'People don't change,

they just have momentary steps

outside of their true character.'

Chad Kultgen

DEAD MAN'S SWEETHEART

11

The fact that Nathaniel decided to have a serious talk with his employees on the evening of the bank visit was further occasion to Caine Warwick's advantage. Over the course of several nights he had gradually familiarised himself with the two wings and the central block of mansion. His own room was on the first floor, close to the accommodation in the central block of the family itself. The west wing also consisted of guest rooms on the first floor, while the east wing housed the domestic offices and the servants' quarters. On the second floor of the west wing, he discovered an enclosed suite, to which there appeared to be no access except a single door. Having no chance to observe this area during the day, he could not divine who was resident in the suite or its relationship to the rest of the house, but he could guess - and the guess made him clench his teeth in an effort to supress his anger. Soon … he promised himself, soon ... but there was nothing to be gained by acting too soon.

On this particular night, he had begun to explore the east wing. The first floor consisted of rooms occupied by the servants and some of Nathaniel's minor employees. The second floor appeared to be deserted, there was no light or sound from the rooms as far as he could ascertain, but his investigations were curtailed by a curious fact. One of Nathaniel's henchmen was located in the room next to the staircase - and he was not asleep. Why guard a deserted corridor? Warwick stood a few steps down from the top of the staircase for a considerable time, lost in thought, before he turned on his heel and made his way, silent as a hunting wolf, back to the family area.

# # # # #

Catherine Sherman-Gordon had entertained the house guests until they were ready to retire and gone to her own room shortly after her uncle had called the men into his study. Warwick had pointedly declined to join them and gone upstairs too. Catherine was restless, unable to settle, pacing up and down, her hands clenched in frustration. This would not do. She flung herself into an armchair by the fire and forced herself to be calm and clinical about why she was in this mood.

It was, of course, simply that she had never failed at least to entangle, if not to seduce, any man she set her sights on. Sooner or later, they would succumb to her company, her attention and her undoubted beauty. They were not all as easy to capture as Matthew had been, but that was part of the fun, especially as many of the men of her uncle's circle were mainly interested in power and money. Her some-time fiancé had been the exception and, at first what she mistakenly saw as his innocence and naivety had charmed and amused her.

Now she was being ignored by a man whose presence was the exact opposite of innocent or naïve. Catherine found the danger enthralling, but she could not work out what tactics she could use to break into the silent reserve which surrounded Caine Warwick. When he did actually break that silence, the very sound of his voice was enough to tempt any woman, let alone the dark menace in his eyes and the hard, feral grace of his physique. It was surely impossible that a man of his disposition and experience could fail to know when a woman was attracted to him, yet, despite the lure of her indisputable beauty, he appeared totally indifferent.

With some difficulty and a sigh of frustration, Catherine began to unlace her dress. She could not stand the fussing of a maid when she felt like this and she was, in any case, disinclined to go to bed, only to lie tossing and turning and regretting. She pulled on a silk wrapper over her petticoat and began to loose and brush out her hair, so it flowed in beautiful chestnut waves down to her waist. When the rhythm of brushing did not relax her, she decided what she needed was a stiff drink and some company, even if it was not the company she desired. It would not be the first time she had joined her uncle and his men at this time of night, although she did not make a habit of it.

Closing her bedroom door behind her, Catherine turned to her right and made her way along the main corridor towards the east wing stairs. No sense in advertising her unconventional behaviour to any of their guests by using the main staircase. It was very dark, with only a little moonlight filtering through the edge of the curtains, but Catherine knew the house so well she had no need of a lamp or candle. Neither, apparently, had someone else.

She turned the corner onto the stairs and walked straight into someone coming in the opposite direction. She was thrown completely off balance by the impact of the hard-muscled body into which she had crashed. For a dreadful moment she thought it was Matthew – he had the same feel, the same toughness that comes from a man spending his life outdoors in physical labour – but no, it could not possibly be! She was dizzy and breathless, almost about to faint, but strong hands gripped her shoulders and a husky voice said against her cheek, "I beg your pardon, Miss Catherine. Can you tell me where I am in this confounded house? I seem to have lost my way in the dark!"

She gasped, breathing in the scent of leather, cedar and cigar-smoke which lingered faintly on the clothes under her hands. Then she hastily summoned up her sophistication as best she could, she replied: "You are on the first floor, Mr Warwick, and on the stairs at the east end."

He gave a low chuckle. "I could have sworn I was going the other way. And you, Miss Catherine? I'm afraid I have interrupted you wherever you were going …" The words 'at this time of night and dressed in such a fashion' hung in the air, unspoken, but understood by them both.

"I – I had a headache. So much talk tonight. I thought that a little brandy might help."

"My own need entirely."

"There are always drinks in the library."

Before she could say anything else, he turned, his arm sliding round her waist, as he said: "Allow me to escort you. You may feel faint again." She was almost certain there was mockery in his tone, but she did not care.

When they reached their objective, there was a fire still burning in the room. Warwick let go his hold and pulled an armchair close for her. He stirred up the flames and tossed on another couple of logs, before finding the table of drinks and pouring two large brandies. Having handed her one, he settled into the opposite chair and stretched his legs towards the blaze. The firelight showed her nothing but a flickering silhouette and the occasional gleam, like a drop of blood, from the tiny silver and ruby earring in his left ear. His face was in shadow as he tossed off the brandy in a couple of swallows. Presently he reached into the pocket of his shirt and drew out a small silver cigar-case.

