Love and the Single Heiress

Chapter 18

There are subtle, less obvious places on every man’s and woman’s body that, when touched kissed caressed, and stroked elicit strong and delightful sensations. For instance, the small of the back. The nape. Earlobes. The inside of the wrist and elbows. The back of the knees. The inner thighs. Today’s Modern Woman should strive to discover all the deliciously sensitive spots on her lover’s body and make certain he discovers all of hers…

A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of

Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment

by Charles Brightmore

Andrew walked toward the springs, trying to unravel the knotty problem that still seemed to have no solution. What to do about Catherine?

Of course, he knew what he wanted to do, had taken steps toward that end in London, but his every instinct warned him it was too soon to profess his love and ask for her hand. For the hundredth time he cursed the fates that necessitated his leaving tomorrow. While he’d obviously made progress, he hadn’t had enough time to win her heart. To convince her to change her views on marriage. To find a way to tell her the truth about his past. Pray that that knowledge didn’t turn her against him. He needed time, which he unfortunately did not have.

He also needed patience, which was becoming more and more difficult to come by. He’d wanted this woman, had loved her for what seemed like an eternity. Everything in him rebelled against taking months and months to court her slowly. He wanted her now.

He greatly feared that any ground he’d gained would be lost once he left here. She’d only wanted a short-term liaison. He suspected that once she returned to her normal routine, she would not be eager to issue him a return invitation to Little Longstone. Indeed, such a visit might well turn into a source of gossip. It was one thing for him to remain a few days after escorting her here so she did not have to travel from London alone. It was quite another for him to make return trips simply to visit.

As he approached the last curve on the path before arriving at the springs, the sound of a twig snapping directly behind caught his attention. His first thought was that it was Catherine, but then he caught a subtle whiff of tobacco. He tensed and turned swiftly. Unfortunately he turned a second too late. Something crashed down on the back of his head, and his world faded to black.

Catherine stood at the edge of the springs and looked down at the gently bubbling warm water, waiting for Andrew to arrive. She’d wrapped her resolve around her like a suit of armor and tightly tethered her heart to prevent any risk of its escaping its confines. For years she’d been content with her solitary existence, sharing her life with Spencer, enjoying the waters and her gardens, her friendship with Genevieve. Andrew’s presence threatened to invade the safe haven she’d made here, stirring up all these confusing feelings, yearning, and desires she didn’t want. She desperately needed to regain her equilibrium. After tonight, she would. Tonight belonged to her and Andrew. Tomorrow they went their separate ways. And that’s the way she wanted it.

The muted sound of a twig snapping roused her, and her heart leapt in anticipation. Seconds later she heard what sounded like dull thud, followed by a low groan, then another thud.

“Andrew?” she called softly. Only silence met her. She stood on her toes and peeked over the stone outcropping that curved around the springs and peered down the darkened path. Seeing nothing but inky shadows, she listened for several seconds yet heard nothing save leaves rustling in the soft breeze. Had she imagined the sound? Or had Andrew perhaps tripped on a branch or tree root in the darkness?

“Andrew?” she called again, a bit louder this time. Silence. She cursed the fact that she hadn’t brought a lantern with her, but she knew the path to the springs so well she could navigate it with her eyes closed. Besides, she had not wanted to risk anyone possibly seeing the light from the house. Had Andrew also tried to avoid discovery and been injured as a result?

She stepped from behind the rocks and walked briskly along the path. The instant she rounded the curve she saw the prone form lying on the ground.

“Andrew!” Heart in her throat, she rushed forward, praying he wasn’t badly hurt. Just as she reached him, she was grabbed roughly from behind. A strong arm gripped her just below her bosom, imprisoning her arms against her side, and jerked her backward, off her feet. She managed to cry out once before the attacker clamped his other hand over her mouth.

Catherine kicked and thrashed wildly, but it was quickly obvious she was no match for this man’s superior strength. He half dragged, half carried her toward the springs. And away from Andrew.

Andrew. Dear God, he must have been a victim of this brigand. Was he still alive? She redoubled her frantic efforts, twisting, kicking, but to no avail as she was dragged ever closer to the water.

Distant sounds, rising and falling like a rapid tide, permeated the thick fog dulling Andrew’s mind. A vicious ache throbbed behind his eyes, and he dragged his heavy lids open with a Herculean effort. He blinked and looked up at… the dark sky?

