She inched toward him, her back to the wall. “I don’t remember doing it before,” she said breathlessly.
“Don’t look down.”
“I can’t see anyway.”
“That’s just as well. Keep moving.” Gradually Leo gathered the excess rope, as if he were reeling her in. Closer and closer she came, until she was finally within arm’s reach. Leo stretched his hand as far as possible, his fingers trembling with effort. Another step, another, and then he finally had his arm around her, and he dragged her inside.
Cheers erupted from the brothel, and the multitude of windows began to close.
Leo sank to the floor with his knees splayed, his face buried in Catherine’s hair. Tremors of relief ran through his body, and he let out a shuddering sigh. “I have you. I have you. Oh, Marks. You’ve just put me through the worst two minutes of my entire life. And for that you’re going to spend years atoning.”
“It was only two minutes,” she protested, and he choked on a laugh.
Fumbling at his pocket, he pulled out her spectacles, and placed them carefully on her nose. The world became clear again.
Harry knelt beside them and touched Catherine’s shoulder. She turned and put her arms around him, hugging him tightly. “My big brother,” she whispered. “You came for me again.”
She felt Harry smile against her hair. “Always. Whenever you need me.” Lifting his head, he glanced ruefully at Leo as he continued, “You’d better marry him, Cat. Any man willing to put himself through that is probably worth keeping.”
It was with the greatest reluctance that Leo surrendered Catherine to Poppy and Mrs. Pennywhistle when they arrived back at the hotel. The two women brought her to her room and helped her to bathe and wash her hair. She was exhausted and disoriented, and infinitely grateful for the soothing attention. Clad in a fresh nightgown and dressing robe, she sat before the fire while Poppy combed out her hair.
The room had been cleaned and tidied, the bed changed and freshly made. The housekeeper left with an armload of damp toweling, allowing Catherine and Poppy some privacy.
There was no sign of Dodger anywhere. Remembering what had happened to him, Catherine felt her throat clench in grief. Tomorrow she would ask about the gallant little creature, but for now she couldn’t quite bring herself to face it.
Hearing her sniffle, Poppy reached around to give her a handkerchief. The comb moved gently through her hair. “Harry told me not to bother you with this tonight, dear, but if it were me, I would want to know. After you left with Leo, Harry stayed behind until the police came to your aunt’s house. They went upstairs to find your aunt, but she was dead. They found raw opium paste in her mouth.”
“Poor Althea,” Catherine whispered, pressing the handkerchief against her welling eyes.
“You’re very kind, to have any sympathy at all for her. I’m sure I wouldn’t.”
“What about William?”
“He ran off before they could arrest him. I heard Harry and Leo discussing it—they’re going to commission a runner to find him.”
“I don’t want that,” Catherine protested. “I want them to let him go.”
“I have no doubt Leo will agree to whatever you ask,” Poppy said. “But why? After what that dreadful man did to you—”
“William was a victim, as surely as I,” Catherine said earnestly. “He was only trying to survive. Life was brutally unfair to him.”
“And to you, dear. But you made something far better of it than he did.”
“But I had Harry. And I had you and your family.”
“And Leo,” Poppy said, a smile in her voice. “I would say you have him without question. For a man who was so determined to go through life as an observer, he’s certainly been pulled back into the stream. Because of you.”
“Would you mind if I marry him, Poppy?” she asked almost timidly.
Poppy hugged her from behind, and rested her head briefly against Catherine’s. “I’m sure I speak for all the Hathaways in saying that we would be eternally grateful if you would marry him. I can’t imagine who else would dare to take him on.”
After a light supper of toast and broth, Catherine went to bed and dozed for a while, waking every now and then with a fearful start. Each time she was reassured to see Poppy reading in a chair by the bed, her hair gleaming like mahogany in the glow of lamplight.
“You should go back to the apartment,” Catherine finally mumbled, not wishing to seem like a child afraid of the dark.
“I’ll stay a little longer,” came the soft answer.
