The Huntress (27 page)

“Sander no longer has any reason to steal. Besides his employment at the theater, he is frequently engaged to play for entertainments at many of the great houses in London. He has found a patron in Lord Oxbridge and has written several songs for his lordship.”

Songs that Ned had had no qualms about passing off as his own, Martin thought wryly.

“Perhaps Sander was a pickpocket when he was young, but you forget, my dear, so was I.”

“You must have been a deal more skilled at it than young Master Naismith.” Cat paused in her massage to give a playful tug at one of his lobes. “You still have both your ears.”

“I was luckier, that was all. I was never caught and it was not the penalty in France.” His brow furrowed in a slight frown. “Actually, it’s a rather odd sort of punishment. How does one deter a thief by removing his ear? It would make more sense to lop off the hand.”

Cat snorted. “The English have their own brand of logic, incomprehensible to the sane world.”

Martin smiled as Cat resumed kneading his arm. He realized he was starting to enjoy the warm feel of her hands on his bare flesh for a far different reason, but like some poor half-frozen beggar, he lacked the strength to draw away from the fire. But Cat’s next words were like a splash of cold water.

“You do realize that Meg is smitten with Master Naismith?”

Martin’s eyes popped open. “Don’t be absurd. She is a mere babe.”

“She is maturing faster than you realize. Give her a few more years and there is the promise of a lovely young woman budding there. The lads will be noticing and swarming round like bees after a honeypot.”

Martin scowled, picturing young men sniffing about his little girl’s skirts like a pack of randy hounds.

“They best keep their noticing to themselves or I’ll lop off more than ears,” he growled.

“I thought that was what you were grooming her for, to make a good match, to be some man’s bride,” Cat replied in an irritatingly reasonable tone.

“Yes, but not for years and years,” he snapped. Shrugging off her hands, he shot to his feet, any pleasure he’d felt at Cat’s touch replaced with annoyance and a strange feeling akin to panic.

He was ambitious for Meg to make a good marriage but the thought of anyone taking his daughter away from him caused a hollow ache to lodge in his chest. His little girl had been his for all too short a time.

“I know many girls wed at a tender age, but I don’t believe in that. It is wiser for a woman to be more mature, older…”

“Like around thirty perhaps?” Cat asked.

“No!” He glared at her. “But nineteen or twenty at least.”

When she had the impertinence to smirk at him, he bridled. “I have heard of many women who married later in life.”

“Or not at all,” Cat said with a rueful twist of her lips.

Martin regarded her curiously. He could only hazard a guess at Cat’s age, somewhere in her mid-twenties perhaps. God knows she could be prickly and hot-tempered, stubborn and far too independent. But for a man who had the courage to tame her, there was also a womanly tenderness to be found, to say nothing of her physical charms, those vivid blue eyes, the silky red hair, and the firm, ripe breasts. So why had she remained unmarried?

Although he expected to be rebuffed, he asked, “What about you? Did you never consider being wed?”

Was that a flash of some remembered pain he saw in her eyes? If so, she was quick to shrug it off.

“Not really. My stepfather tried to arrange a match for me when I was fifteen, if for no other reason than to be rid of me. He sought to bundle me off to a chieftain in a clan far to the north. He even had my portrait done and sent.”

Cat squared her shoulders defiantly. “Not that I would ever have submitted to such an arrangement, but happily nothing came of the scheme once O’Hare saw my portrait. It was a dreadful likeness. It made me look like a redheaded midget.”

“Er, but, Cat, you
are
a red-haired midget.”

“Varlet,” Cat said with a mock growl. Doubling up her fist, she took a playful swipe at his ear.

Laughing, he caught her wrist, making amends for his teasing by kissing first one knuckle, then the next and the next. The tension in her hand relaxed, her fingers uncurling. Their eyes met and locked. She splayed her hand on his bare chest over the region of his heart.

