“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.
