Come Midnight (9 page)

***

"Good mornin', Andrew," Caitlin chirped as she briskly entered the schoolroom. She'd had precious little sleep, what with the dream and her encounter with the marquis in the library; still, she was determined not to let it affect her mood. There was the child to think of.

"G'morning, Caitlin," came Andrew's barely audible response.

Caitlin stopped just inside the door, noting his frown. "Sure and there must be a reason ye're lookin' so glum, Andrew Lightfoot," she said, eyeing him carefully.

Was he in pain again? The leg had been coming along nicely, considering the damage that had been done to flesh and bone. It shouldn't be troubling him, but one could never be certain with a limb so badly mangled. She still marveled he hadn't lost it.

The six-year-old heaved a sigh and gestured morosely at the windows. "It's raining, Caitlin," he complained, "and today's the day we were to have our lessons outside!"

So that was it. His young lordship was growing restless after a fortnight of bedrest and confinement indoors. A good sign, for it showed he was well on the road to recovery.

As she crossed to where he sat, Caitlin tried not to dwell on how limited that recovery would be. Or on the effect this was bound to have on an energetic child who was used to being active. "Ach, lad,'' she said sympathetically, "I know ye're disappointed, but the rain won't last forever. Why, it might even clear by afternoon."

Andrew gave her a dubious look. "Jepson said it's a good and steady, soaking rain that makes things grow." Sitting beside him on the window seat, Caitlin took his hand, smiled at him. "And so it will, Andrew. The trees, the grass and shrubs, they all need rain. Especially in the spring. 'Tis God's plan, d'ye see, the very thing makes them green again after the long winter."

Andrew nodded reluctantly, casting another mournful look at the rain-streaked windows. "Caitlin ... ?" he asked as she reached for their ciphering slate. "Is it truly God's plan? The rain, I mean."

"I've niver doubted it, lad. O' course, it calls for sunshine as well. But without the rain, we'd niver have all the lovely flowers, and that would be a shame."

The boy grew thoughtful for a moment, then slanted a glance at the windows. "Well," he said grumpily, "if that's so, why couldn't He make it rain only at night? I shouldn't mind staying indoors at night."

Ach! Why, indeed? Caitlin recalled asking Crionna the same thing once. She also recalled Crionna's answer. "Perhaps 'tis t' teach us patience, lad. And that we cannot have everythin' we wish for, exactly when we want it."

He nodded, but still looked glum. She doubted they'd get very far with his lesson at this rate. "Very well, boyo," she said briskly, "since we can't be goin' t' the garden, perhaps ye can think o' somethin' else that's ... interestin'. T' make the time pass swiftly?"

She watched him ponder a second, then suddenly brighten. "And no nonsense, ye understand!" she added, wary of the look in his eye.

"It wouldn't be nonsense, Caitlin—honest!"

"All right, then, what is it?" She smiled at his excitement.

"I could teach you to play chess!"

God in heaven! Of all the things he might have suggested . . . Caitlin shivered, feeling as if something was closing in on her ... something she couldn't prevent.

She made herself speak, but with great difficulty; her heart was beating like a giant drum. "Ah ... Andrew ..."

Wound up with enthusiasm, the child didn't notice the raw whisper of her voice. "Papa says it's bene— bene-fish-all to the mind, you know," he told her. "That means it's not at all nonsense! And I'll be fair, I promise. I'll even let you choose white. White always goes first, d'you see, and ..."

At last noting her silence, her frozen posture, Andrew's face began to fall. "Caitlin ... ?" he questioned plaintively. "What's the matter? Don't you want to? Oh, Caitlin—please say you'll try!"

She looked at him then. Looked at the crestfallen edges eating away the enthusiasm of seconds before. How could she disappoint him? This child who'd already been dealt more than one severe blow by fate. His mother dead ... himself crippled, never to walk again.

But she was frightened. Scared to death of coming to fulfill the prophecy of the dreams. Dreams in which she played chess with the devil himself. But if she didn't know how to play ....

"Caitlin .. . ?" Andrew's lower lip quivered, and her heart went straight out to him. God save her, she already loved this child like her own! How could she possibly dash his hopes? She'd be no better than that Miss Murch.

She summoned a shaky smile. "I'll fetch the board," she told him.

