Raven's Vow

Catherine’s lips slanted suddenly as she remembered Raven correcting her father. She doubted whether anyone else in his very long and noble life had had the gall to point out the duke’s obvious errors to him. No wonder her father had been so furious that day. John Raven certainly did not play by the rules that had been set down for members of this society to follow.

“I’m sorry, my dear, but your father seems to have been called away. Some unexpected emergency. I’m sure a very minor one, but I’ve ordered your coach brought round and will very gladly escort you home,” Dellwood offered gallantly.

“There’s no need for that, Tony. You know how short the distance is. And Tom’s perfectly reliable. He’s been in my father’s service for years.”

“I insist. I’m sure your father would much prefer that I come with you. He probably already made arrangements for you to be conveyed home, and I’ve inadvertently countermanded them. I would never forgive myself if anything were to happen.”

“And what do you imagine might happen to me between here and home? This is London, you know, not the wilds of America.”

He laughed cooperatively at her feeble attempt at humor, while she wondered why that particular analogy had leapt into her mind. Obsessed with things American, perhaps? she questioned herself mockingly.

“I really insist on being allowed—” her escort began, and was quickly interrupted.

“And I must insist that I’m better off alone. Please. I really am not well, and I’m afraid this pointless argument…” As an added inducement, she pulled her small lace handkerchief from her glove and pressed it delicately against her lips.

Although still worried about the impropriety of allowing her to depart without escort, Dellwood was forced to agree. As Catherine had logically pointed out, thiswas London. What could possibly happen to the Duke of Montfort’s daughter while being transported to her home by her father’s own coachman?

The rain that had been a shower at the beginning of the evening had turned into a deluge, but through the solicitude of Lady Barrington’s servants, Catherine was put into the coach, suffering no more than a drop or two spotting the emerald silk. She sat morosely in the darkness of the swaying carriage, listening to the pounding fury of the storm against its roof. She was angered and bewildered by Gerald’s attempt at domination tonight. And, she was honest enough to admit, to herself at least, she was again disappointed that she had not at some point in the evening found two piercing blue eyes meeting hers with unusual directness. She missed the excitement her encounters with the American had added to her existence, and if she were completely honest, she knew that she also missed the man himself. Her lips moved into a slight smile, again remembering.

The small jolt of the carriage as it drew up to its destination pulled her attention from those memories, and she gathered her skirt in preparation for the descent into the driving rain. The door was opened and an enormous black umbrella held over her to shelter her from the deluge. Hurrying down the steps the coachman had dropped, she ran, head lowered against the force of the blowing rain, toward the welcoming glow that shone into the dark street from the door of the town house.

She heard it close behind her as she was shaking raindrops from her ball gown. She turned to hand her gloves and reticule to Hartford and found she was standing in the foyer alone.

In a foyer she had never seen before in her life. It took a moment for the reality of that to sink in. She was not in her father’s town house. There had been some terrible mistake.

“Good evening,” a deep voice intoned from the shadows at the end of the enormous hallway. She glanced up to find John Raven standing there, quietly watching her. His voice had echoed slightly across the empty expanse of softly gleaming black and gray squares of Italian marble that stretched between them.

She swallowed against the fear that constricted her throat. He had brought her here to avenge himself on her for what her father had done. She turned to the door behind her and began struggling to open it, her fingers trembling uncontrollably.

Before she could manage the intricacies of the unfamiliar lock, his beautifully shaped hand, which she had admired caressing Storm that day, gently closed over hers and removed them from the door. He turned the key that was in the lock and, removing it, placed it in his waistcoat pocket.

Catherine’s fear was reflected in the strained face she raised to his, so he smiled at her before he spoke. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Raven promised softly. He hated making her afraid, especially afraid of him.

“What do you want?” she whispered past the unfamiliar tightness that threatened to block her throat.

His mouth moved slightly, the corners deepening. “I thought I had made that perfectly clear. Even your father finally managed to understand what I want,” he answered, and she was allowed to read his amusement.

