Authors: Raven McAllan
He didn't
have long to wait to find out. He had not been waiting more than ten minutes
when Catherine appeared. Her appearance took his breath away. Her hair cascaded
down her back like a waterfall of burnished silk, the flowers above each ear a
pale contrast.
The dress he had chosen
and left for her in her room was a perfect foil for her dark loveliness. It
shimmered in the lamplight and caressed her body like a lover. Brook's body
stiffened, his manhood stood to attention and pressed against his pantaloons.
She was every man's desire.
He bowed, elegance personified. "My love,
you are everything a man could wish for." He spoke the truth. She
was
everything a man could hope for.
"My body aches to taste you, to fill you and to make you mine. Are you
ready to eat?"
She
stared and then to his amazement, she giggled.
"Eat food? Oh yes my lord, I am famished.
Shall we?" Catherine blushed as she held her arm out to him.
So is
she saying she wants nothing else? Or she may eat other things, as in me?
He was not sure he dared ask. Instead he
escorted her into the dining room and seated her at a table set for two. The
lights were low, the atmosphere intimate.
Brook knew with certainty, how he wanted the night to end. With him
buried deep inside her, hearing her murmurs of surrender, and her cries of
completion. If only.
"As am I.
But do we both yearn for the same food?"
***
Catherine heard his riposte and her body
responded with a surge of heat that made her nipples harden. There was no way
she could let him know how she reacted to him. For many years now she had
schooled herself to deny her reaction to his presence. Now, it was nigh on
impossible to show those feelings. Especially as her mama had schooled her that
no lady would ever be foolish enough to express her emotions in public, or to a
man. So here she was all these years later, with the man she had loved so much
that she had denied him as her husband rather than subject him to the shame her
father had heaped on them.
“I do not know, my lord," she said, hoping
her composure was enough to carry her answer. “Perhaps we will see…later."
Catherine allowed him to lead her to the dining
table and seat her. He walked to the sideboard where a series of chafing dishes
were set out.
"It is a simple meal, shall I serve
you…" he paused
. "Food?"
Argh
, was he determined to keep her nerves on
edge
?
"That, my lord, would be perfect." She
rested her hands on her chin and stared at him as he filled two plates with
food. "You can serve me at any time."
Brook stood over her. He put the plates on the
table, removed her hands and took her chin in
his
hands.
"Serve, or service?" he asked.
Her jaw dropped.
What did he say? Did I hear aright? How can I answer that?
She did
neither, but turned her attention to the food on her plate. He chuckled and
once more she itched to hit him. Brook Fredericks was much too annoying for her
peace of mind.
She looked at him, saw the twinkle in his eyes
and wondered how best to answer him.
"That, my lord," she said at last,
proud of how steady her voice sounded, "is a question best answered later.
After you have told me what you want of me."
He bowed, but to her chagrin his eyes were full
of laughter.
"Catherine, what I want is you.
All of you, with me in every way possible.
Eat your
food."
How could she, after a declaration like that?
She picked up her cutlery and did her best. Ten minutes later she admitted
defeat.
"Brook." The time for formality was
over. "Tell me, I need to know. What is going to happen?"
He put down the wine goblet he was holding, and
stared at her, his eyes dark with something she could not define.
"In truth, Catherine, I do not know the
outcome.
But now?
All I can say is
,
it is time. So my dear, I suggest a bet."
Her wine
glass, which she had just picked up, hit the table with a thump. The contents
spilled over the edge, and a red stain spread over the cloth. She looked at it
in dismay.
Brook laughed. "I had not thought such a
simple comment would elicit such a response. Now my dear," he said, and
all her senses went onto high alert. He stood and walked around the table to
her. "If as I assume, you have finished your meal, are you ready to go
further?"
What could she answer? There was nothing else to
say other than in the affirmative.
"Yes, my lord."
He had to smile secretly at that. Did she know
what she had said?
"So, your brother had wagered you. He gave
you to me. I...." He paused. "Catherine, if I cannot have you with
your blessing I will not have you at all. Therefore let us try this…A
wager."
A coal in the grate split and he jumped at the
sound. Why did she not answer? At last, just as he was about to break into
hurried speech, she spoke.
"Which is?"
How could he answer and not scare her?
"I propose we dice. I have an offer to put
to you."
She stared at him and his skin prickled as if a
family
of
spiders
crawled over it. What was it about this woman that enthralled him so?
"Wager?"
She asked him. Her eyes sent sparks of hot
desire into him, and he gulped. "And what," she continued, "are
we wagering?"
That annoyed him. Had he not made himself clear?
"My dear," he drawled in his best
aristocratic tone. "Surely you realize? Once more the wager is you."
Chapter Seven
Damn
. Catherine had hoped he had decided to forego
that. She sighed. It seemed not.
"How?" she asked baldy. Why did he
have to be so cryptic? She may be the wager but what did that mean? Surely once
wagered she could not be turned over and become the prize once more? Was she
brave enough to ask? One glance at his face, which dared her to question him, made
her decide. He thought she would not; therefore query him she would.
"Please explain my lord, lest I be
uncertain of what you mean." The expression of despair on his face was
worth every worry she had.
