The Husband Hunt Read online

  Knight stood up, his gaze returning to the window. Nearly every servant in the house was clustered around Catriona now, listening raptly to whatever twaddle she was telling them. And what in God's name were they doing with that bucket?

  "She's got Howard draining the pond," he said in a startled voice. "Did you hear me, Olivia?"

  "It probably needed draining," she said, not about to be distracted from her discussion of the latest style in female attire and what a stylish debutante would wear that summer.

  "She's dropping stones in the water now," he said. "Those weird stones of hers."

  Lady Ellis looked up at him in alarm. "I think you ought to go back to London, Knight. The country doesn't seem to agree with you at all."

  "Do you know what she's doing?" He gave an incredulous laugh. "She's casting a spell in my very own garden. The little pagan you two silly things plan to launch into society is brewing magic in a bucket."

  ******************

  The two women never even noticed him leave the room. They were too busy discussing the whos and hows of hiring dancing masters and dressmakers to make their Celtic Hecate presentable to the ton, lamenting that they could not aspire as far as getting her vouchers for Almack's. They had purpose, and heaven help anyone who stood in their way. He strode across the lawn, ignoring Wendell's call from the study window to stop. In less than twenty-four hours, Lionel's cousin had turned the house upside-down. Yes, Olivia needed a distraction, but preferably one in a tamer form who wouldn't transform an ordinary garden tool into a cauldron or bring birds of prey flocking to the house. And call him low-minded, but he still maintained there was more to her than met the eye. If she had not lied, she had not been forthcoming about the nature of her life, either.

  Yet was it such a sin, or even her fault, to have been born illegitimate? Even the highest-born families made mistakes, and she was an interesting young lady.

  He stood at the outer perimeters of her magic circle, ignored for the second time that day, when he was used to commanding an audience with his mere appearance alone. But Catriona Grant possessed something that he did not. The common folk did not use the word charmer for nothing. And so for a few minutes, he allowed himself to be enchanted by her, to see her not with his usual cynicism but with a simple curiosity he rarely indulged.

  ******************

  At first, Catriona feared she was about to have another confrontation, this time with the servants of the house. She had experienced so many throughout her life that she ought to know how to avoid them— whenever one of her mother's love spells failed, and sometimes when they worked all too successfully, or the rare times a patient's condition had worsened after taking one of Mary Grant's herbal potions. She and her mother had fled to the seaside then, though never for more than a few months until the hostility against them died down and Mary could resume her practice in relative safety.

  They had always returned to their small house of unmortared stones on the moor so that the earl would be able to find them, to sweep Mary off her feet and declare his undying love for her. Which he never had because—and it took Catriona years to realize this—he did not want to. All the days of waiting for him to appear, all the nights her mother had watched from the window, for nothing.

  But as it turned out, this was not to be another mortifying experience. Catriona had been admiring the water lilies on the pond when the footman Howard hurried by on an errand. Being a sapskull village lad who did not understand his position on the ladder of life, he had spotted Catriona alone and looking vulnerable and had gallantly offered his assistance, asking if she were lost.

  Mrs. Evans, peering from behind the curtains of her parlor window, had immediately come outside to make sure Howard did not make a nuisance of himself. The kitchen maids, on a pretense of snipping herbs, had followed. Small dramas such as this enlivened their dreary days.

  And so Catriona had been cornered, bravely facing a den of lesser lions, unsure herself what her place was to be in this house.

  Mrs. Evans had practically flown across the lawn to interrupt the improper conversation. "Howard! I thought I sent you to the pantry for tea."

  He jumped, moving away from Catriona. "And I was on my way, Mrs. Evans, when I noticed Lady Deering's cousin here looking lost.”

  "And how can she be lost, Howard, when the house is right before her in plain view?"

  "I don't know, Mrs. Evans," he said. "But she looked lost to me."

