not look either participant in the eye, but directed the promises of love, honor, and obedience to the lofty bookcases. Only once
did he make the mistake of focusing on anything more animated, and then only because the cut over the groom’s eye had begun to leak again and a bright red spot of blood dripped onto the front of his shirt, staining the stark whiteness of the silk like an omen of tragedy to come.

5

C
atherine Ashbrooke Montgomery stood in numbed silence watching a small battalion of maids swarm through her armoires, dressers, tables, and sideboard to select the possessions she approved before packing them quickly into two enormous wooden trunks. A nod or a shake of her head decided the fate of dozens of gowns. Those she rejected were set aside, not to be burned, as she had initially commanded, but to be distributed among the servants. Her new husband had informed her in curt, cold tones of his intentions of departing Rosewood Hall with all due haste. He had stalked out of the library immediately after the perfunctory ceremony, and she had not seen him since.

Numb was exactly how she felt. Her mind, her body, her senses—it was as if she hung suspended somewhere in the air above the room and could watch but not participate as someone else said yea or nay to the selection of gowns. Someone else was watching Harriet burst into tears at every turn, and that same someone else was unable to cry herself. What good would it do? She was married to a man she did not love, did not even know beyond Damien’s halfhearted attempts to assure her he was educated, civilized, and reputed to be a gentleman in every sense of the word.

Twice she had thought to go and see Hamilton, and twice she had stopped herself at the door. The doctor, she had been told, had labored over his wound for more than two hours before declaring it might be safe to move him from the table in the kitchen to one of the guest rooms.
What must he think of her? What
would
he think of her when he found out she was Mrs. Raefer Montgomery? Would he consider himself lucky to have escaped her clutches with only a few scars to show for his misguided interest?

Catherine stepped around the clutter of discarded garments and headed for the door again.

“Catherine?” Harriet sniffed and looked up. “Where are you going?”

“I must see him,” she said softly.

“See him? See who?”

“Hamilton. I must try to explain …”

“Oh, Catherine, no. Why torment yourself? Why torment Hamilton? There is nothing either one of you can do about it now.”

Catherine squared her shoulders and went out into the corridor. It seemed strange that there should still be music and laughter drifting through the hallways, but her father had not seen the need to halt the celebrations, only to add a new toast to the bride and groom. The laughter, she was sure, was all in her honor; she would be fodder for the gossips for many months, probably years, to come.

She was still dressed in the watered-silk gown, and the skirt made a soft whispering sound as she made her way toward the guest wing. There were candles alight in the wall sconces. It was nearly four o’clock in the morning, and thankfully, she met no one coming from or going to any of the rooms she passed.

The door to Hamilton’s room was slightly ajar and Catherine approached it warily, not knowing who or what to expect to see inside. She could smell, even out in the hallway, the lingering odor of the herbs and unguents Dr. Moore had used to treat the wound. A single candle sat on the bedside table, its flame weak, the wick trimmed to assure the minimum discomfort for the patient. The glow it cast illuminated the sheer canopy that hung like a massive cobweb over the four-poster bed. It also lit the
features of the servant who had been assigned to watch over Hamilton Garner while he slept.

Catherine put a finger to her lips and signaled the woman to leave them alone for a few minutes. She edged closer to the bed, her hands pressed over her breasts, hoping the rapid pounding of her heart would not wake him. Hamilton’s eyes were closed, the lids flickering sporadically beneath a film of sweat. Droplets slid from his brow and temples, turning his tawny gold hair into a damp, clinging cap. His flesh seemed to have turned gray, and his hands, resting along either thigh, were clutched around the blankets, trembling with each wave of pain. His clothes had been removed and he lay bare to the waist. The thick, wide bandage that was wrapped around his midsection was oily yellow from the doctor’s poultice and tinged pink with blood.

Catherine moistened her lips, uncertain now whether to stay or go. He was asleep, drugged most likely with the tincture of laudanum that sat in a blue vial on the nightstand. Hot, fat tears welled over her lashes and slid down her cheeks as she leaned over and gently rearranged the covers he had tugged aside.

“No,” he snarled, and a hand shot up, grabbing at her arm. The jade eyes bulged open, but it took several seconds for him to focus and recognize her through the pain. “Catherine? Catherine, is that you?”

“Oh, Hamilton, what have I done to you?”

She sank down onto her knees beside the bed, her head bowed over his hand, her tears wetting his skin.

“You were not to blame for this, Catherine. It was entirely my fault. I underestimated him and … and he proved to be the better man.”

“No. No, Hamilton! Not a better man. He’s vile and devious and coldhearted—”

“Catherine—” He swallowed with difficulty and his hand tightened on her arm. “Dear God, Catherine, did you do it? Did you really marry him?”

“I had no choice,” she sobbed. “Father forced me. He was in a rage, he threatened to throw me out into the
night, to disown me, to marry me to the first stable hand he could pull out of the haystack.”

“You
married
him?”

“I had no choice,” she cried weakly, raising her tear-stained face. “He would have done it. He would have thrown me out of the house, and where could I have gone? What could I have done? Who could I have turned to knowing that you hated me, and Damien hated me, and—”

“Hate you?” His eyes burned feverishly, and fresh beads of moisture broke out across his forehead. “I don’t hate you, Catherine. You’re mine, dammit.
Mine!
And no strutting, arrogant bastard is going to touch you, not while there’s breath left in my body.”

He started to struggle upright, to push himself off the bed, his hand flailing angrily at Catherine’s attempts to stop him.

“What are you doing? Your wound—”

“He’s not going to have you, by God! I’ll kill him before I’ll let him take you away from me!”

“Hamilton, no! You’re too weak. Your wound will open again and—”

“You’re mine, Catherine. Mine!” A searing jolt of pain lanced through his side, twisting his handsome features into a mask of agony. He slumped back onto the pillows, the sweat pouring from his face in rivers. His mouth moved and he tried to speak again, but there was no sound.

Catherine bathed his face with a damp cloth and tried to soothe him. “Hamilton, you know I love you. You
must
know that I love you.”

His eyes shivered open. “No one makes a fool of me,” he hissed. “No one. If he tries to take you away, I’ll follow. I’ll track him to the ends of the earth if need be. He can’t get away with this. He
won’t
get away with it, I swear.”