Chapter 7



co ornCATHERINE WOKE TO FIND HERSELF alone in bed, only an indentation on the mattress beside her to show that Sir Jack had been there at all. She passed her hand over the bedsheet—there was not even any warmth left, so he must have left quite a while ago. She could not help feeling some disappointment; she would have liked to have talked to him for a little, although what she would have said to him, she did not know. His presence would have been . . . comforting, at least.

Comforting. She was not afraid of him. Her heart lightened—there, that was one less thing she feared. He was an honorable man, she thought, despite his warnings to her. Indeed, he could have taken advantage of her, but he had not. She wondered why he thought he might betray her—he had spoken nothing but the truth to her so far, after all. Had he betrayed someone in the past, then? If so, he clearly regretted it, or else he would not warn her.

She sat up and gazed around the brightly decorated room. They would eat—her stomach growled at the thought—and then they would go to her home. She would meet again this Marquis de Bauvin, and perhaps be married to him.

Rebellion rose in her; she felt very much like a cow taken to market. She did not remember the marquis, so did not know if she would like him, or if she ever had. She thought of Sir Jack again, and thought she would like to be as free as he was, to come and go as she liked and marry whom she liked. But then, there was her family, and there was duty. She did not remember who they were, only that they lived in Normandy. But if she was indeed taken from them, then it was only right that she return.

Fear again rose, but she squashed it. It must be fear of the unknown, the fear of other, less pleasant possibilities. But it would do her no good to think of what may or may not be, but to face what truly existed.

And once she did, then she could make whatever determination she wished. Surely if she did not like this marquis, she could refuse to marry him, and perhaps do something else, such as marry someone else, or enter a convent.

The thought of these two options for her future depressed her. She had seen already that she had not any skills—except for the swordfighting Sir Jack was teaching her—she could employ for money. But perhaps, perhaps it might not be an impossible thing from which to earn money.

Her stomach growled again, and she moved off the bed—then gasped in pain. Her body ached, and her legs felt as if they had been beaten with sticks. She was horribly stiff and sore from riding all night, which was most definitely not something she was used to. She sat on the bed again, and a knock sounded on the door.

“Entré!” she called out, and winced from her muscle aches as she tried to stand.

It was Sir Jack, and her mouth watered when she saw the large tray of food he brought in and set on a table. She surged forward and seized a piece of bread and stuffed it in her mouth, ignoring her protesting muscles, focusing only on the taste and texture of bread, how the crust crunched beneath her teeth and how the spongy center filled her mouth and went down her throat to a very empty stomach. She closed her eyes and groaned as she took another piece of bread between her teeth.

A chuckle sounded from across the table and she looked up at Sir Jack’s grinning face. “What is it?” she asked.

“You, ma chère. You eat as much as the biggest trencherman I have known.”

She shrugged. “It was a long ride, and I am sure I have used up a great deal of energy. Also, I am very sore, so I do not think I will wish to ride tonight.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “You will, nevertheless, or at least for the next few nights until we are sure we will not be attacked again.”

Catherine groaned, this time from the thought of traveling so hard and fast once more, but she felt a smile form on her lips nevertheless. She did not mind it, she realized. The aches would pass after a while, she was sure, just as the aches of sword practice passed after she became used to it. She sighed. “What will we do until then?”

He smiled and took a piece of dried apple. “Practice swordfighting,” he said, and popped the apple into his mouth.

This time Catherine’s groan was heartfelt. “You are a slave driver! I ache from head to foot, and now I am to work even harder.”

His grin grew wider. “But think, ma chère, afterward you will have more food. Practice well, and I swear you will have a hot bath, too.”

Catherine nearly melted at the thought of a hot bath—she had come to like them very well. She nodded, only half reluctant, then fell to the rest of her meal. She would do the best she could at practice, especially for a meal and a hot bath. Surely he would not be as stringent a taskmaster after their ride.

She was quite wrong.

Sir Jack gave her only enough time for the food in her stomach to settle, then he ordered her out into the chilly courtyard.

“No, no, no! You hold the sword like a broom. This is the way you do it.”

Jack—Catherine let herself call him that in her thoughts, for they were pretending to be man and wife, after all—roughly took her hand and curved it around the haft of the sword just under the guard. She did not mind; his touch was impersonal, instructive, and she knew now that she did not have anything to fear from him, and in fact, after sleeping in the same bed with him—

“Your mind is wandering. God’s blood, girl, keep your attention on the moment! Do you think your opponent will wait until you finish your wool-gathering?”

Non, M. Sir Jack.” Catherine pulled her attention back to the lesson. “I will do as you say.”

“Good—and damme, stand straight, knees slightly flexed. I’m teaching you to fence, not curtsy.”

She grinned. “It would not be a good curtsy, either, and what can you expect after our hard ride last night?”

“As you say.” His expression remained stern, but she could see amusement in his eyes. “A more graceless scamp I have never seen. I wonder that I had seen the gentlewoman in you.”

“Perhaps you were wrong,” Catherine replied, even though she knew he was not, and however much she avoided probing the past. His demeanor did not change. Instead, he moved away and jerked his chin at her.

“Go through your exercises. I wish to see if you have remembered them.”