It required all his strength to push himself into a sitting position, an effort that forced him to close his eyes against the nausea and sharp pains radiating from his head. He pulled in several deep breaths, trying to assimilate what had happened and why the hell his head hurt so badly. He’d been walking to the springs. To meet Catherine. A noise behind him. Then… someone attacking him from behind. His eyes sprang open. Catherine.

A scraping sound, followed by a muffled grunt, coming from the area near the springs caught his attention, and he forced himself to stand. He staggered a few steps and had to press his palm against a tree trunk for several seconds until the dizziness passed, and his equilibrium returned. After his vision cleared, he moved silently down the path. When he rounded the curve, the sight that met his gaze stilled everything inside him-breath, blood, heart.

Catherine, struggling mightily, was being dragged behind the tall rocks surrounding the springs by a dark-clad figure. They disappeared from sight and Andrew dashed forward. He’d taken less than a half a dozen steps when he heard Catherine cry out. Her wail was silenced by a loud splash.

Blood pounding in his ears, Andrew raced ahead. He rounded the rocks and instantly assessed the situation. The bastard was looking into the bubbling spring. Clearly he’d thrown Catherine into the water, as she was nowhere to be seen. And she hadn’t surfaced…

With a roar of outrage, Andrew grabbed the man by collar and lifted him off his feet. Their eyes met, and a shock of recognition radiated through Andrew. “You bastard,” he growled. His fist flashed, smashing into the man’s nose. He then heaved him backward, against the rocks. The man’s body hit with a thud. With a groan and blood running down his face, he sank.

Andrew didn’t wait to see the bastard hit the ground. He jumped into the gurgling spring. Warm water closed over his head, and he fought the panic seizing him in a vise grip. His feet hit something hard and he pushed upward. His head broke the surface, and he pulled in a gasping breath as his feet settled on the bottom and warm water swirled around his chest.

He waded farther into the pool, swishing his hands under the water, his eyes frantically scanning the surface. A few feet in front of him he caught sight of what looked like a piece of dark material. He grabbed for it and tugged.

It was Catherine. Her gown. He jerked her upward, getting her head out of the water. She lolled like a limp rag in his arms.

“Catherine.”His voice came out in a harsh rasp. Cradling her with one arm, the water swirling around them, he pushed the wet hair from her face. His fingers encountered a lump just above her ear, and his jaw clenched. She must have hit her head when that bastard threw her in.

“Catherine… please, dear God…”He lightly shook her and firmly patted her cheeks, willing her to breathe, unable to draw a breath himself as he stared down at her pale, wet, motionless face. He gathered her closer, squeezing her to him, whispering her name, begging her to breathe. To open her eyes.

Suddenly she coughed. Coughed again. Then gasped for breath.

“That’s it,” Andrew said, patting her sharply between the shoulder blades. After several more choking coughs, her eyelids fluttered open, and she gazed at him with a dazed expression. She blinked, then lifted a shaking wet hand to his cheek.

“Andrew.”

That hoarse whisper was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. “I’m right here, Catherine.”

“You were hurt. But you’re all right.”

He most certainly was not. In the blink of an eye he’d nearly lost everything that mattered to him.

Fear flashed in her eyes and she squirmed in his arms. “There’s a man, Andrew. He grabbed me, and must have injured you.”

“I know. He’s-”

Andrew’s gaze froze on the empty spot where he’d last seen their attacker slithering down the rock wall. In his desperate attempt to pull Catherine to safety he’d momentarily forgotten the bastard. Obviously, he’d only been stunned. He quickly scanned the area, but saw nothing.

“He’s gone.” Holding tight to Catherine, he waded to the edge of the spring and gently set her on the smooth rock ledge. By the time he’d exited the water, Catherine had risen to her feet.

“Can you walk?” he asked, alternating his watchful gaze from her face to their surroundings.

“Yes.”

He slipped his knife from his boot, cursing himself for not gutting the bastard when he’d had the chance, but all his thoughts had been focused on getting to Catherine before it was too late. And he’d nearly been too late.

“I hurt him,” Andrew whispered next to her ear, “but clearly not badly enough. I hope he’s off licking his wounds and won’t make another attempt tonight, but I can’t be sure. We’re going to walk as quickly and quietly as we can back to the house. Do not let go of my hand.”

