Seacliff (33 page)

“You will hang,” she spat, shoving him away.

“No,” he said. “Drunken Mike Phobis will hang. In the morning, if I’m not mistaken.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You regard no life as sacred, do you? A man killed to drive off Griffin; a man killed to be sure you still hold Seacliff. There’s no shame in you, is there? No shame at all.”

“What shame I have,” he said, “is for those who refuse to fight for what they want. I admired your husband, my lady. For all his faults and stupidities he knew what he wanted and he did not stop until he achieved it. Unfortunately, I got there before he did.”

She wanted to say more, to prolong the time in the room before she would have to face the staff with the news of Oliver’s death—and before she would have to begin her own sentence of imprisonment within these walls. In effect, then, save that she’d now become a widow, nothing had changed. She was back to where she had started, with no idea what the next move would be.

She put the back of one hand to her brow. “I… I feel rather faint, Mr. Flint.”

He was by her side again, and before she could comprehend what was happening his lips were on her neck, her shoulders, slipping down to her breasts where she could feel his steaming breath slipping below her neckline. She gasped, but could not wrench away. Like a steel vise his fingers took hold of her breast and pinched the skin between them, making her whimper. She twisted, which only seemed to inflame him. He cupped a breast in one hand while the other began tugging at the lace bindings of her bodice.

“Bastard!” she whispered harshly. “They’ll be back—”

He bit her, and she cried out. Then finally she broke his hold and spun away. The flimsy material of her gown parted with a single tear, and she crossed her hands in front of her exposed breasts, backing to the wall while he grinned without mirth and rubbed his palms together.

“It seems,” he said as he came slowly nearer, “that our Mr. Phobis turned on you before he was subdued by Mr. Birwyn. The drink had gone to his head.”

She could not help stealing a glance at Oliver’s covered body, at the clean soles of his boots poking out from beneath the drapery. And in the sullen light she caught the lust sparking in Flint’s eyes, his tongue moistening his lips. Like a wolf before a meal, she thought as she reached behind her and grabbed a ledger from the shelf.

The movement bared her breasts and tumbled them into the light. Flint stared at them fixedly, and she wondered suddenly if she might take advantage of his all too evident desire. If she could maneuver him into the proper position, using her body as a weapon, there was still a chance she could get into the south tower and explain her predicament before she was pursued. The staff would rally around her, she was sure; they could do naught else if they wanted to save their skins.

But she’d taken too long to make her decision. By the time she’d lowered the ledger back to its place, Flint had regained control and was smiling again.

“Ah, my lady,” he said, “there’ll be other times more appropriate.”

“I doubt it,” she said, masking her bitter disappointment.

“Don’t,” he said. “All will go well for me, I’m sure, and by summer there’ll be the perfect opportunity to complete my conquests.”

In spite of herself her puzzlement showed. “I don’t understand.”

“But Caitlin,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “By the end of this summer, you’ll be my wife.”

25

O
rin Daniels stood alone in the churchyard. In his hands he held a black cup, and about his shoulders hung a patched cloak of earthen brown. A breeze coasted down the hillside from the east and tousled his close-cropped hair, and every few minutes he would scratch at the mass of scar tissue that had once been an eyebrow. His attitude was one of respectful meditation, and those who walked past him on the road refrained from disturbing his mood. He sensed their gaze, however, boring into his back with silent recriminations. In many minds he knew he was a traitor; he had remained at Seacliff after others had left. The villagers’ opinion bothered him, but not to the point of distressing him. What he was doing was right, he was sure of it. Otherwise he would have gone like the rest of them— either been sacked outright by Flint, or escaped in the middle of the night to relatives or friends in villages beyond the valley.

Of course, he thought, staring at his father’s headstone, that was before the possibility of escape had been closed off. Now there were men stationed everywhere, sitting high on the boulders and checking each wagon, each cart as it passed through Seacliff’s gates to distant markets. And in each cart and wagon were more of Flint’s men, silent and watching, hiding beneath their billowing shirts and cloaks weapons at the ready in case someone was foolish enough to attempt flight.

