Chapter 3
"Miss! Miss, you must come quickly!"
Catherine jolted awake, her heart racing. The room was dark save for the dying embers in the fireplace, and for a moment she couldn't remember where she was. Then it all came flooding back—the storm, the inn, Mr. Wrentham in the room just beyond that door.
"What is it, Martha?" She sat up, pushing her hair back from her face. "What time is it?"
"Past midnight, miss, but...oh, miss, it's Robert. He's taken terrible poorly!"
Catherine was out of bed in an instant, reaching for her wrapper. "Robert? What's happened?"
Martha's face was pale in the dim light, her cap askew.
"He went back out to secure the horses better, the fool man, said they were restless with all the thunder.
But the stable roof—some of it came loose in the wind, caught him right across the head and shoulder.
He's bleeding something awful, and Mrs. Hartwell, she needs every hand to help.
The physician can't come, not in this weather, and she says I am the only one that can help here along with another maid that occupies the inn. "
"Of course you must go," Catherine said immediately, though something fluttered in her stomach at the thought of being left essentially alone. "Is he...will he be alright?"
"Mrs. Hartwell thinks so, if we can get the bleeding stopped and keep the fever away. But miss, I'll be gone all night, most likely. It isn't proper, you being here without..."
"Martha." Catherine took her maid's shaking hands. "Robert needs you. I'll be perfectly fine. The door locks, as we've established, and Mr. Wrentham seems to be a gentleman, despite his attempts to steal our room."
"But miss..."
"Go. That's an order."
Martha bobbed a quick curtsey and fled, her footsteps pattering down the hallway.
Catherine stood in the darkness for a moment, acutely aware of the silence.
Well, not silence exactly—the storm still raged outside, and she could hear voices from below, urgent and worried.
But her room felt very empty suddenly, and very dark.
She moved to restart the fire, kneeling before the hearth in her nightgown and wrapper. The poker was heavier than she expected, and she fumbled with it, sending a small shower of sparks up the chimney.
"Curse it," she muttered, then immediately felt scandalized at herself. Ladies didn't curse. Though ladies also didn't share rooms with strange gentlemen at coaching inns, so perhaps she'd already crossed the limits of propriety.
A soft knock came at the connecting door.
"Miss Mayfer? Is everything alright? I heard voices."
Catherine's pulse quickened. She pulled her wrapper tighter. "Yes, quite alright. My maid was called away because there has been an accident with our coachman."
"Is he badly hurt?"
"A head wound, apparently. Martha's gone to help tend him."
There was a pause. Then: "So you're alone?"
The way he said it, not predatory, but concerned, made something warm bloom in her chest. "I'm perfectly safe, Mr. Wrentham. The door is locked, and I'm quite capable of defending myself if necessary."
"With the two pistols in your reticule?"
She could hear the smile in his voice. "Exactly."
"May I... would you prefer some company? The sitting room, I mean. It must be unsettling, being alone with the storm and worry for your coachman."
Catherine knew she should refuse. Every rule of propriety demanded it. But propriety hadn't kept her warm on the frozen road, hadn't offered her shelter from the storm, and certainly wouldn't keep her company through what promised to be a very long night.
"I'll need a moment to make myself presentable," she heard herself say.
"Of course. Though I should warn you, my own standards of being presentable have rather declined. My valet would be appalled."
"The valet you don't have?"
"The theoretical valet. He's extremely particular."
Despite everything, Catherine smiled. She lit a candle from the newly revived fire and moved to the mirror.
Her hair was a disaster, tumbling around her shoulders in waves that no amount of pinning would quickly tame.
Her wrapper was at least modest, a deep blue silk that had been her mother's, worn over her white nightgown.
She looked like someone ready for bed, not for entertaining gentlemen.
But then again, he'd already seen her resembling a drowned rat. This was practically an improvement.
She unlocked the connecting door and stepped into the sitting room.
He was already there, standing by the window watching the storm.
He'd removed his coat and cravat, wearing only his shirt, waistcoat, and trousers.
His hair was disheveled, as if he'd been running his hands through it.
When he turned to face her, something flickered in those grey eyes; a heat that made her stomach tighten.
"You came," he said softly.
"You sounded worried."