She obediently positioned her feet and hands in prime, then moved into the intricate pattern of defense and attack. “I am not wrong,” Jack continued. “There is no use trying to make me think you are anything else. Everything about you cries out ‘gentlewoman.’ I am surprised your sex and station were not discovered earlier.”

She turned to him. “Perhaps I am more clever than you think.”

“Your exercises, girl! Pay attention.” His voice was sharp, forcing her back into thrusting and parrying against a phantom opponent. Irritation flared, but she was glad of it—it reminded her of her purpose, and that discipline was part regular practice and part attention to the smallest detail. She imagined a shadowy figure before her, then remembered the monster she had faced before, and parried as if she were still fighting for her life. She would remember that, for as long as she lived, she was sure. It was necessary to fight so as to survive.

But her muscles screamed fatigue and ached horribly, and her breath labored. She glanced at Jack. He merely watched her and said nothing. Surely he must have noticed that she was breathing heavily by now? He said nothing, and she came to the end of her exercises, but since he still said nothing, she went through them again, for she had learned that if he did not command her to stop, she was not to stop.

Sweat poured from her brow, even though the inn’s courtyard was coated with frost. Her heated breath blew in clouds in front of her, but still Jack said nothing.

Her lungs hurt now, and her legs pained her even more. She glanced at Jack, but he seemed to be examining his fingernails rather than looking at her. Impatience grew into anger, and she glanced at the empty space in front of her, where her imagined opponent should be. She was tired, her breath came in gasps, and she had had enough.

“Ha!” she cried, and lunged forward. She leaped back, sheathed her rapier, and then turned to Jack.

He looked up from his fingernails and frowned. “Why are you still? Fight on.”

Catherine lifted her chin defiantly, then put her hands on her hips. “I cannot, monsieur. My enemy is dead.”

Jack peered at the empty space where her opponent was supposed to be. “It is merely a flesh wound; continue.”

Catherine pressed her lips together for a moment, suppressing a grin. “No, you are mistaken, M. Sir Jack. Did you not hear me say ‘Ha!’ very loudly? It signified a death thrust.”

“Was that what it was? I thought the sound was a burp, or perhaps your stomach growling again, for it’s a devilish appetite you have for food, ma chère.

A laugh sounded from behind her, and she whirled around. A number of the inn’s guests had gathered in the courtyard, and were grinning. Her sword practice had attracted some notice, and her shoulders went up for a moment, wishing she could disappear in embarrassment. But she remembered that she would not be afraid, and that she had promised Jack she’d pay him back in some way, and if she were to fight for money, then of course she would have an audience.

She turned to Jack and shook her head. “If I have an appetite, monsieur, it is only for fighting.” She looked at the small crowd in the courtyard, smiled, and bowed.

Jack’s grin grew wider, and he waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated leer. “Ma chère, I know you have an appetite for . . . more than that.”

The crowd laughed, and she could feel her cheeks grow warm. But she could give as good as she got, she thought. “Why, monsieur, I do not know what you mean. All you have done is teach me about swords, but I have never seen you employ yours.”

The onlookers roared with laughter. She could see Jack’s lips press firmly together as if offended, but his eyes twinkled and she knew he understood her implied insult to his manhood.

He spread his hands out and appealed to the growing audience now watching eagerly. “How can I answer that? She has insulted my honor. How am I to deal with her?”

Various lewd suggestions came forth, making Catherine’s cheeks grow even warmer, but she lifted her chin and eyed Jack with mock sternness. “You may try . . . but I will bet that you cannot.”

Jack’s expression was amused, but he turned a look of pretended horror on the courtyard’s crowd. “She is a difficult wench! Shall I teach her a lesson?” Shouts of approval came from the crowd, but Catherine held up her hand.

“But think, all of you! You have just watched me practice. Do you think I would be defeated that easily?” Some of the inn’s patrons began to look dubious. “What would you wager against me?”

The sound of a coin tinkled against the stones of the courtyard. “I would wager at least that—and a private lesson in what I can do with my sword.” Jack winked at the crowd, drawing more laughter. More coins followed as he swaggered in front of them. Catherine bit her lip to keep down her laughter—he acted for all the world as if he were a mustachioed villain in a play. He turned to her. “I see you have very little confidence in yourself; you have not put down any money to wager.”

A challenge: of course, he knew she had no money. Catherine looked at him and his gaze flickered to her lips. She remembered the night before, and how he had asked for a kiss, as if that simple act had some worth to him. Well, she could afford that, certainly.

She turned to the crowd and sighed sadly. “I am but a poor maiden, alas! The only thing I can wager is . . . a kiss.”

“A kiss!” Jack snorted in disbelief. “A paltry wager.”

“Three kisses, then,” Catherine said boldly. The crowd roared its approval, and she bowed in acknowledgment, then turned to Jack. “Your sword, monsieur! En garde!

But then a derisive voice came out of the crowd. “I’ll not wager a settled game.” It came from a burly, coarse-looking man who bore a sword at his side. “Look you, they must be master and whore—a win for one would mean a win for the other.”

Catherine could feel her cheeks burn with insult as she watched the crowd make dubious noises and withdraw their wagers. “I am no whore, monsieur, and will prove my honor by the sword—if you dare.”

The crowd grew silent in clear anticipation. “Excellent,” Jack whispered in her ear. “Speak on, ma chère; this is better than I had hoped.”

