Page 41

She tore her dress off, ripping the beautiful material in her haste, then stepped out of the gown and tossed it aside.

With trembling fingers she found a man’s shirt and put it on, rolling up the sleeves.

Next, she donned a pair of knee-breeches that on her fell clear to her ankles.

The waist was much too big. She held the trousers up with one hand as she anxiously searched the room for something to tie them in place.

Perhaps she could rip a sheet, no, a cravat!

She pawed through drawers until she found a stack of starched white neckcloths.

Quickly she tied one around her waist and crossed the room to the open window.

She pulled a chair forward so she could climb up and stand on the window ledge.

She studied the narrow ledges, then looked down at the silk slippers on her feet.

They would have to go. Swiftly she took them off and stuck them in her improvised belt.

Taking a deep breath, she slid her foot out on the bottom ledge, grabbed the top ledge and edged herself out of the window and onto the wall.

Suddenly all she was aware of was a roaring sound in her ears and the painful quivering muscles that were not recovered from the dose of laudanum.

She flattened herself as tightly against the wall as she could and continued inching sideways, praying, cursing, and holding the Marquis of Stefton’s image in her mind as a prize.

“Good God!” murmured the Marquis of Stefton as he, Soothcoor, and Chilberlain reined in before the house at Crowden Park. Silently the three men watched the figure clinging precariously to the side of the house, all afraid to make a sound lest they break her concentration.

Stefton found himself standing in the stirrups, his toes curled within his boots, and his fingers curled tightly about the reins as he willed her to cross safely. When her feet found the balcony, his breath came out harshly whistling between his teeth. Quickly he dismounted.

“The lass has spunk,” whispered Soothcoor admiringly as he and Chilberlain followed suit.

“But you’ll not have her,” snarled Stefton savagely.

“I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses,” the Earl returned blandly.

“Egad, what is she doing!” exclaimed Chilberlain.

Stefton and Soothcoor looked back up in time to see her break a pane of glass with the heel of her shoe and reach in to open the latch. The window opened readily to her touch, and she was swiftly inside.

“Hurry, in case someone heard the glass break! Richard, go around to the side. There’s a terrace with glass double doors leading into the parlor.

From there, there is a connecting door into the library, where I’ll wager Kirkson is.

Alan and I will go through the front.” Stefton was running toward the house almost before he was finished speaking, his pistol drawn.

Behind him came a grim-faced Earl of Soothcoor.

Obviously, Kirkson thought himself safe and well hidden, for the door was not locked. The Marquis smiled.

“What’s this?” demanded a wiry, rat-faced man coming out of the butler’s pantry carrying wine bottles in either hand.

The Marquis was upon him before he could say another word, his arm tight around his neck.

Jordan’s eyes bulged. He tried to swing one of the wine bottles he held, but Stefton saw it coming and ducked his head. The bottle glanced off his shoulder. Stefton winced, but he did not let go.

“None of that,” Soothcoor whispered, wresting the bottles out of Jordan’s hands. His struggles increased until Soothcoor rammed his pistol barrel against his skull.

“We can do this one of two ways,” the Marquis murmured in Jordan’s ear. “My friend here may bring the butt of his pistol down on your head rather painfully, or you may surrender peacefully. It’s up to you.”

Jordan’s struggles ceased.

“Oh, ’tis a canny one,” said Soothcoor approvingly as he grabbed the man’s jaw and stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth.

The Marquis shifted his grip, and Soothcoor untied Jordan’s neckcloth, using it to tie his hands behind his back.

The Marquis, removing his neckcloth, tied his legs together.

Then they shoved him back into the butler’s pantry.

At the library door they paused for a moment, Stefton waving the Earl to the side out of sight. He opened the door quickly, his pistol at the ready.

“Ah, Stefton, I underestimated you. No matter,” drawled Kirkson, his pistol trained on the Marquis, “you’ll be dead soon.”

The Marquis shrugged. “I would say we are evenly matched,” he said, his pistol pointed directly at Kirkson. From the corner of his eye, he saw Chilberlain glide silently into the room from the connecting parlor door. The Captain made no sound as he crossed the thick Oriental carpet.

Kirkson’s eye’s narrowed. “You wouldn’t come alone. I know you, Stefton. Where are your faithful puppy followers?”

“Do you think he means me?” Soothcoor asked, coming into view around the door frame, his pistol also trained on Kirkson.

“Give it up, Kirkson. You’ve overplayed your hand, as you have at all your encounters with Miss Shreveton. Accept her as your nemesis,” Stefton suggested.

“Where’s the Captain?” Kirkson suddenly demanded.

Neither gentleman responded, for Captain Chilberlain was halfway across the room.