Brook looked her over so slowly she was hard
pressed not to squirm. It was such a scrutiny, that even innocent people would
admit to the most heinous of crimes to change his demeanor.
"We wager for you. We play three games of
dice. Winner takes all, no side bets
nothing
less than
that," Brook said. "We play tonight, and do not stop until one is the
victor. Otherwise you are mine. I think you will be after we dice, but I am
happy to let chance decide. What say you?"
If she hadn't still felt her heartbeat, and
heard it noisy in her ear, and seen the pulse beating staccato in her wrist,
Catherine would have wondered if she was dreaming. Had he really intimated it
was now or nothing? She dare not ask, as one answer excited her and the other
scared her. She realized he was waiting for her reply.
"So, if I do not agree to the wager you
will make me follow through on the original bet?"
"That is the essence of it, yes."
However if I agree to dice with you, and I win
it, is over? You say the bet is settled and walk away?" He nodded. Why did
that answer not please her? Did he want her so little? Her heart sank, and what
little hope she had cherished faded away. She was but a means of revenge, a
commodity to use. "And if you win, I am yours?" Again he nodded. In
spite of herself her body warmed with the thoughts of just what that might
mean.
"In what way, my lord?
I wish to be sure
what I am wagering."
"However I chose," he said starkly.
"Well?"
Catherine gathered her composure, and willed her
hands not to shake.
Why in such an
exquisite room, perfumed with the scents from the bowl of spring flowers on a
side table, did it sound so sordid? Nevertheless there was only one answer she
could give him.
"Yes, my lord, I agree."
"Ha, if only you had always been so
biddable. Well then, let us adjourn to the study." Without waiting for her
agreement, Brook walked to the side of the room and opened the door to the
corridor. Punctilious as ever, he waited until she passed through the opening
and followed her.
"To the left, the door
across the corridor."
Catherine inclined her head to show she had
heard him. She dared not trust herself to speak lest she show her excitement.
Her body was tense; a myriad of sensations coursed through it. Even the hairs
on her arms stood on end with anticipation.
I am
sunk. My conscience will not let me try to lose, but oh how I wished he wanted
me for me, and not for revenge.
However, she reasoned there was no use wishing for what was not feasible.
Straightening her shoulders, she opened the study door, no longer caring about
the niceties of waiting for him to do the honors.
She fell in love with the room at that instant.
It was masculine, but not overtly so. Mahogany
fittings, a graceful Chippendale desk and chair, and an
which was so thick no draught escaped into the room. The wall-coverings were a
swirl of exotic burgundy and creams. It could have been dark and
gloomy,
however the comfortable-looking chaise covered in a
pretty lemon silk, with its grouping of cream cushions, and the elegant side
table holding a perfectly arranged display of flowers and foliage gave lie to
that impression. It was warm, welcoming and charming. Probably not what a man
wished to hear, but true nevertheless.
The heat from Brook's hand on her back as he
guided her toward a round table set with a dice board, and two chairs pulled up
to it, brought back feelings Catherine had ruthlessly concealed. She shivered,
as awareness made her body tense with anticipation.
"Cold?" he asked. His tone showed he
thought nothing of the sort.
"Not at all my lord, a
goose over my grave perhaps.
So this is it?"
He pulled a chair out for her, and she allowed
him to seat her. Then Brook walked to the sideboard and looked back over his
shoulder.
"Port?"
Why
not, I have a feeling I may well need a drink before all this is over.
"Thank you."
He nodded.
"Well?" She waited until he was seated
before she spoke. His eyes twinkled as he touched his glass to hers.
"Your health of course,
my dear.
And
may
the best man, or indeed woman, win. Shall we throw for
leader?"
He of course won.
"Then we are agreed, best of three, three
rolls each per round to be taken alternately?"
Catherine took a deep breath. It was as if she
was standing on the edge of a precipice and one false move would send her
tumbling over the edge.
Except she had no idea what the move
was, and had no way of forestalling it.
"Best of three, as you said."
It was all she could do not to bite her lip, or
chew her nails as he rolled the five dice in his hands. She could not take her
eyes off his fingers, fingers that had once…
stop
it, do not remember,
do
not wish for the moon,
concentrate.
He threw the dice with an elegant flick and she
brought her thoughts back to the present. They rolled and stopped.
"Two pairs, sixes and threes," he
announced correctly but unnecessarily. He picked up the unmatched die and cast
it. It landed on a four. Catherine hoped her expression was poker faced. Surely
she could best that? She willed his final throw to be a dud.
He seemed to roll the dice in his hands for so
long, she began to fidget. His fingers caressed the cube slowly, as he rolled
it this way and that. Her nipples puckered as she watched his sensuous
movements. If she hadn't told herself she would never wager again, Catherine
would have bet her next months dressmaker's money he knew exactly what effect
his movements had on her.
"Throw the damn thing."
He
laughed,
a deep,
dark, sensuous sound that did all sorts of illicit things to her body.
"Impatient, Catherine?
What for?"
"For this farce to be over, so I can go to
bed." She snapped.
Oh lord did I say
that?
"Alone," she added hastily.