Her heart lightened at his encouragement, and she continued. “Three livres,” she called out boldly. “Three livres that I win.” Three livres of Jack’s money, but perhaps he would not mind.

“Five livres,” he called out. “I have trained her well.” He winked lasciviously at the inn-yard crowd and they laughed.

She drew in a deep, shaky breath. Obviously he did not mind, and thought she could indeed win. She would do her best, then.

The burly man grinned and spat on the ground. “Six livres that I win.”

“Done!” said Jack. “First blood, and it’s finished.”

She looked her opponent up and down—they were of the same height and so perhaps their reach would be equal. His clothes were not of the best, but if he was willing to wager so much, either he was very sure of himself, or he had more money than he was willing to spend on his attire. She pressed her lips together grimly. The man before her was also heavier and probably stronger than she, and she had just finished a tiring practice. Her fatigue would diminish her agility, she was sure. She glanced at Jack, but he merely met her look and nodded encouragingly. She closed her eyes, for she still felt unready for her first true duel, and as she took out her cross and kissed it, prayed for success. She took a deep breath, let it out, and stared at her opponent. Very well.

She took up her sword and placed herself in front of the man. “En garde!” she said.

She put her sword up in position, but it was soon clear the man would not attack until he had got her measure. She relaxed, and a strange calm came over her, a detachment. She let down her sword as she circled him, allowing him—she hoped—to think she was more fatigued than she was.

It worked. He lunged forward, but her sword hand came up as if it had a life of its own and deflected his thrust neatly. He grunted, clearly disappointed, but thrust again at her, which she parried easily.

The man frowned and stepped back, clearly reassessing his opinion of her. The man leaped forward and engaged, sooner than she had thought he would, and almost touched the cloth of her sleeve, but she parried in time. The man grinned, clearly encouraged, and he struck at her again. But she countered easily, and once more. She raised her brows. She had sparred only a little with Jack, but never seriously. And yet, even after her strenuous practice, this fight was less difficult than a session with Jack.

The man began to frown as he tried to pierce her guard but could not.

It began to be a game. Defense came surprisingly easy, she realized with that detached part of her mind, even as she could feel the strain of the fight. What of attack? She watched for an opening.

The man’s breath came more heavily than before, and for one moment his sword dropped. She lunged forward, shoving aside his arm as she neatly pierced his shoulder. She leaped back and put up her sword. “Touché!” she said. The crowd cheered and clapped and money began to change hands.

A surprised look crossed the man’s face as he brought his hand up to his shoulder, then his face reddened. “A trick!” he cried, and lifted his sword again.

Anger quickened in Catherine’s gut, and her hand tightened around the haft of her rapier. “What trick?” She turned to the inn-yard crowd. “You have seen me practice—did you see me employ any sleight of hand? Did you see anything but work?”

Some of the people in the crowd jeered at her opponent, which only made the man’s face grow redder. He spat behind his back at them, and turned to Catherine. “Witch! No doubt you employed sorcerous powers to win.”

Fear sliced through her stomach, but she pressed her lips together and gathered up her courage. She would not let such an accusation stand. “It is a coward and a poor loser who would use such an excuse to defeat another fighter instead of skill and strength,” she called out. “Yet you have my leave to bring me a priest to examine me . . . but I think he would say that a fighter who prays to the Holy Mother of God for success would not use sorcery but would fight fairly.” She seized her cross and held it up, glinting in the winter sun, to the crowd.

A murmur of approval moved through the spectators, and the man snarled. “I will not lose to a woman,” he said, and leaped forward with his sword.

Catherine put up her rapier, deflecting the slash of the man’s attack, countered it with another thrust past his defense, and slashed his other sleeve. Anger made her push him back and back until he was almost pressed against the bystanders, who scattered as the fighters drew near. She stared into his eyes, discerning his intent as he shifted his gaze here and there, looking for an opening in her defense. There was fear in him, she could see it, smell it. All her senses came to the fore; she could see the gleam of sweat on his brow, the smell of his sweat, the shouted encouragement of the betting audience . . . and something, something buzzing through her fury, as if a fly came near her ear, a buzzing that became a roar—

“I said stop!” A bright flash came between them, and the man’s sword flew from his hand as a sharp shock and then brief sizzling numbness shook her arm as her rapier fell to the ground. She whirled toward the interruption, her hands curled into claws, ready to jump and attack.

“Damn the both of you!” Jack roared, and kicked away their swords. “We agreed to first blood, not a duel to the death.” He pointed to Catherine. “You! Go over there.” He swerved his finger toward a far corner of the inn yard. Catherine crossed her arms and stood where she was, gritting her teeth at Jack’s interference. “I said go, or you will know the feel of my hand, my lady,” he said, his voice lowered, but more threatening nevertheless. He gazed at her steadily, and she managed to put aside her anger enough to see there was another emotion behind his irritation. She nodded curtly, and walked as slowly and insolently as she could to the corner he had pointed to.

“And you!” Jack turned and snapped at the man. “By our Lady, you go too far! I tolerated the insult to my wife—yes, my wife—since she could well prove her honor, but now you cast aspersions on her honor to account for your own failure.” He spat on the ground. “Coward! Lose to a woman? You would lose to a goose with one leg and claim it was the Devil’s work.”