Catherine was beginning to calm down, Raven’s quiet humor making her believe that he really didn’t intend her harm. There was no anger in his tone or posture. Apparently he didn’t intend to seek revenge for the father’s insult by ravaging the daughter, but she could still see the mark the crop had made that day faintly lined on his cheek.

Raven let her study his face a moment, and then he said, “There’s nothing to be frightened of here.”

Somehow, she found herself believing him. But he must know—surely he must know, even stranger that he was— what being found in such a situation would do to her reputation.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asked, and then wondered for the first time how that had been accomplished. “And how? That was my father’s coachman. I saw him quite clearly before, at Lady Barrington’s. He would never—”

“He has an invalid wife and a multitude of children.”

“Youbribed him?” she asked, unable to believe that Tom would betray her for money.

“He was very concerned about you. But I gave him my word that you would come to no harm at my hands.”

“And he believed you?”

“Of course. He seems to be an excellent judge of character. He likes you very much, but he thinks your father’s a bastard.”

“You and the coachman discussed my father?” she asked. This must be some sort of nightmare. Soon she’d wake up, and she would still be on the dance floor, safely waltzing through another evening of deadly sameness.Safe, she thought longingly.

“Not at length. But we found ourselves in perfect agreement, I assure you.”

“Why did you bring me here?” She was beginning to be able to control her fear. To be able to think.

“I wanted to show you something. Two things, really. Both of which I thought you should see.”

“You abducted me toshow me something?” she repeated carefully. “And when I’ve seen whatever it is?”

“Then I’ll arrange to have you taken home. If you decide that’s what you want.”

“If I decide…?” Her voice rose. “What else do you imagine I would want?” She paused and took a breath, again seeking control. “Of course I shall want to be taken home.”

“Perhaps not. We won’t know until we’ve completed our business.”

Business, she echoed mentally, wondering with irritation if that was all John Raven ever thought about. Apparently he had kidnapped her to discuss business. She felt a spurt of fury. She’d been abducted by a man whom, she admitted, she was fascinated by, and all he wanted to do was to talk business. As if she were some solicitor or shopkeeper instead of what she was—the acknowledged toast of the last two London seasons. The final thought was reassuring in light of his disinterest.

She glanced up and realized he knew exactly what she was thinking. His amusement was obvious in that dark face. His eyes, which were warmer than she had ever seen them, displayed a clear understanding of her disappointment.

“Then why don’t you show me whatever you’ve brought me here to see and let me go home? The sooner the better, I assure you,” she said decisively.

Raven inclined his head in agreement and gestured with his hand, urging her ahead of him down the wide hall. She hesitated a moment and then swept up her damply clinging skirt and proceeded in the direction he’d indicated.

On her left was a vast salon, perfectly proportioned from the sweep of its tall Palladian windows that lined the wall to the graceful Adam fireplace and the finely executed plaster medallions overhead. And perfectly empty. Catherine wandered in, wondering what she was supposed to do. She turned, allowing a small sarcastic lift of one beautifully shaped auburn brow.

“And?” she said.

“This way,” he commanded and, shrugging, she followed.

It was exactly the same over the entire lower level of the mansion: elegant rooms of stately design and size, completely unfurnished. Raven didn’t comment as he led her through the vast dimness, their footsteps echoing over the bare floors. He took her finally into a small study, sparsely furnished with a huge desk and chair, another chair facing the desk, and a tall cabinet. The surface of the desk was cluttered with ledgers and papers. “I had thought, if you didn’t mind, that I would leave this as it is. To serve as my office. And there’s a small bedroom that I’ve left as I found it, simply for convenience. However, if you have any objections, I assure you I won’t stand in your way in redecorating those. I myself have little interest in such things. A chair and a bed and I’m perfectly happy.”

“This is your house?” Catherine asked, beginning to make some sense of this mysterious tour. “You’re living here.”

“A rather Spartan existence at present. But soon, I hope-”

“Inmy redecorating?” she interrupted, having just registered the gist of his explanation. “You expect me to redecorate?”