***

A fortnight after Caitlin began learning the rudiments of chess, her employer came home one evening, totally dispirited. Someone at Watier's had mentioned that afternoon that he thought Appleby was a friend of Lord Byron's. Adam had immediately seized upon the notion. It made perfect sense.

Byron, already the subject of much talk for his affair with the outrageous Lady Caroline Lamb, had awakened one morning to find his wife had left him. The former Lady Annabella Milbanke had separated from her famous husband in January. Under scandalous circumstances. Ton gossip was rife with rumors the author of Childe Harold had been intimate with his own half sister, Augusta. Word was, he'd sired a child born to her the previous April! Byron had become a social pariah with the same ton that had lionized him a few years before.

What better candidate for a liaison with Appleby? The poet was a classic case of a man in thrall to the devil. Owned by him, and forever damned.

Just like Adam Lightfoot.

As Adam thought about it, it made more and more sense. Even the man's poetry—which the marquis admired no end—was fraught with allusions to a self-inflicted damnation: "I have been cunning in mine overthrow, / The careful pilot of my proper woe."

Adam grew so convinced, he'd set out at once for Byron's London residence. He'd been near certain the poet could help him locate Appleby. He was to be grievously disappointed.

George Gordon, Lord Byron, finding himself ostracized by the very people who'd once adored him, had left England, forever an exile. He'd departed for the Continent on April twenty-fifth. Today, the day the marquis of Ravenskeep had gone to look for him, was the twenty-sixth.

Adam wanted desperately not to dwell on it. It was almost as if he were being tantalized, fulfillment of his desires dangled before him, tempting him, but always out of reach. As if someone were toying with him. The way a heartless feline would torment a helpless mouse.

He didn't like to dwell on who that someone was, either. So after Jepson let him in this evening, he did the only thing he could think of to turn his mind to something more pleasant He asked for his son.

"Ah, I believe it is past his lordship's bedtime," Jepson replied, "but your lordship just might be able to catch him if you hurry. Miss O'Brien's been with him, and..."

The butler's words trailed off as his employer dashed up the stairs.
Hope he finds the lad awake
, the old servant thought as he watched the marquis take the stairs two at a time.
He needs time with the child. Needs it more, even, than the child does. It's the only time the poor man seems alive.

Chapter 7

Adam's steps slowed as he neared the bedchamber they'd given Andrew once he began to recover. Unlike the child's former quarters in the nursery, this was across the hall from Adam's own chambers. The door was ajar, spilling light into the hallway. Still, that didn't necessarily mean Andrew was awake.

Since the accident, Andrew slept poorly unless a lamp was left burning. Caitlin had suggested Andrew's door be left open as well, that his father might better hear him if he called. Adam had happily agreed. He, too, slept better knowing his son was within easy call.

Better, perhaps, but not well, Adam thought sardonically. All the lamps, all the wide-open doors in the world, couldn't prevent the night terrors that stalked his own sleep. Nightmares, alive with demons. Hellish fiends with cloven hooves and membranous wings, who laughed with menace when he tried to evade their talons.

"Check, Caitlin." His son's voice from inside the chamber dispelled these morose thoughts. Andrew sounded confident, but in no way triumphant. Adam nodded approvingly as he drew closer. Andrew had told him he was teaching Caitlin to play. His father had approved, while reminding him to behave courteously. "A gentleman accepts his losses with good grace and never crows over his wins," he'd told him. It remained to see if Andrew remembered this instruction, should his check lead to a checkmate.

"Ach!" Caitlin's voice. "Ye're far too deft at this game, boyo, and—wait a minute. There, now. What d'ye say t' that, lad?"

His son groaned, but he sounded good-humored. "Dash it, Caitlin, you just made the bestest move you could to save yourself! See? Now both kings are trapped. It's a stalemate."

"It is? D'ye mean t' say ye've not beaten me for once?"

"Papa!" Andrew exclaimed as his father came through the door. "Caitlin's coming it frightfully clever at chess. Course, she hasn't won yet, but she's not been at it very long. And this time—look! We're stalemated."

Caitlin blushed, darting a glance at her employer. Discovering his eyes on her, she quickly lowered her gaze to the board.

