"I thought raising children is the hardest work there is."

Her brows rose. "Men aren't supposed to know that."

"A female once broke down and disclosed the secret to me."

She eyed him thoughtfully. "I imagine that women are always telling you secrets."

Preferring to keep the conversation impersonal, he took his candle into the pantry. "The local cheeses are wonderful, aren't they? And the breads, too."

"The food is so good it's easy to understand why the French believe the country should be part of France. Would you like wine? There's a jug of very decent vin ordinaire here."

"Sounds wonderful, though I warn you, two glasses and I'll fall asleep on the table."

"If that happens, I'll tuck a blanket around you," she said serenely. "This is a very pragmatic household."

By the time Michael emerged from the pantry, the pine table was set and steaming bowls of soup were in place. Kenneth was right-Catherine was an expert at keeping men happy and well fed. She would be a rare prize even if she weren't beautiful.

As he started to slice the cheese, he heard a canine whimper. He glanced under the table and found Louis regarding him with mournful hound eyes. He grinned and tossed a small piece of cheese to the dog, who deftly snapped it out of the air. "For a beast called Louis the Lazy, he is remarkably good at turning up wherever people or food are found."

Catherine laughed. "He's from an old French hunting breed called basset because they're so low. Like the French soldiers in the Peninsula, he's a first-rate forager. He and the kitchen cat are always competing for the best bits."

A polite meow announced that a plump tabby had materialized beside Michael's chair. In the interests of fairness, he gave her a sliver of ham before applying himself to his meal.

Silence reigned for the next minutes. Yet despite his consumption of an embarrassing amount of food, he was intensely aware of Catherine on the other side of the table. Even the movement of her throat when she swallowed was erotic. Yet paradoxically, her presence was restful. His mistress, Caroline, had been many things, but never restful.

Noticing his bowl was empty, Catherine asked, "Would you like more soup?"

"Please."

She picked up the bowl and went to the fireplace, which was large enough to roast a calf. As she bent to the soup pot, her lush breasts swayed fluidly beneath the soft material of her robe. He went rigid, unable to look away.

Louis lurched to his feet and followed her hopefully. "Go away, hound," she said firmly as she ladled soup into the bowl.

Ignoring the order, Louis whined and reared up on his hind legs, banging his head into the bowl. It tilted and soup splashed onto the hearth. She jumped backward, then said severely, "You're due for a review lesson in manners, Louis." The dog hung his head with comical guilt.

Michael smiled at the byplay. He was enjoying himself more than at any of the glittering social events of the last week, and his attraction to Catherine was not getting out of hand.

Catherine refilled the bowl and turned toward him. With all his attention on her face, it took him a moment to notice that flames were licking up the left side of her robe. His heart jerked with horror. Christ, when she stepped back, her hem must have brushed the blazing coals.

He sprang to his feet and whipped around the table. "Catherine, your robe is burning!"

She looked down and gave a gasp of sheer terror. The bowl crashed to the floor and Louis bolted away, but 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 her the tabby, because her fragile peace of mind vanished along with him. She had not realized how safe he had made her feel until he was gone.

When she glanced down and saw the scorched hem of her nightgown, panic began rising again. She pulled Michael's jacket closer around her shoulders. It still carried his body heat. When he had wrapped the garment around her, the tenderness of the gesture had brought her near tears again. She had not felt so cared-for since she was a child.

Tartly she reminded herself that she had escaped unscathed and there was no excuse for hysteria. A towel was draped over the arm of her chair, so she lifted it and blew her nose. Then she concentrated on soothing the nervous cat. By the time Michael returned, the tabby was purring and Catherine had regained a semblance of calm.

"Drink up. You need this." He splashed brandy into two glasses and gave her one, then settled in the opposite chair. He sat casually, one arm resting on his upraised knee, but his watchful gaze was on her face.

"Thank you." She sipped the brandy, grateful for the way it warmed her bones. "Since we couldn't live without fire, I've had to suppress my fear of it. I didn't know how much terror was lurking inside me. If you hadn't been here, I probably would have stood like a frightened rabbit while I burned."

"You're entitled to your fear," he said quietly. "Quite apart from your parents' tragedy, far too many women have died or been horribly injured in accidents exactly like yours."

"Thanks to you, that didn't happen." She leaned back in her chair, rubbing the cat's chin with one finger as she drank.

Odd how the fire that had terrorized her was now so pleasant, its ruddy glow finding auburn highlights in Michael's hair. At their first meeting, she had found his austere good looks unsettling. He had reminded her of a finely honed sword, a quality she had glimpsed in other men who were born warriors. Very quickly she had discovered his humor, but it had taken near-catastrophe for her to recognize his kindness.