“I promised a house you might furnish as you pleased.”

“This… You intend that I… That you and I…” Despite several attempts, she couldn’t seem to complete the suggestion he once again appeared to be making. Apparently her father had not convinced him that he couldn’t have what he had decided he wanted. “Mr. Raven, you must realize—”

“They tell me it’s rare that such a property becomes available in Mayfair. That such houses as this seldom change hands. It was the first one they showed me, and I must confess, I felt it to be perfect. However, you know far more about such matters than I. If you think—”

“Mr. Raven…” She broke in again and then found herself at a loss. Nothing she said seemed to make an impression. Nothing her father had said or done seemed to matter at all. John Raven was without a doubt the most obstinate man she’d ever met.

“Then it won’t do?” he asked in the sudden silence.

“It’s not the house. It’s wonderful. You must know that.”

“The original furnishings are in storage, until you’ve had the opportunity to choose any of them you wish to keep. Or you may discard them all and begin anew. My solicitor assured me there are some very fine pieces among them, however. I’ll make arrangements for you to see everything as soon as—”

“Mr. Raven,” she interrupted, more strongly than before.

He stopped. The small depression at the corner of his lips deepened, but his expression was otherwise under perfect control, the blue eyes resting on her face with polite interest.

“I can’t marry you,” she said softly.

He glanced down briefly at the toe of his evening shoe, which gleamed softly at the bottom of his impeccably cut formal trousers, and she saw the breath he took before he spoke.

“Then perhaps I should show you the second thing I brought you here to see,” Raven said.

“Perhaps that would be wise,” Catherine agreed. “And then you promised to have me returned to my father’s house. I can only hope that he hasn’t already found that I’m not there.”

“Your father won’t be home for at least another hour.”

“How can you possibly…” The realization was as startling as the idea that he could simply bribe her father’s trusted servant to do whatever he wished. “You arranged for my father to be called away. So you could bring me here.”

“If things don’t turn out tonight as I hope they will, it seemed the safest way for you. No one will know that you’ve been here. Tom will take you home, and nothing will ever be said about your visit. If you decide that’s what you want.”

“If I decide?” she questioned.

“After you’ve seen what I would like to show you now.”

There seemed to be nothing to do but let him play out this fantasy, whatever else he had in mind. Whatever else he had to show her. Jewelry? she wondered, trying to think what he had mentioned in the original offer.

Turning, he chose a paper from the clutter on the desk and held it out to her.

Catherine had hesitated in the doorway, somehow reluctant to enter the suddenly too small confines of the room, which he seemed to dominate simply by standing, completely unmoving, waiting for her to take the paper he offered. In the dimness, his eyes shone in the spare, rugged beauty of his face.

Beauty? She repeated that incredible thought, wondering at her own description.

Shaking her head slightly to break the spell he always cast over her senses, she walked forward, laid her gloves and reticule on the desk and took the proffered sheet. She looked down at what she held, expecting a deed or some bill of sale, some added inducement to all that he had already offered. Something to sweeten the pot. And yet… he had never offered her the one thing she was beginning to realize she really wanted from him, the one thing that she knew would affect her decision.

She started to read, scanning what was written on the paper. One more obstacle to be overcome, and then he had promised to have her conveyed home…. She stopped suddenly, some sense of what she held finally dawning, and her eyes flew back to the top of the page to carefully peruse what she had only glanced at before: “… His Grace, the seventh Duke of Montfort, is pleased to announce the forthcoming marriage of his daughter, Lady Catherine Montfort, to Gerald Blaine, third Viscount Amberton.”

“That’s to appear in thePost and theGazette tomorrow,” Raven said.

“How did you get this?”

“Most things are for sale—given enough money. I was afraid your father might try something like this, so I took precautions against it.” Raven had offered her freedom, the only thing she did not have, and he could only pray that she would desire it enough to escape the trap they had devised for her.