The crowd laughed, and the man growled in clear anger. He stooped to pick up his sword, but found Jack’s own sword at his throat. “Don’t, monsieur. If you think my wife has any skill at all, it is nothing compared to mine.”

Catherine gazed at Jack, her anger dropping from her. He had changed; his voice was soft, but his face had turned cold, and his eyes, chill. She thought if the man did engage in a duel with him, it would be to the death indeed, and not Jack who would fall.

The man slowly rose, and Jack lowered the point of his sword. He grinned and gave the man an apparently friendly thump on the back. “There’s a good sport. Now, distribute your money to these good folk, and be on your way,” he said heartily, as if there had been no altercation at all.

The man edged away and thrust his hand in his pocket, withdrawing a purse and tossing some coins onto the ground with the rest of the wagers. Jack’s brows rose. “You put in five livres—not six.” He gazed at the man coolly. “You agreed on six.” Catherine’s opponent muttered a curse and threw another coin to the ground, then stalked away. The crowd surged forward to collect their gains, and Jack stooped to pick up the livres the man had thrown down.

He glanced at her and jerked his head toward the inn. “I’ll see you in our room. Go.”

Rebellion and irritation at his interference rose again and she stood her ground, staring at him. “Not until I get my share,” she said. It was not what she wanted to say, but it reflected her irritation that he did not think enough of her skill to have let her continue fighting.

His gaze grew cool, though not as chill as when he had stared down her opponent. “You do not trust me, I see. Very well.” He counted out three livres and held them out to her. “Half of whatever comes in—fair enough?”

She nodded, but did not take the coins right away, only stared at them for a moment before she slowly put out her hand. He dropped the coins in her palm, and she closed her fingers around them.

The metal was warm from his touch, and she remembered the warmth this morning as they lay together in their bed, how he had draped his arm around her, and the comfort of it after her initial panic. Her irritation fell from her, and she looked at him, nodding. “Thank you,” she said. She smiled a little. “It is the very first money I have earned, I believe.”

The coolness of his expression evaporated and he grinned. “It’s a novelty that does not wear off, I assure you,” he said. “With luck, we’ll earn more.” He squinted at the sun creeping toward midheaven and motioned to the inn door. “Go now—I’ll be in shortly.”

She nodded and turned away. She could feel the grime and sweat of last night’s travel on her, combined with the dirt of today’s practice and duel, and she wanted her promised bath and the cleanliness the time in hot water offered. Jack had said she might bathe once she was done with her practice, and she had practiced, and more. Her heart swelled with joy and pride, and she grinned—she had done well, she thought, and deserved a reward. As she entered the inn, she called to a chambermaid for a bath to be brought up, then almost skipped up the steps to her room.

She had pinked the man and had won the fight. She had earned good money for it, and might even had won a duel to the death had Jack not interfered. The disgruntlement she felt at his interference was brief, however. She knew despite his insistence that he was merely interested in returning her to her family for a price, that it was a surface protest covering what she knew was kindness. Nothing said he had to agree to teach her to fight, after all, and nothing said he had to provide good clothes or bountiful food for her. She did not know if it was true that he was in love with her as Felice and Fichet had insisted; she was not certain what love was like, or if she could return it. She did know Jack was, at least, as kind as they had been to her.

He did not even have to split their winnings evenly between them; he could have rightfully claimed the whole amount as payment for what he had expended on her. But he had given half to her, and had not grudged it, and had smiled when she had told him it was the very first time she had earned money.

Two chambermaids came up with buckets of hot and cool water, and poured it into the tin bath that sat by the fireplace. Catherine sighed, anticipating the warmth and cleanliness. She could sit in a bath forever if it did not cool. She thought of Jack again, of the warmth he had given her at night and in the morning, and how he had been quite generous. She should, in truth, pay for what he had given her. Granted, he would be paid when she returned to her family. . . . A shiver went through her. The sooner she got into the bath, she thought, the warmer she would be, and waited impatiently for the maids to finish pouring the water.

No, she needed to pay Jack herself. He had been generous to her, for her sake, she was certain of it. She thought of the livres she had earned. At least she could give him some of it. She dug into her pockets and pulled out the money. She would give him two of the livres and keep one herself. And if she were to fight in another duel, she would do this again until she had paid him back for what he had given her, including the fencing lessons.

But the thought came to her that he might refuse payment. She frowned. For all that he insisted that he kept her by his side so that he could return her to her family for money, she felt he would not like it if she offered to pay him for her tutoring or the food and shelter he had given her. If he had truly thought he should have been paid for it, he would have taken all of the wager they had won, not split it with her. She was his apprentice, and a master did not give anything to an apprentice but food, shelter, and clothing until the apprentice achieved journeyman status. She knew that, at least.

She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes against the pressure she felt under her breastbone, as if birds fluttered frantically against her rib cage, yearning for flight and freedom. She wanted to be free, and she could not be if she owed Jack so much.

A kiss.

Catherine opened her eyes, remembering that it had been part of their original wager, before her opponent had come to challenge her. He valued kisses, and she was sure he would accept them if she offered. She remembered also the way he had looked at her when she had been in her bath—as odd as it seemed, she thought perhaps he desired her.