A wondrous sad thing, Dad, he thought; a wondrous sad thing.

He lifted his gaze to the rear wall, and to the pastureland and fields beyond. New greenery was bursting through the rich, dark ground, and with the lambing and calving already started, dozens of tiny, stumbling additions to the small herds and flocks now frolicked on the grass. Their bleats and hungry cries filled the air to rival the cries of returning birds. The thaws had already passed, but the streams and rills were still swollen, still rushing, and in many places the ground was sodden from the overflow. Flowers wild and cultivated brought rainbows to the earth, and in the morning silence he could hear the hum of the bees from Tom Johnson’s hives rising noisily on the breeze.

He sighed and twisted the cap in his hands.

It was time for a decision, and he wasn’t sure he had the courage to make it.

He was not so full of himself that he believed the world would stop without him; on the other hand, if he was caught, his mistress would have only Gwen left to care for her. And if he was caught, he wasn’t entirely sure Lady Morgan would be able to survive the coming season.

The focus of his vision changed, and he was staring at the mountains, willing them to come alive with men brandishing weapons, with men whose hatred for the English equaled his own and who were willing to lay down their lives to rid the valley of these British vermin. But there was nothing to be seen. And there had been nothing since the turn of the year. Oh, a few of the younger men had managed to slip away now and again: Johnson’s youngest son, Willy, and Randall’s cousin, Terry, a few of the farmhands and just last week all the men of one family that had been working Falconrest land. That, however, was the exception rather than the rule; most of the night flights had occurred before Flint posted men around the valley.

Did he have the courage to join the outlaws?

He slapped the cap angrily on his head and stalked away, knowing that the courage he needed to remain with Lady Morgan was at least equal to that needed for fleeing to the glens.

At the gate he stopped to watch a wagon rumble by, on the bench sat the widow Shamac’s only son, Edward. There were rumors he, too, was about to take the chance, but nothing in the younger man’s demeanor suggested anything but compliance with Seacliff’s new regime. They exchanged wary glances. Orin nodded, gnawed thoughtfully on the inside of one cheek and nodded again. Instead of turning around toward Seacliff, he veered left toward the commons. He needed someone to talk to. Martin Randall would give him the advice he required.

On the way he passed Ellis Lynne, and the vicar gave him his best smile, then walked on a few paces before turning and staring. The reverend didn’t trust the farrier; not a whit, not a mile. Every Sunday he took the back pew and glared at the minister, his lips mouthing the prayers and little else. And he always left the moment the service was done. Lynne suspected the man of giving aid to the rebels, but without substantial proof he could only mutter veiled insinuations and hope Flint would get the message.

So far, however, he hadn’t.

And he was forced to admit to himself that he was growing increasingly afraid. From the day that man—whatever his name was—had been hanged for the major’s murder, Flint had inaugurated a stealthy campaign of terror to solidify his position. Taxes had been doubled under the guise of support for the king’s military mobilization; the men Morgan had assembled had been withdrawn from the village and housed in long huts in the grove beyond the estate’s north wall, where they were easier to control. Flint would send them down into the village en masse, like wolves upon helpless sheep in the night. Three men had been flogged for attempting to join the rebels, and immediately afterward the posting had started. Finally the staff at Seacliff had been reduced to almost nothing. One morning, like a bolt of invisible lightning, the Courder sisters had turned up at Shamac’s requesting shelter. That afternoon, all the maids were at the church demanding sanctuary. Some had been accommodated; the rest were permitted to seek out relatives in other towns. As far as Lynne could ascertain, only the old man, Bradford; the scullery wench, Mary, and Orin Daniels; Gwen Thomas and her lover, Orin’s brother, remained inside Seacliff s walls.

The logic of staying escaped him; the logic, but not the fear.