His breath quickening, Martin bent closer to brush his mouth against hers. Just one kiss could do no harm. A light friendly one, or at least that was what he intended until his lips met hers and Cat responded. She returned the kiss eagerly, her lips parting, breathing whiskey and warmth, filling him with fire.

Pressing his hand atop hers, he held her palm captive to his racing heart. This…this was not wise, he told himself, but his head no longer seemed to be in charge.

He angled his mouth to deepen the kiss, her tongue engaging his in a fiery duel. She wrapped her arms about his neck and he hauled her hard against him, feeling the softness of her breasts through the thin chemise.

They traded kiss upon kiss with a desperate hunger. Martin fumbled with the ties of her chemise, nearly tearing the fabric as he shoved it off one shoulder. He emitted a low groan, his loins tightening as he cupped her breast. Warm and supple, the globe fit perfectly in his hand.

As he trailed kisses down her neck, Cat arched back, clinging to his shoulders. She gasped and caught her lower lip between her teeth as he bent lower, fastening his mouth over the rosy crest of her nipple.

Even as he tasted her, reason fought to reassert itself. Somehow he managed to draw back, wrench himself away from her. Cat let out a low cry of protest and he dragged his hands back through his hair, feeling as though he could have yanked out a handful in sheer frustration.

Panting, they stared at each other. A red flush stained Cat’s cheeks, but the expression that stole across her features was not one of shame or modesty. Only pure consternation.

“Ah, Holy Brigid,” she cried. “What the devil are we doing?”

“I—I don’t know.”

They sprang apart, moving away from each other. As Cat fumbled to draw up her chemise, Martin reached for his shirt and dragged it over his head. Any residual pain in his arm went unnoticed due to the far greater ache in his groin.

“I am sorry,” he said, his fingers clumsy and wooden as he did up the lacings on his shirt.

“Bah to your apologies,” Cat said. “You are not the only one to blame here.”

“But I am the master of this household and for me to take such advantage of a lady beneath my roof—”

“I am not a lady and you most certainly are not my master. You are merely a man and I am a woman. What happened just now was…was perfectly natural.”

“Natural, but wrong.”

“Oh, yes, indeed. Very, very wrong. You—you have your ambitions, your Lady Danvers to consider.”

“Yes, Jane,” Martin replied, surprised by his lack of enthusiasm, appalled that he could not even conjure up an image of the lady’s face at the moment.

“And—and all I want is to return to Faire Isle,” Cat stammered. “I certainly don’t need the entanglement of—of taking a lover.”

“A lover!” Martin cried. “No, of course not. There is no question of anything like that between us.”

“So no harm done.” Cat attempted to smile. “It is not as though we are a stallion and mare in season. We both possess enough reason not to give way to such impulses again.”

“No. Decidedly not,” he agreed. But when he risked a glance in Cat’s direction, the longing that still simmered in her blue eyes was near enough to draw him straight back to her arms.

He turned away and shrugged hastily into his doublet, not paying much heed to whether he buttoned it crooked or straight. When he dared look at Cat again, she had uncorked her flask and was taking several deep gulps of whiskey.

Fighting fire with fire, he was tempted to jest. Recollecting that it was his teasing that had sparked the mischief between them in the first place, he swallowed the remark.

Instead, he said in a tone of false heartiness, “It will be light soon. We’d best get to bed.

“Alone,” he added hastily. “You to yours. Me to mine….” He trailed off, realizing he was blithering likean idiot. He just needed to close his mouth now.

Cat nodded and corked the flask. For a woman who had not appeared the least embarrassed when he’d kissed her or nibbled on her breast, she suddenly looked adorably shy.

She said, “I fear I was terribly ungrateful before. I didn’t even really thank you for
this.
” She hugged the flask close to her.

“You’re very welcome, but I told you. It was nothing, a mere trifle.”

“No,” she insisted. “Your gift means a great deal to me.”

“Cat, if I gave you a thousand silver flasks, it wouldn’t be a tenth of what you’ve given me. You have no idea how much it has eased my mind having you here to help me protect Meg. You make me feel as though I am not quite so much—”

Alone.
He nearly said and was stunned. Until that moment, he had never realized that he was.

