Catherine didn't move. Paralyzed, she stared at the yellow-orange flames as they consumed the light fabric with ever-increasing hunger.
In the seconds it took Michael to leap across the kitchen, the fire had flared almost to her elbow. He untied her sash with a yank and dragged her robe from her shoulders, almost knocking her from her feet. Steadying her with his left hand, he hurled the burning garment into the fireplace with his right. A fountain of sparks shot up the chimney.
Ignoring his singed knuckles, he pulled her away from the hearth and turned her to face him. "Are you all right?"
A stupid question; she was in shock, her face as white as her nightgown. Fearing she would collapse, he drew her into his arms. Her heart was hammering so hard he could feel it against his ribs, and she seemed barely aware of him.
"You're safe, Catherine," he said sharply. "You're safe."
She hid her face against his shoulder and began sobbing. He held her close and murmured words of comfort. Her dark silky braid slid seductively across the back of his hand. He was guiltily aware of every inch of her length pressed against him—and her rosewater scent, and the pressure of her soft breasts against his chest.
This was as close to her as he would ever be. Yet he could not savor it because it was impossible to take real pleasure in her nearness when she was distraught.
Her tears gradually faded, but she was still chilled and her breathing was quick and shallow. Gently he guided her into a chair. She buried her face in her hands, exposing the fragile curve of her nape.
As he removed his jacket, he saw that the areolas of her breasts were dimly visible under her white muslin nightgown. The tantalizing sight caused him to begin to harden.
Good God, what kind of animal was he, to feel desire for a woman shaking with fear? As much for decency as for warmth, he draped the heavy wool jacket over her shoulders. The garment was far too large, so he crossed the braided panels double over her chest, painfully careful not to brush her breasts with his fingers. She stared at him numbly, still not speaking.
He knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. The dark green jacket intensified the hue of her aqua eyes. "Should I go for your husband?"
She said unsteadily, "Colin isn't home tonight."
"Do you want me to wake Anne?"
"Really, I'm fine." She tried to smile. "There's no need to disturb anyone else."
"Liar." He started chafing her cold fingers. "Seldom have I seen anyone who looked less fine."
She gave a watery chuckle. "I'm a disgrace to the army, aren't I?" Her hands knotted into fists. "I'm usually fairly levelheaded, but… well, my parents died in a fire."
He winced, understanding her shattering reaction to the accident. "I'm so sorry. How did it happen?"
"I was sixteen," she said haltingly. "My father's regiment was posted to Birmingham. We rented a charming old cottage that was covered with roses all summer. I thought it would be lovely to live there forever. Then winter came, and one night the chimney caught on fire. I awoke smelling smoke. I screamed to wake my parents, but the fire was already out of control. My bedroom was on the ground floor and I was able to escape out the window." She closed her eyes and shuddered. "My parents were upstairs. I kept screaming until half the village was there, but… Mama and Papa never woke."
He squeezed her hands, then stood. "Is there brandy in the cabinet in the dining room?"
"Yes, but really, it's not necessary."
Ignoring her protest, he said, "Will you be all right while I get the bottle?"
Feeling a shadow of humor, she said, "Believe me, I'm not going anywhere for a while."
He scooped the kitchen cat from under the table and set it on her lap. "Here. There are few things more comforting than a purring cat." Then he took a candlestick and left with long, soundless strides.
Catherine leaned back in the chair, stroking soft feline fur. It was a good thing Michael had given
In the seconds it took Michael to leap across the kitchen, the fire had flared almost to her elbow. He untied her sash with a yank and dragged her robe from her shoulders, almost knocking her from her feet. Steadying her with his left hand, he hurled the burning garment into the fireplace with his right. A fountain of sparks shot up the chimney.
Ignoring his singed knuckles, he pulled her away from the hearth and turned her to face him. "Are you all right?"
A stupid question; she was in shock, her face as white as her nightgown. Fearing she would collapse, he drew her into his arms. Her heart was hammering so hard he could feel it against his ribs, and she seemed barely aware of him.
"You're safe, Catherine," he said sharply. "You're safe."
She hid her face against his shoulder and began sobbing. He held her close and murmured words of comfort. Her dark silky braid slid seductively across the back of his hand. He was guiltily aware of every inch of her length pressed against him—and her rosewater scent, and the pressure of her soft breasts against his chest.
This was as close to her as he would ever be. Yet he could not savor it because it was impossible to take real pleasure in her nearness when she was distraught.
Her tears gradually faded, but she was still chilled and her breathing was quick and shallow. Gently he guided her into a chair. She buried her face in her hands, exposing the fragile curve of her nape.
As he removed his jacket, he saw that the areolas of her breasts were dimly visible under her white muslin nightgown. The tantalizing sight caused him to begin to harden.
Good God, what kind of animal was he, to feel desire for a woman shaking with fear? As much for decency as for warmth, he draped the heavy wool jacket over her shoulders. The garment was far too large, so he crossed the braided panels double over her chest, painfully careful not to brush her breasts with his fingers. She stared at him numbly, still not speaking.
He knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. The dark green jacket intensified the hue of her aqua eyes. "Should I go for your husband?"
She said unsteadily, "Colin isn't home tonight."
"Do you want me to wake Anne?"
"Really, I'm fine." She tried to smile. "There's no need to disturb anyone else."
"Liar." He started chafing her cold fingers. "Seldom have I seen anyone who looked less fine."
She gave a watery chuckle. "I'm a disgrace to the army, aren't I?" Her hands knotted into fists. "I'm usually fairly levelheaded, but… well, my parents died in a fire."
He winced, understanding her shattering reaction to the accident. "I'm so sorry. How did it happen?"
"I was sixteen," she said haltingly. "My father's regiment was posted to Birmingham. We rented a charming old cottage that was covered with roses all summer. I thought it would be lovely to live there forever. Then winter came, and one night the chimney caught on fire. I awoke smelling smoke. I screamed to wake my parents, but the fire was already out of control. My bedroom was on the ground floor and I was able to escape out the window." She closed her eyes and shuddered. "My parents were upstairs. I kept screaming until half the village was there, but… Mama and Papa never woke."
He squeezed her hands, then stood. "Is there brandy in the cabinet in the dining room?"
"Yes, but really, it's not necessary."
Ignoring her protest, he said, "Will you be all right while I get the bottle?"
Feeling a shadow of humor, she said, "Believe me, I'm not going anywhere for a while."
He scooped the kitchen cat from under the table and set it on her lap. "Here. There are few things more comforting than a purring cat." Then he took a candlestick and left with long, soundless strides.
Catherine leaned back in the chair, stroking soft feline fur. It was a good thing Michael had given
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