Chapter 12 #2
It did not take away, but by making it the feature of an ordinary woman, it enhanced the rest. He found himself wondering what birthmarks, scars, or beauty spots might be elsewhere, deposited upon her skin by the Creator as random differences between Catherine and the rest of womankind.
He wondered if there was a beauty mark beneath one of her breasts.
A childhood scar upon her knee or the perfect, milky expanse of her inner thigh.
A birthmark of cherry red upon her bottom?
“And then I just stand here for a few minutes?” Catherine spoke suddenly, wrenching him from his thoughts.
Gideon saw the flush spreading through her cheeks and realized, belatedly, that he had not spoken for several seconds.
His hands remained upon hers, and she made no effort to remove them.
He was close—so close that the thin barrier of his breeches brushed against the fabric of her skirt.
Only that slender layer separated them, but if his desire grew any stronger, it would be all too evident.
“Then you pull back into the backswing, keeping your eyes on the ball.”
He moved her hands to one side, swinging the mallet like a pendulum.
“Then swing back, and follow the path you want the ball to take with your eyes, the mallet, the ball, and the hoop. All in a line. Not too hard.”
He slowed her over-enthusiastic swing by applying pressure with his hands. As he did, he moved forward inadvertently, and their bodies came together. Catherine’s head twisted to the side, but it was to look at him, not follow the ball. It rolled past the hoop, grazing its side.
“That was… better,” he murmured, his lips inches from hers.
“It did not break anything,” she giggled.
“And almost found the mark. Had you followed the ball with your eyes, you might have reached the target.”
“I was distracted,” she smiled coyly.
Gideon’s hands on hers had abandoned all pretense of instruction. His fingers drifted across the backs of her hands, drinking in the silk of her skin. Higher, along the delicate bones of her wrists, the tender inside of her forearms where her pulse fluttered wildly.
Catherine shivered, straightening until his cheek rested against her temple.
She turned her head, and their mouths were suddenly a breath apart.
He slipped one arm about her waist, holding her tight against him. Her lips parted with a silent gasp at the pressure she could feel against her.
The moment passed with the sound of a door opening and footsteps accompanied by the chink of fresh crockery.
McKay declared aloud, “I heard the sound of breaking crocks and... ah-ha!”
Gideon turned, feeling Catherine step away from him and feeling the loss as keenly as a sharp intake of breath after plunging into a cold lake.
“Yes, it took you long enough!” Gideon chided awkwardly, pouring his disappointment at the interruption into his voice.
“It was not Mr. McKay’s fault,” Catherine murmured.
“I shall clear the crocks and have taken the liberty of bringing fresh ones,” McKay assured, unconcerned with his master’s tone.
Gideon scowled and walked to the breakfast table. Catherine followed, stooping to pick up the letters that had been scattered by her wayward croquet ball—and, ostensibly, one that had slipped from his coat pocket when he had been forced to duck earlier.
He spotted that particular unaddressed letter on top, folded but not sealed. He put out an impatient hand for the letter.
“If you wouldn’t mind?” he emphasized.
“Of course!” Catherine squeaked meekly, handing over the letters, “I have no wish to pry into your private affairs.”
“That is well, because you do not have the right,” Gideon replied shortly.
He couldn’t help but open the letter again, eyes rapidly scanning the lines.
Who are you? Am I sitting opposite your accomplice?
His eyes lifted from the page to meet Catherine, who was frowning, pouring herself a fresh cup of tea.
“And what has put you so far out of countenance?” he asked abruptly, “you were happy and laughing a moment ago.”
“Your flashes of anger and changes of mood. You are as predictable as lightning and prickly as a rose bush. I do not know when I am going to be pricked or simply ignored for days.”
“I have not ignored you for days. You have not been here a fortnight!” Gideon exclaimed, folding the letter once more and slipping it into his pocket.
“It has been more than one day. That is days,” Catherine countered astutely.
Gideon picked up the next letter. He recognized the handwriting of Jeremy Bexley, Viscount of Everdon. His frown deepened as he wondered what caused Jeremy to write to him.
He can visit any time he likes. Or find me at Spencer’s. He was here only yesterday, but said nothing to me of any consequence...
“Actually, I had hoped that spending time with each other would lead to a thawing of our relations,” Catherine said suddenly.
“Leading to what?” Gideon replied, distracted.
“…Friendship? Perhaps some of those memories being shaken loose from the ice within which they seem to be bound.”
He looked up sharply at the reference to memory, eyes narrowing.
“I am not aware of any,” he said slowly.
“Yet, you do not remember half the things that I do.”
“Perhaps you are the one with the faulty memory.”
“Meaning?”
“Did half the things you say I said or did truly happen? Poppy juice can do strange things to the mind—”
He regretted his words immediately.
Catherine stared at him for a long moment.
Gideon felt guilt consume him but hardened his resolve.
He was trying to push her off the trail of her childhood memories with Aaron, and in doing so, had inadvertently called into question the validity of her mind.
That, he sensed, could undermine one’s sense of reality.
Dangerously so. She didn’t deserve that.
“I am sorry...” he began, putting the letters down.
“No. I am sorry to have troubled you with talk of things you would clearly prefer to forget,” Catherine interjected in a voice that was fighting a tremble.
“I didn’t mean to—”
Catherine stood. “I will retire for the rest of the morning. I am sorry for imposing on your time. I won’t be troubling you again.”
Gideon stood as Catherine hurried away. He took a step towards her, wanting to go after her. To explain. To earn back that coy smile with which she had asked him to help her learn croquet. To see her blush and feel the heat of her body against his.
But Aaron’s voice whispered in his ear, cold and cruel.
“Well done, brother. You are secure behind your walls. A point to you. She will not trouble you again with her dratted memories of me that you will never replicate.”
Gideon turned away from Catherine, sitting down and picking up his letters once again. He stared at them for a long time, not seeing the words or hearing his brother’s jeering voice.