"Do you smoke as well as drink, Miss Catherine?" He selected a cigar, lit up and inhaled deeply.

"No, but I love the smell of cigars." She leaned forward, well aware that the firelight brought out all the beauty of the hair which cascaded around her shoulders.

He laughed, that low, mocking chuckle again, and leaned forward too. "You'd better hold this one then." He took her hand and guided it to the cigar between his lips. When her fingers had closed round it, he got to his feet in one fluid movement and picked up his empty glass. "I see I drink faster than you, which is no doubt appropriate to our respective stations in life." He refilled the glass, repossessed himself of the cigar and continued to smoke quietly.

"One's station in life is, of course, most important," Catherine felt she needed to keep up at least a veneer of sophistication and propriety. "I'm thankful that we Shermans have an assured place in the best society. But with your family connections, Mr Warwick, you can hardly be unaware of the importance of social status."

"I have a family name, Miss Catherine, to which my connections are extremely frayed. My dear relations have spent many years trying to cut me off entirely from it!" He sounded grimly amused by this. "And besides, I do not always enjoy the formality of using it."

"Names, of course, can be formal or informal. We still seem to be on a very formal footing for two people resident in the same house."

"My only concern is to respect the status of a grieving fiancée." His voice was soft and low, but the words had a hard edge to them. There was the very slightest of hesitations before he continued, "Your emotions will, no doubt, cause you headaches, like the one from which I hope you are now recovered?" He reached out and took away her empty glass. "I trust you will be able to reach your bedroom without further faintness? Sleep well, Miss Catherine."

She found herself rising to her feet as if she had been dismissed like a servant. As she turned in the doorway to look back, she could see only the gleam of the brandy glass and the red glow of the cigar to convince her that it was not a shadow or a ghost sitting there by the fire.

# # # # #

He was sitting in exactly the same attitude the following night when Catherine let herself quietly into the fire-lit library. The only difference was a small table next to the chair she had occupied, on which reposed a generous glass of brandy.

"More headaches, Miss Sherman-Gordon?" The husky tones sent a shiver up her spine.

"I don't think you ever really believed in the headache, did you, Mr Warwick?"

"I believe whatever you choose to tell me." He raised his glass to her. "To do otherwise would hardly be the act of a gentleman."

She challenged him quickly: "I thought you said last night you didn't chose to behave like one?"

"I said that was what my family believed."

"And what am I to believe?"

As always, Catherine had the distinct feeling he was tailoring the words of his response to fit her precisely: "I'm sure you are quite capable of making up your own mind and trusting your own judgement where men are concerned." His tone was bordering on the insolent and even though she could not see his eyes, she felt them run over her thoroughly and speculatively once more.

"I fear that I did make something of a misjudgement in my engagement."

"Surely not?"

"My fiancé was a God-fearing, boring small rancher who would never amount to anything. All he cared about was working that wretched relay station."

"Clearly a mistake to value work above a woman of your quality."

"His lack of quality meant he would never really fit into our level of society. He had no idea of the importance of social status and he seemed to think – would you believe? - that everyone should be treated as an equal, for heaven's sake! He was only concerned with ranching and he had no idea of the possibilities for using his re -" She stopped abruptly and then added, with a spurt of viciousness, "He was just a common working man and he had vulgar, working hands!" Her eyes were on the hard, narrow fingers curled round the brandy glass. Caine Warwick, of course, had beautifully kept hands.

"A fortunate escape. We should drink to it." He lounged to his feet and reached out for her glass. "Unless, of course, you feel it would bring on another headache?" The fingers of one hand slid smoothly round her wrist, circling it like a manacle and no more easy to escape, while with the other he caught the glass which she had almost dropped.

The second brandy made Catherine feel more relaxed – if one could ever really relax in this man's company. She was more confident too that she was being successful in initiating a relationship with him, although, perversely, he chose to continue needling her about her engagement: "But, of course, you have a memory of your fiancé to cherish, I believe, in the form of his little brother?"

"My uncle's wishes make it necessary that he lives here."

"I'm sure he must find a woman's tender care most consoling."

"I see as little of him as I can!" It was the truth, for the boy had not responded to her assumed role as his comforter and in consequence had quickly made her hostile. This answer, she instantly realised, was lacking in feminine softness, so she added hastily: "He has adequate care and schooling – and he has the run of the second floor of the west wing. It is not necessary for me to be involved in his daily care. After all, I have not been brought up to mother orphaned children."

Warwick shifted in his chair so that he was looking, for the first time in these encounters, directly at her. "I wonder what you have been brought up to?" He leaned forward, studying her intently and said softly: "Apart, of course, from spreading a charming net of temptation in the path of every man you meet – and, no doubt, making yourself deservedly unpopular with any other female in the vicinity."

It was the point in the proceedings at which Catherine would have fully expected any other man to fall on his knees beside her and begin to talk of love. She received a considerable shock when this one reached out like lightning, caught her wrist again and, with one savage pull, brought her to her own knees beside him. The brandy glass flew from her hand and broke on the hearth, the sound of shattering glass forming a highly appropriate background as he bent and kissed her with a suppressed violence unlike anything she had experienced before. It felt more like a conflict than a conquest on her part, yet in a sense, she had all she desired and more.