Carefully she weighed the thought, testing it in her mind for fear or threat. There was a little fear, but she had pledged she would conquer fear whenever she felt it. The idea came to her that perhaps she was moving away from the grace she had acquired after her confession. A rebellion rose in her at the thought, however, for she also remembered that the priest had said her stigmata was probably a blessed thing. Well, she did not want it. If kissing Jack meant she would be rid of the affliction, she would be glad.

A weight came off her heart, and she felt suddenly free. Quickly she took off her clothes, readying herself for her bath. A movement in the mirror nearby caught her gaze; it was herself, moving toward the tub. She gazed at her reflection for a moment, startled, for she had not really ever gazed at herself unclothed.

She was different, she thought, than what she had been. Not fashionably plump, but her form, she thought, was not unpleasant. She could see muscles in her shoulders, and her skin smoothly covered more of them from chest to stomach to hips. A pleased feeling came over her; she looked strong and sleek, like a cat. She liked the thought of being catlike; they were clever animals, and knew how to survive.

But she was more than that. She was her own woman, someone who could earn her own money and not be obligated to anyone. She sighed happily. Jack had given her this opportunity, and she was grateful. He had been the source of warmth and food, and yes, gentleness. She had not minded, after a while, the way he had held her without threat or trying to use her. She nodded to herself in satisfaction. When he came up, she would make sure he knew how grateful she was.

 

Jack watched Catherine, how she walked with more confidence now, and grinned. She had done well, but he was glad he had stopped the fight before it had gone further. He could not afford to have her injured before he returned her to her family.

He winced inwardly at his old reasoning. The truth: he wanted to the kill the man himself for insulting Catherine and for pushing the fight further than they had agreed. Though she was strong and had a great deal of endurance, no one could be expected to bear up under a death-duel after such a practice as he had imposed on her. And . . . he could not bear to see her hurt.

An impractical feeling; she would be hurt even in sword practice. An image of her strong, straight body, the way she pressed her lips together as she fought, came to him, and his lips turned up in a rueful smile. He doubted she would listen to him in the future. She was not afraid of fighting, he realized. Perhaps he should not be afraid for her.

Yet she was still very capable of being hurt. He remembered how she had touched him this morning and how she had let him kiss her—tentatively, her eyes wide and vulnerable. She had not understood when he had ordered her away; his voice had been harsh and impatient, but it came from his fear for her.

An eagerness to tell her this, to tell her that what he wanted for her seized him, and the sound of coins jingling in his pockets was the sound of optimism as he strode across the courtyard and up to the room.

He made sure to knock on the door this time, in case she needed her privacy. Despite her willingness to kiss him this morning, and that she did not seem to mind that they had slept in the same bed, she seemed somehow virginal, untouched.

And yet, when he opened the door at her call of “Entré!” she was not dressed.

Catherine looked at him as he entered, a linen towel held up to her breasts as she stood by the bath newly drawn and still steaming in the cold air. The steam curled up around her, tendrils caressing her body, and the firelight behind her painted red lights and dark shadows on her skin.

He could only stare at her. She seemed like an elfin woman, made of fire and air, half insubstantial. He shut the door. He managed to do that, at least.

She glanced away, then stepped into the bath, discreetly holding the towel high until she was submerged, then letting it drop down to the floor. “I owe you money,” she said. She frowned for a moment, as if discontented with the way she had spoken. She cleared her throat and looked at him again, and reached out her hand to the table next to the bath. A clink of coins sounded as she opened her hand to him. She cleared her throat, then looked away.

“You have clothed and fed me,” she said. “And you have given me a way of earning a living.” She glanced at him, her expression uncertain. “You did not have to do that. I am grateful, and know that I should reimburse you for your expenses.”

A brief anger flitted through him. “I don’t want your money,” he said. “I have plenty of it, I assure you.”

Her lips pressed together in clear discontent. “That does not matter,” she said. “I will not be beholden to you, M. Sir Jack.”

Irritation grew. “As far as I am concerned, you are my guest. You need not pay me. . . . Besides, I will be paid once you are returned to your family.”

She turned then and looked at him earnestly. “But there is no guarantee they will pay you, hein? And what you have done, you have done for me. I am . . . grateful. I wish to give something back to you, and all I have is the money I have earned, which I would not have earned had you not taught me to duel.”

He did not want her gratitude, he realized. She continued to stare at him in silence, as if willing her determination to pay him into his brain, then turned away and took up a sponge, dipping it into the water and washing her face. He watched as the sponge came down from her face, at how her eyes were closed in sheer pleasure when she applied it to her neck and shoulders. His loins stirred, and he made himself sit in a nearby chair and cross his legs. He looked toward the door. He should leave; she was too much of a temptation to him. But she looked at him again with her eyes so impossibly green, and he thought perhaps it would not hurt to stay a little longer.

He cleared his throat and looked away for a moment as she rose a little from the bath and moved the sponge downward. “It amused me to teach you. And you are a good student. Any teacher would find it agreeable to teach one who learns quickly.” A wide smile lit her face, and he could not help staring. He didn’t remember seeing her smile so—and she was lovely when she did.

“I’m glad you approve,” she said, then sighed. “I am done with my bath now. Will you give me the towel?”

He looked at her, suspicion rising. The towel was well within reach if she moved out of the bath—she need only tell him to turn away while she picked it up. Her gaze was wide and innocent—too innocent, he thought. His loins grew hot with sudden realization: she was trying to seduce him.