Catherine felt the sickness growing in the pit of her stomach. Her father had broken a promise to her for the first time in her life. He was going to give her to Amberton without in any way considering her own wishes. And then, even more disturbing than that betrayal, came the remembrance of Gerald’s behavior on the dance floor. As if he were already certain of his control over her. As, of course, he had been, she realized—assured of that control through her father’s treachery.

Unconsciously she flexed the bruised fingers the viscount had gripped so painfully earlier tonight. “But he promised,” she whispered, fighting the urge to give in to the tears that she so seldom shed. Her own father had forsaken her.

“I’m sorry. I believe my proposal probably played a part in his decision, at least in the timing. Youdid try to warn me.”

She looked up at the unexpected confession, surprised to find what appeared to be a look of concern on his face. It was almost immediately replaced by the controlled expression John Raven’s features always bore. So quickly did the change occur that she was forced to doubt her identification of the emotion she had seen. How could he possibly know what she was feeling—this sense of betrayal and despair over the fate her father had arranged?

“It’s not your fault,” she admitted, because in all fairness it wasn’t. “I suppose I’ve always known this was inevitable. And Gerald…” she began, again remembering his actions tonight. She had held to the illusion that if she were forced to choose from the men she knew, Gerald at least offered some possibility of rapport. Until tonight. Tonight he had seemed almost a stranger, determined to force her to his will.

“There is another option,” Raven said, interrupting her despondency.

She glanced up from the announcement her father had had composed. An option. Freedom and wealth.Rich as Croesus. At least she would never have to wonder if John Raven had wanted her for her father’s money. No, she remembered suddenly, he wanted her for a far different reason. His promise of noninterference in her life was to be in exchange for her becoming his hostess, for arranging his entry into the ton. A business arrangement. If only he had offered…

She banished that ridiculous thought, trying to decide if accepting Raven’s proposal could possibly provide a way out of the trap Amberton and her father had so blithely created. A marriage trap—weighed against the promise of freedom.

“Freedom?” she questioned aloud. And as if he had been following the convoluted path of her reasoning, he nodded.

“You have my word. Within the constraints of our contract. You invite to this house those men who would certainly not come otherwise, entertain them so well that the invitations to dine here become the most fashionable in London, and you refrain from taking lovers. Other than those responsibilities, you may do entirely as you wish. I promise that I will never censure you,” he vowed, and again she found herself believing him.

“You must know my father will disinherit me,” she warned.

“The fewer ties you have with your father, the better pleased I shall be,” Raven admitted. His gut twisted at the remembrance of what the old man had said. That insult had cut far more deeply than the gash across his face.

Catherine hoped that, like her father’s coachman, she was a good judge of character. “All right,” she agreed softly.

Raven said nothing, relief and exultation blocking his throat, a reaction as automatic and uncontrollable as that which tightened his stomach muscles and stirred painfully in his groin. She had just agreed to become his wife. Against everyone’s assurance that she never would.

Because he didn’t respond, Catherine was unsure that he had heard her whisper. She looked up and said it again. “All right, Mr. Raven. I accept. And now, how do you intend to bring this off, in light of the announcement tomorrow of my betrothal to Lord Amberton?” Somehow she had no doubt he had already devised a plan to handle the practical aspects of their wedding.

“I had thought…” Raven paused, trying to gauge her mood. There had been too much pain in those beautiful eyes. Pain quickly hidden beneath her pride.

She met his searching gaze with her face deliberately cleared of emotion and her chin unconsciously raised. Once committed, she was prepared to burn her bridges spectacularly.

“You intend to let my father find us together?” she guessed, realizing that he certainly didn’t know the duke as well as she. “Hoping that he’ll then consent to our marriage?”

“Would that work?” Raven asked, amused at the scenario she’d suggested. Far more melodramatic than what he’d planned, but when he considered the possibilities it offered…

“I’m afraid not. He’d shoot you, or hire someone to do it, and then cover it up. He also has a great deal of money.”

His lips moved slightly, and she knew she’d amused him.

