Chapter 13
Catherine collapsed onto her bed, curling into a ball and clutching at her stomach.
Cramps pulled her muscles taut. She had been fighting the feeling of illness all morning, wanting to appear as normal as she could for Aaron, to entice him into spending time with her.
The glass of warmed milk that Mr. McKay had brought to her had been disposed of out of the window when he left the room.
I will not drink anything intended for myself alone. Not in this house. Not when it has been given to me by a stranger!
She did not know if she was thinking of Aaron or his staff. All were equally as unknown to her, though she had been trying to forget the former for the sake of her own sanity.
Now, it was all too much.
The pangs of illness eased in her stomach, but a dull ache had settled into her skull and her limbs. She felt a sheen on her forehead, but her hands and feet felt as though they were encased in blocks of ice.
Is this how mother and father felt? Is this the illness that claimed them? Or is that a fiction devised to control me by my Aunt and Uncle? And now by the man I thought was Aaron…
Wet tears dampened her pillow, and she angrily scrubbed at her face. If this truly was the fateful illness, she would not face it cowering in tears.
She forced herself to sit up and saw the basin of wash water on her nightstand. Plunging her face into its depths, she basked briefly in the glorious relief of cool water against her hot face.
When she closed her eyes again, she saw Aaron’s face, where he always was, just on the periphery of every thought.
Austere as an ancient Greek statue. Hard as the face of a pagan warrior intent on pillage and destruction.
That sent a thrill through her, remembering the strength of his hands as he had guided her in the art of croquet.
The feel of his muscular body against hers.
She opened her eyes and pulled her head from the water, gasping and tossing her wet hair back from her face.
It had helped somewhat, making her feel cooler and slightly less feverish. Standing, she went to her linen cupboard and took out a handcloth with which to dry herself. Then she sat at her bureau, took out paper, pen, and ink pot.
Who am I to write to? My Aunt and Uncle?
She laughed at the absurdity of the thought. Then she wrote the first line.
My dear, Isabella. Sorry, Bella,
I find myself in need of a friend. Of someone I can trust. And you are the only person I know whom I hope fits that description.
How to begin? I shall simply begin with my suspicions, with my darkest thoughts, and I hope, I pray that you will be able to simply dismiss my fears, turn the cold light of logic upon them, and help me see them as ridiculous notions. I pray that this is what happens.
What were her fears?
She hesitated, pen hovering above the page. Did she dare to externalize her fears? Did she dare to write it?
I fear that my husband is not the man I thought he was. I fear that Aaron Tarnley, Duke of Winchester, is... not. What I mean is that he is not Aaron Tarnley, he is an impostor...
There came a knock at the door, and she hurriedly put the page back into the bureau and closed it. There was no key visible with which to lock it. The knock came again. Catherine stood, her back to the bureau, and spoke.
“Come in!”
The door opened and revealed Aaron. She resisted the urge to look at the bureau, as though to check that the letter was not visible. She did not look, but nor did she move away from it. Instead, she firmed her jaw and lifted her chin, trying to look dignified.
I will not face him looking afraid, showing weakness.
Aaron entered the room, and Catherine felt the familiar thrill that accompanied him.
It shimmered through her from somewhere deep within, ending at her fingers and her toes.
Her scalp shivered as though he were running his fingers through her hair.
She clasped her hands together in front of her stomach.
“I feel that a proper apology is owed,” Aaron began awkwardly. “When we were... interrupted by McKay, I felt... irritated, and I think you took the brunt of that.”
She thinned her lips. “I thank you for your apology. I did, and it was not just.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgement, and when he looked up again, his eyes were sharp on her face.
Catherine felt that she would liked to have stood in the light of his eyes forever.
To be studied, stared at, scrutinized. Did he study her face or her body?
Did he imagine her without her clothes? The notion shocked her but also excited her.
Perhaps he does not because he has already studied my naked body. Perhaps he looked when he was not supposed to. Or when he was beneath the water.
“I was about to say that you look pale. But suddenly you are flushed,” Aaron said, stepping closer, “are you feeling quite well?”
“I am in no need of medicine,” Catherine interjected sharply.
