Seacliff (12 page)

D
avid Evans stood before the great front doors of Seacliff and with a grand gesture indicated the entire valley at Caitlin’s feet. He was a short man, swarthy, with ice-blue eyes that were darkened now with concealed pain.

“Darlin’,” he said, “this will be yours, you know, when I’ve gone to your mother. “ A glance back, then over his shoulder. “He’s a fair man, your husband is, but I don’t think he knows the land the way you do. Inside,” and he thumped at his chest, “inside, where it counts.”

“But Father, the law says—”

“Be damned with the law!” he snapped, nearly shouting. “The major can wave about all the papers and hire all the solicitors he wants, but it doesn’t change the fact that this land will never be his the way it will be yours. You must work with him then, child, be with him to explain and to help. When I’m gone—”

“Father, please, I don’t like you talking like that.”

His smile was gentle, his expression melancholy. “Darlin’, there’s no other way to talk, now. It’s comin’ and I feel it. I’ve seen sixty winters, and that’s considerably more than most men see. I can’t be greedy now, can I? It’s time, but I’m leaving all this to you. Don’t forget that, child, when you’re away with him and the heathens, don’t forget that.”

With the heathens.

Caitlin smiled to herself. Her father had said that the day she and Oliver left for their first stay in Eton. It would be nearly ten months before they returned, and by then David Evans had finally succumbed to the ravages of his illness and was in his bed. For three years he’d clung to life, praying aloud for a grandson and not understanding why his daughter hadn’t yet given birth.

It’s Oliver, she’d told him once; he says he’s too old to nurture children, that I’ll still be young enough to bear children for another when he’s gone.

Evans had scoffed. He reminded her he was just over forty when she was born, and Morgan seemed to him a fit enough man to bear the responsibilities of family.

No argument flared. He’d fallen into a deep sleep, and he never brought up the subject again.

And now, she thought as she gripped the edge of the seat tightly, they’d have no conversations about anything anymore.

Then, with sudden vehemence, she shook herself, realizing they were almost upon the valley’s remarkable entrance.

To either side the land rose abruptly. Huge, magnificent boulders jutted out from the hillsides, narrowing the road into a shadowy gap and creating sharp echoes of the coach’s passing. The sun was temporarily blotted out, the shade cool and welcome. One hundred feet and more the rocks climbed the perpendicular slopes, and she remembered more than one afternoon spent climbing to the summit and pelting passersby below with eggs stolen from a nearby farm. And it was especially daring, and exciting, when the riders were English soldiers.

The road curved to the right. The rock faces blurred into a wall of gray, streaked through with deep reds, pale whites, and here and there a fleeting, mossy green. The boulders and the road looked like a tunnel without a roof, she thought as Davy maneuvered through the gap expertly. He called to the horses to calm them of their nervousness.

And then they were on the other side.

“Slow, Davy,” she said over the sound of the wind.

He looked at her questioningly, then nodded his understanding and clucked to the blacks. They slowed instantly, and the road finished its banking, straightened, and the rocks fell away as if crushed by the fists of an angry giant.

“Ah, Davy,” she sighed. Lifting her hands to her head, she combed them through her wind-tangled hair and wished profoundly her homecoming had not been occasioned by grief.

“Aye, mistress,” he said somberly. “Aye.”

The mountains’ western slopes were gentle and thickly forested. In the valley below, the land was a series of varishaded green and gold squares marking the tenant farmers’ fields. Herds of cattle wandered behind low walls; a flock of sheep followed tinkling bells across the pastureland to the south. A stream that was little more than a ribbon of glittering silver meandered lazily from north to south. It threaded past individual cottages two stories high, homes of stone and earth, barns and stables and outbuildings beyond number. The air was cotton-soft and even at this distance smelled of the brine of the sea.

She managed to draw a deep breath and hold it until her lungs felt near to bursting. Then she released it with a rush that left her feeling dizzy but deeply content.

