Catherine swallowed. “But, Papa, this will never work. Valentine is no fool. He’ll know I’m not Elizabeth. Even if I’m veiled, he’ll know.”
Edmund Fullbright smiled. “Don’t you worry about Valentine. I bribed one of his footmen to give him the same brew you’ll take. Now drink.”
The brute shifted, his gaze never leaving Catherine’s breasts.
Catherine gulped the foul-tasting brew, not caring that it scalded her tongue.
Three hours later, she stood in the chapel. It was cool and quiet inside, but to her everything appeared hazy and blurred. She swayed, but her father’s hand on her elbow steadied her. She was glad that she could not see clearly, glad that her groom’s face was obscured, and that the tea her father had given her before the ceremony numbed her. She did not want to think what she was doing.
She did not want to think of Elizabeth at home, crying, as Catherine took her place. She did not want to think what Valentine would do when he lifted the heavy veil and saw his bride.
But perhaps he would not notice. She’d seen him sway and stumble and knew he, too, was drugged.
The parish priest was speaking, saying her name, and behind her, she heard her father cough. He’d done so each time her name was required. He’d hacked and coughed, concealing the sound of her name, so that she did not even know whether her name or Elizabeth’s was spoken.
And then she was being shaken from her lovely quiet place. She was urged to speak, and she obeyed. It seemed so much easier to obey now that she had drunk the tea.
She spoke the words required of her, listening to the voice coming from her lips in wonder. It did not sound like her, and yet she liked listening to the voice. She did not want the voice to stop.
But she was hushed, and the voice went dead, and Catherine wished she herself were dead because then her heavy veil was lifted, and she looked into mahogany brown eyes. The shock and disgust on Valentine’s face was a physical blow. And then all went black.
CATHERINE STRETCHED and tried to open her eyes. They were so heavy, though, that she almost rolled over and went back to sleep. Her whole body was terribly burdensome. She could not seem to move it. Every time she did, her head ached. But she could not sleep all day. She had to go to Elizabeth’s wedding.
With an immense burst of will, she opened her eyes and tried to focus. The room was dark, the bed’s blue silk drapes drawn. She blinked. Her bed did not have drapes. Reaching out, she parted the luxurious material and peered into an unfamiliar room. The curtains, also blue, were pulled shut, so she had no idea of the time, but she felt as though she’d slept for a week.
She closed her eyes again and tried to think where she was. She’d been asleep in her bed and then—
Catherine shot awake. Everything flooded back to her so quickly that her head throbbed with the effort to contain it all. Bits and snippets of images poured over her.
Her father bursting into her room. The beefy man’s ham-sized fists. The cool church.
Valentine lifting her veil.
No!
She had to find Valentine. Lifting her head from her pillow, she forced herself to ignore the pain and sit. As she did so, the sheet she wore fell back. Catherine gasped, noting she wore nothing underneath. She was naked in a strange bed.
There was a groan and beside her something moved, and then a man’s arm emerged from the silk bedcovers beside her.
Catherine screamed and clutched the sheet, pulling it to her chin. She kicked at the man and scooted as far toward the edge of the bed as possible.
“What the hell?” he said. She was pulling all the sheets to cover herself and revealing him in the process, and her eyes widened as she realized he, too, was naked.
One, two, three, four . . .
Good Lord! She was in bed with a naked man. She pinched her arm, hoping it was a dream.
Her arm hurt, and she did not wake. Then the man rolled over, turning so that she could see his bare chest all the way to where the last vestiges of sheets barely covered him at the hips.
Catherine stared, unable to take her eyes off him. And then she jumped up, tripped over the sheets, and stumbled to her feet. She screamed again, backing away from the now-naked man and wrapping the sheets tightly around her. She had to escape, to get away from this man. But she could not go home. She could never, never, never go home. Anything but that.
“Who the devil—” Valentine was looking at her now, frowning, seeming confused. He did not appear to recognize her yet or understand what was going on, but Catherine knew. Oh, God, she knew all too well what had happened.
Her father’s plan had succeeded. He’d forced her agreement, drugged her, then drugged Valentine, too. And now Quint Childers, the Earl of Valentine, was staring at her, naked and aroused, and lying in the bed they’d shared.
Chapter Eight
“Stop screaming,” Quint said, when he found his voice. “I can’t think with you screaming.”
