Arrow to the Heart PDF
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Arrow to the Heart by Jennifer Blake e-reads - Romance e-reads www.ereads.com Copyright © 1993 by Patricia Maxwell NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. Other works by Jennifer Blake also available in ereads editions THE STORM AND THE SPLENDOR GOLDEN FANCY ROYAL SEDUCTION FIERCE EDEN BRIDE OF A STRANGER SOUTHERN RAPTURE SPANISH SERENADE SWEET PIRACY THE SECRET OF MIRROR HOUSE BAYOU BRIDE NOTORIOUS ANGEL THE ABDUCTED HEART EMBRACE AND CONQUER Night of the Candles CHAPTER ONE The dance, a quadrille, was ending as the man entered the ballroom. Katrine Castlereagh saw him at once from her vantage point on the dais. She drew a sudden, sharp breath, then stood perfectly still. The new arrival paused in the doorway, glancing around him with quiet assurance. The butler had left his post as the evening advanced; there was no one to announce this late-coming guest, no one to take his high evening hat of black silk or the rain-spotted cloak that hung in heavy folds reaching from his broad shoulders to his heels. The dance floor cleared, leaving an open stretch of gleaming parquet between the door and the dais. The man turned his head, gazing down the aislelike stretch of space. His gaze narrowed as it fastened upon Katrine. He allowed himself a slow and complete inspection of her person from her shining curls to the hem of her ball gown. His expression was hard, stringently assessing, before it smoothed into polite, social blandness. Removing his hat, he tucked it under his arm and began to walk toward her. He moved with long-limbed grace and a total lack of self-consciousness. His stride was neither too fast nor too slow, but held enough controlled power to cause his cloak to expose its red silk lining as it dipped and swirled around him. His evening clothes were perfectly tailored to his tall, solid-muscled frame and correctly somber, yet the rich cream-on-white paisley of his waistcoat hinted at exuberance. The dark waves of his hair were close-cropped; the soft rain of a Louisiana autumn falling beyond the ballroom's long windows had spangled them with droplets that caught the light from the wax tapers in the chandeliers overhead. Smile lines were set around his mouth and eyes, burned there by the same hot winds and strong suns that had weathered his skin to the golden brown of the polished oak floor. The green of his eyes was the muted, reflective shade of a woodland pool, a dark color that hinted at deep and private thoughts. Katrine's husband, Giles Castlereagh, standing at her left hand, turned from his nephew to whom he had been talking as he noticed the approach of the new guest. An odd excitement came and went across his puffy features. He shifted with ponderous deliberation and descended a single step from the dais, putting out his hand to grasp that of the other man. “Rowan de Blanc, I believe?” Giles said in smooth satisfaction. “Welcome to Arcadia. Permit me to present you to my wife, sir. Katrine, my dear, you will have heard a great deal in the past about M'sieur de Blanc.” Katrine turned from signaling for the butler to come forward and take their guest's hat and cloak. Her greeting was given automatically, as a matter of training, though she was not sure what she said as she surveyed the man at close quarters. Rowan de Blanc inclined his dark head in a bow. The movement, she saw, was just as it should be, low enough to show respect, not so low as to suggest undue humility. His voice as he made his salutation was deep and even in timbre and his choice of phrase gallant without being flirtatious. If he noticed the tremor in her hand as she gave it to him, he was considerate enough to give no sign of it. His grasp was firm yet gentle and the brush of his lips on the gloved back impersonal in spite of its heat. His brow was broad, his nose straight; his lashes a thick ambush from which to view the world. There was generosity in the molded shape of his mouth and his chin was aggressive in its firmness. He would have been devastating if there had been any warmth in his expression, Katrine thought. As it was, he was too handsome, too well-bred, too strong, too discerning, too experienced. Rowan de Blanc was much too near perfect for comfort. And because of it, he terrified her. “You will forgive my tardy arrival, I hope,” the newcomer said, nodding his thanks at the same time to the butler who relieved him of his outer wear. “The St. Louis Belle was late in landing at St. Francisville this evening. Though I received your invitation to the tournament while in New Orleans, I only learned of the ball to open the festivities after I reached my rooms here.” “Think nothing of it,” Giles answered with an expansive gesture. “The gathering was an impulse arranged because several of the gentlemen arrived ahead of time. In any case, Katrine and I had only just begun to think of deserting our post.” “You're very generous,” the other man said, his gaze resting on Katrine's face once more as she stood in regal stiffness before him. The lady was not, Rowan had to admit, precisely what he had expected. There was no hardness in the warm coffee brown of her eyes, no evasion in her gaze. The delicate flush that overlaid her cream-satin skin gave her finely drawn features a look of freshness, while the moist and sweetly curving lines of her parted lips drew his gaze like