In the meanwhile Nicholas Seyton must go away. The unwelcome thought was already there in his mind before Katherine awoke. And he hated to think what his disappearance would do to her. He had just helped her discover her own sexuality. The fact that she slept now proved more than any words that she had been utterly pleased and satisfied. Would she think that to him she had merely been an available woman? Would she come to hate herself as well as him? Perhaps he should tell her that he must leave, explain to her the reason. But no, he could not do that. It was safer for her to hate and despise him. If she could see him as a heartless seducer, she would stay out of his affairs. And she would be safe.
When he had turned his head to her again, she was smiling sleepily up at him. Her hand moved to his chest.
“Nicholas!” she said, and sighed happily. “You are beautiful.”
He swallowed and bent his head to kiss her lingeringly on the lips. “It was good for you, Katherine?” he said, more statement than question. “I told you it would be so; did I not?”
“Yes,” she said. “You were right. I didn’t dream . . . Oh, Nicholas, I never dreamed it could be like that. Thank you.”
He chuckled. “Thank you?” he said. “Do you think all that was done solely for your benefit, my dear? It was really quite good for me too.”
“When am I going to see you without your mask?” she asked. Then she giggled. “It is really quite absurd that you have allowed me to view every inch of your body except your face from the mouth up. And really you are being very silly. I would recognize you in a flash if I were to see you without the mask. You do not believe you could fool me, do you?”
He rested one finger along her nose. “I dread to think what time it must be, Katherine,” he said. “I must take you home.”
“Oh, so soon?” she asked, burrowing her head beneath his chin.
“Yes, so soon,” he said. “I imagine you are expected to get up in the morning, my dear. Come. Get dressed and I shall take you.”
He had become more and more convinced as he dressed that Nicholas must decide to leave. How could he stay away from her else? She stood watching him as he pulled on his coat, already dressed herself. And she came into his arms unbidden and raised her face for his kiss. It was very hard to put her from him a minute later, sweep the marks from the sand, and douse the lamp before taking her by the hand and leading her out into the night.
He had had no sleep that night. By the time he had taken her to the Abbey, returned to the cottage to change into the clothes of Sir Harry Tate, and ridden back to the Abbey again, there was very little of the night left. He had lain awake, hands clasped behind his head, longing for Katherine, knowing that he would not be able to have her again. And his willpower as far as she was concerned being what it was, not having her meant going away from her. And yet remaining with her as her tormentor, Sir Harry Tate.
By noon he had sent Nicholas Seyton away.
The ladies were all gathered in the morning room, sewing. All except Lady Emma, that is. She kept to her room each day until luncheon. Most of the gentlemen had gone riding out to view the estate. The marquess was also still in bed. Sir Harry Tate and Mr. Charles Dalrymple had ridden into the village.
Kate too was sitting quietly over her embroidery, taking no part in the plans for an afternoon picnic going on around her. She was wondering what those two gentlemen were doing in the village. If they had gone there, that was. Perhaps they had returned to the cottage to try again to find Nicholas there. She did not think Sir Harry would have been so easily satisfied by the denials of Evans. Or perhaps they were searching elsewhere, asking questions. Would they find him? And would they bring their news back to Lord Barton before confronting him? Did they know he was a wanted man?
There was no point in worrying. She had warned Nicholas the night before. He must realize the danger as well as she. It would do no good at all to make some excuse to leave Lady Thelma and go running across the countryside to the cottage to warn him again that Mr. Dalrymple and Sir Harry were out in search of him. But, oh, she wanted to go. She wished there were an excuse to go.
She had not even realized until she was safely in her room the night before, lying fully clothed on her bed, smiling up into the darkness, that they had made no definite arrangement to meet again. It was unsettling, depressing almost, not to know the exact hour and minute. He knew how to get inside the house, he had told her on an earlier occasion. He would be able to come to her at any time. She hoped, even as the thought struck her, though, that he would not try that. It would be just like Nicholas to risk something so very dangerous.
No, she supposed that she would have to go out to him. But when? Certainly not tonight. They both needed a night of sleep. And tomorrow night, she gathered, was their time for distributing those smuggled goods. Her stomach lurched with anxiety at the thought. What if he were caught? She would not think of it, And the night after that he would need to rest again. That meant that the earliest she could go to him was four nights hence. It was an interminable time!
