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Last night, very late, he'd slipped through her closed bedroom, just as he had done a moment ago. The door had been locked, such a pitiful attempt to keep him out that he'd almost laughed. She had been asleep, lying curled on her side in the bed, her features a study in innocence. He had tried, and failed, to recall her ever looking that way in the past they had shared, but he could not.
The sight of her had made his breath quicken. The temptation to draw back the covers and look his fill had been almost overwhelming. Was she wearing that strange clothing in which she'd slept that first night?
He had gritted his teeth and slipped from the room without having satisfied his curiosity. What did it matter what she wore at night? In truth, almost everything she wore during the day had a potent effect on his pulse rate. She spent her days in smallclothes that left little to the imagination.
It angered him, that she would walk around thus. Didn't she give a damn that the sight of her dressed that way would make a man's blood run thick?
Matthew frowned. He was letting his imagination run away with him. Catherine did not think of him as a man. She didn't think of him as anything. Not yet. As far as she knew, he was still only a dream.
She was done brushing her hair. He watched as she gave herself a critical look in the mirror. Then she tossed the brush aside, picked up a purse with a long strap, and headed for the door—and for him.
He caught his breath as she approached. She could not see him. She would not see him, until he permitted it. He knew that. Still, it was folly to let her walk through him. She might sense something. A chill, perhaps; he didn't know...
She passed through him as lightly as a breeze would slip through a handful of flowers. He almost groaned as he savored the feel of her body melting through his. And oh, the scent of her...
He was wrong! She had sensed something. She must have. He saw her suddenly stiffen at the top of the staircase. She hesitated and he heard her breath make a catchy little sound in her throat.
"Oh," she whispered, and then she gave a soft, sweet laugh.
Matthew felt that laugh, right down to the marrow of his bones. God, he had to speak to her. To touch her...
"Catherine," he said.
But she was already flying down the steps, racing to the front door and flinging it open.
"Oh, this is terrific," he heard her say, her voice light with pleasure as it had once been only for him. "I thought I heard something coming up the driveway!"
Matthew came down the stairs after her and went through the closed door just as she slammed it.
What the hell was this?
Catherine was standing at the foot of the steps. There was a man at her side, and her laughing face was turned up to his.
And what a specimen the man was. Black hair hung to his shoulders in ringlets and a small golden hoop dangled from one ear. His red silk shirt was undone to the waist; his trousers were torn and ripped, and he wore thick leather sandals.
By God, the bastard was a pirate! Had Cat's passion for dallying with rogues sunk to a new level?
A carriage of some strange sort was drawn up in the driveway. At least, Matthew assumed it was a carriage. It was the strangest-looking vehicle he had ever seen. It had wheels and doors but no horses to draw it.
"Cat," Matthew said sharply, "wait!"
The pirate opened one of the doors with a bow so deep it was ludicrous. Horrible shrieks rushed out, as if of creatures wailing in agony, but Cat ignored them. She slid gracefully onto the seat and the rogue shut the door after her, went around to the other side of the carriage and climbed inside.
A second later, the vehicle rocked with a small explosion. Black smoke rushed out from behind it and then it shot off down the drive.
Cursing, heart pounding, Matthew raced after it.
How could a carriage move so quickly? How could it move at all, without horses to draw it? There wasn't a chance in hell of his catching up.
The thing turned a corner, picked up speed, and rocketed through the gates that marked the eastern border of Charon's Crossing. Matthew charged after it, refusing to acknowledge what instinct warned him would happen.
The empty space between the gateposts might as well have been fashioned of brick. He hit full tilt, with main and stuns'les set. The force of the impact knocked him backwards and he fell, hard, into the dirt.
Slowly, he rose to his feet. He stared at the ope
n gate, then walked towards it, put out his hand... and touched an invisible barrier.
Rage choked him. He drew back his fist, slammed it into the barrier he could not see. He whirled around, grabbed a coconut from where it lay under a palm, and hammered it against the invisible impediment.
