Come Midnight (21 page)

***

With the clock ticking inexorably toward the fateful midnight, Adam wanted nothing more than to spend every minute alone with Caitlin. Yet, given what had happened to Andrew that morning, this wasn't possible. Helpless to avoid celebrating the event, Adam found himself declaring a holiday for the staff and everyone in the estate.

He recalled a custom practiced at Christmastime when he was a child. On the day before Christmas Eve, his parents had always ordered huge banquet tables set beneath the overhang in the courtyard. There, everyone, from the servants and tenants, to the folk in the village, to those on neighboring farms, was invited to the Hall for food and drink—the best the estate had to offer. With a pang of guilt, Adam realized the custom had fallen into disuse, because of his disinterest and neglect.

Now he had kegs of ale and small beer hauled from the cellars, and bottles of his finest wines, for he would stint on nothing. He asked the kitchens to lade the tables with food from the larder: cold roast fowl and great wheels of cheese; meat pies, succulent summer fruit; freshly baked breads and cakes meant for his own table; whatever would spare Cook and his people unnecessary labor.

People began arriving around noon. First came the tenant farmers and their families, and folk from the village soon followed. These were simple craftsmen and shopkeepers, most of whom had seen the lord's son from afar but had never spoken to the lad; for the late marchioness had never encouraged any mixing of the classes. Many bore simple homemade gifts to augment the lord's table: a jar of preserves, a bouquet of wild-flowers set in a stoneware jug, a basket of just-picked berries. All cast shy, appraising glances at Caitlin that quickly became grins when they saw Andrew: Striding forward on two undamaged legs, the child joined his father in welcoming them and thanking them for coming.

Musicians arrived from a village across the downs, for word had quickly spread; they offered to play in honor of the "miracle," and Adam bade them welcome. The merry sounds of fiddle and hornpipe, pennywhistle, flute, and tambour echoed off the ancient stone walls. Folk from far and wide danced and laughed, far into the night.

It was toward evening that the vicar came, with Jeremy and Mrs. Wells. Wells gave short shrift to rumors of an Irish miracle worker, however; he asked instead if he might offer a prayer of thanksgiving for "God's handiwork." With an uncomfortable glance at Caitlin, who smiled and nodded, his host could only agree.

"The vicar's a good man, and I suppose he means well," Adam murmured when he joined Caitlin a short time later to watch the dancing. He didn't bother to tell her about pretending not to hear, when Wells archly mentioned his lordship's conspicuous and continued absence from church on Sundays.

"We can use all the prayers on offer," Caitlin told Adam. While she wished it were otherwise, she said nothing about his absenting himself from the vicinity while the vicar invoked Heaven. Adam, she'd begun to realize, never mentioned God or anything connected with God. Not at all. Not even in casual speech, the way some did, as when they said, "Thank God," or "Thank Heaven," and the like.

Tis just as he said. He truly cannot bring himself to pray or acknowledge God in any way. Tis as if all mention of the Holy is locked inside him. Mother of God, in the wee time I have left, won't you help me find a way to lead him to the Light?
"And have ye noticed,
macushla
," she said to Adam aloud, "how Andrew's in transports, now Jeremy's come?"

"Noticed? I can scarcely tear my eyes off him." Adam caught her hand, gave it a squeeze as they watched Andrew run about with Jeremy and several lads from the village in a game of tag. "Except when I'm looking at you," he murmured, lifting her hand to his lips.

"Adam—someone might see!"

"Let them," he said, unspoken pain in his eyes as he lightly touched her hair, tenderly grazed her cheek with his knuckles. "They'll learn how I feel about you soon enough. Tonight I intend to announce our nuptials, which will take place day after tomorrow."

She looked at him aghast, only now recalling what he'd told her two nights ago ... and told Appleby as well. Was it only last night? But of course it was, as she of all people had cause to know. Time was a ticking clock inside her head. A phantom hourglass whose sands would have run out a third of the way when this midnight came.

"I beg you will indulge me in this, love," Adam went on. "I said I meant to wed you, and last night changes..." He nearly said "nothing," thought better of it. "The events of last night haven't altered that. I sent word to Ravensford Hall this morning, asking the duke to procure a special license for us. He had to travel to London for it, which is why he's not here for the festiviti—"

"Adam," Caitlin said, hard put to keep her voice soft, "this is daft! All these arrangements, the fuss and bother of a weddin'? Why go through it, when we both know—"

"Because, in my heart, you are my wife, and I want the world to know. Because, in Andrew's heart, you have already become his new mother. And if you think he's in transports over Jeremy Wells—"

"And when he loses his mother for the second time in but a few months?" she asked. Over the pounding of her heart, over the ominous ticking in her head. "Loses her scarcely a day after she's taken the name, been made officially his? For God's sake, Adam—or if ye will not that, then for the child's sake—let it be!"

