Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) (45 page)

But when dreams of London--balls and theaters, waltzing and flirtations--had crept into his daughter's conversations, Aidan had finally understood the depths hell could reach.

My season in London
...

How many times had those words seared Aidan the past three years, more painful than the pistol shot a disgruntled duelist had driven through his shoulder?

He had reeled at the realization that Cassandra had spun out fantasies that could never come true, and his own responsibility for her inevitable disillusionment had festered inside him.

Since she was five, he had kept her safe, happy in her castle beside the Irish Sea--a princess dashing about her private kingdom in a gilded pony cart, begging for presents, hurling herself into his arms, laughing. He had marveled at her, a miracle of goodness in a lifetime ill spent.

The only danger he had never reckoned with was the one overtaking them now: his bright-eyed imp changing into a restless spirit, anxious to fly; a young woman with no understanding of the word impossible, and no inkling that a scandal from a decade past still had the power to harm her--that the sins of her father and mother were emblazoned like some hideous brand upon her breast.

Aidan would have given the last drop of blood in his veins to spare her pain, but he'd been too selfish, too arrogant, too unthinking during that brief span of time when he might truly have fixed things for her. And now it was too late. There were some wrongs that couldn't be righted, some wounds that couldn't be healed. No one knew that better than Aidan Kane.

He reached out a fingertip to trace the scar usually hidden by the curls that tumbled across her brow, the faint white arc a poignant reminder of how close he had come to losing her forever.

At his touch, Cassandra's lashes fluttered open, revealing wide blue eyes, so like her mother's. But instead of the vanity, the deceit that had characterized Delia Kane, delight shone unabashedly in his daughter's face. She scrambled out of bed in a flurry of nightgown and flung her arms about Aidan's neck with no thought to her jealously guarded adolescent dignity. "Papa! You've come! If you hadn't, I would've been quite desperate!"

Aidan gave a strained chuckle. He gathered her close, his heart wrenching at the realization that she nearly reached his chin. He buried his face in her curls and breathed in the scent of milk and cinnamon and innocence. "Desperate? That sounds rather alarming, Princess. Is there something amiss?"

"No!" she said rather too hastily. "It's just that... it's been forever since I saw you last!"

"Three months only," Aidan corrected.
But when I left, you were still a child
....

She drew away, looking up at him with eyes suddenly far younger than her fifteen years. Wistful. Wide. "You used to think that three months was forever too. Remember, Papa?"

But that was before, when I didn't have to face how I've hurt you, simply by being your father.

"Perhaps I stay away to save myself the embarrassment of making a disaster out of your presents, girl. Last time I came, I brought a length of muslin for a gown and, when I saw how tall you'd grown, was forced to face the fact there was scarce enough fabric to fashion a petticoat for you!"

A heartbreaking smile tugged at her lips. "It is my turn to surprise you with a present this time! After all, it's not every day that a gentleman turns... How old is it? Eighty? Eighty-one? A great doddering age."

"Thirty-six, minx," Aidan said, pinching her cheek. "And seeing you is the best present I could receive. Except... perhaps one. Pray, tell me you have not baked me a cake again. The last one nearly poisoned me, if I remember rightly."

"I have a much better gift this year," she said loftily. "I worried over it until my head ached. But it was worth the agonies. It is absolutely perfect."

"You perceive me positively agog with curiosity." Aidan made a great show of searching the room. "You know, it
is
officially my birthday. When do I receive this paragon present?"

Cassandra swirled about to grab up her dressing gown. "I don't know exactly." There was an over-bright quality to Cassandra's voice that set alarms rattling in Aidan's head. "Sh--I mean, it is arriving by coach."

"Ah hah! You nearly said she! Let me make a guess! When last I was here, I told you that Squire Phipps was going to breed that pointer bitch of his. I'd wager a hundred pounds you've sent for one of the pups from Dublin!"

"Dublin? I don't know what you mean."

"You needn't dissemble, girl. Cadagon already told me how shamelessly you tyrannized over them, sending the coach clear to town to fetch it! You knew that I was in the city. If you'd just have written, I could have scooped her up and--No, you needn't put on such a sour face. I'll have her trained to my hand before the week is out! Make her the most devoted female ever..."

Cassandra went quite pale. "It's not a dog! It's something ever so much more exciting."

