The Romany Heiress (18 page)

Cate walked to a nearby tree hanging over the river
and tested a willowy bough. Finding it to her liking, she
broke it neatly off and waved the new switch through
the air. “I breakfasted late this morning and was not
hungry enough to eat again when luncheon was served,”
she said, her invitation and intention clear underscored
in her message.

“You are not suggesting we fish?” Giles asked, the
mask of the earl sliding over the visage of the exultant
cottager’s son.

She nodded. “I am suggesting precisely that. Are
you game?”

“We haven’t got fishing line or bait.” He argued.

“Then we’ll improvise.” Cate smiled wickedly and
lifted her riding habit to reveal the starched whiteness of
a petticoat. With a deft move she ripped a length of it before rucking up her skirts and briefly showing off a small
leather sheathe strapped to her leg. She whipped out a
sharp dagger and laughed at the shock Giles tried to hide.

She proceeded to strap the dagger to the willow switch
with the length of fabric. “There. I am ready. How are
you coming with your equipment?”

“You can’t be serious. It is unseemly.”

“How unseemly can it be? It’s just us. No one will
know,” Cate cajoled. “It will be fun”

“Fun? That’s something I haven’t had in a very long
time,” Giles said, indecision warring with propriety. “Alright. I’m in.” Giles shrugged out of his coat and
pulled off his meticulously tied cravat. Then, to Cate’s
delight, he sat on the boulder, tugged off his boots and
bared his feet, shoving his trousers up to his knees.

The sight of a bare-legged Giles sans coat, standing
before her in nothing but skin-tight buff riding breeches
and thin linen shirt was intoxicating. Watching him wade
into the river with his makeshift fishing spear courtesy
of his cravat and hunting knife was positively striking.

Cate knotted her skirts and stripped off her shoes
and waded in after him. “Brrr! This water is cold!” She
cried at first contact. “I’d forgotten it wasn’t summer.”

Giles looked up from his quarry. “You won’t catch
cold will you? Perhaps you should wait on shore.”

Cate grinned. “And let you have all the fun when it
was my idea in the first place? Besides, I’m Rom. If we
got sick every time we waded in cold rivers, we’d never
be well” The thought was out before she realized what
she was saying. No one at Spelthorne talked about her
gypsy life. No one asked about her past. It was understood to be taboo. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said
that,” she said to cover the awkward moment.

“Why would you be sorry?”

“Because I’m not supposed to talk about it.”

“Did Bella tell you that?” Giles asked in all seriousness.

“No, I just assumed, since no one asked” Cate
shrugged and turned her attention back to the fish. “I bet
I can spear mine before you get yours,” she wagered,
hoping to return levity to their adventure.

She succeeded and five long minutes later, Giles
won, brandishing his trout with boyish enthusiasm.

Cate put her hands on her hips. “Do you want to
know what your prize is?” She said saucily. “You get to
start the fire”

While she finished catching her trout, Giles gathered
up an armload of twigs and fallen branches and started
an admirable fire. Gallantly, he offered to prepare the
fish and roast them over a makeshift spit.

Cate leaned back on the old blanket he produced
from his saddlebags and spread on the ground, studying
him as he worked, the heat of the fire warming her cold
toes. “Your saddlebags are conveniently well-stocked,”
she commented.

“The head groom who taught me to ride when I was
growing up also taught me to always ride prepared. I
learned to never leave for a trail ride without a tinder
box, hunting knife, and a blanket. Three items is not so
much to carry and can provide all kinds of comforts if
needed” Giles leaned forward and turned the spit. “I
think the fish are done” He took down the spit and
handed one of the fish to Cate.

“It smells delicious.” She took a bite and sighed.
“Tastes good too. Food tastes better out of doors, I
think.” Juices dribbled down her chin, and she futilely
tried to lick them.

“I’m sorry I don’t have a fork or even a napkin to offer you,” Giles apologized. “If this were a real picnic,
there would be a table with a cloth, goblets, wine, eating utensils.”

