Hathaways 04 Married by Morning

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After laying out plots with the tenants and laborers, hammering wooden stakes into the ground, and
wading through a cold, muddy stream, Leo rode back to Ramsay House. It was late afternoon, the sun a
condensed yellow, the meadows still and breezeless. Leo was tired, sweat-soaked, and annoyed from
battling gadflies. Wryly he thought that all the romantic poets who waxed rhapsodic about being out in
nature had certainly never been involved in an irrigation project.
His boots were so caked with mud that he went to the kitchen entrance, left them by the door, and
went inside in his stocking feet. The cook and a maid were busy slicing apples and rolling dough, while
Win and Beatrix sat at the worktable, polishing silver.
Hello, Leo, Beatrix said cheerfully.
Heavens, what a sight you are, Win exclaimed.
Leo smiled at both of them, then wrinkled his nose as he detected a bitter stench in the air. I didn t
think it was possible for any odor to eclipse mine at the moment. What is it? Metal polish?
No, actually it s& Win looked guarded. Well, it s a kind of dye.
For cloth?
For hair, Beatrix said. You see, Miss Marks wants to darken her hair before the ball, but she was
afraid of using dye from the apothecary, since he got it so wrong last time. So Cook suggested a recipe
that her own mother used. You boil walnut shells and cassia bark together with vinegar and
Why is Marks dyeing her hair? Leo asked, striving to keep his tone ordinary, even as his soul revolted
against the idea. That beautiful hair, gleaming gold and pale amber, covered with a dull, dark stain.
Win replied cautiously. I believe she wishes to be less & visible & at the ball, with so many guests in
attendance. I didn t press her for answers, as I felt she was entitled to her privacy. Leo, please don t
distress her by mentioning it.
Does no one find it odd that we have a servant who insists on disguising herself? Leo asked. Is this
family so bloody eccentric that we accept any manner of strangeness without even asking questions?
It s not all that strange, Beatrix said. Many animals change their colors. Cuttlefish, for example, or
certain species of frogs, and of course chameleons
Excuse me, Leo said through clenched teeth. He left the kitchen with purposeful strides, while Win
and Beatrix stared after him.
I was leading to some very interesting facts about chameleons, Beatrix said.
Bea, darling, Win murmured, perhaps you d better go out to the stables and find Cam.
Catherine sat at her dressing table, contemplating her own tense reflection in the looking glass. Several
articles were neatly arranged in front of her: folded toweling, a comb, a pitcher and basin, and a pot
filled with a strained dark sludge that looked like boot blacking. She had painted a single lock of hair with
the stuff, and was waiting for it to take effect, to see what color had been imparted. After her last
disaster with colorant, when her hair had turned green, she was taking no chances.
With the Hathaway ball only two days away, Catherine had no choice but to drab down her appearance
as much as possible. Guests from surrounding counties would attend, as well as families from London.
And as always, she was afraid of being recognized. However, as long as she obscured her appearance
and kept to the corners, no one ever noticed her. Chaperones were most often spinsters or poor
widows, undesirable women who had been assigned the task of watching over young girls who still had
their best years ahead of them. Catherine was scarcely older than those girls, but she felt as if there
were decades between herself and them.
Catherine knew that her past would catch up with her someday. And when it did, the time she had spent
with the Hathaways would be over. It had been the only period of real happiness in her life. She would
grieve to lose them.
All of them.
The door was flung open, shattering Catherine s quiet contemplation. She turned in her chair and saw
Leo in remarkable disarray. He was sweaty and rumpled and filthy, standing there in his stocking feet.
She jumped up to face him, recalling too late that she wore nothing but a crumpled chemise.
His hard gaze raked over her, missing no detail, and Catherine turned red in outrage. What are you
doing? she cried. Have you gone mad? Leave my room this instant!
Chapter Thirteen
Leo closed the door and reached Catherine in two strides. He hauled her forcibly to the pitcher and
basin.
Stop it, she screeched, flailing at him, while he pushed her head over the basin and poured water over
the lock of hair she had saturated with dye. She spluttered furiously. What is wrong with you? What are
you doing?
Washing this slime from your hair. He dumped the rest of the water on her head.
Catherine yelped and struggled, managing to slosh water over him as well, until there were puddles on
the floor and the carpet was soaked. They fought until Catherine found herself on the wet layer of wool
covering the floor. Her spectacles had flown off, leaving the room a blur. But Leo s face was only inches
above her own, his hot blue eyes staring into hers. He subdued her without effort, pinning her wrists,
her torso, as if she had no more substance than a garment rippling on a clothesline. He was very heavy
on her, muscle and weight and masculinity supported in the cradle of her thighs.
She twisted helplessly. She wanted him to let her go, and at the same time she wanted him to lie on her
forever, his hips pressing hers harder, deeper. Her eyes turned wet.
Please, she choked out. Please don t hold my wrists.
As he heard the note of fear in her voice, his face changed. He released her arms at once. She was
gathered up against him, her dripping head clasped to his shoulder.
No, he muttered, don t be afraid of me. I would never She felt him kiss the side of her face, the
edge of her jaw, the frantic working of her throat. Waves of warmth slid over her, sensation rising in the
places where they pressed. She let her arms remain limp and outstretched on the floor, but her knees
tightened on his body, holding him instinctively.
What does it matter to you? she asked against his damp shirt. What do you care what color my h-hair
is? She felt the hard wall of his chest beneath his shirt, and she wanted to delve beneath the garment,
rub her mouth and cheeks through the dark fleece.
His voice was soft and fierce. Because it s not you. It s not right. What are you hiding from?
She shook her head weakly, her eyes swimming. I can t explain. There s too much & I can t. If you knew,
I would have to go. And I want to stay with you. Just a little longer. A sob slipped from her throat. Not
you, I meant your family.
You can stay. Tell me, so I can protect you.
She swallowed back another sob. There was a hot, irritating trickle on the side of her face. A tear had
slid into her hairline. She lifted a hand to brush at it, but he had already put his mouth there, his lips
absorbing the trail of wet salt. Her trembling hand curved around his head. She hadn t meant to
encourage him, but he took it as such, his mouth finding hers hungrily. And she moaned, lost in a flood
of urgent feeling.
He slid an arm beneath her neck, supporting her as he kissed her. She felt the excitement in him, heard
it in the rasp of his breathing as he searched and teased and licked deep. His weight lifted from her, his
warm hand settling on the damp fabric covering her midriff. She might as well have been naked for all
the concealment the chemise provided, her nipples rising tightly against the transparent chill of fabric.
He kissed her over the wet muslin, his mouth fastening over the rosy veiled point. Impassioned, he
tugged at the tie of her chemise and spread the garment to reveal the shapes of her breasts, high and
small and round. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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