Seacliff (23 page)

A boot came at his head. He rolled away and scrambled to his knees.

A club whistled out of the dark, and he barely managed to lift his own to block the blow. The collision was sharp, and both weapons split down the grain. His hand stung from the impact, and he yelped, scuttled back, and was only just able to brace himself before the third man leaped from the verge and landed on his back. He let himself be shoved forward while his hands reached up to snare two fistfuls of hair; he pulled, and there was a scream before he came away with a cap, a mask, and a patch of scalp in one hand.

He struggled to rise, cursing his foul luck, but a steel-shod foot grazed his shin, and his leg buckled. When he fell, his shoulder struck a rock in the lane. Fire raced along his arm, making his fingers tingle painfully. He gasped when a club glanced across the middle of his back, gasped again when another finally hit its mark on his side. He tried to roll away, and found himself leaning against the slanted verge facing two men swinging at him while, at the comer of his eye, he saw two more regaining their feet.

It was a second, perhaps two, before he made his last move, but in that time, which was all the time in the world, he understood this was no object lesson being given here. This was not one of Morgan’s messages, subtle but to the point. This was not a warning; these men were trying to kill him.

And when the time came he threw himself away from the clubs speeding toward his skull, in the same motion using his good left hand to pull his belt from his waist and wrap the leather around his forearm. At the back of the gold buckle was a grip; and the edges of the buckle had been filed to a sharpness that was only partially decoration. With one leg braced behind him, he watched as the two men repositioned themselves and renewed their attack—silently, using hand signals to direct each other’s movements. The second pair had finally wavered to their feet; Griffin had to move now, or he’d not have a second chance.

He shoved off with his foot, holding up his right shoulder to intercept the descending weapon before it reached its full killing power. When it landed he bit down on the inside of his cheek to prevent a cry from escaping, and instantly tasted blood; but his left hand was already in motion, slashing across the man’s face and wringing an astonished, burning scream from his throat. He stumbled backward, and Griffin planted a boot in his abdomen, let the belt slip from his forearm and swung it like a short whip at the second man’s face. He backed away, and the buckle hissed. Griff swung again, lower, throwing the man’s timing off. The buckle creased his throat; the scream this time was muffled.

“’S blood,” he heard one of the survivors cry. “The man’s not human!”

But Griffin was unable to hear the reply. Just as he was about to advance on the pair in the road, something struck him sharply across the back of his skull. He didn’t fall immediately; he swayed, his neck muscles straining as he fought to stay on his feet. But the strength was no longer there. There were too many pits of flame opening on his back, his head, along his arms; there were too many voices whispering, pleading, begging him to come with them into darkness.

He had no idea if he was going to live or die; he only knew that fighting well this time had not been good enough.

He fell, spinning as he did, to land on his back.

The stars blurred and were hidden by shadows, and he was astonished to see that one of the shadows seemed to be wearing what looked like a white eye patch.

18

T
he dreams did not swarm as thickly as they once had. In the beginning, however long ago that was, Caitlin was goaded beyond the brink of endurance by the phantasms that assaulted her from the darker reaches of her soul, by the voices whispering like ghouls in her ears, by the fires crawling like lice over her skin. If she slept, she felt no healing effects. If she ate, she did not taste the food that passed between her lips. All she knew, all that touched her awareness was a constant sullen ache in her limbs, the malicious bite of the fever in her skull, and the incredible weakness that would not permit her even to raise her head.

But the dreams passed, and they passed for the most part unremembered. Many she was certain were pleasant ones, for they left her smiling gently long after the images and scenes passed from memory; and many more were nightmares, red and black clouds of nightmares that left her gasping for breath, screaming silently in vast caverns, sitting up in her bed and reaching for comfort from people who she sensed were there but who remained unseen.

The fever broke, and the dreams finally passed.

It happened late one evening, long after the candles had sputtered out and the others had slipped into dreams of their own: suddenly, the air wafting over her felt unusually calm, wonderfully cool, and though she remained conscious for only a few precious seconds she knew the ordeal was finished at last, that whatever had besieged her had admitted defeat and was beginning a slow retreat.

