Reckless. Shannon Drake
Читать онлайн книгу.
of wine, and mused once again. “A name…a name…Adriana, for she so comes from the sea! But then again, into the sea, out of the sea…like a creature with many lives. I know—Kat!”
As he had expected, she choked on her sip of wine.
But then again, she recovered splendidly.
“Kat?” she inquired. She stared straight at him. “Why, sir, how amazing. It does have a most familiar ring.”
“Kat?” Emma said.
“Kat, Kathy…Katherine,” Hunter said. “At any rate, my dear, you will always be our little Kat, then. And like the creature, the cat, may you have nine lives!”
She lifted her glass, coolly observing him.
“Cat!” he repeated. “Ah, yes, the most clever of creatures. Yet one known for the danger of its curiosity. And, hmm, cat…a sweet lovely creature that curls on the sofa at night, and then again, the kind of creature that prowls the jungle, ever searching for prey.”
The coolness in her eyes turned to fire. How they blazed at him!
“Mistress Kat,” Emma murmured. “Will that be all right, my dear? Until we learn otherwise?”
“It will be lovely,” Kat assured her.
Emma nodded, pleased, and absented herself from the dining room with a swish of her petticoats. Ethan shrugged and followed in her wake.
“Lovely,” Hunter murmured, ready to address his meal.
“Lovely!” she repeated, her voice low, sweetly dangerous. And he looked up to see that her expression was one of fury. “You wretched—bastard!” she cried.
“Good heavens!” Hunter’s eyes widened in mock horror. “What language from such a gentle maiden.”
“You should rot in hell,” she declared heatedly. “You followed me!”
“I did,” he informed her flatly.
“You’d no right!” she cried in dismay.
“Indeed, I had every night. I might well have been nurturing a viper at my bosom.”
She started to rise. “Sir Hunter, I’m sure you’ve nurtured many a viper at your bosom, and with the greatest pleasure! I did not ask you to ‘rescue’ me from the sea—you chose to do so. You’ll remember that I awoke in your carriage and that it was you who caused me to bump my head! And now it will be you who…who…”
She seemed at a loss for words.
“Who what?” he demanded, suddenly angry. “Who will betray you? No, what I need to know for myself is not necessarily information I will share. Play your little charade tomorrow for Lord Avery and your precious David Turnberry. I’ll not give you away.”
“Why not?” she asked warily, still tense, half risen, half seated.
“Sit down, Kat. That is what they call you, correct?”
“Kat…Katherine. I’m sure your hearing is excellent,” she muttered.
“Sit down. Emma worked hard on this meal. For her sake, you will enjoy it.”
Rigidly, she took her position once again.
Then she winced. “You will really let me meet with David and Lord Avery as if…as if I were…”
“Their equal?” he suggested. “Oh, indeed. Since you feel you must.”
A flush betrayed the edge of shame she was feeling. “My father is a fine man.”
“Of that, I’m quite certain. And a talented one.”
“He is talented! Don’t you dare mock him!”
“I am not mocking him.”
“Then don’t patronize me. You don’t know anything about him.”
“Oddly enough, I do know a bit. I sincerely believe that he is an incredibly talented artist and that his light, as they say, has been hidden under a bushel for too long. And it was quite evident that he cares for you a great deal. He is a good man. And there is nothing wrong with your home or with your father’s being an artist. So why this charade?”
She was instantly defensive. “Everyone must lead a slightly different life at times.”
“If you say so.”
“Well, you do!”
“Do I?”
“Traveling the globe, gadding about,” she said. “Digging into other peoples’ live! Ancient lives.”
“There’s a difference.”
“There is not.”
“I do it as myself.”
“Well…you, sir, have more opportunity than most,” she argued weakly.
He shook his head. “Who are you trying to be? And why? You’re playing a dangerous game, Kat.”
She shook her head. “I’m not! I just want—”
He sighed. “Good God, do you think that silly boy, your dear David, will see you and simply forget his very rich and titled lady? Do you really believe that you two will somehow live happily ever after?”
She did not reply but sat back stubbornly silent. He shook his head. “The man leaves for Egypt in a week. I suppose there is no harm in seeing that you are somehow properly introduced.”
She let out a soft sigh.
“Thank you,” she said with amazing dignity.
She toyed with the meat on her plate, then ate in earnest, then apparently feared that she was eating too quickly and slowed down. She caught his eye, and her fork froze in mid-position. “Tell me,” she inquired. “Will David’s lady be going to Egypt with him? Does Mrs. Johnson accompany you?”
“Cairo can be a delightful place and many women do come. But the digs are hard, most difficult on women, and few do attend, though there are those who are remarkable scholars and eager for the digs. They are equally willing to accept the rugged accommodations one must abide in the desert. I believe that Lady Margaret will make the trip, but not that she’ll attend the dig. There’s a wonderful hotel the English frequent each season. Shepheard’s. We all start off there before heading off in various directions. Arthur Doyle is heading down, if he’s not there already. His wife is ailing. The dry climate down there is excellent for her condition.”
“Arthur Doyle?” she repeated.
“Indeed. The writer.”
“You know him?”
Hunter arched a brow. “I’ve written quite a bit myself, and so have spent some time in literary circles.”
She didn’t seem at all impressed. “The man who gave us Sherlock Holmes?” she inquired.
“Yes.”
“And then killed off his hero?” she demanded.
He laughed. “Look, the last time he wrote, it was to complain about the way people are so disturbed over Holmes—who is nothing but a product of his imagination—when his dear wife is fighting for her life. The hotel, as I said, is wonderful. So while your David digs in the desert sands, Lady Margaret will comfortably await him. And the others, and her father, of course.”
“And so many people go every year!” she murmured. “What about Mrs. Johnson?”
“Emma prefers London,” he explained. “Or the coast of France. Sometimes she comes, but usually she begs out.”
Kat sighed again. “I’m really not at all in that world,” she murmured. And for a moment, there was no guile in her eyes, no cunning, and her hair, catching the light from the fire, shimmered,