Seacliff (40 page)

“Now, Caitlin,” he said without turning around, “I believe there will be more here than you suspect.”

She thought of his men camped in their barracks, and shuddered. “Perhaps.”

“No perhaps about it. Just before I came up here a wagonload of assistants came to the door. The Courders, I believe, for the cooking, and some of the younger men for the cleaning. I trust they will not disturb your sleep.”

“I will make the best of it.”

A sudden turn, a long stride, and he was kneeling by the iron tub, where he dangled the fingers of one hand in the water near her breasts. “You will not regret this, Caitlin.”

“I doubt it.”

His smile grew strained, and she was forced to admire the way he kept his temper in check.

“I was thinking,” he said, swirling a finger around one of her nipples, “that these rooms may very well prove to be inadequate for our purposes. What would you say to using your father’s apartments above us?”

She almost choked on her fury, but when he looked at her questioningly, she only shrugged, not daring to speak.

“You disappoint me, Caitlin. I had hoped for some display of righteousness.”

“Your hopes,” she told him, “are not always achieved, are they, Mr. Flint?”

He slapped the water with a palm, and she wiped the moisture from her face quickly. “My lady,” he said sternly, “if nothing else, tomorrow you will cease to call me Mr. Flint. I will be James to you, or I will be nothing!”

“Very well. James.” She shifted. “I would like to get out.” He rose and backed away. “Then get out, my lady.”

“Alone, if you please.”

Again his temper flared and flushed his cheeks, but this time he lost control. Before she could stop him, he had grabbed her arms and yanked her from the water. He dragged her halfway across the room and threw her to the bed. She rolled away from him, but not swiftly enough. He was on her in no time, flipping her onto her back and pinning down her shoulders, his legs straddling her hips. Fear paralyzed her, and she was unable to stop him when he moved his hands from her shoulders to her wrists and brought her arms over her head. Her flesh gleamed in the bronze firelight, and the shade of her hair caught sparks that seemed to take on a life of their own.

“No,” he said, gazing into her widening eyes. “No, my dear, I shall not have you tonight. That would be unseemly.” Then his voice lowered to a hissing. “But tomorrow, Caitlin, you shall be mine. Every inch of you, every shadow, every curve. You shall be mine, and there is nothing you can do to stop me. Nothing! I am in command, and your last defense has crumbled.”

He kissed her then, harshly and long, bringing the salty taste of blood to her mouth before he pulled away brusquely and left her trembling on the bed. She lay there for over an hour, unseeing, not hearing, until the room’s chill set her limbs to quaking. As if in a dream, she rose and stumbled to the wardrobe, pulled out a nightgown and slipped it over her head. To the fire she went for warmth. To the blankets, for protection.

Then, exhausted, she stared at the open doorway until sleep engulfed her.

30

M
ary moved about the room quietly, opening the curtains, scraping candle wax from the floor with a long-handled scoop, pouring fresh water into the mistress’s basin. She didn’t care whether she woke Caitlin or not. She had her work to do, and the mistress be damned. She’d started down in the staff quarters, where already Flint was up and poking at the food laid out on the preparation tables, sticking his nose into the pots simmering over the hearth, ordering the staff around. Twice he’d pinched Mary, and twice she’d made a playful grab for his legs, but he did nothing more, nor had he signaled his desire to continue their liaison after his marriage. If he didn’t, she had already decided she would slip out of the valley and make her way back to England. No point staying around. She didn’t like these people. Whenever she was around they spoke in their native tongue, laughing and pointing in her direction. They spat at her and kicked at her shins at the slightest excuse, and they excluded her from gossip and general conversation. If it hadn’t been for Flint, she would have left long ago. She slapped her duster down hard against the vanity table.

Caitlin stirred, murmuring in her sleep.

Mary glanced around the room to be sure all was in order, then left hurriedly, pausing at the outer door to smile, then slam it shut as hard as she could.

Caitlin sat bolt upright, her hands clawing the covers and her eyes fearful and wide. The dream she’d just had was lost the moment she realized where she was, but its aftereffects left her cold, and she rubbed her arms vigorously until she felt the circulation start again.

