Catch Me If You Can

By Saskia Walker

Escorting an English Heiress should be no trouble for an experienced man of the world, or so he thought.
Miss Eleanor Craven, the daughter of a world traveller, is confident and rebellious, and refuses to be chaperoned. No self-respecting adventurer has a chaperone! The man her aunt has sent as escort would only hinder Eleanor with his strong opinions and tall, dark good looks…so she must give him the slip. Perhaps one night in his arms wouldn't hurt though, before she disappears.
Peter Rivers loves his work in the California vineyard he manages. So when he's asked to escort the family's niece on her journey westward he agrees without hesitation, positive he can resist the fiery attraction he feels whenever she's around. After all, Eleanor may be fearless, but she's also an innocent in all ways, and he won't betray the trust of his employers or ruin their good name—not when his own reputation is tarnished beyond repair. No, somehow he'll have to avoid temptation. Little does he know Eleanor is hell-bent on seduction. This adventure romance sees Eleanor lead Mr Rivers a merry dance across two continents, and an ocean journey neither of them will ever forget!

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Saskia Walker
• Release date: May 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386969440

Saskia Walker

Award-winning British author Saskia Walker first dreamed of writing her own stories when she discovered a handful of romance novels stashed away in her school library. An avid reader, she lapped up the adventures and the life-affirming emotion she found there. As well as fantasy and romance, Saskia writes paranormal, historical and contemporary fiction, with a special interest in witchcraft. Saskia's short stories have now been published in over one hundred international anthologies and magazines. Her novels have been published by two New York publishing houses as well as several smaller publishing houses. To her absolute delight two of her novels won Passionate Plume awards, and her work has twice been nominated for a Romantic Times Magazine Reviewers' Choice Award. Her Witches of Scotland series was widely translated and became a Scandinavian bestseller. In 2015 she became a USA TODAY bestselling author. It's been an amazing journey. Saskia is now a full time author and she has many more stories to tell. Saskia is happily settled in Yorkshire in the north of England, with her real-life hero, Mark, and a houseful of felines. 

Book preview

SASKIA WALKER

Prologue

FRANCE, 1893

"Are you ready for your adventure, Mademoiselle?"

Eleanor Craven nodded at her gentleman escort, delighted by his question. Indeed I am.

Monsieur Redon, her fencing master – and her illicit companion for the evening – put his hand under her elbow and ushered her along the moonlit lane to the spot where the carriage would collect them. Eleanor trembled with excitement. They were about to escape the school grounds for the evening. In but an hour they would be in their seats for the Russian ballet.

Organizing the forbidden outing had been no small feat. First, Eleanor wagered the fencing instructor she could beat him in a fencing match. The nature of his forfeit had been kept a secret until she’d won. To have been beaten by a protégée was difficult enough for him. When she revealed the dangerous nature of his forfeit he’d told her he had doubts about her sanity – which amused Eleanor immensely.

The crunch of cartwheels approaching on the gravel made Eleanor’s heart race ever faster. They were about to alight when a figure emerged from the nearby building, a lantern swinging wildly from their hand.

Monsieur Redon stopped in his tracks, halting Eleanor as he did so.

The person darted toward them with the lantern held aloft.

Eleanor’s heart sank when she saw who it was. Madame de Oublette, the arithmetic teacher had caught them leaving. Alas, there would be no trip to the Russian ballet.

Beatrice, her gentleman companion declared, recoiling when he caught sight of Madame – her haughty features skewed, yet unmistakable – beneath the swinging lantern.

Oh dear, Eleanor mumbled into her gloved hand, forcing back the urge to giggle when she saw the Madame’s outraged expression, her thin lips pursed in a disapproving scowl.

You will regret this, you shameless girl, snapped the Madame. Evening excursions are forbidden, especially unchaperoned.

Eleanor dug her heels in, her dream of attending the ballet still luring her. She grappled for a reasonable argument. But, Madame, Monsieur Redon is my chaperone.

Her comment appeared to annoy Madame de Oublette all the more. Silence! This is behavior is grounds for expulsion, as you well know. What will your poor Papa think of you, the daughter of an English nobleman, sent home in shame?

