Matthew had done that before, with little compunction. With the stench of blood in your nostrils and the cries of the wounded ringing in your ears, you acted instinctively to survive.
But it was another thing entirely to take the life of someone who had no weapon, especially when that person was a woman.
He could feel the softness of Catherine's flesh as she struggled under the pressure of his hands and see the terror in her eyes as they grew cloudy. The frailty of her bones and sinew were no match for the strength of his. She was dying and that was what he'd wanted.
Wasn't it?
"Dammit to hell!"
Matthew's cry, as much of self-disgust as of anger, mingled with the roar of the sea as it beat against the shore. His grip on her throat loosened. Just as she began sinking to the sand, he slid one arm under her knees and hoisted her over his shoulder with no more ceremony than he'd have given a sack of flour about to be loaded aboard his ship.
It was hard going, making his way up the narrow path to the house, and he gave a grunt of relief when he was finally able to drop her onto the settee in the drawing room. She was no lightweight, that was for sure.
Not that she carried any excess fat on her body. Matthew's gaze swept over her as she lay sprawled before him. What she wore left little to the imagination. Her skimpy cotton chemise, if that was what it was, clung to her high, rounded breasts; her legs were bare under a pair of what he assumed were incredibly abbreviated men's trousers. They were shapely legs, long and elegant, and suddenly he imagined them locked around his waist, driving him ever deeper into her while her eyes, dark with desire, fixed on his.
"Hell," he said sharply.
He knelt down beside the settee, took her shoulders roughly in his hands and shook her.
"Open your eyes," he demanded. After a couple of seconds, she did.
He saw the flood of emotions play over her face. Confusion first, then slow comprehension, then fear as she suddenly remembered.
"You—you tried to kill me," she said in a shaky whisper.
Matthew let go of her and rose to his feet. That same sense of self-disgust and anger was washing through him again. He cloaked it with a cold glare and an even colder tone of voice.
"Unfortunately, I did not succeed."
Her hand went to her throat and his gaze followed. It was hard not to flinch at what he saw. The imprint of his thumbs on her pale golden skin was just now beginning to fade.
He swung away from her, walked to the French doors, and threw them open.
"Some air will do you good," he said brusquely.
She was standing when he turned around again. Her shoulders were back, her hands were on her hips and her feet were planted just slightly apart. It was a classic posture that spoke of defiance and he felt a grudging admiration for her ability to carry it off, though she could not control the faint but perceptible tremor of her mouth that told him she had not quite overcome the fear she was so determined to mask.
"Get out!"
Matthew's lips drew back from his teeth. "An excellent suggestion, madam. If only I could comply."
"I'll give you ten seconds. If you're not out the front door by then, I'll—"
"Please, spare us both the dramatic threats." His lips curved again in that smile that was not a smile, the one that sent a shudder along
Kathryn's spine each time she saw it. "I cannot leave here, much as I wish it. As for your posturing... there is nothing you can do to enforce your demand. You know it as well as I."
He was right, but how could she admit that? She was trapped in the middle of nowhere with a lunatic ghost and...
A ghost. A ghost?
Kathryn clamped her teeth together to keep them from chattering.
He laughed, as if he could read her thoughts.
"You find it disconcerting, to learn you are hostess to me?" The smile fled his face. "Trust me when I tell you I find it more so to be your unwilling guest. How do you think it feels, to realize you are no longer flesh and blood but are, instead, a spirit?"
"I don't know. And I don't care. Either you get out or I'll—I'll call the police."