“Not quite so worried,” he finished lamely. Summoning up a smile, he patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

“Good night, petite chatte,” he said softly.

But he doubted Cat heard him as she darted past him and out the study door.

C
AT CURLED UP ON THE WINDOW SEAT IN
M
EG’S BEDCHAMBER
, keeping as still as she could so as not to disturb the slumbering girl. Still unable to sleep, Cat clutched her precious flask and watched the first streaks of light break over the rooftops.

Good night, petite chatte.
Martin’s adieu lingered in her mind.

Little cat. Her mouth twisted in a reluctant smile. Cat would have gutted any other man who dared call her that. Why then had she allowed Martin to get away with it? Nay, even enjoyed hearing the absurd endearment fall from his lips? And why had she allowed him to give her such a costly gift?

She traced her fingertips over the silver flask and sighed. If she was going to torment herself with such unanswerable questions, she supposed she might as well ask the most difficult one.

Why had she stayed up all night waiting for Martin, frightened out of her wits that something dire had happened to the wretched man? She could tell herself her fear had been on Meg’s account, but that was only partly true.

The child would have been devastated by the loss of her father, but Cat was disconcerted to realize Meg would not have been the only one.

When Cat had fretted and worried over his absence, the thought that Martin might never walk back through that door, that she might never again see his teasing smile, hear his hearty laugh, had brought a strange tightness to her throat.

Cat leaned her head wearily back against the wall. Oh, what folly was this? Martin le Loup was a charming rogue, but she had known such handsome rogues before, and she saw too clearly all the flaws in this one.

He was stubborn, reckless, and impractical, with far too great a penchant for drama and the grand gesture. But such failings seemed of little significance set next to his kindness, his courage, his humor, and his generosity.

And his steadfast heart. He would do anything for his daughter and that was what truly worried Cat. Exactly what was Martin doing to secure this dazzling future he envisioned for his child? She still had no idea what business kept drawing him abroad at night, but she was certain it had nothing to do with the Crown Theatre.

When he had finally crept home in the wee hours, he had looked worn thin, almost haggard with whatever secret he was keeping. And this from a man who was usually so insouciant, so bounding with energy, being with him was like riding the tail of that fiery comet that still plagued the sky.

Whatever Martin was involved in, it had to be something dire and hazardous indeed to dampen the spirits of such a man. Perhaps the next time he set off at night, Cat might do well to follow him and—

What was she thinking? She had to sharply remind herself why she was here and that was not to protect Martin le Loup, but his daughter.

“The man is none of your concern. None of your concern,” she repeated to herself several times as though it were some sort of protective chant. One that wasn’t working, perhaps because her lips were still bruised and tender from the warmth of his kisses.

Christmas. It was still nearly five months away, she reminded herself fiercely. Five months in which to avoid becoming any further entangled with Martin. But Cat feared it might already be too late.

Fool that she was, she had gone and fallen in love with the man.

Chapter Fourteen

T
HE BELLS PEALED ALL OVER THE CITY IN WILD JUBILATION
. One would have thought they signaled a great military victory or the birth of a royal heir. But it was merely the tribute that had to be paid whenever the queen embarked on her royal barge down the Thames. The sextons in each parish received extra compensation for performing this duty. It was a waste of good coin and an infernal racket all for nothing.

The
English,
Cat thought. But she curbed her disgust for the sake of her young companion. After weeks of keeping Meg confined to the house, it had finally seemed safe enough to allow the girl a brief outing to visit her father’s theater. The fact that she might also at last catch a glimpse of her much-admired queen only added to Meg’s excitement.

“Come on, Cat,” Meg said, tugging at her hand, urging Cat toward the throng of spectators on Southwark’s bank. Hats were doffed and handkerchiefs fluttered, as the crowd waved and cheered. A holiday mood reigned upon this warm summer’s day, but Cat was wary, ever on the alert. She studied the assembled crowd, scanning faces, especially those of the women, to make certain no one appeared unduly interested in Meg. But all eyes were trained toward the river.