He’ll be most amused.

Madame turned her attention to Monsieur Redon. Ari, what were you thinking of? she hissed. "Eleanor is barely fifteen years old. If the school governors hear about this you would be forced to leave, or worse still to marry the chit. If that were to happen, what would we do?"

We? Ari queried, confused

Eleanor was astonished. She had no idea Madame had feelings for the fencing tutor. Was this the reason the evening had been ruined? Whatever the cause, Eleanor found it difficult to keep her disappointment in check. Besides, she rankled against the strict rules of the finishing school for young ladies.

Excuse me, Madame, but you are wrong. I’ll be sixteen years old in two weeks time.

The Madame glared at her. Recall your manners. Speak only when you are spoken to. 

Beatrice... the man implored.

Ari, I advise you to keep quiet.

He clamped his mouth shut.

You, she pointed at Eleanor. Go to your room, I’ll deal with you in the morning.

Eleanor quashed down her disappointment. Why, thank you for your kind consideration, Madame. I should indeed retire. She pretended to stifle a yawn, determined not to let The Dragon – as many of the girls called her – know how upset she was. She turned to her escort. Thank you, kind sir. I enjoyed your company immensely and hope to enjoy it again. 

She turned on her heel and walked slowly, and with the utmost dignity, toward the side entrance of the school.

It was hard not to be upset though. Madame would see to her expulsion, and although Eleanor didn’t mind returning to her home in England, she felt thwarted. The French, who considered themselves liberal in their attitudes, had restricted her movements since she’d arrived at the finishing school for young ladies six months earlier than at any point in her life. Her father had always encouraged her to be independent and previously her schooling had been at home. He’d only sent her to the French establishment while he was in America dealing with his deceased brother’s estate.

Moreover, she didn’t wish to bring trouble on Monsieur Redon. He’d been forced to agree to the outing as a matter of honor. She could only hope the Madame’s obvious affection for him would work in his favor.

She maintained her composure until the door shut behind her.

Taking flight, she ran up the stairs and along the gloomy corridors of the dormitory floors, her cloak billowing out behind her. When she reached her room she quickly pushed the door open and closed it quietly behind her, leaning her back against it, her eyes closed as she caught her breath.

Eleanor, are you well? 

She jumped at the sound of the voice. The embers from the fireplace were the only illumination in the bedchamber and she hadn’t noticed her friend, Miette, reclining upon the bed, awaiting her return.

Yes, you startled me. She untied the ribbon on her cloak and hung it over a chair. Pulling off her long evening gloves, she bent down to the fireplace, lifted the poker and nudged the drowsy embers into life.

Miette leaned over with the bedside candle and lit it from the fresh flame. "I’m sorry, Cherie, I wanted to hear about your evening. I dozed here while I awaited your return."

She huddled, sleepy-eyed, inside a large woolen blanket, the delicate embroidery of her nightgown at odds with the heavier garment. Her hair tumbled heavily over her shoulders, her petite form made to look even more delicate by the profusion of lustrous russet hair.

Our seats at the ballet will remain empty, alas.

Ari did not fulfill his part of the wager?

Oh yes, Monsieur Redon secured tickets and organized a carriage. He fully intended to escort me.  She sat on the bed alongside her friend. The two of them had quickly forged a strong friendship for they shared a rebellious nature. Where Eleanor was headstrong and blatant, Miette was cautious and guarded. Miette covered her tracks more thoroughly, thus avoiding the disreputable reputation Eleanor had with her tutors.

I cannot believe you made him live up to the deal, Miette said. She’d been most impressed by the daring wager.

I believe Monsieur Redon was under the impression I am a dizzy debutant who simply wanted to be alone with him.  Eleanor couldn’t help smiling. She recalled the moment she’d informed him his task was to organize an evening out in nearby Toulouse, including seats at the Russian ballet, recently arrived in town for the week. Alas, the outing was curtailed and I fear I’ve brought trouble on Ari.

She sighed and set about undoing the buttons at the wrists of her green velvet evening gown.

Miette assisted, removing the clips from her friend’s hair. Whatever do you mean?

The Dragon, she descended on us. 