The next time Catherine awoke, Leo was sitting in the chair. Her drowsy gaze moved over him, taking in the contours of his handsome face, his serious blue eyes. His shirt was partly unbuttoned, revealing a shadow of chest hair. Suddenly desperate to be held against that hard, strong chest, she reached for him wordlessly.
Leo came to her at once. Wrapping his arms around her, he reclined back against the pillows with her. Catherine luxuriated in the feel and scent of him. “Only I,” she whispered, “would feel so safe in the arms of the wickedest man in London.”
He made a sound of amusement. “You like them wicked, Marks. An ordinary man would be tame sport for a woman like you.”
She snuggled closer, her legs tense beneath the bed linens. “I’m so weary,” she said, “but I can’t sleep.”
“You’ll be better tomorrow morning. I promise.” His hand settled on her hip, over the covers. “Close your eyes, love, and let me take care of you.”
She tried to obey. But as the minutes ticked by, she was plagued by increasing restlessness and irritated nerves, a sense of dryness that permeated to her bones. Her skin clamored to be touched, scratched, rubbed, but even the delicate chafing of the sheets was enough to make her raw.
Leo left the bed and returned with a glass of water, and she drank thirstily. Her mouth tingled agreeably from the cool wetness.
Taking away the empty glass, Leo extinguished the lamp and returned to her. She flinched at the feel of his weight depressing the mattress, the disparate information of her senses distilling into one compelling need. In the darkness, Leo’s mouth found hers, tender and gentle, and she couldn’t prevent her own exaggerated response. His hand came to her breast, finding the tip already hard beneath the veil of muslin.
“It sometimes happens with opium smoke,” Leo said quietly. “Later with habit, it decreases. But when you first try it, it can act upon you this way. As the effects leave your body, your nerves start screaming for more of it, and the result is … frustration.”
As he spoke, his hand cupped her breast, his thumb gently circling the tight bud. She felt the sensation everywhere, streamers of fire unraveling to the pit of her belly, and along her legs and arms. She panted and squirmed, too desperate to feel embarrassed by her own muffled cries as his hand slipped beneath the covers.
“Easy, love,” Leo whispered, caressing the taut plane of her stomach. “Let me help you.”
His fingers were gentle on her swollen flesh, stroking and parting and entering, sliding easily into the moisture. She hitched upward, her body craving and willful, every movement enticing him to stroke deeper, harder.
Leo bent his head and kissed her throat. The tip of his thumb rested just above the little spot that burned with white fire, manipulating delicately as his invading fingers stretched her. It sent her into spasms of near-painful release, tearing an unwilling groan from her, and she clutched the back of his shirt in her fists until she felt the fine linen begin to rip. Breathing hard, she let go of the shirt and stammered out an apology. He stripped off the ruined shirt and hushed her with his mouth.
He spread his hand over her intimately, teasing her with exquisite care, while she whimpered and stiffened. Another burst of fire, a series of deep shudders, and she opened her thighs as he slid his fingers in. When the last vibrations had faded, she lay heavily in his arms and let exhaustion overtake her.
In the middle of the night, Catherine pressed again
st him furtively, needing him again. He rose above her, murmuring that she must relax, he would help her, he would take care of her, and she sobbed openly as she felt him kiss his way down her body. He lifted her legs over his shoulders and cupped her bottom in his hands. His mouth searched gently, his tongue stroking deep into the tender chalice. He did not find a rhythm but instead played with her, pulling softly, licking and nuzzling. The pleasure broke over her in waves, making her gasp in relief.
“Take me,” she whispered as he lay beside her again.
“No,” Leo said gently, turning to pin her to the mattress. “No chance of that tonight. We’ll have to wait until your judgment isn’t clouded. By morning, most of the opium will have worn off. If you still want me then, I’ll be ready and willing.”
“I want you now,” she said, but he held her down and pleasured her with his mouth once more.