“Then do you suggest I tell him that you’ve agreed to become my wife?”

“He’ll shoot you, or hire someone to do it, and then—”

“I see.” He interrupted her repetition of the outcome. And he was still amused. “Then perhaps you have a suggestion.”

“Gretna Green,” she said decisively, fighting memories of another run for the Border. Another man, very different from this. “Shocking, I know,” she forced herself to continue, “but it’s really the only way.”

“And your reputation?” Raven could imagine how their elopement would be viewed by the ton. He hadn’t intended to ruin her life, to cut her off from everyone she’d ever known.

“Oh, dear Lord,” she said, chiding his ignorance. “A scandal of the proportionthis one is going to be? The love story they’ll imagine is at the root ofthis runaway marriage? Your wealth? And your appearance?” she added unthinkingly, and saw again the small, upward quirk of his lips. “Give the gossip two months to ferment, and we’ll be able to charge admission to the first dinner party.” She glanced down at the paper he had handed her. They really had given her no choice.

“Let me worry about the ton, Mr. Raven. You worry about what horses you have in your stables that can beat my father’s best in a race to the Border. I’ll take care of the rest. It’s what I was born to do,” she asserted confidently. Having been bred and reared in the world he desired to enter, she was secure in her membership. She was already thinking of the best way to handle the necessary explanations when the time was right.

“I don’t think that’s what you were born for at all,” Raven said, knowing exactly for whom Catherine Montfort had been created. His angel. His wife.

At that surprising comment, she looked up from the hated announcement. John Raven, however, was already striding through the door to make those arrangements that she had suggested were his responsibility in this merger they had undertaken.

Only a business arrangement, she reminded herself, her eyes resting again on the evidence of her father’s treachery, which had driven her to this contract and to this man.

Chapter Four

Once the flight up the Great North Road had begun, they did not stop except to change horses. It seemed to Catherine that they flew through the darkness, the coach rocketing along the well-maintained thoroughfare. The horses Raven had arranged to be waiting at the various posting inns were not only fresh, but bred for stamina and speed. They finally reached their destination in less than thirty hours, without having seen any evidence of what she had been sure would be a determined pursuit.

Despite the inducements of the professional “witnesses,” Raven sought out a real blacksmith shop. The ceremony over the anvil was quickly completed, an exchange of vows as stripped of pageantry as even, she believed, the American might wish.

Raven then took time to discuss with the smith the quality of the metal he had been using, before they’d interrupted him, to shape the products that came from his forge. Even the taciturn Scot responded to his well-informed comments.

“Aye, well, you’re right enough about that, my lord,” the smith said in answer to Raven’s observation that nowhere in Scotland was wrought iron produced, which would be free from the impurities that often ruined an object of some hours’ work.

“My name is Raven,” the American had corrected, offering his hand, “and I’m no lord.”

“Your pardon, then, Mr. Raven. I meant no offense,” the smith said, smiling, his pale eyes twinkling at his joke.

“Offense?” Catherine Montfort Raven questioned.

Her husband turned, smiling, to answer her slightly affronted inquiry. “There are men,” he explained, “who believe that to be accused of being English nobility is a deadly insult.”

“Why?” she asked, never having encountered such a ridiculous prejudice. But then, of course, she had never before talked to a Scots blacksmith as he worked his forge.

“Because it implies uselessness, perhaps,” Raven answered hesitantly. He had known instinctively what the smith implied, but he didn’t intend to explain the insult to Catherine.

“Like my father, you mean,” she suggested.

Without answering, Raven took her elbow to guide her back to the waiting carriage, scarcely able to believe that this incredibly beautiful girl, serenely elegant even after their long journey, was now his wife. His to care for and protect. And her comment had brought him back to the stillprecarious situation in which they found themselves. The Duke of Montfort, when crossed, could be a very dangerous man. Despite the Scots’ friendliness, Raven doubted they’d be willing to fight the duke’s hirelings to defend a stranger who happened to know something of their trade.