Miette grimaced at the mention of Madame de Oublette.

She actually suggested Monsieur Redon might have to marry me, if there were a scandal. Eleanor bristled with indignation.

Oh, no, Miette responded, her eyes widening. Ari Redon is not the sort for marriage, he’s the sort for dallying with. She laughed, tickled at her own comment.

She threatened to have me sent home, Eleanor continued, and of course she can ensure it happens. She paused, the nature of her current predicament finally sinking in. If it happens I’ll miss you, my dear friend.

Miette nodded her agreement, sadly. We will be friends whatever happens, won’t we, and we’ll visit each other, often? Miette looked anxious. Promise me, Eleanor.

Yes, of course we will. Eleanor reassured. Oh, it is ridiculous, she declared. If this is a school for young ladies who will teach us the skills of dining out with suitors if we are to be locked up in these rooms at night, as if we are prisoners?  She gave a dismissive wave around the small, sparsely furnished room her father paid an exorbitant fee for her to abide in.

Miette chuckled and undid the tiny buttons down the back of Eleanor’s gown. Oh, you have to be safely married, my dearest, before you can go dining out with suitors. 

Eleanor glanced over her shoulder, confused by the contradictory remark. I don’t understand.

A woman must first attach herself to a man in marriage before she can be truly independent, Miette stated, with all the confidence of a mature coquette. She unlaced Eleanor’s corset. Once you have the security of a husband you are free and safe to dally as you wish. 

Eleanor’s frown didn’t lift, for she didn’t agree with her friend’s sentiments. She stepped out of her starched cotton petticoats as she turned the idea over in her mind. Why must we have a man to account for our actions? 

Miette snorted at her English friend’s naivety, shrugging her response.

Eleanor’s frown deepened. She stood in her chemise and drawers, hands on hips, hair tumbling down. Both you and I will have an independent income. I do not understand why we cannot live as men do, choose our companions and yet remain free? 

Miette chuckled again. It is the way of the world, Cherie. You truly are an innocent 

Eleanor didn’t agree. I’m no innocent. I’ve traveled.

Her ambition was to work alongside her father, overseeing their estates and perhaps even developing her own business with the money she’d inherited from her mother’s estate as an infant. Her father had encouraged her in this and treated her no different than he would have a son. Friends and neighbors often commented and whispered about it, but thankfully James Craven took no heed.

You are lucky, Eleanor, not every young lady has been given the chance to live the way you have. 

Eleanor shrugged. Her upbringing had not been conventional. However, she saw no reason for her independence to end, nor the need to marry merely to gain security and some distorted sense of freedom, as Miette suggested. The only circumstances she could possibly marry under was for the sake of an heir for her father’s estate, and as far as she was concerned that was a long way off. You wait and see. I shan’t need a man to give me security, nor independence.

Miette rose and kissed her friends cheek, smiling all the while. "Peut-être, Cherie. We’ll see."

She went to leave. Her gaze sidled back, her expression growing curious yet guarded. Did The Dragon give you any idea how she found out?

Eleanor stared at her friend, uncomprehending.

That you had left the premises? Miette added.

Eleanor shook her head. Perhaps someone informed her, someone who wants Monsieur Redon’s attentions for herself. 

Miette nodded, her eyelids lowered, her expression subdued. An uneasy silence descended and Miette went to the door.

Wait, Eleanor declared.

Miette stopped, frozen to the spot.

Eleanor put her hand out. My blanket, thief!

Miette’s expression relaxed and she chuckled, handing back the blanket she’d stolen from her friend’s bed.

Eleanor smiled. A husband I can do without, the blanket I might need.

Chapter One

THE HUNTER ARRIVES

Sussex, England, 1896

Peter Rivers wafted his well-thumbed edition of The Times to stir the air while he observed the view from the carriage. The countryside rolled out on either side in a carpet of green and gold. It was late summer and the air was heavy with the scent of freshly cut hay.

