Ignoring his singed knuckles, he pulled her away from the hearth and turned her to face him. "Are you all right?"
A stupid question; she was in shock, her face as white as her nightgown. Fearing she would collapse, he drew her into his arms. Her heart was hammering so hard he could feel it against his ribs, and she seemed barely aware of him.
"You're safe, Catherine," he said sharply. "You're safe."
She hid her face against his shoulder and began sobbing. He held her close and murmured words of comfort. Her dark silky braid slid seductively across the back of his hand. He was guiltily aware of every inch of her length pressed against him-and her rosewater scent, and the pressure of her soft breasts against his chest.
This was as close to her as he would ever be. Yet he could not savor it because it was impossible to take real pleasure in her nearness when she was distraught.
Her tears gradually faded, but she was still chilled and her breathing was quick and shallow. Gently he guided her into a chair. She buried her face in her hands, exposing the fragile curve of her nape.
As he removed his jacket, he saw that the areolas of her breasts were dimly visible under her white muslin nightgown. The tantalizing sight caused him to begin to harden.
Good God, what kind of animal was he, to feel desire for a woman shaking with fear? As much for decency as for warmth, he draped the heavy wool jacket over her shoulders. The garment was far too large, so he crossed the braided panels double over her chest, painfully careful not to brush her breasts with his fingers. She stared at him numbly, still not speaking.
He knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. The dark green jacket intensified the hue of her aqua eyes. "Should I go for your husband?"
She said unsteadily, "Colin isn't home tonight."
"Do you want me to wake Anne?"
"Really, I'm fine." She tried to smile. "There's no need to disturb anyone else."
"Liar." He started chafing her cold fingers. "Seldom have I seen anyone who looked less fine."
She gave a watery chuckle. "I'm a disgrace to the army, aren't I?" Her hands knotted into fists. "I'm usually fairly levelheaded, but… well, my parents died in a fire."
He winced, understanding her shattering reaction to the accident. "I'm so sorry. How did it happen?"
"I was sixteen," she said haltingly. "My father's regiment was posted to Birmingham. We rented a charming old cottage that was covered with roses all summer. I thought it would be lovely to live there forever. Then winter came, and one night the chimney caught on fire. I awoke smelling smoke. I screamed to wake my parents, but the fire was already out of control. My bedroom was on the ground floor and I was able to escape out the window." She closed her eyes and shuddered. "My parents were upstairs. I kept screaming until half the village was there, but… Mama and Papa never woke."
He squeezed her hands, then stood. "Is there brandy in the cabinet in the dining room?"
"Yes, but really, it's not necessary."
Ignoring her protest, he said, "Will you be all right while I get the bottle?"
Feeling a shadow of humor, she said, "Believe me, I'm not going anywhere for a while."
He scooped the kitchen cat from under the table and set it on her lap. "Here. There are few things more comforting than a purring cat." Then he took a candlestick and left with long, soundless strides.
Catherine leaned back in the chair, stroking soft feline fur. It was a good thing Michael had given her the tabby, because her fragile peace of mind vanished along with him. She had not realized how safe he had made her feel until he was gone.
When she glanced down and saw the scorched hem of her nightgown, panic began rising again. She pulled Michael's jacket closer around her shoulders. It still carried his body heat. When he had wrapped the garment around her, the tenderness of the gesture had brought her near tears again. She had not felt so cared-for since she was a child.
Tartly she reminded herself that she had escaped unscathed and there was no excuse for hysteria. A towel was draped over the arm of her chair, so she lifted it and blew her nose. Then she concentrated on soothing the nervous cat. By the time Michael returned, the tabby was purring and Catherine had regained a semblance of calm.
"Drink up. You need this." He splashed brandy into two glasses and gave her one, then settled in the opposite chair. He sat casually, one arm resting on his upraised knee, but his watchful gaze was on her face.
"Thank you." She sipped the brandy, grateful for the way it warmed her bones. "Since we couldn't live without fire, I've had to suppress my fear of it. I didn't know how much terror was lurking inside me. If you hadn't been here, I probably would have stood like a frightened rabbit while I burned."
"You're entitled to your fear," he said quietly. "Quite apart from your parents' tragedy, far too many women have died or been horribly injured in accidents exactly like yours."
"Thanks to you, that didn't happen." She leaned back in her chair, rubbing the cat's chin with one finger as she drank.
Odd how the fire that had terrorized her was now so pleasant, its ruddy glow finding auburn highlights in Michael's hair. At their first meeting, she had found his austere good looks unsettling. He had reminded her of a finely honed sword, a quality she had glimpsed in other men who were born warriors. Very quickly she had discovered his humor, but it had taken near-catastrophe for her to recognize his kindness.
She did not realize that she had emptied her glass until he rose and poured more for both of them. She regarded the brandy doubtfully. "You're going to get me tipsy."
"Perhaps, but with luck you'll sleep soundly."
She thought of the nightmares she had experienced after her parents had died, and took a deep swallow. Wanting to talk about something safe, she said, "Charles Mowbry mentioned that you were a member of a group called the Fallen Angels. It that a club?"
He made a deprecating gesture. "It's only a foolish label that fashionable society slapped on four of us who have been friends since Eton. It originated in the fact that two of us have archangel names, and the other two, Lucien and Nicholas, acquired the rather sinister nicknames Lucifer and Old Nick."
She smiled. "I've known a lot of young officers over the years, and from what I've observed, I'd bet that you enjoyed having diabolical reputations."
Laughter showed in his eyes. "We did, actually, but now that I am respectably adult I don't like to admit it."
"Are you all still friends?"
"Very much so." His expression was wry. "Nicholas's wife, Clare, said we adopted each other because our families were less than satisfactory. I suspect she was right. She usually is."
The oblique comment made Catherine wonder what Michael's family was like. Now that she thought of it, when his noble relations were mentioned, he was always curt to a point just short of rudeness. But it wasn't hard to see him as a fallen angel, handsome and dangerous. "What are your friends like?"
He smiled a little. "Imagine a great long wall blocking the path as far as one can see in both directions. If Nicholas came to it, he would shrug and decide he didn't really need to go that way. Rafe would locate whoever was in charge of the wall and talk his way past it, and Lucien would find some stealthy way to go under or around without being seen."
"What about you?"
His smile turned rueful. "Like a mad spring ram, I would bash my head into the wall until it fell down."
She laughed. "A good trait for a soldier."
"This is actually my third go-around in the army. I first bought a commission at twenty-one. The military situation was very frustrating, though, so I sold out after a couple of years."