Perhaps he would not want her to come even that soon. Maybe for him their lovemaking had not been such an earth-shattering experience. Perhaps he would not want her at all now that he had had what he wanted of her. But the thought caused Kate to smile. What an absurd idea! Of course it had been wonderful for him. She had felt that during each moment from the time he first touched her until she awoke and looked into his eyes. There had been a quite unmistakable feeling of closeness. And having been married to Giles, she was even more certain of that feeling. Giles had always been concerned solely with his own physical satisfaction. Nicholas had made love to her. It was a lovely phrase, one that she had always considered to be a dreadful misnomer.
He loved her. And she loved him. And they had become lovers. She relived again in the morning room, moment by moment, as she had done several times during the short night in her bedchamber, every kiss, touch, and movement. And she hugged herself mentally as her hand mechanically and sedately plied her needle. She looked around at the other ladies, all placidly talking and planning. She wanted to shout at them, “Look at me! Can’t you tell? I made love last night with a masked smuggler on the sandy floor of a cave, and it was the most wonderful experience of my life. I am in love and I am loved.”
She did not say any such thing, of course. She smiled at Lady Thelma and said that yes, of course she would be delighted to go down to the kitchen and make arrangements for a picnic tea to be prepared for the afternoon. She folded her work and put it away in her work basket.
Kate was smiling as she made her way down the back stairs. Why did Nicholas insist on wearing his mask still with her? It was a comical affectation. As if he could ever really disguise himself from her. Even though she had never seen any more of his face than his mouth and his blue eyes, she would know him anywhere. And even though he wore a wig. Yes, she had realized that the night before, at the moment of waking and looking up at him, in fact. It was a good wig. There was no hair of a different color showing beneath it. But she knew nevertheless. Perhaps it was because there was never a hair out of place. Her own, after such energetic lovemaking, was in wild disarray and spread all over her shoulders. Perhaps it was because she suddenly recalled that he would never let her hands roam to his hair, though it was the most natural gesture to make when one was making love.
She was intrigued by the discovery, though she had said nothing. What color was his hair? she wondered. It was probably dark if he wore such a blond wig as a disguise. But it did not matter. She would know him anyway. How could one love a man so totally, how could one have become one with him in the physical act of love and not be aware of his identity again? Her recognition of Nicholas did not depend on her eyes. She would feel his presence at any time and in any place. However, if it pleased him to keep the mystery alive by wearing the mask and the wig, she would not resent it.
It seemed that it was not only a loved one whose presence she could feel, Kate thought with a tightening of the lips as she turned at the bottom of the stairs to enter the kitchen. She seemed to have a sixth sense as far as Sir Harry Tate was concerned too. She almost knew he was there even before her eyes rested on him. He was sitting on the edge of the large wooden table, one booted leg swinging free, a partly eaten apple in one hand, talking to the elderly cook. His back was to her.
The cook looked somewhat startled when Kate appeared from the direction of the servants’ stairs. “Why, Mrs. Mannering,” she said, rather more loudly than seemed necessary, “what can I do for you, ma’am?”
Sir Harry turned slowly to face her, his free hand reaching languidly for his quizzing glass and raising it to his eye. “Ah,” he said, holding up the apple, “caught in the act. After a busy morning I found myself unwilling to wait the extra few minutes for luncheon, Mrs. Mannering, and came belowstairs to charm the cook. She has a heart of gold, as you can see.”
Kate, looking at his heavy-lidded eyes and cynically raised eyebrow, and listening to his bored, affected drawl, guessed that the cook had given the apple more out of a desire to get rid of an unwelcome visitor than out of any goldenness of heart. She said nothing but merely smiled arctically and turned to the cook.
“Lady Thelma has sent me with a request that I am afraid will put you to some trouble, Mrs. Bains,” she said, smiling more warmly.
“Well.” Sir Harry yawned discreetly behind a hand and pulled himself to his feet. “I shall take myself off and hope that no one of any significance sees me with an apple clutched in my hand. There would be a veritable invasion of your kitchen if anyone did, Mrs. Bains.”
Kate would have loved to tell him that the others were unlikely to be so ill-mannered as to raid the kitchen of a house in which they were merely guests, but she did not wish to give vent to such malice in front of an audience. She did not know why she always felt such urges to be rude to the man, anyway. She just found him impossibly irritating. She turned her attention back to Mrs. Bains.