Aidan raised one dark brow. "Why does that particular adjective suddenly make me nervous?"

"Because you are far too stodgy and set in your ways, and you need someone to shake you up royally, sir," Cassandra said, with a most disquieting gleam in her eyes.

"I see. And you are just the imp to reform me, eh?" Aidan laid one finger alongside his beard-stubbled jaw. "Come to think of it, I passed a coach on the road a ways back, but between the darkness and the crazed pace I was setting, I didn't even realize it was my own! Perhaps I should roust out Hazard and go make a search of it." He started toward the door, but Cassandra lunged for him, grabbing his arm.

"No!" She glanced at the window as if expecting the king himself to come racketing up to the door. "You should carry yourself off to make yourself quite handsome."

"I should, eh? Since when did you become so particular about my appearance?" Aidan peered into the gilt-framed mirror on the wall. His mouth tipped up in a rueful grin. Cassandra was right: He was looking even more disreputable than usual. Stubble shadowed his square jaw, his hair wind-tossed and wild about sun-bronzed cheeks. His eyes were reddened from a shortage of sleep and an overabundance of liquor. A spectacular bruise stained his left cheekbone where he'd been struck by a vase his mistress had flung at him when he'd not tarried in her bedchamber. His cravat had been mangled by impatient fingers, while his breeches and boots were dulled by a fine layer of travel dust.

"Your coat is deplorable," Cassandra insisted with a toss of her head. "And your whiskers nearly burned my cheek raw when you kissed me!"

He rubbed at the offending stubble with one long-fingered hand. "I should hope these will be a minor irritation, since I doubt I'll be tempted to kiss my present!"

Cassandra choked, sputtering. "You could make yourself presentable for me. A gentleman... Well, I— Papa!" Her garbled scoldings vanished in a vexed cry. "What on earth have you done now!" Accusation was edged with worry.

Aidan frowned, confused. "I don't have the slightest idea."

"Your eye! Don't even attempt to tell me you ran into a stable door again, for I shan't believe it! Tell me you haven't been indulging in fisticuffs at that awful boxing salon again!"

"I haven't even been to London!" He raised his fingers sheepishly to the place Stasia had bruised him and groped for a plausible lie. "When I was riding out of the city, I was set upon by… by a pair of brigands who tried to relieve me of my purse."

"Brigands? Oh, Papa!"

"Yes, there must have been four big, burly fellows." Aidan paced to the window overlooking the castle drive, warming to his story.

"I thought you said 'a pair.'"

"Well, I was much confused. It was dark, and after all, I'd taken the devil of a blow to my head." Aidan paused, nearly sighing in relief as a reprieve came in an unexpected form, that of a coach rumbling toward the castle.

"It seems as if I will have to regale you of my adventure some other time," he said, tugging at Cassandra's curls. "My gift seems to be coming up the drive."

"What?"

"The coach!" Aidan said with diabolical glee. "I'll beat you to the door!"

With a squawk, Cass started to dart out ahead of him. Aidan caught a handful of her dressing gown, reeling her in. "Cassandra Victorine Kane, you are still in your nightgown. A young lady shouldn't parade in front of the servants
en dishabille
."

"I won't if you'll wait for me! Papa! Papa, no!"

Aidan had never been able to resist teasing her. He raced down the stairs, making a deafening racket, while he heard Cassandra scrambling to get dressed. He had no intention of spoiling her surprise, of course, fully planning to wait for her in the grand entry to Rathcannon. But at that instant the door flew open, revealing the face of Rathcannon's coachman, Sean O'Day, the burly Irishman looking as distraught as if he had just set fire to the stables. Ashen faced, he railed at the footman, Calvy Sipes.

"Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph, you won't believe what Miss Cass has done. The master is going to flay the hide off every one of us, and I vow I'll hand him the knife to do it with!"

Aidan stepped into the coachman's line of vision, and Sean looked as if he was about to be judged at the seat of Lucifer himself. "Come now, man, don't be so hard on the girl!" Aidan soothed. "I promise not to resort to violence unless I'm severely provoked."