a magnet. There was fascination in her hair that fell in thick, shining coils from a diamond pin at the crown of her head. The color was elusive, now russet and gold with shadings of rich brown, now warm brown with a red-gold sheen. Her gown of sea-green brocade draped the gently rounded curves of her breasts, hugged the narrow span of her rigidly corseted waist, then billowed into the enormous, shimmering bell of her skirt. There was a certain medieval appearance to the long, flowing cuffed sleeves of her gown. It was appropriate for the occasion, and also the setting. The gilded paper of the ballroom's walls was half-hidden by age-darkened tapestries and the banners of kings long dead; the musicians playing pianoforte, violins, French horn, and harp were dressed like court fools, while through the open doorway of the supper room could be seen a long trestle table. There was no torchlight or rushes on the floor, however. Giles Castlereagh had been wise enough not to become too carried away by the present vogue for the literary excesses of Sir Walter Scott. Quietly on the air came the first strains of the old English air “Greensleeves” played to a gentle waltz tempo. Rowan took instant advantage of the music. “If you have indeed finished receiving your guests, Madam Castlereagh, may I have the honor of this dance?” Dismay congealed upon Katrine's features. “No. Oh, no, really—that is, I believe I am already engaged for it.” Her husband turned his head to stare at her with a lifted brow. “Are you, my dear? To whom?” “To you, naturally,” Katrine said with color rising to her cheeks, “as it will be the first of the evening.” “Nonsense. We won't stand on ceremony, not when my gout is near crippling me.” “I will sit the dance out with you then.” Her words were decided. Giles was a man of many ailments, most of them highly convenient, for him. They were also useful to her on occasion. “No, no. Go along with M'sieur de Blanc. I will not have you deprived, and you know I like watching you enjoy yourself. Besides, I think I hear the siren call of the card room.” “Really, Giles—” she began in protest. “To please me?” The request was mild, but the look in his eyes was adamant. She could press the matter no further without giving offense to Rowan de Blanc. “As you wish.” Lowering her lashes, Katrine placed her hand upon the stiffly held arm of the dark-haired man, permitting him to lead her onto the floor. They circled gently, with the correct distance separating them and the correct formal restraint in their movements together. In spite of that, there was an uncomfortable intensity in the gaze he bent upon her. The freshness of the damp night clung to him, mingling with the warm male scent of well-ironed linen and bay rum. His grasp at her waist, firmly guiding her into the turns, seemed to burn the imprint of his fingers into her skin. The movements of his thighs with their well-defined horseman's muscles were disturbing as his legs pressed against the silken fullness of her hooped skirts. Katrine drew a deep but discreet breath to steady her nerves. There was no point in sulking; it was not going to help. She gave Rowan a swift upward glance as she said, “I would not have expected someone of your repute to be amused by our annual games.” “I wasn't aware I had a reputation, Madam Castlereagh,” he returned. “Your brother spoke of you at length. He was proud of your exploits, you know.” “I know.” The words were abrupt. Her gaze flickered away, then back again. “I only meant that our archery competitions and jousting at brass rings must seem tame. They can hardly be compared to hunting with the Indians of the Amazon forests, riding with Arabs with blue faces, or trekking into the heart of Africa.” “You think I require an element of risk to ensure my amusement? Your tournament can supply that, surely.” The lethal softness of his voice sent a tremor down the length of Katrine's spine, but she refused to acknowledge it. “I doubt the small dangers of competition can equal those in your travels.” He smiled down at her, a superficial movement of his lips. “Such ventures can be expensive, and you forget the prize for the winner.” “A purse of gold? What do you care for that? Your father's estate was more than adequate, so I understand, to permit you to follow whatever whim may move you.” His smile faded. The words abrupt, with a slicing rapier's edge, he said, “Terence told you a great deal.” Katrine looked away from his direct gaze. “We spent much time talking.” “Did you?” He paused, then went on deliberately, “And did my brother tell you how much he loved you before he died? Did he, perhaps, die of love for you?” Her gasp was so ragged that it tore at her throat. She missed a step, and he caught her close for an instant to aid her recovery. His arms were taut with muscle under the smooth broadcloth of his coat sleeves; the hard closeness of their hold was like a prison. Something stirred, fluttering in panic, at the center of her being. She pushed away from him as she answered in sibilant tones. “No, he did not! There was never any hint of such a thing.” “Are you quite certain? Did he, perhaps, offend with his calflike adoration, so that he was forced to appear on the field of honor?” “It wasn't like that at all. No one knows why he shot himself. He was only found beside the lake with the pistol in his hand.”
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