She suddenly wondered if this visit was to administer another dose of his cure-all. Of poppy juice. She wanted to trust him. She wanted to let go of the crippling doubt and paranoia. But it clung to her back like a spider.
“I did not say that you were. Merely commenting on your sudden color,” he defended.
“I was remembering the pool in the woods,” she replied, honestly.
She was rewarded with a slight flush to Aaron’s cheeks. He looked beyond her to the window.
“Perhaps it is a touch too warm in here,” he muttered.
He strode past her, passing close enough that when she breathed in, she could almost taste him.
Taste his cologne, his soap, the slight bitterness of tobacco and coffee.
It all combined into a distinctly rough, masculine aroma that had uniquely become him.
She suddenly yearned to nestle her face against his naked chest. To breathe him in as her lips moved soundlessly against his taut skin…
He opened the window and stood there for a moment, breathing deeply.
“Perhaps I should be the one asking if you are well?” she said without turning around.
“The air is somewhat stuffy in here.”
“Yes.”
“I have asked McKay to bring the breakfast things here. We were supposed to be breaking our fast together, were we not?”
Catherine’s appetite had vanished with the stomach cramps, but she felt a flash of hope at the offer. She turned at once, smiling.
“That is most welcome. I had been looking forward to sharing breakfast with you. Perhaps we can steer our conversation away from subjects likely to cause... friction?”
She meant it wholeheartedly, but the comment earned a pointed look from Aaron.
“Indeed. And what might those subjects be?”
The one subject Catherine most wanted to discuss with Aaron.
Their childhood past. But that was the one subject she could not discuss with him, the one subject which seemed to cause the wall between them to be raised higher.
To cause the frost that sometimes seemed to thaw from Aaron to become glacial ice.
“Anything that you do not wish to be discussed?” Catherine offered diplomatically.
“That could cover many things.”
“Tell me, and I will do my best to avoid them.”
Aaron opened his mouth, then took a breath instead of speaking. He stepped closer, looking down at Catherine before taking her hands in his own.
“No. I came here to apologize for being so... prickly. I will not begin another argument,” Aaron said with stony determination.
His face was steel. His voice was granite. He held Catherine’s gaze, and she knew she could not look away. Some ancient and dark magic held her. It was a magnetism that she gladly gave herself over to. There was no escape, nor did she seek one.
“I do not want to argue either. I... I confess that afterwards I do not remember how our silly bickerings even started,” she murmured.
Aaron moved closer, not looking away or speaking.
It was as though he, too, was drawn to her, drifting as though against his will, pulled by a devilish current.
He opened his mouth to speak, but there came another knock at the door.
His face twisted into one of frustration, and he whirled, drawing breath.
Catherine spoke up before he could explode.
“Come in!” she called out brightly, “quickly please,” she whispered.
But Aaron was close enough to hear. He looked at her with a whip of his head, and she stared back, smiling innocently. His lips twitched once, and he whirled to face the maids who had carried the breakfast things on trays.
“The light is best in my bedroom, by the bay window,” Catherine beamed, opening the door wider for them. Nudging Aaron with her elbow, she muttered, “I would not be angry with servants for doing as they have been instructed.”
“Nor would I,” he replied calmly, offering his arm.
She took it and followed him into the bedroom, which was being converted into a breakfast room.
The maids moved a table to the window and found chairs throughout Catherine’s suite of rooms, arranging them opposite each other, bathed in the rectangle of pale daylight that spilled into the middle of the room from the tall window.
“Splendid! Thank you so much. What are your names?” Catherine asked cheerily.
“It does not matter. You may leave us,” Aaron interrupted.
The maids curtsied and scurried from the room, shutting the door behind them. Aaron sat, indicating Catherine should do likewise. Instead, she remained standing, hands planted on hips and glaring him down with pursed lips.
He looked back, face blank. “Is there something wrong?”
“I do not much care for the way you speak to staff,” Catherine chided, seating herself finally.
Aaron blinked as though surprised. “They are servants. How else am I supposed to address them?”
“As people. With names and feelings and their own lives.”
“I know they have names and feelings and their own lives beyond their service. But it is not relevant to me,” Aaron responded, still sounding confused.