Today, she thought then; today was the day.

Her mouth felt dry. The hand that reached for the water pitcher on the nightstand shook so violently that she had to grab her wrist to steady it. The water was fresh, cold, and when she checked the room from her bed she saw that Mary had been there already. Thank goodness she wouldn’t have to face Flint’s mistress first thing. Without bothering to take her robe from the foot of the bed, Caitlin raced to the balcony doors and flung them open.

Then she laughed. She felt almost free.

The sky was still dark; the wind had slowed to a lull but was forceful enough to stir the waves. The scent of rain was strong. She raked her hands through her hair, letting it cascade down over her chest, and she reveled in the thought that one portion of her lengthy prayer had been answered. But only one. There was still so much to do before the day was out, before the vicar and the villagers arrived, and so much could go wrong before then.

Time, then. She needed to preserve as much of it as she could. To rush now would make her suspect, or would make Flint eager. And if he grew eager, there was no telling what might strike his mind. He excelled under stress.

A long moment staring into her father’s sculptured eyes, and a longer one with her eyes closed and memories crowding all thought out, and she took a deep breath. Suddenly the door cracked open, but it was only Mary bustling in with buckets of hot water. She was sniffling and sneezing, and her red hair was a tangle, her bodice partly unlaced. Caitlin faced her expressionlessly, waiting till the woman was gone. And when she finally left, Caitlin sprinkled the water with lavender, piled her hair atop her head, and slipped into the tub.

An hour later, when the water had cooled and was no longer comfortable, Caitlin climbed awkwardly out of the tub, wrapped herself in a thick, quilted robe, and dried herself as best she could.

Trying to pace herself, she moved as slowly as she could as she reviewed every aspect of her plan, searching for pitfalls, prodding for weaknesses that would be her undoing.

And there were many. So many
if s. If
the storm did not return;
if
Randall ignored what she’d told him;
if
Flint refused to allow her out of his sight;
if
her courage failed her at the last moment;
if…if…if…
She bunched her hands into fists and shut her eyes tightly, forcing herself to rein in the panic that had rooted itself in the pit of her stomach. Too soon, she told herself; it’s much too soon to grow fainthearted. What would your father think? What would Griffin think?

Griff.

She sat in front of her mirror and stared at her reflection. Behind her she could see a vague image of Griffin as she remembered him, but it was only a vague image. Flint’s men had effectively prevented him from entering the valley or sending her a message. And, she thought, what if Gwen had been mistaken and he had not, in fact, returned from Ireland at all? Or what if he had been seriously injured and was unable to assist her?

Oh, my God… what if he’s dead?

“
No!
” her mind cried.A pulse throbbed in the hollow of her throat.

A gentle knock at the door startled her, and her overreaction made her smile, roll her eyes toward the ceiling, and chide herself for jumping at shadows. It was too soon to be so skittish, too soon, though when Bradford entered with her luncheon tray she realized she’d overslept and the morning had passed quickly.

“The wind is up,” Bradford said as he placed the tray on a low square table in front of the hearth. Then he clucked at Mary’s forgetfulness and busied himself with kindling and logs. The room was chilly. “The wind is up,” he said again, rising.

“It will not be a pleasant day,” she said, taking a chair and allowing him to push it forward.

“Shall I send Mary up to assist you in dressing?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I can manage by myself, thank you, Bradford.”

“As you wish, m’lady.” He bowed and moved toward the door.

“Bradford?”

He stopped.

“Last night, Bradford. Were you… that is, is there something you wish to tell me?”

“No, m’lady. Except that I trust you and Mr. Flint will be most happy this day.”

When he was gone she grabbed a piece of cold beef and chewed on it angrily. She shouldn’t have spoken to him that way, inviting confidences like that. He was a man’s man, and he had no part in her life except to drift through it as the head of the household staff. She was grasping at straws, hoping she might find an ally within the walls as well as outside them.

But, she reminded herself sternly, she was alone in this, and had been from the beginning. And not even a miraculous change in Bradford’s old heart was going to change that.