It was not right, of course; she belonged to the Marquis de Bauvin. He thought of the money she had offered him . . . well, that was it. She wanted to repay him and, because he had refused money, offered seduction.

He lowered his eyes for a moment, hiding anger. If she thought to pay him by offering her body, he did not want it. He wanted more than that. His heart suddenly felt squeezed tightly to the point of pain, and for a moment he closed his eyes. Damme, damme, thrice dammed. He wanted all of her, body, heart, and soul. Anger at her, at himself, swelled inside of him. He should never have let himself come to this point. He should have contacted her family immediately, whatever state she had been in, and taken the money right away. Stupid, stupid of him.

He bent, then, and picked up the towel, looking down at her as he held it out to her. “I know what you are doing,” he said. She took the towel and put it between them, rising out of the water, then wrapping it securely around her. She did not look at him, and if she had not pressed her lips together in a stubborn expression, he would have thought she had not heard him. “Look at me, Catherine.” She turned and gazed at him, her face showing a wary vulnerability. He cleared his throat. “I will not take your body as payment.”

She lifted her chin and a slight blush came to her face. “I thought perhaps you might accept a kiss, and since I am not comely, I thought you might be persuaded if you saw me in my bath.” She stepped out of the tub and moved closer to him, close enough for him to smell the scent of soap she had used. She put her arms around his neck. “You have asked me to kiss you before. You cannot object now. A kiss would be payment, would it not?”

He looked down at her, at the way she stared at him in determination, at how her lips were very close to his. He did not know whether to laugh at her stubbornness or push her angrily away. “You belong to the Marquis de Bauvin,” he said instead.

Anger flared. “I belong to no one,” she whispered fiercely. “I remember nothing of my family, of the marquis, of my home. I remember nothing but the alley, the dirt, and cold hunger. Nothing but hiding from whores and their masters, from thieves and beggars. No one came for me, until you. Until you.

Catherine closed her eyes briefly. It was true; Jack was the source of all the good that had come to her. He had given her food and warmth, even the warmth of his body. The air around her chilled her skin, but where she was pressed against him, she was warm. She belonged to no one, and she was glad; those who survived best in the alley chose whom they belonged to, and the idea that she belonged to someone she did not know or choose made her feel trapped. She opened her eyes and stared at Jack. “I will choose whom I belong to. I will choose. I will choose who to kiss, or who will look at me.”

Desperation seized her as she gazed at him, as he shook his head. “It is not as simple as that. I will not dishonor you or my word—” he began, but she put her hand over his mouth.

“Shut up!” she cried. “Shut up!” She drew down his head and kissed him.

He groaned, his arms came around her, and he pressed his lips hard upon hers. For one moment, a faint unease made her pause. She withdrew a little, gazing at his eyes, and wondered at the look of sorrow and loss that flitted across his face. But a soft heat grew in her heart, and she wished suddenly to erase the grief that seemed to live in his eyes, and she drew even closer to him, moving her hands inside his jacket and onto his chest. “Don’t be sad,” she said. “Kiss me.” Surely kisses would remove the sadness.

He said nothing, only brought his lips down to hers again, and she felt the towel come undone, until she was bare. She shivered at the chill air on her back, and she nestled closer to him, putting her arms around him. “I am cold,” she said. “Make me warm.”

He gave a groaning laugh then and took her to the bed, lifting her gently onto it, then pulling off his jacket and kicking off his boots before he followed her onto the sheets. More clothes came off Jack as he kissed her, and then his hands touched her breasts.

His hands were gentle. “Mmmm. More,” she said, and kissed him again. But his lips left hers, trailing down her neck and one shoulder, making shiver. She shifted toward him, closing her eyes so she could better feel the heat of his body. She wanted to be closer to him, close enough to feel the source of the heat he put on her with his hands and his mouth. His lips were at her belly now, making her shiver more, and she cautiously touched his hair. Her fingers threaded through the surprisingly soft locks, soft like feathers, and then she clutched at them, for his lips touched her secret places, making her eyes open with surprise and her breath come fast.

No heat now, but fire, and she twisted beneath his hands that held her gently down to the bed. She felt his fingers on her, moving where the heat was, and then they moved inside, an odd, familiar sensation—

Fear struck like a knife and she twisted away, kicking her feet on the bed.

“No. No!” she cried. She closed her thighs, closed her eyes, and it seemed her lungs closed and she could not breathe. “No, stop, stop, stop, stop!” She twisted away from him, curling up into the mattress, her hands clawing the bedclothes into a shroud over her head. The dark comforted her, and she felt she was safe, as if in the alley hidden from everyone.

Silence. She could hear the crackling of the fire, and breathing—her own, a gasping, shaking breath—and then another, heavier and regular, from outside the bedclothes. She wished she had her dagger. The mattress beside her sank—slowly, so she managed not to flinch from the sensation.

“Catherine.” It was Jack. She remembered he had taken her from the alley, and he had given her warmth and food. “Catherine.” His voice was gentle. Her shoulders relaxed.

