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Authors: Where the Horses Run
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what to say to that, but was charmed nonetheless.
The footman’s sudden appearance gave her an exit . . . and a way to tease him back. “There you are, Fredericks. Just in time to help our guest undress for his bath. As you can see, he’s quite muddy. Scrub him well. Come along, Mary.” With a parting smile at the apprehensive American, she ushered the maid into the hall, calling gaily back as she shut the door, “Enjoy your bath, Mr. Jessup.”
She thought she heard raised voices behind her, but wasn’t certain if they came from downstairs, or Mr. Jessup’s room.
The green or the lilac?
she wondered, moving with a light step toward her bedroom in the west wing. If one must play the tart, it was important to look one’s best.
Five
R afe knew he shouldn’t be staring at her so much, but he had never seen a woman look as beautiful as Miss Cathcart did that evening. She seemed in high spirits, smiling often, her sleek brown hair catching the light of the dozens of candles spaced along the table. A different woman from the one he had met two weeks ago, when she had sat so rigidly beside him at the captain’s table.
What had changed? What had put that spark in her remarkable blue-brown eyes?
“What do you think?”
Startled, he glanced at Agnes Bohm, the vicar’s wife, seated on his right. She blinked eagerly back at him like a tiny gray hen poised to pounce on a dung beetle. She seemed to be awaiting an answer from him, but he could barely remember the conversation. Something about mourning and widow’s weeds.
“They’re dark?”
“Exactly, Mr. Jessup! And far too somber, I think. It’s simply not good for the country. After all, it’s been almost ten years, hasn’t it?”
Rafe nodded, still not sure what she was talking about.
“See, Mr. Bohm?” The elderly lady leveled her bright blinking eyes at her husband, who sat across the table beside Miss Cathcart. “Even an American agrees. Certainly her devotion to Albert’s memory is commendable, but it’s time for dear Victoria to put aside her mourning. No one looks good in black. Especially at her age.”
Apparently she had forgotten that she wore the next best thing—gray.
“Yes, dear,” her husband said. “You’re right. As always.”
“But then,” she went on with a dreamy look on her kindly face, “it’s so gratifying to see a love that reaches beyond the grave, don’t you think, Mr. Jessup?”
Actually he thought it sounded ghoulish. “I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”
“You’re not married?”
Distrusting that avid gleam in her faded eyes, Rafe shook his head.
“Well.” Reaching over, she patted his arm with a gnarled, blue-veined hand. “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”
“Oh, dear,” her husband murmured.
Undeterred, the old lady went on, “We should introduce him to the Campbell twins. Lovely girls. And I doubt either of them would mind marrying an American.” Leaning toward Rafe, she added, “They’re quite tall, you see. And sturdy. Easily able to leave their mark in your Wild West, so to speak.”
Their host, seated at the head of the table and as far away from the other four as he could get, belched quietly and signaled the footman for more wine.
Miss Cathcart hid behind her napkin, her shoulders shaking.
Laughing? At him? Rafe sent her a “what’d I do?”
look
.
Her shoulders shook harder.
Beautiful shoulders, with rounded curves and delicate collarbones that drew his eye to the hollow at the base of her graceful neck, and from there, down to the gentle swells rising above her low neckline—swells that were quivering with her efforts not to laugh. Jiggling, actually. Pressing so hard against the thin fabric of her purple dress he could almost see—
“Where exactly did you say you were from?” the vicar asked, jarring Rafe back to attention.
The face. Focus on her face.
“Texas, mostly.”
“He was a lawman there,” Mr. Cathcart put in, his bleary gaze sliding from his daughter
The footman’s sudden appearance gave her an exit . . . and a way to tease him back. “There you are, Fredericks. Just in time to help our guest undress for his bath. As you can see, he’s quite muddy. Scrub him well. Come along, Mary.” With a parting smile at the apprehensive American, she ushered the maid into the hall, calling gaily back as she shut the door, “Enjoy your bath, Mr. Jessup.”
She thought she heard raised voices behind her, but wasn’t certain if they came from downstairs, or Mr. Jessup’s room.
The green or the lilac?
she wondered, moving with a light step toward her bedroom in the west wing. If one must play the tart, it was important to look one’s best.
Five
R afe knew he shouldn’t be staring at her so much, but he had never seen a woman look as beautiful as Miss Cathcart did that evening. She seemed in high spirits, smiling often, her sleek brown hair catching the light of the dozens of candles spaced along the table. A different woman from the one he had met two weeks ago, when she had sat so rigidly beside him at the captain’s table.
What had changed? What had put that spark in her remarkable blue-brown eyes?
“What do you think?”
Startled, he glanced at Agnes Bohm, the vicar’s wife, seated on his right. She blinked eagerly back at him like a tiny gray hen poised to pounce on a dung beetle. She seemed to be awaiting an answer from him, but he could barely remember the conversation. Something about mourning and widow’s weeds.
“They’re dark?”
“Exactly, Mr. Jessup! And far too somber, I think. It’s simply not good for the country. After all, it’s been almost ten years, hasn’t it?”
Rafe nodded, still not sure what she was talking about.
“See, Mr. Bohm?” The elderly lady leveled her bright blinking eyes at her husband, who sat across the table beside Miss Cathcart. “Even an American agrees. Certainly her devotion to Albert’s memory is commendable, but it’s time for dear Victoria to put aside her mourning. No one looks good in black. Especially at her age.”
Apparently she had forgotten that she wore the next best thing—gray.
“Yes, dear,” her husband said. “You’re right. As always.”
“But then,” she went on with a dreamy look on her kindly face, “it’s so gratifying to see a love that reaches beyond the grave, don’t you think, Mr. Jessup?”
Actually he thought it sounded ghoulish. “I wouldn’t know, ma’am.”
“You’re not married?”
Distrusting that avid gleam in her faded eyes, Rafe shook his head.
“Well.” Reaching over, she patted his arm with a gnarled, blue-veined hand. “We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”
“Oh, dear,” her husband murmured.
Undeterred, the old lady went on, “We should introduce him to the Campbell twins. Lovely girls. And I doubt either of them would mind marrying an American.” Leaning toward Rafe, she added, “They’re quite tall, you see. And sturdy. Easily able to leave their mark in your Wild West, so to speak.”
Their host, seated at the head of the table and as far away from the other four as he could get, belched quietly and signaled the footman for more wine.
Miss Cathcart hid behind her napkin, her shoulders shaking.
Laughing? At him? Rafe sent her a “what’d I do?”
look
.
Her shoulders shook harder.
Beautiful shoulders, with rounded curves and delicate collarbones that drew his eye to the hollow at the base of her graceful neck, and from there, down to the gentle swells rising above her low neckline—swells that were quivering with her efforts not to laugh. Jiggling, actually. Pressing so hard against the thin fabric of her purple dress he could almost see—
“Where exactly did you say you were from?” the vicar asked, jarring Rafe back to attention.
The face. Focus on her face.
“Texas, mostly.”
“He was a lawman there,” Mr. Cathcart put in, his bleary gaze sliding from his daughter
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