"So you are," Adam said, charmed by that blush. "And you've been playing together ... what? Less than a week?" He grinned as the blush deepened. Caitlin's fair complexion was a dead giveaway. Her milky, translucent skin fell easy prey to the telltale rosy glow. He saw it climb even to the tips of her ears, for her shiny auburn hair was drawn up and wound into a loose knot upon her head. Tiny wisps and tendrils had escaped its confines to grace her heart-shaped face. And that, too, he found charming.

"Six days," Caitlin managed to reply, not an easy thing with the marquis flashing that devilish grin. She avoided his eyes, which seemed to be studying her with uncommon interest, and focused on the child. "What amazes me, Andrew, is that ye knew 'twas a stalemate the instant I moved me knight."

"That's 'cause a good player thinks ahead and antici—antic—what's that word, Papa?"

"Anticipates," Adam said with a smile. "Well done, both of you." He scrutinized the board. "A lively game, I collect."

"Aye, and a long one," said Caitlin, glancing at the mantel clock. " 'Tis past yer bedtime, lad."

"I know," the child replied around a yawn. Darting a glance at his father, he gave her a sleepy grin. "But this way I got to see Papa 'fore I fell asleep."

Point taken, son
. Adam resolved, then and there, to amend his habits. He wasn't gammoning Appleby when he said he wished to nurture his son. And that meant being there for him, for all the times a child found meaningful. All the times he hadn't been, before. "Andrew ... ," he said carefully, feeling his way over unfamiliar terrain, "suppose that, in future, I endeavor to come by in time for us to say our good nights before you fall asleep. Would you like that?"

"Oh, yes, Papa—ever so much!"

"Then, so I shall." He bent and kissed the child's brow. "Good night, son."

"G'night, Papa."

Caitlin began to tuck the child in, and Adam took it upon himself to put away the game. The array of fallen pieces as well as the positions of those remaining on the board told his experienced eye the two were closely matched. He eyed Caitlin appraisingly. Andrew played well for his age, but the little governess was learning fast. She showed excellent promise, in fact, and—

"Have ye said yer prayers, lad?" Caitlin asked, and Adam froze.

His son sighed, and murmured he'd forgotten.

Without even being aware how he'd come there, Adam found himself outside in the hallway. Through the open doorway came his son's sleepy murmur: "God bless Papa, God bless Caitlin, God bless ..."

Sweat beaded Adam's brow. Guilt and anger battered at heart and mind. Guilt, because he counted himself fortunate he'd escaped before Andrew asked him to join in. Anger, because ....
Damn it, I ought to be glad she's performing that junction so critical to a child's rearing! It's me should be in there, hearing my son's prayers!
But even as he ruthlessly chided himself for his cowardice, Adam knew it was all hollow: A damned soul had precious little right to hear the prayers of the innocent. And none at all to pray himself.

***

"Fast asleep," Caitlin informed the marquis as she tiptoed out of the room. Noting his look of distraction, she eyed him quizzically. What, she wondered, could have caused him to leave so precipitously?

For a moment he failed to comment, then seemed to collect himself. "And well on his way to pleasant dreams, I make no doubt," he told her, not quite managing a smile.

"Aye." She knew she ought to repair to her own quarters, yet something suggested she linger. He seemed to her somehow ... lost Lonely, even. And wasn't that ridiculous. The man must have friends in the dozens. Didn't he take himself off every evening, after that valet fellow spent hours seeing him all rigged out in his finery? "The lad does seem t' sleep better these days," she offered, uncertain what else to say.

"All thanks to you, Caitlin O'Brien," he said. "You've a deal of experience with children, I collect, to know so well how to soothe their fears."

"Ach, I've truly had very little," she said wistfully.

"Indeed? I thought all you Irish had... uh, that is..."

"Children in the dozens?" she supplied with a wry smile. " 'Tis no harm in sayin' it, milord. Most Irish do have lots o' children, though not always enough food t' feed those they're blessed with. But as for me ..." She sighed. "I was reared a lone orphan, milord."