The sheet over her head came down slowly, and Jack’s face appeared above it. His brows came together in a frown, but she thought perhaps he was not angry, for his eyes held concern, as well. He looked puzzled, she realized. She let out another long, shuddering breath and let herself relax. He came closer, moving slowly, and though she flinched when he touched her, she allowed him to turn her on her side. She felt the mattress move behind her, and then there was his warmth again, his body strong underneath his skin, smooth along the length of her back.

His arm came around her, slowly, as if he were moving around a wild creature, and settled on the bed in front of her. She tried to make herself relax, but the effort made her tremble instead.

“Hush, ma chère, hush.” Jack’s voice was soothing, and his breath brushed her hair by her ear. “I will do nothing you dislike, and will not hurt you.”

She closed her eyes, nodding slowly in acknowledgment. A mist obscured her mind, and beyond it was terror, confusion, a memory out of her reach, thankfully out of her reach.

I will not be afraid. I have vowed not to be afraid. This was Jack, and he would not hurt her. She let out a deep breath, and her body relaxed.

She felt his hand on her waist, and she managed not to flinch, though she knew she tensed. But he did nothing but stroke her waist, a soothing sensation, and she relaxed again. His hand went up to her breast—he had done this before and she had not minded it, she remembered. More stroking, and his thumb came up over her nipple, moving across the tip slowly.

She moved back against him, for his warmth meant safety to her, and he was the source of it. A hardness moved against her buttocks, and she thought perhaps it was his manhood, for she had seen men’s privates as they worked on the prostitutes in the alley. She did not want to see it, though; it was enough that he stroked her breasts and her belly, and that his body against her back was very warm.

He kissed her neck, and his breath was soft on her skin. “That does not hurt, does it?”

“No,” she breathed.

“How does it feel?”

“Good.”

He kissed her just under her ear, and his hand moved from her breast to her belly. “And this?” His hand stroked in a circle on her stomach, massaging gently.

“Good.”

Jack let out his breath, controlled the heat in his loins, making himself touch Catherine’s skin and run his hand over her body as if she were not a woman he wanted desperately, but a wild creature needing to be gentled.

He did not know what else to do. She had seemed willing, had wanted him to kiss her, and had not protested when he began to make love to her. She had even seemed pleasured as he began to touch her woman’s parts . . . but then she had cried out not in passion, but in terror.

He knew terror. He had heard its cries on the battlefield . . . and heard it as Cromwell’s soldiers had invaded that most sanctified of all places to him—invaded his home. He had heard terror in the cries of his mother and sister. He remembered it like an old knife wound with bits of splintered steel still inside of him, knowing he had led the soldiers to them.

He closed his eyes. The memories took the lust from his body; he touched her now for comfort, for him and, he hoped, for her.

She moved closer to him, her back pressing into his chest, and she gave a shuddering sigh, as if a long bout of weeping had shaken her. He brushed her face gently with the tips of his fingers and felt no tears. He remembered he had never seen her weep.

Her breath continued to shudder, but he moved his hand over her waist to her stomach, rubbing his fingers gently over the muscles of her belly, moving up to her breasts and down again in a widening circle. He did nothing else, only brushing the soft hairs at the base of her belly, going no farther. Her chest’s rise and fall became regular, and the shuddering became the smooth and even flow of breath. The tension in her body seemed to fall away as she relaxed into his chest and stomach.

His touch must have given her some comfort, but there was none yet for himself. He smoothed his hand across her belly again, then cupped her breast. Catherine did not tense this time, but let out a deep breath.

“This does not hurt, does it?” he said again.

“No,” she said. She drew in a deep breath and let it out again. “It feels . . . pleasant.”

Pleasant. Hope allowed a chuckle to escape him. “Good,” he said. “But before I do anything else, you must tell me what frightened you.” Perhaps she was indeed a virgin . . . but he remembered the terror in her cries for him to stop. A virgin might be fearful, but the few virgins he had known had been more curious than fearful at the threshold of pleasure. The liquid heat he had felt inside of her told him she had begun to feel at least some pleasure.

“I wasn’t—”

“Shhh!” he said. “Don’t lie. You were terrified.” He let his hand drift down from her breast to her belly, circling her navel with gentle fingers. “Did I hurt you?”

“I . . . no.” Her voice sounded puzzled. “I thought I remembered . . .” A hint of fear sounded underneath the puzzlement.

“Did someone hurt you before, down here?” His fingers slipped among the fine curls below her belly, caressing with a light touch. He stilled his hand, moving no farther, for tension hardened her body against his. Her skin was soft and warm against him, but her fear dampened his desire. He did not want her afraid; he wanted her to want him. She had come willingly to him so far, and lay with him now, not rejecting him. He wanted more.

He heard her release another long breath. “I don’t know . . . but I am afraid, Jack.” Catherine turned slightly toward him, a little on her back, so that she could look at him. Sorrow clearly lived in her eyes, and it struck him hard. “I think I am not a virgin, and am afraid this will hurt,” she said.

He kissed her gently, hopeful that she was not a virgin, and angry that she had suffered. “If you are not a virgin, ma chère, then it will not hurt. I will make sure of it.” He shifted himself lower, watching his own hands move over her body and gentling it until she relaxed again. She closed her eyes, and he did not ask her to open them, for he feared seeing the sorrow and terror there.

Instead, he kissed her belly, then the indentation of her navel, then lower, beginning again where he had left off when she had cried out in fear.