Several miles ahead, in the center of the steep valley, the houses of the village lay like carelessly tossed diamonds on a swatch of green velvet. Chimneys and a church spire pointed toward the heavens; gardens blossomed in profusion; and though no more than four dozen large families provided Seacliff with staples, their homes sprawled in such a way that they seemed ten times that number.

She looked to her left as the road swept downward, to the hills that separated the valley from the rest of the shire. She knew that a trip of less than a hundred miles would take her to the great boiling waters of Bristol Channel, the arm of the Irish Sea that divided Cornwall from Wales.

Then, with a visible effort, she glanced to her right.

In the far distance the hills rose into rugged mountains whose peaks were cloaked in everlasting mist, whose glens offered refuge, and where even now a handful of men took to hiding to avoid impressment into the English army. They were outlaws, but only in the eyes of men like Oliver Morgan. To the Welsh they were, at the very least, prudent, and at the most, romantic heroes.

And on the slope of the hills, less than a mile from where she rode, she could see through the small groves of venerable pine and oak to a sprawling stone house. Its thick walls glittered with mica, its multipitched roof made a cheerful red amid the gables and chimney pots. A gated low wall surrounded it, and the wall in turn was flanked by towering trees that broke the wind before it reached the front door. Behind the house was the forest; ahead, a vast downward sweep of land that reached almost to the valley floor. It encompassed several small farms, a foundry, and at the base, on land claimed by no one, the ruins of an ancient Druid place of worship—a dozen ringstones that mocked distance by their size, and time by the preternatural power of their past.

Aside from the Evans estate, this was the largest, most prosperous holding in this portion of the shire.

It was Falconrest, and it was the home of Griffin Radnor.

As it swept by her in a blur of foliage, Caitlin suddenly could not recall ever feeling quite so lonely.

“It’s been a bit of a while,” Davy said to her.

She looked to him, ready to frown before she understood he was referring to how long it had been since they’d shifted households to Eton.

“It has,” she agreed.

Then he nodded toward Falconrest. “Would he have been there, do you think, mistress? At the funeral, I mean. He should have done, considering his position, but I wonder if he was.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said distantly. And then, when she realized she’d sounded almost wistful, she added, “What the man does is none of my concern.”

Chagrined, Davy returned his attention to the horses.

“Nor,” she added sternly, “is what that… that man does any of yours, Davy Daniels. As far as we are concerned, he is just someone else who lives in our valley. And that is the way it should be. You mind me, Daniels. That is the way it should be.”

He was stung by her rebuke and its curious ferocity and concentrated on his driving, his hands working the reins, his left foot nudging at the brake to keep the coach from sliding on the still rainslicked roadbed of crushed stone and gravel. He’d been hoping for some sort of sign, anything that would tell him what Gwen suspected was true—that his mistress still carried feelings for the Falconrest master. But evidently it wasn’t true, which meant there would be no one to save her from Sir Oliver once he got his hands on Seacliff. No one. And gloom descended over him like a stifling cloak. He began muttering to himself about the injustice of the English and the perverse ways of women.

Caitlin heard the mumbling and bit her lower lip. She’d offended the young man, she knew it, and instinctively reached out to apologize. But an abrupt rush of tears blinded her, and she wiped at them angrily with her handkerchief. She commanded herself to stifle the tears; later, when you’re inside and alone. You can’t cry now. The village is too close.

Then Davy inhaled sharply and she stared at him, saw him gazing fearfully off to the right and turned to see what had startled him. A hand fluttered to her throat, and her eyes widened.

My God, she thought; my God, how did he know?

9

A
s the road wound down into the valley it dipped below an embankment of new grass and soft gold and blue wildflowers. The embankment rose steeply to a stone wall that held at bay the encroachment of brambles and the dangling thick branches of overhanging trees. In a gap between two immense oaks stood a great white stallion, its mane, forelock, and tail of such a stormy gray that they appeared black. As Davy inadvertently slowed the coach in astonishment, the stallion snorted and tossed its sculptured head. The man astride it, as if on cue, leaned forward anxiously.

Oh, God, Caitlin thought, who told him? Who told him I was coming?