"Have you given up, then, Caitlin?" he asked fiercely. "Because I haven't! I intend to fight the hell-spawned scum, my darling. Fight him in any way I can devise, to the last stroke of the third midnight—and so must you!"

Chapter 15

Caitlin realized Adam meant every word he said when he told her he'd fight as soon as the celebrations ended, he vowed, they would set about laying plans and strategies for outwitting the enemy. Caitlin didn't argue. An Adam armed with optimism, with the light of battle in his eye, was infinitely preferable to the Adam who looked so defeated that morning. But there was another reason, and it went to the heart of the matter.

Caitlin retained a firm and abiding faith in the dreams and visions that had brought her here. And while Crionna had warned her she'd be in great danger, there'd been nothing in the
bhean uasal'
s warning that said Caitlin was hopelessly doomed. Indeed, hadn't she implied the very opposite?

As it happened, the celebrations didn't end nearly as soon as Adam might have wished, though he'd no one but himself to thank for it. The festivities only lengthened and intensified with the marquis's astonishing announcement, shortly after nine o'clock, that he and Miss O'Brien would wed. True, there was a moment of stunned silence when he finished speaking; but then Fergus—the carpenter who had made Andrew's crutches was a robust, uninhibited sort—let out a hearty cheer.

Hot on its heels came Andrew's excited "Hurrah!" His gladness and approval unmistakable, the child ran to Caitlin and his father, giving them each the fiercest of hugs. Then everyone—even the stately Townsend— joined in, their enthusiasm ringing over courtyard and lawns. Even the vicar, who, when asked to officiate, actually blushed. The poor man stammered he'd be "honored" and with good reason: The marriage of a peer was normally performed by a far loftier cleric than a humble country vicar; most often in a great London cathedral, such as St Paul's. And if some ascribed this anomaly to the highly unusual circumstance of a marquis wedding a lowly governess, they were too polite to say so.

It was nearing midnight when the last guest finally departed. When a blissful, sleepy Andrew had been carried to his bed. Adam thanked the staff, accepted a final congratulatory word from Townsend and Mrs. Needham, and ushered his fiancee upstairs. Caitlin saw at once they were going to his rooms. "Perhaps we should be more circumspect," she whispered, darting a glance behind, to see if anyone saw where they were headed. "Now everyone knows, perhaps we ought t' sleep in our separate—"

"Who says we're going to sleep?" Adam asked with a wicked grin.

"I-I—" Caitlin blushed to the roots of her hair.

He chuckled and gave her hand a squeeze, then drew her inside his antechamber. But the moment he shut the door, Adam's face sobered. "Forgive me, love. For a moment there"—he gave his head a shake, as if to clear it—"I confess I found myself caught in a fantasy ... of wishful thinking, you might say."

With a heavy sigh, he tucked an errant curl behind her ear, then ran a finger along her cheek in a gentle caress. "Odd, what the mind can do. I let myself imagine we were already wed and that those who bade us good night were our wedding guests. Imagined myself free to gently tease, as a prelude to making love to you"— he heaved a deprecating sigh—"like any other bridegroom."

"Aye," Caitlin said softly, nodding with understanding. "When I was a child, I often did the same. A favorite fantasy was that I had a family ... a mother and father ... brothers and sisters ... all waitin' for me when I returned home from school. 'Tis a human thing, that wishful thinkin'. Especially when the world isn't all we long for it t' be. Ye needn't ask forgiveness for bein' human,
a stor
."

"In this case, I do," he insisted, "because it wasn't fair. Not only are the things I'd wish away monstrous, and screaming for my full attention, but it was my fantasy, not yours—"

At that moment, the tall-case clock on the landing began to toll the hour.
Bong
. It echoed eerily over the silent house.
Bong
. Advancing immutably toward the stroke of twelve.
Bong
. Unmoving, they looked at each other.
Bong.
Caught in this palpable reminder.
Bong.
Of time running out.
Bong
. Eyes locked, wordlessly, they stood there.
Bong.
Until at last they heard the final chime.
Bong
. And felt it reverberate through the walls, and through their very bones.

Caitlin shivered. "I've a need o' yer fantasy t'night, Adam," she whispered, imploring him with her eyes.

"For a brief while,
macushla
, I need ye t' make me forget."