  Mrs. Evans cast a curious glance at the young woman and had to admit there was a lost quality about her. Who exactly was she, anyway? Word had already reached the lower echelons that the new arrival might not be all that she claimed. For example, no one had explained whether she was to be addressed as Lady Catriona, as befitting an earl's daughter, or simply as Miss Grant. No one had explained, either, where that old Scotsman had gone with that dog. And what, Mrs. Evans wondered, about those owls last night?

  She curtsied, preferring to err on the side of correctness, covertly giving Howard a thump in the ribs. "Forgive him, I beg you. None of us have our wits about us this morning with those owls hooting half the night."

  Catriona smiled back at her, apparently unaware that a proper lady would end this conversation on the spot. "Are you Welsh?"

  The warmth of that smile might have won Mrs. Evans over for life, but her loyalty lay with the master, and she wasn't about to hand her allegiance to a hanger-on who might be gone in a month. "I am indeed. Hazel Evans is my name."

  "Hazel is one of the most sacred trees in Celtic lore," Catriona said. "If one believed in such things, one might assume you had been born with certain supernatural gifts."

  Mrs. Evans pressed her work-worn hand against her heart, momentarily at a loss for words. When she spoke, her voice was low with emotion. "Is it that obvious?"

  "Only to one who sees beyond the obvious."

  The woman stared at her in understanding. "Then you are also—oh, my. Oh, my."

  "Do you have a pain in the chest, Mrs. Evans?"

  "Nothing that you should worry about. It comes and goes."

  Howard made a face. "All over the place. One day it's in her stomach, the next her heart."

  "Shall we find out exactly where the trouble is?" Catriona asked.

  "Can you do that?" Mrs. Evans said, lowering her hand.

  "The stones can," Catriona said confidently. "They are centuries old and very powerful. I shall need a bucket, though."

  A bucket was found as Catriona dug through her collection of pebbles at the bottom of her bag. Several more servants had emerged from the house, and Mrs. Evans, kneeling beside Catriona, was too intrigued by the proceedings to pay much attention to the tall man who hid behind the others in the shadows of a leafy tree.

  Silence fell as Catriona filled the bucket with pond water and dropped the pebbles one by one to the bottom. She suspected that the viscount wouldn't approve of what she was doing, but she couldn't stop herself. How could she refuse to help someone? She would just have to follow her instincts and face the consequences later, even if those consequences came with steely-gray eyes and a broad-shouldered body that gave her the most delicious goose bumps.

  "Well," she said after a moment, "it isn't your heart, or your lungs or liver. The problem appears to lie in your stomach."

  "My stomach," Mrs. Evans exclaimed. "Why, I haven't eaten a thing all day."

  "Except for half a pork pie," Howard said.

  "And a few nips of brandy," one of the kitchen maids muttered.

  "I believe you might be right," the housekeeper said thoughtfully. "The pain does seem to come after I eat certain foods."

  "I shall brew you a tea to help."

  "Tell her that the owls last night don't mean we all ought to be wearing chastity belts," Howard blurted out impetuously.

  Mrs. Evans shot to her feet and cuffed his ear. "Don't you dare use such filthy talk to a lady, who, if I may hazard a guess, would appreciate the validity of genuine Welsh superstition. Mark my
words: when an owl hoots, innocence is lost."

  Catriona rose from the ground, the hem of her borrowed gown sopping wet. "That belief is a shade better than what the Romans claimed. In ancient days, it was thought an owl hooting meant someone would die."

  "Better death than disgrace," Mrs. Evans said stoutly.

  Catriona frowned. "Perhaps, but I fear those owls carried a more personal message for—"

  She broke off as her gaze lifted to the tall man leaning against the tree, his hard-planed face amused. Words escaped her as he gave her a slow, admonishing smile. Oh, how much had he heard? And why did those gray eyes of his make her feel as if she'd been caught bare naked, her feelings for him so painfully conflicted?

  "It's his lordship," the laundress said under her breath, and before Catriona knew it, the servants had abandoned her, and she was standing alone again at the pond as the English lord took a step toward her.

  He whistled through his even white teeth. "What a sight. What a performance."