Catherine woke a few hours later, glimpsing the plum-colored sky as it began to lighten with the premonition of dawn. Leo’s long body was tucked comfortably behind hers, one arm beneath her neck, the other draped across her middle. She loved the feel of him, vibrant heat and muscle, his skin like satin in some places, hair-roughened in others. Although she was careful not to move, Leo stirred and murmured.
Slowly she reached for his hand and drew it to her breast. Leo began to fondle her before he was even awake. His lips touched the back of her neck. Feeling him harden against her bottom, she pressed against him. One of his legs intruded between hers, as his hand slid down to the light fleece of curls.
She felt the taut pressure of him, nudging against her entrance, circling into the moisture. He pushed partway inside her and stopped, while her flesh, swollen from the night’s excesses, had difficulty accommodating him.
His soft, amused voice tickled her ear. “Mmmn … you’ll have to try harder, Marks. We both know you can take more than this.”
“Help me,” she gasped.
With a sympathetic murmur, he lifted her top leg and adjusted her position. Her eyes closed as she felt him slide inside her.
“There,” he whispered. “Is this what you want?”
“Harder … harder…”
“No, love … let me be gentle with you. Just for now.”
He moved inside her with slow, deliberate drives, his caressing hand sliding back between her thighs. He took his time, and she had no choice but to let him. She was suffused with warmth, sensation building as he courted her, stroked her. Pressing love words and kisses against her neck, he sank more deeply inside her. She cried out his name, cresting, and he gently urged her even higher. Her shaking hand went to his hip and gripped the flexing surface.
“Don’t leave me. Please, Leo.”
He understood. As her wet flesh clenched around him once more, delicately wringing and pulling at the hardness, he pumped forcefully, letting himself go. And at last she knew the feel of his release, the way his belly tightened, the trembling of a powerful man rendered helpless in that ultimate moment.
They stayed joined as long as possible, resting together and watching as the dawn seeped through the parted curtains.
“I love you,” she whispered, “so dearly, my lord. My Leo.”
He smiled and kissed her. Rising, he went to drag on his trousers.
While Leo sluiced his face at the washstand, Catherine reached for her spectacles. Her gaze happened to fall on Dodger’s empty basket by the door, and her smile dimmed. “Poor weasel,” she murmured.
Leo returned to her, instantly concerned as he saw her watering eyes. “What is it?”
“Dodger,” she said with a sniffle. “I miss him already.”
Leo sat and drew her up against him. “Would you like to see him?”
“Yes, but I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Before she could answer, she saw an odd movement beneath the door … a furry, skinny body wiggling industriously beneath the ridiculously narrow space. Catherine blinked, afraid to move. “Dodger?”
The ferret came loping toward the bed, chuckling and chirping, his eyes bright as he hurried to her.
“Dodger, you’re alive!”
“Of course he’s alive,” Leo said. “We put him in Poppy’s apartment last night to allow you some rest.” He smiled as the ferret bounded onto the mattress. “Mischievous little beggar. How did you get all the way down here?”
“He came to find me.” Catherine held out her arms, and Dodger climbed up to her and snuggled against her chest. She stroked him over and over, murmuring endearments. “He tried to protect me, you know. He bit William’s hand quite terribly.” She nuzzled her chin against Dodger and crooned, “Good little watch ferret.”
“Well done, Dodger,” Leo said. Leaving the bed for a moment, he went to his discarded coat and rummaged through the pockets. “I suppose that leads to the question … in marrying you, am I going to be gaining a ferret, as well?”
“Do you think Beatrix would let me keep him?”
“There’s no doubt of it.” Leo returned to sit beside her. “She’s always said that he belongs to you.”
“Has she?”
“Well, it’s rather obvious, in light of his fascination for your garters. And one certainly can’t blame him for that.” Leo reached for her hand. “I have something to ask you, Marks.”
She sat up eagerly, letting Dodger drape around her neck.
“I can’t remember if this is the fifth or sixth proposal,” he said.
“It’s only the fourth.”
