of greenery and damp earth, hoping to quell the tears brimming so very near the surface.
Dammit! Get hold of yourself!
Cate straightened at hearing the crunch of approaching footsteps on the gravel pathway. She turned to find Roger coming toward her, wearing a look of severe consternation.
“Catherine,” he murmured huskily, clasping her hand. “I’m so sorry. How you must—”
“Please, don’t!” She pushed him away, choked by his nearness. “I don’t wish to be touched just now.”
It was more excuse than lie. Harte inched away, nonetheless, with hideous understanding. “Yes, just so. Of course, my dear—”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Yes, I’m sorry, Catherine—”
“Don’t call me that either,” she cried, clutching her fists until her nails gouged her palms.
“Yes…yes…Of course…how thoughtless. I beg your leave; I should have allowed how you would be feeling.”
“How am I feeling?” she flared. “You think Nathan banged me too, don’t you?
Harte stiffened at her vulgarity. Unable to meet her gaze, he looked to the ground and nodded.
“We all know what corrupt creatures they are, and there is no reason to conclude Blackthorne would behave differently.” He kicked at the stones, then looked up. “It’s common knowledge what happens when a woman is taken by…” He clamped his eyes shut at the thought.
“He didn’t do anything!”
“My heart swells to think of the bravery and courage you’ve shown,” he said over her protests. “You’re a widow. I can provide for you, protect you. I’ll see Blackthorne hanged for what—”
“He didn’t do anything!” she shrieked. A little while ago, he thought she should have killed herself. Now, he was professing his affection, whatever the hell that meant.
Disbelief flickered, but he was too much the gentleman to call her a liar. “You only did what Blackthorne forced upon you. You’d never play the whore.”
“A desperate person can do desperate things. You know nothing of me.” Cate swiped at the wetness on her cheeks, anguish giving way to anger. She wanted nothing more than to throw in his face all the times Nathan had bested him. To do so, however, might well be to her own detriment. Harte wasn’t a man to be trifled with.
His demeanor hardened; the engaging graciousness dissolved. The menace, suspected to have existed just beneath the surface when first they met rose, to the surface like oil on water. “You need not protect him.”
“You only want me because I was his. You only seek an excuse to kill him.”
Harte flinched at her insight. The reptilian gaze fixed on her and his mouth took on a cruel curve. “What difference is it, so long as he is dead? He’s a vile pestilence which should be swiped away.”
“Then do it on your own cause, not mine.”
He inhaled, as one did in preparation of a sudden move, and his hand flexed, either to make a fist or draw a weapon she couldn’t tell. Either way, he thought the better and exhaled through his nose, long and slow, as a parent does with an unruly child. His hand settled on the ivory pistol butt at his waist, instead, the middle finger tapping its lento rhythm once more.
Harte forced a smile, which through tense lips, was more the baring of teeth. “Clearly, you’re distraught,” he said coldly. “You’re hysterical. You require rest. I’ll pass the word for your maid to see you back to your room.”
Harte pivoted on his slippered heel and stalked away. Furious, she picked up a stone and hurled it after him. Missing by a ridiculous margin, she snatched up several more, firing them off, squealing at each toss. Whirling around, she looked for something to break, something that would shatter into thousands of satisfying little pieces. Finding nothing, she crumpled next to a bench and wept.
Cate cried the tears expected with frustration and anger. Along with those came the unexpected ones of anguish, rejection, hopelessness, and isolation, all brought on by the pain of being forced to admit to a roomful of despicable people that Captain Nathanael Blackthorne, pirate and rogue, ravager of women extraordinaire, wouldn’t have her.
In long, wracking sobs, she cried until it hurt too much to do so anymore. Hitching and snuffling, she blew her nose without heed on the hem of her skirt, knowing Sally would have it clean by the morrow. Cradling her head in her arms, she pressed her cheek against the stone of the bench and cooled her heated face.
She traced a finger along her arm, and thought how long it had been since she had been held. She missed being loved: the