Something about the way he looked at her made her trail off. As if he’d cast some sorcerer’s spell over her, she stood silent as he lifted his hand to her face.
Holding her gaze, he smoothed his thumb along the edge of her jaw. “This stronghold is in sore need of a masterful hand,” he finished for her, his deep voice flowing into and over her. Smooth, warm, and so compelling. “James could hold it well if you would allow him to cease hiding behind your skirts.”
“James-” She broke off when he slid his thumb oh-so-lightly over her lower lip and her objections evaporated, pushed aside by a sigh.
A great heaving one she could no sooner deny than the rapid thundering of her heart.
“Your stepson is not the only reason I wish you to leave with me.” He looked deep into her eyes, effortlessly holding her gaze. “Think you I am without needs, my lady? Do you truly believe I could wed you and not want to make you mine?”
“Ehh…” Caterine swallowed. “Such an arrangement was never intended,” she said, disturbingly tantalized by the intimacy of standing so close to him, startled by the way his mere words seemed to embrace her.
A spell-caster, indeed, his nearness enfolded her in a charmed circle of burgeoning desire bold enough to make her half believe his touch might erase the darkness in her heart.
Challenge her worst fears, and win.
Watching her closely, he rubbed his chin and the candle glow caught on his signet ring’s cabochon ruby. The large gemstone flashed red fire at her, recalling the jeweled chalice he’d lifted in toast in her conjured image of him in Niall’s chair.
Heat shot up her neck.
She forced herself to hold his gaze, tried her best to ignore the winking ruby. “A true marriage was no one’s purpose in scheming to get you here.”
He arched a brow. “Think you?”
Caterine nodded.
“Sometimes others know us better than we know ourselves, my lady.”
“Linnet and her husband know me well enough not to have pledged me to an Englishman.”
“Interesting.” He slid his knuckles ever-so-gently down her cheek. “’Twas they who suggested I make you my bride.”
Caterine gasped. “Then you have charmed my sister.”
“Nay, the good lady charmed me,” he said. “Had I known one of her sisters would hold such appeal for me, I swear to you, I would have come to win your heart years ago.”
“As you won Arabella’s?” The question sprang off her tongue before she realized she’d formed the words.
Embarrassed, she tried to glance away, but he crooked his fingers beneath her chin, his firm grip leaving her little choice but to meet his gaze.
His face had gone a shade paler, and the line of his jaw appeared to have hardened a bit, but his expression didn’t bear any of the anger she’d expected.
“Lady, I would indeed like to woo you as I did Arabella,” he said, his voice a notch deeper than usual. “I’d also enjoy speaking to you of your sister, to tell you why I revere her.”
He glanced at the door. It still stood ajar. “But first, I would have private words with you.”
“Private words?” she echoed, her senses still careening with the intensity of his nearness, the name Arabella spinning a tight little knot somewhere beneath her ribs.
“Perhaps I should say words spoken in private.” He strode to the door, clearly confident she’d follow him.
And she did, of course.
How could she not when something deep inside warned that anything else would haunt her forever.
* * *
Marmaduke waited at the door,much relieved when Lady Caterine joined him.
Closing his ears to the whispers breathed to life by her mention of Arabella, he stepped into the torchlit passageway, glad to shut the solar door on memories of summers gone and bliss-filled nights long past.