"An orphan," he echoed. He was stunned to realize how little he knew of this woman he'd willy-nilly installed as his son's governess. Yet as he looked at her, he realized he knew she had all the qualities that mattered. Her kindness and compassion toward his son were evident in every word and gesture. Andrew smiled often now, and the laughter they shared had become a familiar sound. In a house that hadn't known laughter in years. Not since he himself was a child, and his parents were alive. And he still marveled at Caitlin's unique ability to use a child's natural love of play to teach—without the pain the Miss Murches of the world felt it necessary to bring to the schoolroom. How did such a young woman—she seemed barely more than a child herself— come by so much wisdom? And an orphan, at that!

"Do they... have orphanages in Ireland?" he asked, half dreading the answer. He knew something of orphanages, in England at least. Dreary, forbidding places, where they existed at all. The mere thought of Caitlin the child shut up in such a cheerless place distressed him.

She shrugged. "I'm not aware of any, milord. But sure and the Church does what it can. I was lucky, however, for I'd a carin' foster mother. Thanks t' Crionna, I niver lacked for love and kindness."

Relief made him smile. "And where is Crionna now?"

"I buried her in the autumn, milord."

He caught the sadness in her voice. He'd wondered about the plain frocks of unrelieved black she always wore. Why hadn't he realized she was in mourning? "I'm sorry for your loss, then."

Caitlin nodded. " 'Twas Crionna's time, though. She was passin' ancient. Not that it keeps me from missin' her, but I've accepted the loss. Far easier t' bear the passin' of an auld woman than a young—ach, forgive me! I-I know ye must be grievin', milord. For—for Andrew's mother," she added when he simply stared at her. "And here I am, remindin' ye—"

"Forgiveness isn't necessary," Adam snapped, instantly regretting his tone at the look on her face.

"Mi-milord?"

Adam sighed. "While I regret her death, there was no love lost between Lady Lightfoot and me," he found himself explaining. And wondered why he did so; none of his set would deign to explain such to a hired servant. But there was something about this fresh-faced lass that urged him to set the usual class distinctions aside, though he was hard put to say what. She was bright and competent, of course, but so was Jepson. Then again, she was far lovelier to look at than his dour-faced butler ... .

Uncomfortable with the thought, he sought a change of subject, grasping at the first thing that came to mind. "Would you care to join me in a game of chess?"

Caitlin sucked in her breath. The net was drawing tighter. And she was helpless as ever to prevent it. Learning the game for the child's sake was one thing; pursuing it with the man in her dark dream was quite another.

Yet hadn't she committed herself to helping this troubled lord? This man she knew, knew with a power beyond reason, was meant for the Light?

Taking her discomfort for a natural reluctance to mingle socially with her betters, Adam sought to allay her misgivings. "It's early yet," he said with a casual shrug, "and I find myself disinclined to seek amusement abroad tonight. Thought I might pass the evening by leaching you some finer points of the game. A more challenging opponent can only sharpen Andrew's skills."

This was true enough, as far as it went. No doubt Vanessa would receive him eagerly this evening. Yet he suddenly found himself loath to seek her bed.
Blood and ashes, but two months my mistress, and the creature's already begun to pall! How Appleby must be laughing! Forty more years so hopelessly jaded? That's living with one foot already in hell!

Caitlin tried to tell herself it was the bitter, haunted look in his eyes that convinced her. That she could hardly help him if she avoided his company. But she knew, even as she tried to rationalize, there were other reasons as well. Adam Lightfoot was a fine figure of a man. Darkly beautiful, in a way that made her intensely aware of him ... as a man.

She frowned. This had never happened to her before. She'd spent time among the lads at home while growing up, but Father O'Malley discouraged such mingling once the village children reached adolescence. Indeed, only a few—the brightest lads, those meant for the priesthood—continued their schooling at all; their female counterparts, never. In the last years before Crionna's death, Caitlin had spent almost no time in the company of males. Her life with the wise woman allowed for none, save in healing the sick, and such encounters were brief and impersonal.

No, she'd little experience of men. But the plain fact was, this man could make her pulse race, as it had tonight, when he entered Andrew's room unannounced. Made it race even now, when she thought of spending time exclusively in his company. Appalling that she could have such thoughts, but there it was. If he knew, Father O'Malley would berate her good and proper.
Tis shameless you are, Caitlin O'Brien, and that's a fact!

"And where shall we play, milord?" she asked. Despite all her misgivings, only hoping he didn't catch the breathlessness in her voice.