He was tall—like a giant on his proud perch above the sinking roadbed. His shoulders and chest were the imposing breadth of a man used to working long hours at hard labor. His narrow waist and hips were those of a man who refuses to spend his time lolling about a sumptuous table. Unrestrained by either cap or headband, his deep-copper hair was swept to one side by a breeze blowing languidly from the bay. It caught the sun’s light in streaks of dark, smoldering fire. His face was touched by a light tan that darkened his heavy eyebrows and underscored the nightshade of his deep-set eyes. An aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and squared chin cast him as rugged, but also as a member of the gentry who had neither abandoned nor forgotten his origins.

Caitlin caught her breath despite herself.

Her unrelenting daydreams had not been exaggerations: her memories had not added to the man’s natural glamour. He was handsome, and she could not deny it. But it was a description he would never apply to himself. He carried himself even now on his stallion in such a way that dared others to label him as anything else but a man who took the world on its own terms, and who laughed when it conflicted with his own. Unlike James Flint, she thought, who adapted himself to get what he wanted.

Well, Gwen, she said silently, hoping the woman could read her thoughts, I hope you’re satisfied. I trust his appearance has made you happy.

The coach slowed down even more then, and Caitlin suddenly remembered Oliver sitting below. She looked wide-eyed at Davy, saw his grin, and became alarmed. “What are you doing?” she whispered frantically. “Move on, Davy, move on!” And she had to restrain herself from grabbing hold of the whip and cracking it wildly over the team’s bobbing heads.

When Davy hesitated, she repeated her command and he obeyed instantly—though his grin was replaced by a disturbed, perplexed frown. Caitlin laid her hands in her lap, clasping them until her fingers ached, swallowing her panic until the coach drew abreast of the stallion, and she turned to stare as boldly as she could.

Griffin Radnor smiled sadly and raised a hand in greeting.

She nodded once and looked straight ahead, ignoring whatever signals he might be tempted to send her. Part of her was dismayed that she’d seen him at all; the rest of her mind spun in sullen anger that he’d dare show himself to her on a day like this. As if the three years since she’d last seen him had not passed at all. But that was like him, she thought; exactly like him. He’d taken her in the glen on the day her engagement was announced, and then he had abandoned her. Not a word, not a message, not even a gift for the wedding.

And now, suddenly, he had shown up without warning, in all likelihood confident she would smile her forgiveness. As if she could forgive his silence, or his consorting with that swinish Morag Burton. My God, he must think her a complete fool! Did he really think she had such a low opinion of herself that she would fulfill his expectations in return for a smile and a wave?

She seethed, scowling so fiercely that Davy was reluctant to halt the coach when Oliver began pounding on the roof with his walking stick. Nevertheless, he pulled back on the reins and eased the brake forward with his left foot. Caitlin glared at him and pulled away from his extended hand when Oliver demanded she ride the rest of the way home inside. And not once as she made her way from the bench to Oliver did she glance back along the road to see if Griffin was still watching. He could crawl on his hands and knees for all the thought she would waste on him. She suddenly caught herself hoping she’d never see him again.

How stupid she was! All those fancies she’d had while staying in England, struggling to rid herself of his memory when all she had to do was glimpse at the serene arrogance in his face, the self-assured confidence of his gaze, to understand that she meant no more to him than she meant to… to James Flint.

She resettled herself with a thump that made Oliver frown, but he said nothing to her, made no sign that he too had seen Griffin waiting by the roadside.

The passage through the village was made at a solemn, almost stately pace. Word had already spread through the town, and dozens of people had come to their cottage doors, to shop stoops, to the edge of the community green to watch the coaches clatter by and to catch a glimpse of Seacliff’s new owner. There were a few tentative waves with handkerchiefs, and men pulled off their caps and hats in respect, but Caitlin saw little save the blur of ruddy faces.

Oliver held her left hand and sat forward to be sure his profile could be seen through the window—sturdy, strong, eyes unblinking and gaze unwavering.

On the other side of the green and past the last cottage, they approached the gray stone church. Its steeple was a thin spire, and a high iron fence enclosed its graveyard.