It was Peter Rivers’ first visit to England. He anticipated most of all their onward continental travels for his heritage was French, but he’d found England a most agreeable place thus far. London reminded him of the hustle and bustle of one of the burgeoning American mid-west cities. Once they left the capital’s chaotic streets behind it was clear the villages were dotted about the countryside in average sizes to one another. In parts of America, one could travel for days without seeing another settlement, then find oneself on the edge of a sprawling city thrown up during the gold rush, the coal or the timber trade. Here on the Sussex Downs, where the landscape undulated gently toward the southern English coast, it was different.

Frieda Craven – his employer, who he currently accompanied on her travels – had commented on it, comparing the sights along their route to that which was more familiar to them, now far away in California.

We near our destination, he pointed out, as they passed another milestone. They had traveled some forty miles from the capital and the village of Fossett was one mile onward. They would reach the Craven Estate within the hour.

Yes, we do, murmured his companion.

Rivers rested his head back on the upholstered seat. The carriage was mercifully well built and the horses sound. The prestigious black and yellow liveries reflected the colors of the Craven crest proudly decorated the doors. Their host had ensured the carriage was at their disposal throughout their visit.

Rivers observed Frieda across the carriage. Her eyes were bright and her fingers occasionally fluttered in her lap. Rivers enjoyed the company of his employer and it pleased him to see anticipation in her expression. During their journey she’d been the perfect companion, engaging in many of the pastimes offered aboard ship, from cribbage to shuffleboard. Their train journey from Southampton to London and their five days seeing the sights in the city itself had quietened her somewhat, and Rivers watched the changes in her mood with interest. The meeting with James Craven, their host, was plainly one she looked forward to. There was a sparkle in her eyes. He’d never seen her this way before and was intrigued by the normally serene widow’s transformation.

Three years he’d known her. During that time he’d overseen her estates in the Napa valley they had gradually assumed a more casual relationship, akin to that of nephew and aunt, and he was fond of his employer. It was rewarding to witness the sparkle of anticipation in her eyes.

The two companions were on their way to visit Frieda’s brother in law. Rivers had always suspected she held a special place in her heart for James Craven. His letters always caused a fluttering in her temperament and a wistful expression lasted for many days. Rivers noted with pleasure how the possibility of amour could lend color and vivacity to even the most sedate of the female population. She certainly was a handsome woman, her appearance defying her fifty years.

With a sudden start Frieda leaned forward in her seat and drew his attention to a manor house ahead. It was a large building surrounded by old oaks. Not overly ostentatious, suggesting it was the home of a noble man, but not one of affectation or pretension, which rightly matched the manner and social standing of their host. Over the façade, rows of tall windows were evenly spaced, those on the lower floors outlined with sturdy rose bushes. Rose bushes also lined the broad promenades of the adjacent gardens.

The carriage drew to a halt outside a wide granite stairway that swept up to the entrance of the house. Servants were forming an orderly procession on the steps to welcome the guests. Within moments James Craven bypassed the retinue of servants in order to help them from the carriage himself. His necktie was loose and his half moon spectacles resting on the end of his nose, as if he’d been checking over the accounts until the moment they arrived.

As the door of the carriage opened, Rivers reached out and handed Frieda down. He allowed the two a few moments of reunion, before descending to join them.

Ah, Rivers. Welcome, it’s good to see you again, James said, turning from Frieda to greet him.

James had been instrumental in selecting Rivers for his post and there was understanding between the two men. James had visited the Californian estate after his brother’s death three years earlier to help Frieda to secure a good manager. Rivers firmly grasped the hand offered. James beamed at the two of them, his woolly graying sideburns framing his broad smile. You are most welcome to our home.

I’m pleased to be here, Sir. 

Come, let us take some refreshment indoors. 

Frieda and James were deep in conversation by the time they reached the parlor. It was a spacious room, littered with grouped easy chairs of differing designs, eclectic yet comfortable. A piano stood to one side of the fireplace and one wall was lined with bookshelves inset with a wide shelf at waist height, to allow the observer to open the books for perusal before selecting one with which to spend the evening. The ornaments and pictures decorating the walls spoke of travels in far-flung lands. A carved shield stood beside a collection of fearsome looking spears caught his eye. His host was clearly an intrepid explorer and an avid collector.