Adam read her need. It was identical to his own. Without a word, he pulled her into his arms. He made love to her then. Without preamble, there on the rug. Not the slow, achingly sensual lovemaking of before, no. This erupted with a force, like an apocalyptic thunder, which neither could control. Passions rose full-blown, impelled them toward a fierce and primitive mating. It was as if, by sharing the primal human act that created life, they could affirm it Could banish doubt and demon and despair.

No, not a sweet and sensual joining at all. This roiled with emotions too keen for words, with passions released at full throttle. Caitlin tore feverishly at Adam's clothes. He never let her finish. Shoved her gown above her hips and thrust inside her liquid heat. Found her hot and ready. She climaxed at once, screaming his name in a storm of Gaelic. Only to pull his head toward her for a wet, open-mouthed tangling of tongues, dig her nails into his scalp, and come a second time. Her name boiled from his throat as Adam bared his teeth and found his own release. Sweat dampening their clothes and hair, still joined, they clung together, sated and spent

And for a brief while, at least, time held them in the arms of oblivion.

***

When they could no longer ignore the hardness of the floor beneath the rug, when perspiration cooling on skin raised gooseflesh on arms and legs, Caitlin and Adam stirred. Assuring Adam he hadn't hurt her, Caitlin blushed only slightly and laughingly thanked him for sharing his "wishful thinking." Of course, she added with a wry grin, for the sake of their English brides, she hoped the local bridegrooms were possessed of milder fantasies!

Laughing, then murmuring his love as he caught her to him for one last kiss, Adam swept her in his arms and carried her inside. Not to sleep, though both were close to exhaustion, but to put their heads together and think. And think they did, far into the night. Till at length the dawn broke, found them gritty-eyed and bone-weary, drifting off in each other's arms.

And still without an answer.

***

Later that morning, after ordering the servants away from his chambers, Adam left Caitlin asleep in his bed and went in search of Andrew. He didn't mind if the staff guessed he and Caitlin were sharing a bed, but he knew she was sensitive about it. He therefore told everyone she was "in her rooms and not to be disturbed," left her a note to explain, and took Andrew for a ride in his gig.

His son deserved some uninterrupted time with his father, Adam told himself. But if the whole truth were known, he was close to despondent for not yet finding a plan to thwart their hellish adversary. Perhaps the fresh air would sharpen his faculties. As he'd told Caitlin just before dawn, there had to be a way—had to!

***

As it happened, the idea that gave Caitlin some hope didn't come from Adam. Indeed, he was still driving pell-mell over the downs, with Andrew laughing at his side, when the visitors arrived. Caitlin had just managed to slip into her rooms without being noticed when she heard a carriage on the drive. A peek out the window informed her it was a grand, important-looking conveyance. Perhaps, with Adam away, she ought to see to these guests? This might, after all, have something to do with last night's announcement. As his future marchioness, she'd be expected to ... .

The words died in her mind, and she gave a brittle laugh. The mere thought of herself with that grand tide was intimidating. Moreover, she felt like a fraud, thinking of herself as a future anything. Hurriedly shifting her clothes and running a brush through her hair, she made it to the front entrance hall just in time. Her eyes widened as Townsend admitted the duchess of Ravensford and sister Megan!

Megan and Ashleigh exchanged covert glances as Caitlin came forward to welcome them. They'd expected to find a radiantly happy bride-to-be. The woman who greeted them looked anything but. The tall redhead eyed her sister askance as Ashleigh congratulated Caitlin on her engagement. The child has a drawn and haunted look about her, or I'm not Irish!

When the duchess had kissed Caitlin's cheek and turned to meet her companion's gaze, Ashleigh's sapphire blue eyes said the same. Megan nodded, as if she'd made up her mind to something, and turned to her sister. "Forgive our manners for bargin' in on ye like this, darlin'. But, d'ye see, when Brett met Patrick in the city and gave him the news, I just couldn't wait. Drove me own carriage t' Ravensford Hall, whisked herself, here, inside, and here we are! Er ... where's the lucky groom-t'-be?"

Caitlin explained as she led them into the drawing room and sent Townsend for tea. Megan and Ashleigh questioned Caitlin about Andrew's miraculous healing, and when she described it, but in an oddly diffident manner, the older women exchanged a solemn covert look. After that, they engaged Caitlin in small talk, about the weather and other trivia, until the tea tray arrived.

But the majordomo had barely shut the drawing room doors behind him when Megan fired the words she felt, as an older sister, she had a right to say. "All right, out with it, Caitlin. And, don't be givin' me that look! I know an O'Brien in trouble when I see one. Ach, it breaks me heart t' see ye so pale and dispirited! What's wrong, wee
macushla
?"