He crossed the commons and stood in its center, shaded by an oak said to have been planted there by Lady Morgan’s great-grandfather. A quick glance around the streets revealed only the houses and shops. He might as well have been in a community of ghosts, for all the life that he saw. Men were at the forges and the plows, women at the spinning wheels and hearthstones, but their faces reflected nothing. Any number of them had discovered compliance the easiest, safest road to travel, and the handful whose hearts were bitter kept their tirades to themselves.

He sighed. They were fools, of course. All they had to do was see the beauty of the situation, and they would be as happy as they’d always been. Flint was not a carelessly cruel man; he attacked his enemies and left the others alone. Why couldn’t they see that? Why in hell’s name couldn’t they be less Welsh, less goddamned stubborn?

A shrug. It didn’t matter. The gold beneath the flooring under his bed was multiplying nicely. Let them walk around as though their necks were in a noose if they wished; he wasn’t quite so saturnine. He knew the value of dealing with men who had no hearts to speak of and—considering the size of his payments—who valued his service rather highly.

In the distance a coach approached, and Lynne watched as it slowed to make its way around the green. He nodded politely when Davy Daniels glanced down at him from the high seat. Nice boy, he thought; quiet now, but nice. The coach passed on.

Davy Daniels scowled to himself when he saw the vicar. He was barely able to refrain himself from taking out his disgust on the team. The coach was empty. He’d just returned from taking Birwyn to Chetwyndon, on Bristol Bay. Davy hadn’t asked why, and he hadn’t been offered a reason. Which was good enough for him; the fewer questions he posed, the longer he would live. And the longer he lived the closer to retribution James Flint would get.

But he could not help thinking of a June just the year before, a June when he’d brought his mistress back to her home and into the maelstrom that had finally engulfed her. Though he knew none of it was any fault of his, he couldn’t stop the guilt from keeping him awake at night, from taking perhaps too much gin in the solitude of his bed, from wandering at midnight around Seacliff and wishing the walls would crash down on his head.

He took the rise and directed the team to the carriage house, his face suddenly breaking into a broad smile when he saw Lady Morgan standing at the cliff wall.

She turned at the sound of the coach, saw Davy, and smiled, then waved and waited for him to respond before turning back to the sea. It spoke to her, thundering and whispering, beckoning and promising, but she repulsed its siren lure with a glare that would have stayed the tide had it felt the power of her anger.

The winter had passed with years substituting for days. When spring arrived, it was as if the green had sprung overnight, so suddenly had it swept down from the hills and covered the land. When April crept into May, she finally left her apartments and tested Flint’s patience by taking walks on the back lawn and singing loudly in Welsh. But he did not pull the reins. In fact, she counted herself exceedingly lucky that she’d seen him only a handful of times since the night of Oliver’s murder. And that was more her doing than his. Once resigned to the sincerity of his threats, she’d decided she would be her own jailer for the time being. All her meals, all her meager recreations, all her brief conversations with Gwen were held in her rooms. Not once during the winter did she leave them. Not even when she learned of the staff’s virtual elimination or when she heard of the defections from the village. In her spare time she read, began a journal, and had Gwen teach her the intricacies of embroidery and lace-making.

She survived, as Flint had said she would.

And as Flint had predicted, she plotted and schemed and prayed for the day when she would hold the sword that pierced his blackguard’s heart.

She knew no better, more constructive way to sustain herself. She had done her share of weeping, of ranting, of railing against the forces enlisted against her. Yet none of it had helped. None of it had brought her one inch closer to the day Flint would lower his guard and let her slip through.

Yet her hatred of him grew.

She pried at a loose stone in the wall, lifted it when it came away, then threw it as hard as she could. The tide was out, and the stones landed on the rocky beach, bounced up and fell away, lost among its fellows. She threw another and was working on a third when a rustling in the new grass made her turn.

Flint had paled somewhat through the winter, but his bearing had lost none of its arrogance. He had his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes squinting in the bright morning light. When he reached the wall he leaned an elbow on it and regarded the bay thoughtfully.

“A terrible thing, all that water,” he said without looking to her. “Such power down there, and we’re helpless to harness it for our own use.”

“You’re doing well enough on land,” she said. “I should think you’d be satisfied.”