Cate laughed at the ridiculous picture his idea of picnic conjured up in her head. “How could that be a real
picnic? This is a real picnic, us sitting by a fire we
made, eating food we caught ourselves. Our clothes are
damp and for once we are not thinking about manners
and propriety and what everyone else expects” She
licked the last of the fish from her hands and turned to
face Giles, pulling her knees up under her skirts. “Do
you know this is the first time we’ve talked?”

“That’s not true. We’ve talked numerous times. We
talk when we make the rounds in the village. We talk
over supper. We talk over cards,” Giles protested.

“I mean truly talk about ourselves. That other talk is
business, small talk with others present. Today you told
me a story about your boyhood. I would like to hear
more about the boy Giles.” She smiled softly, resting
her chin on her knees. “I would like to hear more about
the man I saw fishing in the river today. I think that man
is vastly more interesting than the earl he devotes all his
time to being.” The last came out in a rush. She had not
meant to push or pry.

Giles rewarded her with a smile and a stretch. He
rolled onto his side facing her and propped his head
on his hand. “My childhood is unremarkable really,
until I met Alain and Chatham. Before that, I was a
typical child of nobility, alone and raised by the servants, some of which were doting and some of which
were severely strict. My father wasn’t here often, and
my mother had her obligations which kept her busy
making the rounds.”

“Like you do,” Cate interjected. “Your days are filled
with the pursuit of obligations.”

“I suppose it is. It is what an earl does,” Giles said,
slightly defensive.

“It’s not all an earl can do,” she countered.

“It’s what I have chosen to do”

“To the detriment of discovering personal enjoyment,” she said sharply and regretting it.

“Not all of us are born to adventure, Cate, like you.”

That gave her pause. “Is that how you see me?”

Giles toyed with the fire, poking at the dying embers
with a stick. “You have a passion for living that is different than mine. I need order, structure, security. You need
none of those things. You are … ,” here he paused,
searching for the word, staring hard at her in a way that
made Cate feel warm down to her cold riverwashed toes.

“You are like our river, going wherever the riverbed
leads. You’re afraid of nothing, you embrace everything. Nothing overwhelms you. You don’t seek to conquer or bind. You just seek to be. I could never be like
that. It’s far too frightening for me to take those risks. I
knew the moment I saw you in the garden two years
ago that you were so beyond me. I could barely comprehend all that you were. It’s more than your beauty,
although your’s transcends anything I’ve ever beheld.
It’s your soul, Cate”

He reached her hand and took it in his own, tracing
the lines of her palm with slow strokes. He brought the
open palm to his lips and kissed it deeply before pressing it to his cheek. “My divine Cate, I hope we have not done you a disservice with all of our lessons. I would
never want to tame you. I find myself liking the woman
who fishes in the river and rides in unorthodox races
quite a lot”

Cate whispered, “I find I like the man who fishes in
the river quite a lot too.” She breathed deeply. It was divine having him all to herself, without the presence of
his well-meaning friends. He smelled of earth and water, fish and wood smoke. He smelled even better than
he did in the evenings when he came to dinner fresh
from his bath, smelling of spice and sandalwood.

She could have sat with him, her hand in his, all afternoon. But the world was calling Giles Moncrief and
the moment was over too soon.

“It’s starting to get late. We need to get back. The
others will worry,” he said, rising from the blanket and
offering her a hand up. He immured himself in the
chore of cleaning up camp, kicking dirt on the fire.

In silence they donned their discarded stockings and
shoes. Cate did her best to smooth her wrinkled skirts,
but in truth, she didn’t want to repair her appearance too
much. She wanted Giles to be reminded of what they
had enjoyed. When he allowed it, there was a real connection between them, a connection that was not about
who was Spelthorne or who had the right to the title.

With gentlemanly precision he helped her mount, and
they rode back through the meadow and the woods to the
abbey in a disappointing silence. Giles left her at the stables with nothing more than a polite farewell, “Thank you
for an entertaining afternoon, I will see you at dinner.”

Cate returned to her rooms, determined to spend the
short hours before dinner in isolation and contemplation.
She rang for a hot bath to warm herself after the coldness
of the fishing expedition and the brisk ride home in
damp skirts she was careful to hide from prying eyes.