Perhaps it was the loving look in Megan's wide green eyes. Perhaps it was having a sister to share with, after a lifetime of having none. Perhaps the brave front she'd mustered, for Adam's sake more than her own, had withstood all it could bear. But whatever the cause, her bottom lip began to tremble. And then she was sobbing in Megan's arms.

Megan was a compassionate listener, and so, Caitlin quickly realized, was the little duchess. The whole story came pouring out. Between halting breaths, much of it told with heartrending sobs—and hiccups that had both women patting her shoulders and telling her to take her time—out it came, the dreams and visions that had sent her fleeing Ireland, the events that brought her to Adam Lightfoot's home and into his life, Appleby, the bargain resulting in that fatal game of chess, all of it.

There was a stunned silence when she'd finished. Over Caitlin's bowed head, the two older women exchanged incredulous stares. At length, Ashleigh sighed and reached for one of the hands Caitlin held in her lap; it clutched the monogrammed handkerchief the duchess had given her at some point during that terrible recitation. "My dear Caitlin, how very, very much you must love each other," she said softly.

"Aye," Megan added with a meaningful smile for her friend: Ashleigh and her Brett knew something of that kind of all-encompassing love; as did Megan and her beloved Patrick.

Caitlin managed a tremulous smile and nodded. She felt nearly as drained as when she'd last invoked Crionna's charm, but it was a good feeling this time. "I ... I beg ye will both forgive me," she stammered. The duchess's handkerchief resembled a tortured knot as she twisted it in her hands. "I ... I niver meant t' deny I had the Sight, but—"

"My dear," said Ashleigh, "if I'd been carrying such an egregious burden, you may be sure I'd have denied it, too. Think no more of it, and—here, have some tea. There's nothing like a bracing dish of tea to restore one's equilibrium. In fact, we'd all best have a splash." She shot Megan an arch look: We must do something! "Tea has also been known to sharpen the mind," she added pointedly

But Megan was well ahead of her friend. Prepared for something dire the moment Caitlin had brought up the Sight, she'd nonetheless been shocked, then incredulous as the grim story tumbled forth. Yet Megan was no stranger to adversity. There was a time the tall redhead had endured unspeakable hardship and degradation, then survived and prospered—by using her wits. Before her sister's final words left her lips, Megan was sifting through the details, her quick mind searching for a solution.

"Listen carefully," she said as Ashleigh waved Caitlin's trembling hands aside and did the honors with the tea. "I've an idea, and it may work, but it wants careful scrutiny. I need both o' ye bendin' yer minds to it, t' see if 'tis sound ..."

The gist of Megan's plan hinged on something Caitlin hadn't known. "Since weddin' Patrick and becomin' a lady o' leisure, I've had time t' dip into all manner o' things that interest me," she told them. "Now, one o' these interests is the Auld Tongue o' me homeland. And, strange as it may seem, I found meself fascinated one day with a passage in a dusty auld book about ancient Irish charms and curses."

She paused a moment to let that sink in. "Now, if I'm right—and I think I am—Crionna's charm is known in the ancient high Gaelic as the
Ard Cosaint
... the High Protection. But 'twas also sometimes called the
Ard Milleadh
... the High Destroyer."

"It doesn't surprise me," Caitlin put in with a shiver. "Remember, Crionna warned that its use more than twice would kill—"

"Aye, but that's not all!" Megan said excitedly. "The charm can be directed at things, as well as persons. If ye merely say it t' protect, ye can freeze a person in his tracks, as ye did with his lordship, two nights ago. But there's anither way t' use it, Caitlin. Ye can destroy a thing with it. As I understand it, all ye need do is concentrate on obliteratin' the object as ye speak the words, and—poof! It no longer exists."

"That's ... interestin'," said Caitlin. "Odd that Crionna niver mentioned it." She heaved a sigh. "Then again, she was terribly weak at the end. I suppose she simply hadn't the time nor the strength t' give me all the details. But, interestin' as it is, I still don't—"

"Don't ye see,
macushla
? 'Tis yer own contract ye must obliterate!"

"Why, of course!" Ashleigh chimed in, equally excited. "Having sworn upon her soul, she's committed to signing the wretched thing, but that's all. She must act quickly, of course, but when she does, she can destroy it in the next breath! The devil will be left empty-handed!"

And I shall be left dead. Caitlin's lips twisted wryly. The only detail she'd omitted in her recounting of events was that first use of the charm. When she'd feared Adam would rape her. She'd omitted it purposely, of course, wishing to protect her beloved from anything that would lead these two to think ill of him. So Megan and Ashleigh thought she's used it only once—the other night, to protect Adam from his own courageous folly. They believed she was therefore free to employ it again, with impunity.