Table Of ContentArrow to the Heart
by Jennifer Blake
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Copyright © 1993 by Patricia Maxwell
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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.”
