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“But have you been out walking so very long? I was under the impression that you’d had a nice long nap this afternoon after we returned.”
“Well, I did, yes, of course, but near drowning can be so very tiring!”
“Mrs. Johnson has a meal prepared. We were only waiting for you to wake up. Imagine! We didn’t want to disturb you, but you were already awake and wandering about.”
“Right. Imagine,” she murmured. “But I am so very exhausted…”
“You must join me for a meal.”
She lifted her hand, smiled—her teeth grating beneath the facade, surely—but not at all certain how to escape his insistence. “As you wish.”
“As you wish,” he returned, but his tone gave evidence that they would, indeed, dine together. He walked to the door, opened it and indicated that she precede him. She did so, the sweet smell of rosewater drifting to his nostrils.
He followed her, showing her the elegant dining room to the right of the main entry, adjacent to the kitchen. A fire burned brightly and the table was beautifully set. He pulled out her chair, seating her with all propriety. Her head was lowered. When he took his own chair, she looked up and murmured, “This is all quite lovely. Thank you.”
He noted that she was looking at the clock on the mantel. Was her intent to slip back to her own home this evening? Or had she thought that she could sleep the night and be back before her father noticed her bed empty in the morning?
He waved a hand negligently. “Emma loves to cook. She doesn’t get the opportunity all that often.”
“You don’t eat?” she inquired with fake courtesy.
“I’m usually at my club, arguing with someone,” he admitted. “When I am in London.”
“Ah, yes. You are seldom in the country.”
“You knew that?” he asked.
“Of course. Your name is quite often in the papers.”
“Ah. So you remember reading the newspapers.”
She flushed but rebounded admirably. “Indeed, I do.”
Emma swept in then, bearing a large silver tray with delicate slices of beef and pheasant, generous servings of au gratin potatoes and greens. Ethan—handsomely attired in livery—was at her side, ready to serve.
Hunter noted that his guest sat up, savoring the aromas. He wondered then when she had last eaten.
“Child?” Emma said. “Oh, this is so difficult! We must call you something!”
“Mmm, true,” Hunter murmured. “It does seem rude to keep referring to you as ‘girl’ or ‘child.’” He watched as they were both served, and thanked both Emma and Ethan, then sat back in his chair, surveying his guest.
“Ah, well, soon enough, we must discover your real name!” he said. He smiled up at Emma. “But for the moment, well…”
“Perhaps she is a Jane,” Emma suggested.
“Possibly. Or Eleanor,” Hunter said.
Ethan poured glasses of wine, then looked up. “Anne, perhaps. It’s a popular name.”
“A lovely name,” he agreed, lifting his glass, and politely waiting as the girl realized that she must lift hers, as well. She did so; he took a sip of wine, and mused once again. “A name…a name…Adriana, for she so comes from the sea! But then again, into the sea, out of the sea…like a creature with many lives. I know—Kat!”
As he had expected, she choked on her sip of wine.
But then again, she recovered splendidly.
“Kat?” she inquired. She stared straight at him. “Why, sir, how amazing. It does have a most familiar ring.”
“Kat?” Emma said.
“Kat, Kathy…Katherine,” Hunter said. “At any rate, my dear, you will always be our little Kat, then. And like the creature, the cat, may you have nine lives!”
She lifted her glass, coolly observing him.
“Cat!” he repeated. “Ah, yes, the most clever of creatures. Yet one known for the danger of its curiosity. And, hmm, cat…a sweet lovely creature that curls on the sofa at night, and then again, the kind of creature that prowls the jungle, ever searching for prey.”
The coolness in her eyes turned to fire. How they blazed at him!
“Mistress Kat,” Emma murmured. “Will that be all right, my dear? Until we learn otherwise?”
“It will be lovely,” Kat assured her.
Emma nodded, pleased, and absented herself from the dining room with a swish of her petticoats. Ethan shrugged and followed in her wake.
“Lovely,” Hunter murmured, ready to address his meal.
“Lovely!” she repeated, her voice low, sweetly dangerous. And he looked up to see that her expression was one of fury. “You wretched—bastard!” she cried.
“Good heavens!” Hunter’s eyes widened in mock horror. “What language from such a gentle maiden.”
“You should rot in hell,” she declared heatedly. “You followed me!”
“I did,” he informed her flatly.
“You’d no right!” she cried in dismay.
“Indeed, I had every night. I might well have been nurturing a viper at my bosom.”
She started to rise. “Sir Hunter, I’m sure you’ve nurtured many a viper at your bosom, and with the greatest pleasure! I did not ask you to ‘rescue’ me from the sea—you chose to do so. You’ll remember that I awoke in your carriage and that it was you who caused me to bump my head! And now it will be you who…who…”
She seemed at a loss for words.
“Who what?” he demanded, suddenly angry. “Who will betray you? No, what I need to know for myself is not necessarily information I will share. Play your little charade tomorrow for Lord Avery and your precious David Turnberry. I’ll not give you away.”
“Why not?” she asked warily, still tense, half risen, half seated.
“Sit down, Kat. That is what they call you, correct?”
“Kat…Katherine. I’m sure your hearing is excellent,” she muttered.
“Sit down. Emma worked hard on this meal. For her sake, you will enjoy it.”