She nodded. Gripping his knife in one hand and tightly clasping Catherine’s wet hand in the other, they started down the dark path. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the house without further incident.

After locking the door behind them, Andrew lit an oil lamp and took a moment to examine the lump on her head. She winced when his fingers gently probed the tender spot, but she assured him, “I’m fine.”

“All right. I want to search and secure the house.” He lit another lantern, then handed it to her. “Stay close to me.” He wasn’t about to let her out of his sight.

“I want to check on Spencer,” she said, her eyes filled with concern.

“That’s first,” he agreed, leading the way up the stairs.

After ascertaining that Spencer was safe, Andrew whispered, “Stay here with him. I want to check the rest of the rooms. Lock the door behind me and do not open it for anyone except me.” He held out his knife. “Take this.”

Her eyes widened, and she audibly swallowed. But she took the weapon, determination gleaming in her eyes.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

Andrew nodded, then left the room. Once he’d heard the lock click into place behind him, he immediately headed toward his bedchamber. After making certain no one lurked in the room, he pulled his pistol and another knife from the leather satchel in the bottom of the wardrobe.

“I’m ready for you now, you bastard.” Dozens of questions buzzed through his mind, the loudest of which was why, but his questions would have to wait.

Slipping the knife into his boot, he carried the lantern in one hand, hefted the comforting weight of his pistol in the other, and set off to search and secure the house.

Catherine stood in Spencer’s bedchamber, clutching the knife, her ears straining to pick up any foreign sound, her gaze never leaving her son’s face, which was gently illuminated by the oil lamp she’d set on his desk. Her wet clothing stuck to her like an uncomfortable second skin, and she pressed her lips together to keep her teeth from chattering. She wasn’t certain if the shivers racking her were more the result of being chilled or due to the shocking fright of this evening.

Spencer stirred, let out a small sigh, then settled, and Catherine squeezed her eyes shut. She’d thought the danger was over, had been convinced that the shooting in London was a random accident and not related to her connection to the Guide and Charles Brightmore, but clearly she was wrong. Dear God, what had she done? Guilt and self-recriminations wrapped a noose around her neck, strangling her. Andrew could easily have been killed. She could easily have drowned. And God only knows what sort of threat her actions had wrought upon her family.

She kept her silent vigil, heart pounding with every creak of the house, praying for Andrew’s safety. When she finally heard a soft tapping on the door, relief wobbled her knees.

“Catherine, it’s me,” came Andrew’s quiet voice from the corridor.

Holding her lantern aloft, she opened the door, quite certain she’d never been so relieved to see anyone in her entire life. He motioned for her join him in the corridor. After she’d done so, he quietly closed Spencer’s door, then clasped her hand and led her in silence directly to her bedchamber. The instant the door closed behind them and they were ensconced in privacy, he set both their lamps on the marble hearth and drew her into his arms.

Catherine slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest, absorbing his hard, fast heartbeats against her cheek.

“The house is safe,” he said softly, his words warm against her temple. “No intruders. I locked all the doors and windows. I woke Milton, briefed him on what happened, and instructed him to tell the rest of the staff in the morning.” He leaned back and tipped up her chin. “I know who did this, Catherine. I saw him. Recognized him. And I swear to you, I’ll find him.”

“Who is it?”

“A man named Sidney Carmichael.”

Catherine frowned. “He attended my father’s birthday party, as well as the duke’s soiree.”

“Yes. He is-or rather was-one of the potential museum investors. I spoke to him just yesterday in London.” His brow creased with a deep frown. “In spite of the dark, I know it was he. I just don’t understand why he would do this. He hadn’t yet handed over any funds for the museum, so he didn’t stand to lose any money.”

Catherine’s stomach twisted. She wished she didn’t have to tell him, but there was no other way. Drawing a bracing breath, she said, “I’m afraid I know why, Andrew.”

His gaze sharpened, but instead of demanding an immediate explanation, he said, “I’m anxious to hear your thoughts, but first we must get you into dry clothing before you become ill. Turn around.”

For the first time she noted that he’d changed into a fresh linen shirt and breeches. She turned and felt him deftly unfasten the row of buttons down her back. After he helped her slip off her damp gown and underthings, she retrieved a nightrail, robe, and slippers. While he carefully settled her wet garments over the back of a wing chair, and tended the fire which had burned too low, she quickly dressed.