O'Day's eyes grew wild as he looked at Aidan, his big hands clutching at the front of his travel-dusty livery. "Sir. Oh, sir," he mourned, "I was hopin' you weren't here yet. That there'd be time to fix things somehow. But we wouldn't be able to right this in a hundred years! You have to believe me, sir, I had no idea what Miss Cass was about or she couldn't 'a dragged me off to Dublin bound with chains! But if I hadn't gone, what would have become of her? Didn't know what the divil to do once I had her. Didn't dare to tell her..."

"Tell who what?"

O'Day blinked, looking even more dazed. "Why, the lady, sir! There she was, standin' at the dock plain as the wart on Cadagon's nose, with a letter in her hand and her thinking you wrote it. But I knew the truth the minute I saw it."

O'Day's rattling was stirring up the dregs of gin in Aidan's head, starting a painful throb in the base of his skull. "You're blathering like a half-wit!" Aidan bit out. "Just tell me what mischief the girl has kicked up, and we'll sort it out somehow. You're acting as if she committed murder, for heaven's sake!"

"It's you who might be tempted to murder, Sir Aidan, when you see what lurks out there!" O'Day waved toward the open door, as if some horrendous monster was beyond it, waiting to devour them.

Fists on hips, Aidan stalked to the threshold, glaring out at the scene before him. Slivers of light drove beneath his burning eyelids, and he swore, rubbing his fingers impatiently across his suddenly blurry gaze.

He didn't have the slightest idea what he expected to see as the mist cleared from his vision-- the hounds of hell tied to the coach wheels, a tribe of gypsies setting up camp on the front lawn, or the horsemen of the Apocalypse kicking up their hooves in an effort to separate old Cadagon's few remaining teeth from his gums.

However, one thing Aidan didn't expect to see was a footman unloading a spanking new trunk, while a lone woman stood beside the coach, looking on.

Aidan took in wide brown eyes, dusky curls peeking out about a heart-shaped face that looked rather pale under the shelter of a bonnet brim. A rich blue pelisse that should have seemed the height of fashion and elegance flowed about her slender figure, but instead of setting her charms off to advantage, the garment made the woman look, for all the world, like a girl caught dressing up in her mother's finery.

Even the object in her arms seemed designed to accentuate that impression, for she was holding onto a child's doll with white-knuckled fingers.

Yet when she looked up at him, there was something about her--that stiff-necked English propriety, that sense of control--that had always set his teeth on edge. His face twisted into a scowl as he stalked down the stairs.

"What the blazes is going on here! The coachman's raving like a Bedlamite!"

The woman raised her dark eyes to his, and Aidan was surprised as they were transformed into a rare loveliness by her nervous smile. "He's been acting quite strange since the moment I met him. As if there is some sort of--of confusion. If you could just take me to your master, I'm certain it can all be untangled."

"My master?" Aidan echoed.

"Yes. I'm looking for Sir Aidan Kane, of Rathcannon Castle. If you could find him for me?"

He eyed her warily. "What the devil do you want him for?"

Color flooded her cheeks. "It's a personal matter, rather difficult to explain. But I can assure you, he's expecting me."

"The devil he is! I mean, the devil I am. I'm Kane."

She seemed dismayed, and Aidan was aware that he looked like absolute hell.

"Who the blazes are you?" He cursed himself, unable to keep his hand from creeping up in an instinctive effort to straighten his tousled hair.

"I'm Norah Linton." She looked at him as if the name should explain everything. But Aidan just watched her, tension coiling at the back of his neck.

"I answered your letter of advertisement," she stammered out. "The one you intended to place in the London Times."

Aidan folded his arms over his chest in challenge. "I never entered any advertisement."

Disbelief streaked across features that were far too waif-like for beauty. "But of course you did. I have your letter right here in my reticule, and you arranged my passage from England."

"I didn't arrange a damn thing!"

At that moment, a whirlwind of tumbled curls and sweet muslin frock bolted out the door, Cassandra still fastening the buttons at her throat.

"Miss Linton!" Cassandra cried, rushing up to the woman, beaming. "I'm Cassandra. It's so wonderful to meet you at last!"

The Englishwoman looked astonished.

"Cassandra? But I thought..." A flush stained her cheeks. She looked down at the plaything in her hand.

"You thought I was younger, didn't you?" Cassandra smiled as she looked down at the miniature lady rigged out in primrose-hued satin. "Did you bring this for me?"