She took an unusually long time dressing for dinner
that night. She wanted Giles to see her in all the beauty
he confessed her to have. What kind of woman would
Giles want to see at the dinner table? She pulled out the
ice-blue gown with its eau de nil bodice and gauzy
flowing skirts. It was one of her favorites since Isabella
had helped her to order her own wardrobe. She held the
gown against her body and studied it in the mirror.

She discarded it. No. The gown was too sophisticated for the night. Giles would want to see the lady she
was in that gown-a woman well cultured and groomed
not given to earthy passions or jumping into rivers on a
whim. She pulled out several others and discarded them
as well for being too tame, too ladylike, too molded.
She needed something bolder, more daring yet confident. She reached into the back of the wardrobe and
found what she was looking for. The gown was not
modern but it was the kind of gown she’d dreamed of
owning for years. She had described it to the modiste
who’d come to the abbey and done her other dresses.
The modiste had clapped her hands in delight at the
thought of creating something extraordinary and had
shown her a bolt of shimmering rose-red silk. Cate had
fingered the bolt longingly. The red was perfect. It was
not a scarlet, nor a harlot’s red. It was a regal, royal red.

Cate called a maid other than Magda, not wanting to
brook any censure over her choice of gown. Now that
her mind was made up, she would not be swayed from
her course.

The maid helped her lace up the necessary corset and
put on the layers of petticoats required for the long, tight
bodice and full skirts. Then she slipped the rich gown
over her head, fastening it up the back and helping Cate
to tug the v-ed waist of the bodice into place and to fluff
the layers of silken skirts to best effect. The gown left her
neck and shoulders exposed and Cate fastened a string of
borrowed pearls about her neck before sitting down to let
the maid arrange her hair in a complicated upsweep that
left the back of her neck exposed with the exception of a
few loose curls. The final result was all that Cate had
hoped for. She hoped Giles would get the message.

Giles arrived in the drawing room at promptly 6:30,
the standard half hour before dinner was served, dressed
for the evening and dismayed to learn that while he’d
been out riding with Cate, Isabella and Cecile had decided to turn the evening into a party of sorts. It was no
less than what he deserved for gallivanting about the
countryside, fishing in his bare feet, in October no less.

Isabella and Cecile were already there ahead of him,
dressed in gowns that were definitely too elegant for an
enfamille supper in the country. He smiled harmlessly
at the women and joined them. “To what do I owe the
pleasure of your impromptu party plans?”

“Don’t be mad, Giles,” Isabella began. “It’s the end of the month, and I just thought we all deserved a little
celebrating.”

The end of the month-quite possibly the last quiet
night before the vicar arrived and the tension which
they had all successfully held at bay for four weeks
would break loose. Although Giles was confident all
would end well-he had found a lovely old manor of
moderate size for Cate to lease in Hertfordshirefeelings were bound to be hurt in the short term and it
would be difficult for all of them.

He nodded his approval and turned to greet Tristan
and Alain who entered together, freshly washed from
their hunting expedition. The twosome regaled the
group with their exploits, filled which much teasing
over who actually had bagged the better grouse. Giles
couldn’t help but think of his own expedition to the
river. The thought was quite distracting, but not nearly
so distracting as the vision gracing the door way. It took
a moment to register that the woman was Cate.

His manners faltered. The old-styled gown from the
previous century hugged her slender waist to perfection, the puffed sleeves that started just below her
shoulder showed her creamy skin to advantage. The
full skirts swayed and shushed sensually as she moved
toward the group. The upsweep of her hair lent her a regal air. Not for the first time, Giles thought, “Snow
White.” A Snow White for adults. Then he thought, that
was precisely what she wanted him to think, what had
inspired the daring gown. Snow White, the story of a
princess hidden away in the servants’ quarters, dressed in the rags of a slave. But nothing could dim the true
goodness of her heart. What was the moral his old nurse
had told him? That a princess is more than beauty? That
was it, a princess was a princess because of what was in
her heart. He had said as much to Cate at the river that
afternoon. He was certain she was reminding him of
that with her choice of gown.