The following morning an errant spear of sunlight breaking through a gap in the curtains pierced her eyes. She frowned her annoyance. She twisted her head weakly away from the intrusion. And as she did so she heard someone in the room release a sharp, grateful cry. A slow, deep inhalation, and she opened her eyes.

It was indeed her room, but she believed for a split second it had been visited by angels.

Flowers were everywhere. There were flowers arranged on every flat surface, in vases perched on stone and wooden pedestals, and in large clay bowls fairly glaring with color; there were blossoms of every imaginable hue to rival the purest rainbow, and their scents mingled with the morning breeze, creating a perfume that by rights should have been reserved for the gods: greenery and prisms, sprigs and whole plants, and her standing mirror by the door entwined with mystical mistletoe.

She sighed with relief, and smiled when a damp cloth was pressed tenderly to her forehead.

“Cat?”

It was Gwen’s voice, not daring yet to exult.

Though her vision was still rather befuddled by fever and sleep, Caitlin could discern with some effort the young woman’s anxious stare, and the disturbing purple and gray pouches under her eyes. Her cheeks were sallow, and her black hair seemed to have lost its natural shine.

“Cat, are you back, then? Are you really back?”

She nodded and closed her eyes again. The strain required to complete such a simple gesture had been great, but she felt no frustration. She had no idea how long she had been bedridden, but she knew by the way her arms lay limply outside the coverlet that most of her strength had been sapped by something far more serious than a passing summer ague. When she tried to talk, however, when she tried to ask the dozens of questions that suddenly jumbled into her mind, she panicked; her throat closed and her tongue felt three times its normal size. When she tried to force the words anyway, all she could hear, dimly, was a series of strangled animal-like cries.

“It’s all right, Cat,” Gwen said without bothering to hide her excitement. “It’s all right.” She leaped from her place on the edge of the mattress and spun around once, her hands clasped to her chest. “It’s all right. Don’t try to talk. I’ll get you…” She bounded to a side table littered with goblets, a pitcher, vials, and bottles, and poured out a large measure of fresh, cold water. When she returned to the bed, she slipped a hand under Caitlin’s head and lifted it slowly, holding the goblet to her lips and letting only the slightest bit of moisture slip into her mouth. “Easy, mistress, easy. You daren’t take too much or it’ll come back on you. A little at a time does it. Just a little. You’ll be fine.”

Caitlin knew Gwen was right, but now that she had sure proof that she was back among the living she could feel the welcome stirrings of impatience at her condition.

Another sip, and she moaned her delight at such a simple pleasure as satisfying thirst. A glance to the window, to the shaft of light between the curtains, and she realized she had had no idea how beautiful the morning sun could be. And the flowers! And the water! And… and Gwen! A tear slipped from the comer of her eye, and Gwen quickly wiped it away.

“Am I hurting you?” she asked nervously.

Caitlin shook her head and managed a weak smile. The words were still trapped inside, but her friend understood. She sat on the bed and alternately mopped Caitlin’s brow and gave her water. An hour passed before the goblet was empty, but to Caitlin it was the most joyous hour she’d ever known, and the water had such an exquisite bouquet that she didn’t mind at all when sleep pulled at her gently. She didn’t mind because this time she knew she would awaken again, and this time she knew Gwen would be waiting.

T
he dreams again came.

She was a falcon, coasting above the rolling landscape to the rugged, misted mountains; sweeping under narrow waterfalls without a drop touching her wings; darting under elaborate bridges; playing unrestrained aerial games with a massive golden eagle whose face was Griffin Radnor’s.

Then she was a cloud, drifting over the bay and watching dolphins sport below her; trailing a storm and watching lightning give way to thunder; warmed by the sun as it broke out and watching her shadow caress the land.