As Meg dragged Cat to the bankside, Cat glanced over her shoulder, looking for Martin, and discovered that he lagged behind.

They had been keeping a discreet distance from each other ever since that night they had given way to passion and nearly mated right there in his study. Cat had taken herself sternly to task, seeking to curb her desires and her foolish thoughts as well.

Fancying herself in love with the man! A notion born of too much usquebaugh and too little sleep. But she was honest enough to concede her attraction to Martin, especially when he was looking as fine as he did today.

He was clad in a velvet doublet and the hue matched the vivid green of his eyes. His short black cape dangled gallantly off one shoulder, his tight trunk hose emphasizing the muscular contour of his legs. The feathered toque he wore perched jauntily on his head, enhancing his handsome, dark raffish looks.

He was a sight to stir the pulse of any female with good red blood in her veins. But Cat doubted the woman that Martin escorted had anything but milk water coursing through hers.

Lady Jane Danvers strolled beside Martin, her eyes modestly cast downward. They were trailed by her ladyship’s entourage, several male servants clad in livery and Mistress Porter, her maid, a sour-faced creature with gray-streaked hair.

The two women, their skirts stiffened with farthingales and their slow mincing steps, were the chief reason that Martin had fallen behind. Cat could have easily dispensed with their company.

But Lady Danvers had never seen the theater that she had invested in and Martin seemed eager to show it to her. Cat suspected that Martin was also anxious for his daughter to become better acquainted with the woman he hoped would become Meg’s stepmother.

Cat herself had been curious to finally get a look at the lady. The woman was pretty enough, but quiet, prim, and dull. Garbed in her ecru silk gown, her fair hair bundled beneath a bon grace cap, her ladyship could have faded into the hazy afternoon and never been missed. At least not by Cat.

Martin was certainly attentive enough, speaking softly into Jane’s ear. As though if he raised his voice a shade too loud, the poor thing might swoon, Cat thought contemptuously. But she could see where Lady Danvers’s gentleness and air of vulnerability would appeal to a man like Martin with his romantic notions of chivalry and flair for drama. Her ladyship was the kind of woman he could kneel before and vow to slay all her dragons.

Very different from herself, Cat reflected.
I
am
the dragon.

She was startled out of her glum reflections when she realized Meg had slipped free of her grasp. Cat experienced a moment of panic until she spotted the girl a short distance away.

Watching her mother drown had given Meg a certain fear of water. But her desire to see the queen consumed all else, overcoming both her wariness of the Thames’s flowing current and the strangers thronging the bank.

The girl attempted to push her way through the crowd to reach the edge of the shore. Darting over to her, Cat clamped her hand down on Meg’s shoulder.

She bent low enough to growl in the girl’s ear. “Meg, you promised. If we allowed you to leave the house, you swore to keep close to your da and me.”

“But, Cat, I can’t
see
the queen,” Meg wailed.

And you are not missing much, Cat was tempted to retort. But she was not proof against Meg’s beseeching green eyes.

Elbowing a stout merchant in the ribs, pressing past a skinny matron and her daughter, treading on the toes of a gangly sailor, Cat helped Meg move forward. Ignoring the curses and glares she received, she managed to work Meg to the front of the crowd.

The barge was nearly past the bend of the river, twelve burly men in scarlet straining at the oars, the queen barely visible beneath her golden canopy. Cat hunkered down and hoisted Meg up onto her shoulder, not an easy feat.

The girl didn’t weigh much, but to make a good impression upon Lady Danvers, Meg was attired in voluminous skirts of her own. As Cat cautiously straightened, she could see little beyond the froth of pink silk. But she was rewarded by the sound of Meg’s delighted gasp as the girl clutched at Cat’s head and cheered along with the rest of the crowd.