Rivers noticed Frieda and James had stationed themselves close to the large oak inset fireplace, as people tended to do, even in the height of summer the focal point of the room drew them close. He chose to sit off to one side in a winged armchair in order to view the grounds through the window.

Within moments a horse cantered into view.

Rivers leaned forward in his seat. It was a magnificent beast. The rider dismounted. A stable lad, he assumed. He quickly corrected the assumption, for it was a stable girl. The contours of a shapely rump within close-fitting breeches gave it away. Rivers smiled. The young woman wore men’s clothing, a shirt and riding breeches tucked into long boots. The shirt hung out of her belted waistband on one side, the thin cotton barely concealing the outline of her womanly form.

His inspection of the horse was replaced by an altogether more fascinating survey. The girl was a real beauty, despite the boyish attire. She had thick black hair clasped loosely at her nape. She soothed her mount with a sensitive, knowing hand. A sensuous country wench, he surmised.

She strode off, leading the horse by its rein.

Rivers sat back in the chair and wondered if he’d see the stable girl again during his visit. He considered himself a keen observer of human character. He particularly enjoyed observing women. They were very different creatures from men and he enjoyed discovering all the ways in which they differed. When an appealing character and the opportunity came his way, he enjoyed discovering them more intimately.

He was no casual seducer, but he’d proven himself a popular man with the ladies, despite his preponderance for being a loner and his reputation as something of a blackguard. His travel stories, hunting abilities, and extensive knowledge of wine production had gained him both good and bad attention, particularly over the past nine years since he’d left his family home. Along the way he took pleasure pursuing passionate women whilst carefully maintaining his desire to avoid matrimony.

The mention of his name drew his attention back into the room.

Rivers has been patient during our journey. He’s keen to get to France and Italy to select vines for his new project. That is foremost in his mind at the moment, Frieda gave a caring smile toward her friend and employee.

A frown passed across James’s face. I hope you won’t be leaving us too soon. I’ve been anticipating this visit for some time.  His expression softened and he drew Frieda’s hand to his lips. The gesture brought a flush to her angular cheekbones.

Perhaps we might encourage you to join us in our onward travels, James? She looked deep into his blue-grey eyes.

Rivers was about to conjure an excuse to leave them alone when footsteps and voices sounded in the corridor outside.

James turned toward the door. Ah, that will be Eleanor. 

Rivers’ eyebrows lifted. Surely it wasn’t Miss Craven who he’d spied from his seat by the window? His interest sharpened. Could it be that James Craven’s daughter dressed like a boy and traipsed about like some brazen country wench?

If so, he would shortly meet her.

No, he decided, for if it was his employer’s niece he’d seen, she would be both a sweet temptation and a forbidden fruit.

WHEN ELEANOR CAUGHT sight of the carriage, she hurried back to the house. The guests had already arrived. Tidying her hair and realigning her ribbon as she went, she chastised herself for letting the time slip by.

She’d been looking forward to meeting Frieda and hearing about life in America for months, if not years. She’d listened avidly to her father’s stories of his journey across America in the 1870s,  now she wanted to hear Frieda’s tale, a woman’s story, so that she could truly imagine herself heading west on the long adventure.

As she hastened into the parlor, her father rose from his seat. Frieda Craven was seated nearby. Eleanor beamed at the sight of her. Aunt Frieda was a strong handsome woman, her Germanic blood showing in the strong bone structure of her face, and the fair hair graying on her temples.

Eleanor gathered Frieda in a warm embrace. Oh, Frieda, it is good to meet you at last. As I expected, you have the look of a real pioneer. 

Frieda chuckled at her remark. And you are even more beautiful than I expected you would be, is she not, Rivers?  

Eleanor hadn’t noticed the man in her hurry to meet Frieda. He stood off to one side watching the two women embrace, his brow lifted as if he was amused by something. She walked to him, her hand outstretched in greeting.

Tall and striking with angular features, he had glossy dark hair that fell to his shoulders in apparent abandon. His eyes verged on black, and they studied her intently as she crossed the room.

Mr. Rivers, I presume.

He accepted her outreached hand and raised it slowly to his lips.

The firm touch of his mouth on her skin sent a frisson of delight through her entire body.