  She did not understood why, but the mockery of this man, with his aristocratic elegance, wounded her more deeply than all the insults of her past combined. "It wasn't a performance," she said, a blush burning her cheekbones. "The stones have power."

  "Is that right?"

  "They're kelpie stones, some of them. Others have been cast up from Elfland."

  "All the way from Elfland? My goodness."

  He began to advance on her, forcing her to step back to the water's edge. "Watching that nonsense was almost as interesting as what Aunt Marigold told me about you a few minutes ago."

  Catriona's mouth tightened. She considered dumping the bucket on his arrogant head but decided she couldn't reach. "I'm sinking," she whispered.

  "What?"

  "In the mud. I think—I believe I'm starting to sink."

  He looked down quickly and saw immediately that she wasn't exaggerating. In his determination to intimidate her, he had practically walked her into the pond. "Oh, hell," he muttered, wondering what on earth he had hoped to prove.

  Try as he might, he could not completely squelch the approval he felt beneath his show of anger. The servants at Rutleigh Hall were like family. He cared for them and did not hold with the current belief that the lower class did not merit kind treatment, although the state of his housekeeper's stomach did seem to be taking kindness a little too far.

  He grabbed Catriona by the waist to haul her back onto the ground, bringing her body flush up against his. For an instant, he was taken aback by the shock of pleasure that he felt, his first instinct to pull her even closer. Touching her did something dangerous to his mind, not to mention his body's flagrant reaction to her tempting curves. The herbal scent of her skin invaded his senses, and he was acutely aware of how still the spring air felt, of a bee buzzing over a patch of mint thyme at the pond's edge. "Look at you," he exclaimed, glancing down in chagrin. "And me. My trousers are covered in mud."

  "So they are." She tried to dart around him; she had liked being held in his arms far too much for her own good. "In fact, I'd better run inside to take off this dress before these stains set—"

  "Not yet." He caught her free hand and held her still until she slowly revolved to face him. "I know you lied to us, Catriona," he said quietly.

  "You do?"

  His heavy brows met in a frown. "You're the illegitimate daughter of an earl. Roxshire apparently never recognized you."

  "I forgot to mention that," she said with a sigh. "It isn't exactly the sort of thing one goes about announcing in public."

  He studied her without a trace of emotion on his face. "I suppose that there are worse secrets in the world," he conceded. "Is that why you looked so frightened in the drawing room? Did you sense that your secret was about to be revealed?"

  She hesitated. She had come within seconds of bolting when Howard brought word that a strange man was at the door, using Lionel's name as a reference. In her irrational panic, she thought she had been tracked down. It was too easy to imagine James, in his desperation, forcing her into that old man's arms for money, believing he had no choice. Yet for all his callous behavior, her brother was capable of the deepest affection, and she cared for him.

  "Well?" Knight's voice coiled around her like a whip, commanding her full attention. He would accept nothing less than her obedience.

  He seemed to sense when she was most vulnerable, watching, waiting for her to reveal another weakness, and the female in her was far too quick to respond to his male authority. "The situation of my birth isn't exactly something that I'm proud of," she said after a long pause. "Do you wish me to leave now?"

  "My sister wants you to stay," he said in hesitation, sounding none too pleased with the idea himself. A rather insulting smile spread across his face. "She has taken it into her head to find you a husband."

  Catriona's cheeks began to burn again. "Why is that so amusing?"

  He shrugged. "Well, it's just—"

  She squared her shoulders. When had she encountered such arrogance? "Just what?"

  "Oh, I don't know." A devilish chuckle escaped him. "Perhaps it's because I don't know too many young maidens on the marriage mart with your particular 'talents.'"

  "What exactly do you mean by that?"

  "Well, one generally seeks a wife with a stable background and genteel skills, such as embroidering samplers and playing the pianoforte."

  "Is that the kind of wife you want?"

  He frowned. "I don't want a wife at all."

  "And the idea of anyone marrying me is beyond the realm of probability?"