Her shoulder muscle straining, Cat held Meg aloft as long as she could. As the cheering died and the crowd around them began to disperse, Cat figured the barge must have passed from view.

As she bent to lower Meg down from her shoulder, Cat lost her balance. Teetering backward, she twisted, using her body to break Meg’s fall as they both hit the ground.

Cat bit back an oath at the jarring impact. Knocked breathless for a moment, she sprawled on her back, wincing at the jab of Meg’s elbow as the girl scrambled off of her.

“Oh, Cat, are you all right?” she cried.

Cat could do no more than nod. She had taken far worse spills in her life riding the mean-tempered ponies in her stepfather’s stables. But she had landed hard on her rump. As she sat up cautiously, she grimaced, knowing she was going to have a mightily bruised tailbone.

Regaining her feet, Meg peered anxiously down at her. “Are you certain you are not injured?”

“Only my dignity,” Cat muttered.

“And fortunately, you don’t have a great deal of that,” a cheerful masculine voice asserted.

As Martin loomed in front of her, Cat felt a hot tide of color wash up in her cheeks. She realized that in her fall, her skirt had hiked up, revealing a fair amount of leg. Before she could react, Martin tugged her hem back down. Stealing his strong arm about her waist, he helped her to rise.

She might have been tempted to lean against him for a moment, but she was too aware of Lady Danvers and her maid approaching. Cat straightened stiffly, dusting off the back of her gown, feeling very much the fool.

But Martin looked more amused than vexed. His eyes dancing wickedly, he said, “I know how you feel about the queen, Mistress O’Hanlon, but you really must try to curb your enthusiasm.”

Cat scowled at him. Before she could retort, Meg piped up, “Don’t you be teasing Cat, Papa. You know it was me who wanted to see the queen.”

“And did you finally get a good look at your great heroine?” Martin asked.

Meg heaved a deep sigh. “No. There were too many
daft
courtiers on the boat with her.”

The girl spoke with such an unconscious imitation of Cat’s own lilt that Cat was forced to laugh.

So did Martin. “
Daft
courtiers, is it now?” he chuckled, likewise copying Cat’s brogue. “It appears Cat is after turning you into an Irishwoman.”

“An improvement over becoming English,” Cat retorted. “As for her speech, you’ve only yourself to blame. Your daughter has inherited your devilish talent for mimicry.”

Martin grinned at her and the tension that had divided them this past week seemed to dissolve until Lady Danvers stepped forward.

Her lips curled in the tentative smile of someone who senses that something might be amusing but hasn’t the least idea what it is. “I saw you tumble to the bank, Margaret. Were you playing some sort of a game?”

Recollecting that she was supposed to be here in the guise of lady’s maid, Cat stepped back, trying to efface herself. But Meg caught at her hand, explaining to Lady Danvers, “I wanted to get a good look at the queen and Cat tried to help me. She lifted me up and we fell.”

Mistress Porter bustled toward Meg, straightening the girl’s ruff and plucking strands of grass from the sleeve of her gown. The maid pursed her lips at Cat in disapproval.

“A proper servant usually tries to protect her mistress from such a vulgar crowd,” Porter said. “But perhaps being Irish, Mistress O’Hanlon doesn’t know that.”

Meg shied away from the woman, backing up against Cat. “Cat does protect me. Always. And she is not my servant. She is my
fianna—
”

Cat gave Meg’s shoulder a warning squeeze.

“My friend,” Meg concluded.

“Mistress O’Hanlon’s services have proved invaluable to my daughter,” Martin added with a warm glance at Cat.

Porter gave a haughty sniff and started to say something. But to Cat’s surprise, Lady Danvers quelled her maid with a reproving frown.

“That will do, Porter.” Her ladyship turned to Meg, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind the girl’s ear. “I quite understand. I had someone who took great care of me for years and I regarded her as my dear friend. My old nurse, Sarah, was a very kind and good woman.”

“When did she die?” Meg asked.