She was herself, and she was in bed, and a fever had taken hold of her, forcing her to stare at the four walls; night and day flickered like shadows over the ceiling; people came and went like specters in a dream—and for one long instant she saw James Flint come through the door, alone, smiling, leaning over her and brushing his lips across her cheek, laying his hands on her breasts and promising her heaven if she would recover and be his.

She tried to get away from him by tossing her head from side to side, but he refused to leave. His caresses roughened, and his teeth nipped at her chin. She groaned and threw up a hand, felt the wrist ensnared and would have cried out if her eyes hadn’t opened and seen Oliver standing there.

“A nightmare, my dear,” he said, placing her hand at her side. He was wearing his riding clothes, and across his lap lay his crop. The smell of perspiration and dust was on him, and for an instant she almost wept, wishing she could ride with him. “And how are you feeling? Is everything satisfactory?”

She swallowed, and nodded. But when her lips quivered in an attempt to speak he placed a finger over them and shook his head.

“Don’t try, my dear. There’s plenty of time for all of that when you’ve finally returned to us fully.”

He smiled, lifted her hand to kiss it, and rose. Bowing once, he turned and crossed the room to the door through which he disappeared. Within moments Gwen had joined her, babbling cheerfully about her recovery, giving her the good wishes and love of everyone on the staff. Caitlin had no idea how long she’d slept this time, but the effect on her friend was nothing short of miraculous— the pouches under her eyes were virtually gone, her cheeks had filled out, and her hair had regained much of its luster. She sang as she pulled the dead flowers from the vases, sang as she threw open the windows and French doors to let in the sparkling air, sang as she fed Caitlin a steaming bowl of nourishing broth.

Her happiness was infectious.

By the end of the day Caitlin was humming to herself; by the end of the third day she had pillows propped under her back and was sitting up, brushing her own hair and scowling with good humor at the diminishing ravages of the illness still left in her complexion.

And she felt heartened.

She’d learned she had been abed for the full month of August, that she had awakened to coherence for the first time on the fourth day of September. Yet Gwen insisted no one had ever given her up as lost; they knew she was in the dark country battling stubbornly and demanding her right to a long and full life. They weren’t worried, she was told; they weren’t worried at all.

The gentle lie pleased Caitlin immensely. And it gave her food for thought. Until she’d been stricken, she had taken altogether too much of her life for granted. First her father took care of her, then Oliver saw to her needs; there was Eton and there was Seacliff; there was England and there was Wales. All of it somehow carried her along despite her fumbling tongue and the scrapes she managed to get into. Life had been slipping through her fingers as if it were water, with no attempt on her part to taste of it fully, to understand how it flowed, to see if by her will she might somehow direct it. She had been, she thought, like a feather carried on a gentle wind, traveling with it to places exciting and wondrous, letting it guide her because she was content. If only, she thought then with a grin, a feather had the brains to change its own course.

But that part of her life was over.

Lying in the dark and seeing the sparks of fever gnaw at her mind and waste her body had been sufficient warning. Unless she stopped being that feather, unless she did something about the flowing water, it would all end as it had begun— without any mark of hers left to show she’d been there. And she was astonished to realize that this thought was not entirely new to her; somehow this regret for things unfulfilled and incomplete had reached her even as she’d worked on her father’s ledgers. It was, then, more than dedication to the man’s memory, and more than a familial obligation to the people who depended on Seacliff for their livelihood. It was something buried deep within her trying to break out. It was, she decided, nothing less than her own life.

And it was definitely not too late to do something about it.

A
week passed in which she was determined to feed herself well enough to be able to get out of bed.

A second week passed with Gwen holding her waist tightly while she walked about the room in halting, short steps. Gwen swore mighty oaths reminiscent of Orin Daniels, and Caitlin’s laughter soon lost its sickly, hollow sound. Oliver came in at least once a day, took a chair by the hearth and watched the lumbering parade with a mixture of bemusement and concerned resignation. He’d tried more than once to keep her under the covers until she was further into her lengthy recuperation, but Caitlin would have none of it.