"The library, I should think." Adam reached for the chamberstick she'd carried from Andrew's room. He threw her an arch grin as they walked toward the library. "No doubt you recollect I've a board set up there?"

"Aye," she replied, swallowing thickly as she recalled that strange encounter in the library. Sure and he'd been a dark and brooding soul that night. And hadn't she been three times a fool, to be roaming the lord's library at such an hour? "His lordship's sanctus sanctum," she later heard Jepson call it. She counted herself lucky she'd not been turned off on the spot.

Reaching the library, Adam lighted a branch and set it upon a shelf above the table where his favorite chess set rested. An old one, with men of carved ivory and ebony worn to a fine patina. Inherited from his father, who'd taught him how to play. Not the set he'd employed with a certain midnight visitor, no. That bitter reminder had been relegated to the fire in a fit of rage.

"Here, allow me." He drew a chair back from the table, from the side bearing the ivory pieces, and gestured for Caitlin to sit. "You're the beginner," he said at her questioning look. "I think it only fair you play white."

Caitlin nodded without speaking, too aware of his nearness, of his sheer physical presence as he seated her. On impulse, she closed her eyes, confirming what she already knew: She could identify him by smell alone. She was instantly aware of scents she'd come to recognize as belonging to him, and no other: a faint drift of spice from the soap he used ... of leather from a pair of driving gloves tucked carelessly into a coat pocket ... of starch from the immaculate stock tied at his throat ... and the fresh, clean scent of his hair, which shone with health and was blessedly free of the pomade some gentlemen used.

Adam was no less immune to her. As he tucked in her chair, a hint of some long-forgotten fragrance— wildflowers, perhaps—drifted up to tease his senses. Coming around the table to take his seat, he noted how the candlelight bathed her skin in a soft luminescence; it drew the eye and pronounced what it saw as flawless. Yet those same flames drew fire from her hair. An abundant mass of molten copper, it glinted with fiery highlights: living flame that danced along the shining silken strands. He found himself imagining how her hair might appear loosened from its modest confinement, spread out upon a pillow—
no!

You've no business sullying this innocent with such imaginings, you sorry, thrice-damned fool. Yes, thrice damned— doomed by your profligate ways, condemned by your heedless tongue, and consigned to hell by your own hand!

"Is-is something amiss, milord?" The candlelight made it difficult to be certain, but Caitlin thought he grimaced, as if in pain. Jepson and Mrs. Hodgkins spoke of injuries he'd taken in the war. Were they troubling him? "Are yer wounds—are you in pain, milord? I... I've a draught I can ..." Her words faded as he shook his head no. Yet everything from the tormented look in his eyes to the grim set of his mouth belied the denial.

"White moves first," he said tautly, indicating the ivory pieces.

"Aye, milord."

They began to play. And Caitlin began losing men at every turn. She realized it was only a matter of minutes till she'd find herself checkmated. Still, she hardly minded, for his mood had lightened considerably once into the game. On the other hand, she knew this was but a temporary reprieve, and that wouldn't do. She'd not risked the certain danger she knew was tied somehow to this game merely to secure him a brief respite. There had to be a way to draw him out as they played, to learn whatever it was that troubled—

"You're playing badly."

His words, uttered so baldly in the midst of these thoughts, had her sitting bolt upright in her chair. "I ...I niver pretended t' be an expert player, milord!" she protested, stung.

Adam cursed himself for his thoughtless words. "Forgive me," he said, and smiled gently in apology. "What I ought to have said is that you're not concentrating. I never expected you to trounce me—after all, I've been playing for decades. But it's clear you've not been giving your moves the forethought essential to mastering the game. You seem ... distracted."

She nodded, hoping he didn't see her flush. Of course she'd been distracted—puzzling how to help him! Yet he'd surely deem this presumptuous of a mere governess, so she couldn't tell him so. She was a healer by training, a governess by accident, but he seemed to see her only as the latter. The rest of the household believed she had healed Andrew, and perhaps she had, with God's help. Yet she sensed the marquis was disinclined

to believe it. What he did hold responsible for his son's recovery, she'd no idea. Sure and he didn't seem at all a man of faith.

"Any distracted player plays badly,'' Adam said kindly, "no matter what his level of expertise." Then, noting her silence: "Caitlin, is there something I can do to help ... clear your mind, that is?"