“I asked you yesterday. Are you counting that one?”
“No, that wasn’t really ‘will you marry me,’ that was more ‘will you come down off the roof.—”
One of Leo’s brows arched. “By all means, let’s be technical.” He slid a ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand. It was the most breathtaking ring she had ever seen, a flawless silver opal with flashes of blue and green fire hidden deep inside. With every movement of her hand, the opal glimmered with unearthly color. It was encircled by a rim of glittering small diamonds. “This reminded me of your eyes,” he said. “Only not nearly as beautiful.” He paused, looking at her intently. “Catherine Marks, love of my life … will you marry me?”
“I want to answer another question first,” she told him. “Something you asked me before.”
He smiled and put his forehead against hers. “The one about the farmer and the sheep?”
“No … the one about what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.”
A laugh rustled in his throat. “Tell me your answer, love.”
“The unstoppable force stops. And the immovable object moves.”
“Mmmn. I like that.” His lips brushed hers tenderly.
“My lord, I’d rather not wake up as Catherine Marks ever again. I want to be your wife as soon as possible.”
“Tomorrow morning?”
Catherine nodded. “Although … I will miss you calling me Marks. I’ve gotten rather fond of it.”
“I’ll still call you Marks from time to time. During moments of lurid passion. Let’s try it.” His voice lowered to a seductive whisper. “Kiss me, Marks…”
And she lifted her smiling mouth to his.
Epilogue
One year later
The cry of an infant broke through the silence.
Leo flinched at the sound, lifting his head. Having been banished from the bedroom where Catherine was giving birth, he had waited with the rest of the family in the parlor. Amelia had stayed with Catherine and the doctor, occasionally emerging to give a brief report to Win or Beatrix. Cam and Merripen were maddeningly sanguine about the process, both having seen their own wives safely through childbirth.
The Hathaway family was proving remarkably fertile. In March, Win had given birth to a robust boy, Jason Cole, nicknamed Jàdo. Two months later, Poppy had produced a petite red-haired daughter, Elizabeth Grace, upon whom Harry and the entire Rutledge Hotel staff doted.
Now it was Catherine’s tur
n. And while childbirth was a perfectly ordinary event for other people, it was the most nerve-racking experience Leo had ever gone through. The sight of his wife in pain was intolerable, and yet there was nothing he could do. It didn’t matter how often he was reassured that the birth was going splendidly … endless hours of labor pains did not seem all that splendid to Leo.
For eight hours Leo had waited in the parlor with his head in his hands, brooding and quiet and inconsolable. He was afraid for Catherine, and he could hardly bear to be separated from her. As he had predicted, he loved Catherine like a madman. And as she had once claimed, she was entirely able to manage him. They were different in so many ways, and yet somehow it made them exactly right for each other.
The result had been a remarkably harmonious marriage. They entertained each other with furious, funny bickering and long, thoughtful conversations. When they were alone, they often spoke in a kind of shorthand that no one else would have been able to interpret. They were a physical pair, passionate and affectionate. Playful. But the real surprise of the marriage was the kindness they showed each other … they, who had once fought so bitterly.
Leo had never expected that the woman who had formerly brought out the worst in him would now bring out the best in him. And he had never dreamed that his love for her would deepen to such proportions that there was no hope of controlling or restraining it. In the face of a love this vast, a man could only surrender.
If anything happened to Catherine … if something went wrong during the childbirth …
Leo stood slowly, his fists clenched, as Amelia entered the parlor with a bundled-up newborn. She paused near the doorway as the family gathered around her with soft exclamations. “A perfect little girl,” she said, beaming. “The doctor said her color is excellent and her lungs are strong.” She brought the baby to Leo.
He was too afraid to move. He didn’t take the baby, only stared at Amelia and asked hoarsely, “How is Marks?”
She understood at once. Her tone gentled as she replied. “Absolutely fine. She’s quite well, dear, and you can go up to see her now. But first say hello to your daughter.”