It might have been a good guess on Meg’s part based on Lady Danvers’s melancholy demeanor. But considering how earnestly Meg stared into the lady’s eyes, Cat suspected otherwise. She gave Meg another warning nudge and the girl guiltily lowered her gaze.

Her ladyship looked mildly astonished by Meg’s insight, but she answered, “I lost Sarah only recently. She died from a tumor.”

Her voice dropped even lower as she added, “It—it was a most painful death.”

“I’m sorry,” Meg replied.

“At least now the poor woman is at peace,” Martin said.

Her ladyship nodded, but Martin’s attempt to comfort her only rendered Lady Danvers more melancholy. An awkward silence ensued.

The woman certainly knew how to leach the joy out of a pleasant afternoon outing, Cat thought. She was relieved when Martin suggested they continue on to the theater.

As they wound their way up the street to the Crown, Martin encouraged Meg to walk with Lady Danvers and her maid. The girl obeyed dutifully if not enthusiastically.

The theater was only a short way from the riverbank, but the narrow street was crowded with vendors, carts, and people streaming to the small arena opposite the Crown.

A group of men was playing at bowls on a patch of green outside a tavern. Normally Meg would have craned her neck to watch, her curiosity like an empty well, eager to drink in every new sight and sound.

But her disappointment at being so near Queen Elizabeth and not being able to see Her Majesty had cast a damper over Meg’s spirits. That and striving to be agreeable to Jane Danvers, a lady so grand she could not venture abroad without her maid and an escort of serving men.

The men marched ahead of her ladyship, clearing a path for her and keeping back the crowd. Meg could not help reflecting that Cat would never required any man to pave the way for her, nor would have Meg’s formidable mother—and Cassandra Lascelles had been blind.

But neither Maman nor Cat was a proper lady like Jane Danvers, all that Meg’s father wanted her to be one day. Papa had never said as much, but Meg suspected he hoped to wed Lady Danvers and provide Meg with a new mother, the last thing she desired.

Unless it was Cat, Meg thought wistfully. But that was impossible, given the way Papa and Cat often quarreled and their very different views of the world, especially concerning the use of the ancient lore and the ways of wise women.

Considering the dark destiny that Maman had predicted for Meg, she supposed that her father was right to want her to be more like Lady Danvers.

But her ladyship seemed as restricted by the narrow confines of her life as she was by her corsets. As they picked their way up the street, Lady Danvers carried herself rigidly erect. Yet she managed to keep the hem of her costly gown out of the muck with an effortless grace Meg doubted she would ever be able to learn.

Meg knew that her papa was anxious for her to make a favorable impression, but she felt awkward and tonguetied. She had not the slightest notion what to say to this woman with her perfect carriage and solemn demeanor.

At least her ladyship did not seem as cold and disapproving as her horrid maid. When Meg risked a glance at her, Lady Danvers fidgeted with her ruff, something Meg longed to do herself. The heavily starched frill made her neck itch.

Was it possible that this elegant lady was as ill at ease as Meg was? The notion struck Meg as ludicrous.

“It—it is very warm,” the woman ventured.

“Yes, it is.”

“And the street is so crowded.”

Once again, Meg agreed politely.

“It rather surprises me, this crush of people. Where can they all be going? Your father told me there is no performance at the theater this afternoon.”

“No, the actors are rehearsing a new play. I expect all these people plan to attend the baiting at the bear garden.” Meg scrunched her face in a fierce scowl.

“You do not approve of such sport?” Lady Danvers asked.

“It is not sport at all. Setting a pack of dogs upon a poor chained beast! I wish the bear would escape and eat them all. Well, not the dogs.
They
don’t know any better. But those wicked men placing their bets—”

Meg checked her angry tirade. Cat would have understood her need to vent her indignation, but Meg feared her ladyship would be shocked.

But Lady Danvers replied, “I quite agree with you. I have often wished the same thing myself, that the bear might enjoy a good meal of its tormentors.”