  "I suppose more astounding miracles have been performed." He hesitated, his gray eyes twinkling with humor. "Back in biblical times."

  She dropped the bucket on his foot. She hadn't meant to, but her fingers had gone numb, and her grip had weakened. When he finally recovered from the pain and stopped cursing, she looked him right in the eye. "I know you aren't going to believe me, but that was an accident."

  "Get these rocks off my feet," he shouted, "or both you and the bucket are going into that pond!"

  She drew back; he was scaring her now. She knew she ought not to push him any farther, but she wasn't about to retreat until she had made her point. "They're not rocks. They're—"

  "Yes. Yes. I heard. Sacred stones from Pixieland." He gave her a nasty smile, bending to pluck a pebble off the toe of his Hessian boot. "Howard's spleen?"

  She narrowed her eyes. "It's a heart. Although you probably have to possess one to recognize it."

  He tossed a cleft stone into the air and caught it before it hit the ground. "Lungs?"

  "No." She smiled archly as he ran his fingers inside the cleft. "Reproductive organs."

  His eyes met hers. "I guarantee you'll have your choice of suitors if you season a conversation with a comment like that."

  She bent, averting her face, before he could gauge her reaction. "What do you know?" she muttered, too upset to look at him. "I'll give my husband everything he desires, and he won't be mean like you. He'll be kind and gentle, and he won't care if I am a bastard. He won't make a mockery of the things I believe in. He'll encourage me to help people."

  He stared down at her. Damnation, he had offended her, he realized in surprise. Before he could stop himself, he knelt and began to help her collect her stones, grumbling, "Well, my teasing got the better of me, but as I said, you will have to get used to it."

  "I've known worse." She glanced up, her eyes brimming with emotion. "Give me back my reproductive organs, and if you make fun of me, well, I'll show you what magic it can do."

  He settled back on his haunches, trying not to laugh at the threat as she dropped a handful of stones into the bucket, her nose in the air.

  "Careful," he admonished gently, glancing down. "I think you might have just put a dent in Howard's spleen. Or was that another unmentionable organ?"

  "Brain," she said, biting her lip against a sudden urge to laugh. "But of course you have to—"

  He grinne
d. "—possess one to be able to recognize it?"

  "You wouldn't be the first man not to know his brain from what grows below."

  One corner of his mouth curled up in amusement. The conversation was beginning to have a very unexpected arousing effect upon him. He had never met such a disarmingly honest woman before outside his own family, and found this encounter rather invigorating. "I suppose you're an expert on such matters?"

  "Well, I certainly cannot claim to have your experience." She didn't have any, actually, unless she counted the time Lamont, her wizard-uncle's apprentice, had kissed her while simultaneously dropping a handful of earthworms down her bodice. Not exactly a soul-stirring romance.

  He leaned forward, his nose practically touching hers. His voice lowered an octave to a dangerous whisper. He really was going to have to teach her a few things. "I've known you for less than two days. Who in this house is telling tales out of school?"

  "I'd cut my tongue out before revealing my sources."

  He stood with a frown. "It was Olivia."

  She rose, not about to be craning her neck to talk to him. The man's lithe, muscular body made her feel vulnerable and insubstantial. "No."

  "Wendell?"

  She shook her head.

  "Then it has to be Howard."

  "It was not."

  He stared at her for several moments. "You won't last long in my house if you take every remark to heart. My world is rather ruthless, I'm afraid."

  "Hmmm." She turned to go, and before he could stop himself, he caught her by the waist and drew her back toward him. She glanced up, transfixed by the dark promise in his eyes.

  "What—"

  "Don't ever let a rogue make you cry," he murmured a split second before he lowered his head and kissed her.

  She did not resist. Perhaps she was too surprised. He savored the sweet innocence of her lips and felt her hand lift to his shoulder, whether to push him away or hang on for balance he wasn't sure. For a perilous moment, he wanted to take this further, wanted to wield his power to subdue her. The way she arched against him, unaware of her own danger, aroused some dark sexual instinct to master her.