I will not stop him this time, Catherine thought. I choose this, not anyone else. I choose. Not memory, not fear—nothing would choose for her.

She let him kiss her breasts and belly; she let him kiss her woman’s parts, and then she gasped and opened her eyes, for again there was the heat when she felt the movement of his tongue upon her. She trembled, but this time it was not from fear but an odd tension that she had not felt before. Again, his fingers slid between her thighs. She tightened her legs together.

“Shh, ma chère, open for me.” His breath brushed her hips like a breeze. Cautiously Catherine moved her legs apart. His hand was hot between her thighs, moving slickly between them, making her twist against them and breathe a soft moan. This was not so terrible, Catherine thought. She was not certain why she had been so frightened or thought it would hurt. But Jack’s hand slipped inside again, and all thought fled.

Instead there was the heat and the smoothness and an ache that was all yearning, not pain. A cool draft wafted over her skin, and she shivered, but she was not sure whether it was because of the chill or the sensations Jack was making in her body.

But he rose up next to her, and all was well; he turned her on her side, facing him, as he pulled her hips toward him while he kissed her and caressed her waist. She tensed once more when his hardness moved between her thighs, but he did nothing but what his hand had done, gently sliding back and forth until she could not help moving with him.

His kisses heated, insisting that she open her mouth to him, but she did not mind. She felt as if she had no mind at all, but was all sensation as she moved upon him—feeling, tasting, hearing his quickened breath, the heat, the tension, and then, then the bright unbearable flash, making her cry out.

She shuddered again and again against him, and he smoothed his hands over her skin, holding her close, until she breathed evenly and the shuddering stopped.

Her body grew lax in his arms then, and Jack opened his eyes and gazed at her. Her eyes were closed. He could feel his lips twist in a wry smile. He had not allowed himself to enter her, but had taken his satisfaction between her thighs instead; he would not risk giving her a child when she could still belong to another. But he doubted Catherine appreciated his efforts, for she clearly slept.

And he would let her. He had worked her hard—he grinned at the thought—in more ways than one, and she deserved rest.

He gazed at her again, at how her face softened in sleep, no longer guarded or wary. He wished suddenly he could banish the habitual caution in her eyes, or at least when she looked at him. Perhaps if he continued his lessons in swordfighting, and taught her all he knew, she would trust him.

He grimaced. He had told her more than once that she should not trust him—and now, he wanted otherwise?

He bit back a groan. He was an idiot. He needed no such commitment. Catherine had been betrothed to the Marquis de Bauvin, and for all he knew, the marquis would wish her to be his wife once she returned.

God knew he would.

So he wished. Jack closed his eyes. It ever came to that, wishing and hoping and building castles in the sky, and furnishing them with elaborate plans to regain his estate and be wealthy once again—all pretense. He lived in a play of his own making; even claiming that Catherine was his wife was as much a dream as protecting her reputation.

She deserved more than a vagabond whose future was uncertain. Until he could claim his due, he could not ask her to marry him.

He ran a finger across her cheek. . . . She was so fast asleep that she did not move. Hope drained from him. Even if he did regain his estates, it would mean very little; if they had not been ravaged by war, they would have fallen into neglect. He had not even the deed to the land, for he had had to escape as soon as he could when he was a boy. It would take the return of his king to give him even a little chance at it.

In short, he had nothing to offer her.

Nothing but this comfort, this closeness, and whatever aid he could think of.

It was little enough. He pulled Catherine closer to him, letting his cheek rub against the soft curls of her hair. But perhaps for now it would be enough, and perhaps he could find some other way to aid her, for whatever her situation at home, she had suffered grievously.

He smiled wryly. Damn his charitable instincts. Even his mother had complained that he had brought home too many mongrels, too many stray cats—

He turned away from the memory, focusing on the sensation of Catherine sleeping next to him.

He grew hard at the feeling of her soft skin, the heat of her buttocks against his loins, but he forced himself to move away. It was too soon, and she was clearly too recently scarred for him to press more of his attentions on her.

Better that he prepare for the journey ahead. He’d let her sleep, for she’d earned it, and then he’d waken her for a meal. He smiled slightly. She would welcome a meal once she awoke, he was sure.

Carefully he disentangled his legs from hers and rolled from the bed to his feet. He looked at her; she barely moved, only leaning slightly more into the mattress than she had before, and breathing in long, slow breaths. She had, indeed, earned her sleep, as any trooper might. She would make a good soldier, he thought.

She would make a good soldier’s wife, came the next thought.

He let out a quick, impatient breath at himself, found his scattered clothes, and quickly put them on. He looked about, found Catherine’s clothes, and draped them on the foot of the bed so that she’d be able to dress quickly once she woke. He was an impractical fool, but not that much of a fool to dwell on useless thoughts. They would move quickly on to Normandy, finding other opportunities for bringing in funds as they could. Once they arrived at the de la Fer estate, he would collect his reward and go on to Breda. It was for the best.

He took one more look at Catherine sleeping. Even she agreed that it was necessary that she return home to understand what had happened to her. No doubt all would be revealed to her satisfaction, and she would be welcomed with open arms. It was, at least, what he hoped for her.

Enough. Enough of pondering and wishing. Jack opened the door and, with a last sigh, gently closed it behind him before he went down to order a meal.