T
he lid of the chest was up, the once neatly folded clothes were now in a jumble.

Caitlin stood in front of the mirror and fussed with her gown, first frowning, then glaring, then stepping away from the glass to be sure nothing was out of place. She was wearing a shimmering pale blue gown laced with strands and tiny bows of black and gold. The neckline was fashionably low, but she had covered the exposed portion of her breasts with a veil of nearly transparent cotton and lace, which she hoped the guests and Flint would think a concession to the sobriety of the ceremony and the day. Without Gwen to help her, there was very little she could do with her hair, except painstakingly braid it—at the cost of aching shoulders and back—and then pin it snugly to the back of her head. The style accentuated her high forehead and the lean lines of her face, but the uncomeliness couldn’t be helped. There would be no time later to do anything with it.

Hands on hips, she turned slowly, watching herself, and finally deciding that unless she’d seriously miscalculated there was nothing more she could do. The gown was flowing and bulky, her figure full, and her hair…

“All right, all right,” she said, laughing at her own refusal to believe the evidence of her eyes. “It’s near time, Cat, and you’re not done yet.”

B
radford stood alone in the cavernous front hall. Twice in the last ten minutes he’d been summoned to the door to admit first the vicar, then Martin Randall and that hideous Broary woman. Despite the rising wind and the threat of heavy rain they were all coming, it appeared. There was nothing more he could do now to stop the wedding from taking place. The major’s memory had been short-lived by all except himself; he only hoped he would be forgiven for taking part in this sacrilegious affair.

The knocker sounded again.

He brushed at his spotless livery and touched the sides of his wig to be sure it was straight. A swift check down the hall, to the rooms on either side, and he stepped forward.

“Good afternoon, Mistress Shamac. We are pleased you could attend.”

N
ate Birwyn stood outside the door to Flint’s room in the north tower and rocked impatiently on his heels. He was in livery despite his protests, and the bastard had even made him wash his patch and shave the stubble on his pointed chin. Now the only thing he had to do was wait, as he’d been doing since dawn. If the gold Flint paid him didn’t fill his purse so nicely, he’d have been over the hills and back to England in a trice. As it was, he’d had to post all the men around the house, station a few inside, make sure they were armed, with their weapons concealed, and send a half-dozen men back to the barracks for another wash because they smelled like a pig sty.

A nursemaid, that’s what he was. A bloody damned nursemaid. From somewhere in the house a clock chimed one.

He took a deep breath. One hour, and it would be done. They would drink a little wine, stand around chatting as if they hadn’t seen each other in years. The vicar would say his few words, and Nate would be on his way to the kitchen to coax Mary out of her stockings. He grinned to himself and licked his coarse lips. Ah, wouldn’t Flint be a hornet if he knew what Mary did after she left his rooms at night!

A muffled footstep sounded behind him. He came instantly to attention. A minute later the door swung open, and Flint stepped out.

F
lint was unaccountably nervous, but was determined not to let a single one of them see through his facade. He squared his shoulders and looked at Birwyn.

“Well?” he demanded. “Well, do you think the woman will be pleased?”

“Should be hanged if she ain’t,” Birwyn replied.

Flint nodded his satisfaction and pulled the door shut.

He was wearing a deep velvet jacket cut away in back and falling to mid-thigh. Silver buttons marched in rows down his chest, and gold thread wove through his cuffs and hem. His shirt was blinding white, and the lace jabot cascaded from his throat in fluffed layers that added inches to his size. His breeches were of velvet and the same midnight hue; his boots, gold-buckled and gold-topped, reached to his knees and were polished to a mirror finish. Rather than wear his hair in a simple queue, he’d had Mary use the brush and iron to fashion it in gentle waves that covered his ears and fell to his shoulders. He was clean shaven, darkly tanned, and his appearance was marred only by the dead white scar that ran from the corner of his mouth to the side of his nose.

“Yes,” he agreed. “She will be very pleased indeed. If she knows what’s good for her.”

Birwyn chuckled and fell into step beside him as he marched along the corridor to the central hall, crossed it, then started down the opposite corridor to the staff quarters.