After she’d tightened the robe’s sash around her waist, she walked to the fireplace, taking a moment to allow the flames to chase away the last of her chills. When she was warm, she turned to him. The fire cast the room in a golden, flickering glow, gilding his features in contrasting panes of shadow and light. His eyes were serious and filled with questions as they regarded her, yet he said nothing, patiently waiting for her to speak.

Clasping her fidgety hands at her waist, she said, “I’m not certain how to tell you this, other than to simply say it. You are aware that many people are angered by the Ladies‘ Guide and that there is great interest in the author.”

“Yes.”

“Indeed, threats have been made against Charles Brightmore’s life.”

His eyes narrowed. “Threats against his life? How do you know this?”

“I overheard Lords Markingworth, Whitly, and Carweather speaking at my father’s birthday party. They spoke of wanting to see Charles Brightmore dead, and of an investigator they’d hired to find him. ‘Tis now clear to me that this Mr. Carmichael is the man they hired, and tonight he nearly succeeded in his mission. Again.” She met his gaze. “I am Charles Brightmore, Andrew. I wrote the Guide and published it under a pseudonym.”

Whatever reaction she’d expected, it wasn’t this… unwavering calm. “I must say, you do not look very surprised.”

“I confess I am not, as I had my suspicions. Your verbal slip the other night set my mind wondering. I paid Mr. Bayer a visit this morning before departing London.”

“My publisher?” she asked, stunned. “But surely he did not identify me as Charles Brightmore.”

“No. I knew he would not, nor did I wish to tip my hand by asking him outright. However, when I casually mentioned your name during our conversation, Mr. Bayer turned an interesting shade of pink. And when I mentioned another name, he turned positively red.”

“Another name?”

“Clearly you didn’t write the Guide alone. You couldn’t have, not based on the number of ‘firsts’ we’ve shared. Someone else was involved… your friend Mrs. Ralston would be my guess.”

Dear God. The man was too clever by half-an admirable trait, but in this case also alarming. “Since both you and Mr. Carmichael were able to ferret out Charles Brightmore’s true identity, it’s only a matter of time before someone else finds out and all of London knows.”

“Whether Carmichael was investigating for someone else or on his own, I cannot say, but he isn’t the man hired by Lords Markingworth, Whitly, and Carweather.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I am the man they hired.”

Catherine actually felt the blood drain from her face, and she suddenly recalled why she’d never been fond of surprises. It was because they were so damnably… surprising. If she’d been able, she would have laughed at the irony.

She cleared her throat to locate her voice. “Well, my confession just made your mission a great deal easier.”

His brows rose. “Actually, it places me in a very awkward position. I was very much looking forward to collecting the reward they’d offered me.”

“Reward? How much?”

“Five hundred pounds.”

Catherine’s jaw dropped. “That’s a fortune.”

“Yes, I know.” He dragged his hands down his face and heaved a long sigh. “I had plans for that money.” Before she could ask what sort of plans, he continued, “Of course you need not fear that I will reveal your identity.”

“Thank you. But I fear the point is moot, as Mr. Carmichael clearly also knows.”

Andrew’s jaw tightened. “If he knows about you, it’s likely he also knows about Mrs. Ralston’s involvement.”

Catherine pressed her hands to her cheeks as guilt slapped her. “How could I have forgotten to consider that? Genevieve is in danger as well. We must warn her.”

“I agree. But you’re not leaving here, and I’m not leaving you. Milton can relate tonight’s happenings and warn her and her staff to be on guard. He can take a footman and Fritzborne along for protection.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ll return in a few minutes. Warm yourself by the fire, and-”

“Don’t unlock the door until you return,” she finished with a weak smile.

He returned ten minutes later, and said, “They are on their way to Mrs. Ralston’s cottage.”

Relief lessened a bit of Catherine’s anxiety. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, back to your involvement with the Guide-I take it the book was Mrs. Ralston’s idea?”

Catherine nodded. “She told me she wished to write a book, but the crippling pain in her hands physically prevented her from being able to do so. I offered to be her hands.”

Unable to remain still any longer, she began to pace in front of him. “Writing the words that Genevieve dictated, being involved, was so exhilarating. It had been years since anyone other than Spencer had needed me, and I reveled in feeling useful. And as for the content, I found it fascinating. Stimulating. And all too much of it unfamiliar. It greatly gratified me to know that I was helping to provide women with information that I wished I’d known before I married. And, I confess that I took a perverse pleasure at the thought of setting the ton on its hypocritical ear. I relished the thought of anonymously doling out a rebuke for the cruel way so many of them had treated Spencer.”

