Managing a wobbly smile, Catherine said, “I love you, pumpkin. I love you just the way you are. Never forget it. Now cover your ears.” She waited for her daughter to comply before lifting her gaze to Mrs. Clarke. “You harm one hair on my daughter’s head and you will come to regret it. Understood?”
The woman slanted a glance toward Cochran, then gave Catherine a swift nod.
Drawing in a bracing breath, Catherine eased her daughter’s hands away from her ears. “You must go with Mrs. Clarke.”
“No.” Sophie wrapped her amazingly strong arms around Catherine’s neck. “No, I don’t want to go.”
Catherine noticed Cochran’s patience had come to an end. His message was clear—if she could not control her daughter, he would. And soon.
Catherine knew how to handle her daughter’s infrequent tantrums. With a mother’s gentle strength, she unwound Sophie’s arms and set her back. “Sophia Adele Ashcroft,” she said in her sternest voice. “Stop this nonsense at once.”
“But, Mama—”
“Enough,” she said, her heart breaking with each harsh word. “You will go with Mrs. Clarke now, or you’ll be forbidden to ride Guinevere for an entire month.”
Her daughter’s eyes widened in wounded horror, and the remaining pieces of Catherine’s heart shattered.
Sophie adored her pony. The two were caught more than once tearing across the open field near the stables. To her daughter, a month without Guinevere would be like a month without sustenance.
Scrambling off her lap, Sophie stood before her with her arms locked at her side and her nostrils flaring with each angry breath. “You can’t do that. Papa gave her to me.”
Irritation abraded Catherine’s nerves. She had done what she could to preserve Sophie’s memory of her father, and to his credit, Jeffrey had never forgotten his daughter’s birthday. Lavish gifts arrived on time every year to honor her birth—and to soften the sting of another missed celebration.
As a result, Sophie worshiped her father, and Catherine would have it no other way. But Sophie’s choice to invoke her father’s so-called wishes against her cut deeper than her husband’s abandonment had.
Cochran moved to stand next to Mrs. Clarke.
Catherine hardened her resolve, then sat forward in her chair and pointed toward the door. “Go. Now.”
Her smart daughter recognized her I’m-through-talking tone and ran from the room, leaving Mrs. Clarke to follow at a more sedate pace.
When the door closed, Cochran threw something onto her lap. She glanced down and recognized Sophie’s lost figure, a kilted warrior holding a two-handed claymore.
“Finish what you started, Mrs. Ashcroft, or I will slit your daughter’s throat.”
Seventeen
The outer door to Sebastian’s bedchamber closed behind a reluctant Danforth. After watching Sebastian succumb to the effects of a concussion, the viscount had not been keen on leaving. Sebastian had spent the last half hour convincing the agent that his efforts were better spent in London, tracking down their enemy, than playing nursemaid.
Sebastian propped his bare feet atop the sitting room’s ottoman, unhappy to realize the laudanum the doctor had prescribed was wearing off. Much to his relief, his nausea had dissipated; however, a dull throb continued to batter his brain, lower back, and behind his left knee.
His assailant had known what he was about. With three swift and violent strikes, he had incapacitated a seasoned agent, who knew a score of ways to kill a man—when not in his cups.
Tilting his head back, he gave in to the bone-deep weariness that had invaded his body. For someone who was rarely sick and never tired, his current condition put him in a sour mood. That Catherine had not bothered to check on him all day had nothing to do with his present foul temper. Nothing at all.
He closed his eyes and the relief was instant. The candlelight glowed bright enough to be a nuisance, and he still had a difficult time focusing. Once the muscles in his face relaxed and the tautness in his shoulders eased, he allowed his mind to wander. Allowed it to seek a source of calm and tranquility. Most times when he performed this exercise, he would find himself standing at the bow of a fast-moving ship, heading toward the sunrise, the rejuvenating buff of a sea breeze sliding along his skin.
But not this time. This time, his mind moved inexorably to Catherine, to her mischievous brown eyes and honey-gold hair. To her full, berry-red lips and her petite, God-blessed figure he had yet to fully explore.
Last night, when he found her sitting on the hearth rug, brushing her hair and eating bits of