Rigidly, she took her position once again.
Then she winced. “You will really let me meet with David and Lord Avery as if…as if I were…”
“Their equal?” he suggested. “Oh, indeed. Since you feel you must.”
A flush betrayed the edge of shame she was feeling. “My father is a fine man.”
“Of that, I’m quite certain. And a talented one.”
“He is talented! Don’t you dare mock him!”
“I am not mocking him.”
“Then don’t patronize me. You don’t know anything about him.”
“Oddly enough, I do know a bit. I sincerely believe that he is an incredibly talented artist and that his light, as they say, has been hidden under a bushel for too long. And it was quite evident that he cares for you a great deal. He is a good man. And there is nothing wrong with your home or with your father’s being an artist. So why this charade?”
She was instantly defensive. “Everyone must lead a slightly different life at times.”
“If you say so.”
“Well, you do!”
“Do I?”
“Traveling the globe, gadding about,” she said. “Digging into other peoples’ live! Ancient lives.”
“There’s a difference.”
“There is not.”
“I do it as myself.”
“Well…you, sir, have more opportunity than most,” she argued weakly.
He shook his head. “Who are you trying to be? And why? You’re playing a dangerous game, Kat.”
She shook her head. “I’m not! I just want—”
He sighed. “Good God, do you think that silly boy, your dear David, will see you and simply forget his very rich and titled lady? Do you really believe that you two will somehow live happily ever after?”
She did not reply but sat back stubbornly silent. He shook his head. “The man leaves for Egypt in a week. I suppose there is no harm in seeing that you are somehow properly introduced.”
She let out a soft sigh.
“Thank you,” she said with amazing dignity.
She toyed with the meat on her plate, then ate in earnest, then apparently feared that she was eating too quickly and slowed down. She caught his eye, and her fork froze in mid-position. “Tell me,” she inquired. “Will David’s lady be going to Egypt with him? Does Mrs. Johnson accompany you?”
“Cairo can be a delightful place and many women do come. But the digs are hard, most difficult on women, and few do attend, though there are those who are remarkable scholars and eager for the digs. They are equally willing to accept the rugged accommodations one must abide in the desert. I believe that Lady Margaret will make the trip, but not that she’ll attend the dig. There’s a wonderful hotel the English frequent each season. Shepheard’s. We all start off there before heading off in various directions. Arthur Doyle is heading down, if he’s not there already. His wife is ailing. The dry climate down there is excellent for her condition.”
“Arthur Doyle?” she repeated.
“Indeed. The writer.”
“You know him?”
Hunter arched a brow. “I’ve written quite a bit myself, and so have spent some time in literary circles.”
She didn’t seem at all impressed. “The man who gave us Sherlock Holmes?” she inquired.
“Yes.”
“And then killed off his hero?” she demanded.
He laughed. “Look, the last time he wrote, it was to complain about the way people are so disturbed over Holmes—who is nothing but a product of his imagination—when his dear wife is fighting for her life. The hotel, as I said, is wonderful. So while your David digs in the desert sands, Lady Margaret will comfortably await him. And the others, and her father, of course.”
“And so many people go every year!” she murmured. “What about Mrs. Johnson?”
“Emma prefers London,” he explained. “Or the coast of France. Sometimes she comes, but usually she begs out.”
Kat sighed again. “I’m really not at all in that world,” she murmured. And for a moment, there was no guile in her eyes, no cunning, and her hair, catching the light from the fire, shimmered, and she was so beautiful, yet so lost and forlorn, that he longed to touch her, was tempted to rise and go put a reassuring arm around her shoulders.
But this cat, he knew, had claws.
However, she rose once again to her feet, this time with impeccable dignity. “Since you followed me and are well aware of my home and family, you’ll understand that I must return tonight. I had hoped that tonight… Well, it wasn’t to be. I will go home and give my father no more reason for concern. I can find my own way, but would be grateful if you would have your man escort me.”
“I’ll see to it,” he assured her.
“Thank you.”
“Perhaps…” he began, then paused, for he wondered why he was willing to go to any trouble to see that this urchin met the object of her ridiculous desire.
He inhaled and exhaled. “Perhaps there is still something that I can do.”
“You don’t know my father, sir.” Her shoulders squared. “Though he possesses great talent, he…well, we are usually behind in our rent. Oh, he is a good parent, but…he loves the sea, and so we keep something of an excuse for a boat. He does wondrous oils, but he sells those for almost nothing and makes a living doing portraits. More often than not, he finds an old woman sitting on a step to be intriguing and…well, those works simply haven’t sold. Still, he is fiercely proud, and he will allow for no reward. As perhaps you’re aware, his family was a good one, and as a strong believer in education, he saw to it that my sister and I were schooled. But he will not allow me out tomorrow morning, for he believes that it is a disgrace to reward someone for saving a life, since human life is precious, not something to be bought or sold.”
Hunter was again moved in a way that made him long to touch her. He shrugged instead. In her simple pride and honesty, she had a rare appeal.
“Still…well, we shall see.”
A flush rose to her cheeks. And hope flickered in her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said, and the words sounded sincere. Then a rueful smile curled her lips. “Why are you being so kind?”
He nodded gravely. “Perhaps I am doing you no favor,” he said.