She paused, then whirled to look directly at him. “Do you know what people I’d considered my friends whispered behind my back after Spencer was born? What my own husband said to my face?” Her hands curled into tight fists. “That there was no hope for him. That his deformity was hideous, and that no doubt his brain would be malformed as well as his foot. That he didn’t deserve to inherit the title. That it would have been better if he’d died.” Her voice broke on the last word. She didn’t even realize that tears ran down her face until a drop fell on her hand.

He came to her and cradled her face between his palms, brushing her wet cheeks with his thumbs. “I’m so sorry you and Spencer had to endure such unspeakable cruelty.”

“All I saw was my beautiful, sweet child,” she whispered, “his eyes filled with pain that had nothing to do with his infirmity each time some other ‘esteemed’ member of Society rejected him.”

She drew a shuddering breath. “But never in my wildest imaginings did it ever occur to me that by penning the Guide I would be placing myself, and therefore my son, in danger.” She raised an unsteady hand and rested it against his cheek. “And you, Andrew. Obviously Mr. Carmichael meant to harm me tonight. When you got in his way, he attacked you. You might have been killed.”

He turned his head to place a fervent kiss on her palm. “I have a very hard head. And clearly so does Carmichael. I thought I’d knocked him out.”

“Carmichael,”she repeated, frowning. “Is he not the man who identified the person who shot me?”

“Yes. A bit of a coincidence, that. And I’m not a great believer in coincidence. Based on his attacks tonight, it’s clear to me that Carmichael was involved in the shooting. In order to cast suspicion elsewhere, he claimed to be a witness and identified someone else as the perpetrator. The man taken into custody has repeatedly protested his innocence.”

A shudder ran through Catherine. She stepped back from him and wrapped her arms around herself. “I cannot believe that the Guide, scandalous as it is, would drive a person to murder. You saved my life.”

“I cannot tell you how relieved I am that it worked out that way. I could very well have killed us both.”

“What do you mean?”

“If that water was a few feet deeper, I’m afraid things would not have gone so well. I… I can’t swim.”

Catherine stared. “I beg your pardon?”

“I can’t swim. Not a stroke. Spencer offered to teach me. During our one lesson, it took nearly the entire time to coax me to simply stand in the water.” He paused, then added softly, “My father drowned. I’ve always feared the water.”

The area surrounding Catherine’s heart contracted then expanded. “Yet you didn’t hesitate to jump in for me.”

He reached out and lightly grasped her shoulders. “My darling Catherine, have you not realized by now that I would walk through fire for you?”

Her throat swelled. Yes, he would. It was all right there in his eyes, his emotions naked for her to see. Emotions she was not prepared to see. Emotions that frightened her. Terrified her.

“I… don’t know what to say,” she murmured.

“You do not need to say anything. Just listen.” Taking her hand he led her to the settee where he sat and gently tugged her hand until she settled next to him. “I have something to tell you, Catherine. Something I’ve agonized over telling you, but after almost losing you tonight, I simply cannot wait any longer.”

Catherine stilled. Dear God, was he going to tell her he loved her? Or worse, ask her to marry him? “Andrew, I-”

“It’s about my past.”

She blinked. “Oh?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his normally steady eyes reflected such torment and pain that her heart squeezed in sympathy. “Clearly whatever you wish to say is very difficult for you, Andrew.” She laid her hand over his in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture. “Please do not distress yourself. It is not necessary for you to tell me.”

His gaze shifted to her hand resting upon his. After several seconds, he shook his head, then rose to stand before her. “I wish with all my heart that it wasn’t necessary, but you have a right to know. I need for you to know.”

He seemed to brace himself, then met her gaze squarely. “When I left America eleven years ago, I did so because I’d committed a crime. I escaped the country to avoid being hanged.”

“Hanged?” she repeated weakly. “What had you done?”

His gaze did not waver. “I killed a man.”

If she hadn’t heard the words come from his mouth, she would have suspected her hearing was afflicted. She licked her suddenly dry lips. “Was it an accident?”

“No. I deliberately shot him.”

“But why? Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because he killed my wife.”