“Where’s Chilberlain?” A terrified expression crossed Kirkson’s face. He suddenly whirled around, firing his gun in Chilberlain’s direction. The Marquis lunged at him, spoiling his aim, and the two went crashing to the floor. Silently they struggled, rolling across the floor.

“Stefton!” warned Captain Chilberlain when he saw Kirkson pull out a dagger.

But the Marquis was already aware of the danger. With a surge of strength, he pulled free and landed a smashing blow to Kirkson’s jaw. The man grunted, his head banging sharply against the floor, and lay still.

Stefton sat up, breathing hard. “Tie him up and toss him into the pantry with his cohort.” He ran a hand wearily through his hair. “I’ll send someone for them both, later, to see they’re escorted out of the country.” He staggered to his feet. “Now, where do you think that hoyden’s gotten to?”

“Right here,” came a soft voice from the doorway.

The three gentlemen turned to see Catherine by the door, her face white and unshed tears standing in her eyes.

“Miss Shreveton!” exclaimed the Earl.

“Thank God,” swore the Captain.

“Catherine,” murmured the Marquis, his face a study of emotions chasing one after another over his usually impassive visage.

She looked at him closely, trying to read the meaning behind his expression, hoping she was not wrong at what she thought she saw there.

He held out his hand. With a little inarticulate cry, she ran to him, tears flowing freely now as he caught her and held her close.

“Oh, Catherine, my Catherine,” he murmured into her hair, cradling her close.

Behind them, Soothcoor nudged the Captain and said they’d best dispose of the filth. Quietly they carried the unconscious man out of the room.

The Marquis sat in a chair by the fireplace and pulled her onto his lap. “I never want to feel like that again,” he moaned, stroking her bright hair. “If it hadn’t been for that chance warning Dawes gave me two weeks ago, we wouldn’t have found you.”

Catherine lifted her head from his shoulder. “What warning?”

The Marquis sighed and explained what Dawes said and his own groom’s involvement.

“I’m glad you came. But it wouldn’t have mattered. I would have gotten away on my own.”

“I know, we saw.” Stefton looked at her fiercely. “I aged ten years tonight, watching you traverse that narrow ledge.” He shook her. “You could have been killed!”

She smiled contentedly and snuggled back up to him. “But I wasn’t. Do you know why? Because I was thinking of you.”

The Marquis was silent for a moment, absorbing the import of her words. “Catherine, I?—”

She sat up quickly, placing her hand over his mouth. “I don’t want any more talk of obligation to my uncle. I love you, Stefton, and I think, maybe, you love me a little too!” she said aggressively, daring him to deny it.

“Oliver,” he said calmly when she removed her hand.

“What?” She blinked at him, puzzled by his non sequitur.

“My Christian name is Oliver. I would like to hear you call me that.”

“Why?”

“Because, you silly pea goose, husbands and wives often call each other by their Christian names, at least in private.”

“Husbands and wives?” repeated Catherine. Then her eyes widened. “Oh, Oliver,” she breathed softly, his name falling easily from her lips, just as it had in her dreams.

His dark head came closer then, his lips covering her own, first softly, tentatively, then with crushing strength.

The tingling Catherine always felt in his presence surged through her, singing along her nerve endings.

She moaned softly, lifting her arms to entwine her fingers through his thick black hair and slide a hand around the strong column of his neck.

“My Catherine,” he murmured against her lips when he finally ended the kiss. He nipped gently at her neck and nuzzled her shell-like ears.

Catherine tilted her head back more fully to receive his burning kiss. Suddenly she giggled and brought her head forward to kiss him and then rest her forehead against his.

“What is it, my love?” whispered the Marquis, still trailing soft kisses against her skin.

“A matched pair.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, pausing to look at her.

“I owe Aunt Penelope a carriage team. A Burke team. I shall depend upon you to help me choose well.”

At his quizzical expression, Catherine laughed again and told of her wager with Lady Orrick. Hearing the tale, the Marquis also laughed, and they were still chuckling when the Earl of Soothcoor knocked on the door moments later.

“Kirkson’s locked away, and Chilberlain’s brought the horses to the door. We willna make London by daybreak, but like as not, it willna matter,” he said complacently. He turned to go.

“Alan,” called the Marquis after him, “wish me happy.”

That dour Northumbrian gentleman genuinely grinned for the first time in the Marquis’s memory. “Aye, with all me heart.”

He closed the door and stood shaking his head for a moment, more than ever resolved to avoid the matrimonial state. It made a man daft, it did. He continued to where the Captain waited outside.

“Well, are they coming?”

“Aye,” the Earl said, nodding. He stopped to pull a snuffbox out of his vest pocket and sat down on the front steps. “Any year now, I’d say. Any year now.”