"I was. I am." He gestured to the small table where a bottle of brandy sat with two glasses. "I convinced Hartwell to part with some of his better stock. Thought it might help with the worry. For your coachman, I mean."
"You're very kind."
"No," he said, pouring two glasses. "I'm very selfish. I wanted an excuse to see you again."
The honesty of it caught her off-guard. "Mr. Wrentham..."
"James," he said, offering her a glass. "If we're going to be thoroughly improper, we might as well use given names."
"We're not being thoroughly improper," Catherine protested, though she took the glass. "We're simply... bending the rules slightly."
"Is that what we're doing?" He moved closer, not quite improperly close, but close enough that she could smell him: rain and sandalwood and something uniquely masculine. "Tell me, Catherine, may I call you Catherine? What other rules are you planning to bend tonight?"
"That's rather presumptuous."
"But not inaccurate?"
She took a sip of brandy to avoid answering. It burned pleasantly down her throat, warming her from the inside out. "Tell me something, James. What are you really running toward?"
He was quiet for a long moment, staring into his glass. "My father is dying."
The words were flat, emotionless, but Catherine saw the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tightened on the glass.
"I'm sorry," she said softly.
"Don't be. We weren't close. Haven't been for years." He took a long swallow of brandy. "But duty calls, as it always does. The prodigal son must return home."
"You've been away long?"
"Six years. Military service, then... other pursuits. I swore I'd never go back."
"What changed?"
"Nothing. Everything." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "He's dying, and suddenly all my anger seems... small. Petty. He was a difficult man, cold, demanding. Nothing was ever good enough. But he was still my father."
Catherine moved closer, drawn by the pain in his voice. "My father died two years ago. It was sudden—his heart. I never got to say goodbye. Never got to tell him..." She trailed off.
"Tell him what?"
"That I understood. Why he worked so hard, why he was gone so often. He was trying to secure our future, even if it meant missing our present."
"And now your mother wants to secure your future with Sir Reginald and his butterfly collection?"
Despite the weight of the conversation, Catherine laughed. "Precisely. And she had convinced father as well despite the fact that he had no patience for men who talked more than they acted."
"Whereas you have no patience for men who steal your rooms at inns?"
"You didn't steal it. We're sharing, remember?"
"How could I forget?" His voice had dropped, become something darker, richer. "Every sound you make carries through these walls. Do you know what torture it was, listening to you prepare for bed, knowing you were just there, just beyond that door?"
Catherine's breath caught. "James..."
"Tell me you didn't think about it too. Tell me you didn't wonder what would happen if that door wasn't locked."
"We can't..."
"Can't we?" He set down his glass, moved closer still. Not touching, not yet, but she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "We're strangers in a storm. Tomorrow we'll part ways, never to meet again. Tonight... tonight we could be anyone we choose."
"And who do you choose to be?"
"Honest," he said simply. "For once in my life, completely honest. No titles, no expectations, no duty. Just a man who finds you absolutely fascinating."
"You don't know me."
"Don't I?" His hand came up, not quite touching her face, hovering just close enough that she could feel the warmth.
"I know you're brave enough to flee an unwanted marriage.
Strong enough to travel alone except for a maid.
Witty enough to match me verbal blow for blow.
Beautiful enough to make me forget every rule I've ever lived by. "
"James..." His name came out as barely a whisper.
"Tell me to go back to my room," he said, his voice rough. "Tell me to leave you alone, and I will. I'll lock the door and we'll pretend this conversation never happened. But if you don't..."
"If I don't?"
His thumb finally made contact, the lightest brush against her cheekbone. "Then I'm going to kiss you, Catherine. And I'm afraid I might not be able to stop at just a kiss."
The sensible thing would be to step back. To send him away. To preserve what remained of her reputation and her sanity. But Catherine had been sensible her whole life, and where had it gotten her? Nearly betrothed to a butterfly collector, running through storms, sharing rooms with strangers.
"I don't want you to stop," she breathed.
His eyes darkened, and she saw him struggle for control. "You need to be very sure. Because once we cross this line..."
"We've already crossed every other line tonight. What's one more?"
"Catherine." Her name was a warning, a plea.
She made the decision for both of them, rising on her toes to press her lips to his.