Please, call me Rivers. It is the name I go by. He turned briefly to Frieda and added, Indeed, Miss Craven is a most captivating young lady. 

Call me Eleanor, I insist. And why can’t we call you by your given name? We don’t follow archaic rules nor formal conventions in this house. 

An amused smile swept across his face. So I’ve noticed.

Eleanor wondered if she’d embarrassed him by being so forthright.

I prefer Rivers. It is merely personal preference, he added, the smile in his expression lingering.

His voice was deep and husky, his accent capturing her attention immediately. Ah, you consider yourself more river than rock, perhaps?

His wry smile met her teasing one. Perhaps. 

The way he looked at her, with such direct intimacy, set her pulse racing. He was certainly a handsome man, with his sun-kissed skin and his broad shoulders. She returned his smile and took her seat, joining the housekeeper, Mrs. Bramley, in passing the tea dishes.

She chatted eagerly with Frieda, all the while aware of the dark and attractive man who looked on. He appeared mysterious and aloof and yet he watched her in a most insistent way. It made her skin tingle.

Why didn’t he join the conversation? He sat off to one side and watched the three from under hooded eyes. She wondered if he’d been surprised by her appearance. She often roved around in men’s riding breeches. The neighbors and villagers still blanched at the sight of her dressed in such unladylike and outrageous attire, riding astride her horse like a man. The household servants and the tenants were used to her ways. She expected Frieda to be a kindred soul who wouldn’t be embarrassed by her attire, but what of Mr. Rivers? Perhaps he was more proper in his ways.

Eleanor had scant knowledge of how Californian society might differ to their own. In their travels, she’d learnt never to assume customs were the same, or even similar, and one should endeavor to make those with different customs feel comfortable. However, as if in response to her thoughts, Rivers rose and took off his traveling coat, laying it on a nearby chair.

Eleanor couldn’t resist watching the movement of his broad chest and his long, lean limbs as he slipped the coat off. When he moved lithely across the room and seated himself nearer to them, she smiled in greeting.

Rivers returned the smile. Humor warmed his expression and graced his solid hawk-like features with a magnetic attraction.

A rush of butterflies loosed in the pit of her stomach.

He truly was a most handsome man.

Eleanor knew her meeting with Frieda was going to bring even more pleasure and interest than she’d expected, and not least from the presence of her handsome companion.

Chapter Two

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER Name

THAT EVENING, RIVERS sat across the dinner table from Eleanor. She found that the conversation, enthralling though it was, never entirely distracted her from the intensity of his gaze. It kept her oddly on edge, self-aware and the tiniest bit nervous. When she attempted to eat, she found she wasn’t much interested in the food.

Mrs. Bramley, the housekeeper, was delighted with the opportunity to demonstrate all her culinary skills to the assembled dinner party. She’d created such a volume and variety of delicious dishes there was little possibility they would do true justice to the feast, especially on such a sultry evening. The housekeeper had supervised the serving girls as they loaded the table with port-broiled partridge, roast pork, apple dumplings, onion custard and a profusion of roast and steamed vegetables to accompany.

Eleanor had made some efforts herself, in order to reassure the guests she wasn’t entirely heathen in her ways and knew how to dress as a lady. She’d instructed Alice, her maid, to lace her corsets as tight as can be and to bring out her red evening gown, for she knew it flattered her coloring. It was edged with black filigree lace across the low cut décolletage. Her full underskirt was rustling black taffeta. She draped her shawl over the back of her chair, for it was far too warm to need it. Small jet beads fell from her ears and sparkled at her throat. The skin across her bare shoulders and arms was marred only by the distinct beauty spot in the dip of her cleavage.

She opened her fan whenever the heat of his gaze became too much for her, which was rather often. She silently chastised herself for fidgeting. His presence had somehow created a dense well of heat inside, heady and delicious, yet sent wild skitters of rare self-consciousness over her skin. She dragged her attention back to the assembled company, interjecting when she realized they were discussing the trans-continental America journey.

No, Father. We must do it exactly as you did, follow the path exactly. It would be the only way to undertake your historic journey and do the pioneers true justice.  Her glance was accusing. They had argued amiably over