Seacliff (20 page)

She resisted. Not by struggling, but by remaining immobile. Her lips did not soften; her eyes did not close. She glared at him instead and waited until he could see his effect. Her chest rose and fell shallowly, a dim ache spreading from the base of her spine. Waited. Until quite involuntarily she attempted to pull away and take a breath. But he would not permit it. His grip tightened on her wrists and head, and his eyes remained stubbornly closed. Time and vision blurred. The warm scent of his face, the heat from his hair, the feel of his soft shirt all worked to undermine her determination to remain unaffected.

Her left hand fluttered over the stone; her right hand lay motionless in her lap.

He shifted, pressed harder.

She wanted to protest, but she knew if she tried twisting away again he would renew his patience and hold her prisoner until she relented.

Her left hand convulsed, and her right finally moved to his shoulders in an effort to push him away. She had to have air. She had to breathe. And she had to dispel the disturbing images now gathering about her: the glen, his touch, their eventual union which she’d almost come to believe never happened. The way he spoke to her—softly, gently, never doubting her intelligence, praising her beauty, never assuming she was anything less than she was; the way he looked at her—searching, idolizing, eyes sparkling with quiet laughter because of the silent communion they shared with no others.

Her resolve weakened. Her hands stopped their pressing, and her lips began to soften.

And immediately he released her with such rapidity that she nearly fell backward.

She gasped for air, confused, frightened, and angry. Her mouth opened to demand explanations, but his stony face buried her words before they were born. An anguished heat then swept from her chest to her face, and with a despairing, unbelieving cry she leaped from the stone and ran for her horse. Tears drenched her cheeks. The world tilted and she stumbled into a shrub. With a foul oath, she kicked at it, yanked her skirts free of the barbs and spun around in a tight circle, trying to locate her mount before Griffin came after her.

It was too late.

Just as she found the roan less than a yard away and reached for the reins, he was at her side, grabbing her shoulders in a viselike grip she could not shake off.

“Bastard!” she hissed, and kicked at his shins. He pushed her away, but refused to free her.

Fury blocked her senses. She shrieked at him, lashed out with her nails and boots, and as her blows landed she could hear him grant in pain. Her head swung from side to side, her breasts felt weighed down, but she kept on filling the air with curses and trying to claw at his face until, at last, she lifted her face to him, and through her tears begged him to release her without saying a word.

He drew her closer, but did not embrace her. Her arms felt like lead, hanging uselessly at her sides. A thin line of blood trickled down his temple to the line of his jaw, and his damp hair was plastered darkly over his forehead. He was panting as well, as if he, and not Caitlin, had been struggling fiercely.

“Please,” she implored. “Griffin, please.”

“You love me still,” he said simply, no doubt in his tone.

A brief wave of anger welled in her, and she slapped away his hands. “Don’t be a fool,” she said venomously.

And suddenly his wry smile returned, the flint gone from his eyes. “I need to know, Cat,” he said, shaking his head and turning away toward the white stallion. Before she could deny his incredible presumption, he was in the saddle, his hair brushed away from his eyes. “I needed to know you didn’t love that man.”

Speechless, she could only gape at him.

“And something else,” he added as the stallion wheeled about, prancing. “I’ve heard the tales Morag’s been telling. I’ve heard the rumors.” His smile twitched. “I’ve even been the object of one of the vicar’s marvelous sermons.” The smile vanished. “I’ve not said a word until now, Cat, because I don’t care what people say. You know that. I’ve a life to live, and I will not be governed by the small minds of small folks. But you remember this, Caitlin Evans: Morag’s little bastard is no child of mine.”

He effortlessly released a whistle, and the white steed exploded through the brush to the fields sweeping up to Falconrest. Caitlin had no strength to do anything but stare after him, his final words clinging like burrs to her sore body.

Slowly, dreamlike, she lifted her hand to her lips. After a moment she dropped it to her chest where it stayed until the stallion and its rider vanished into shadow.

It wasn’t until the roan nuzzled her arm and snorted softly that she broke from her trance. With a start, she looked about her as though she had a no idea where she was or what she was doing there. Uttering a weak sob she pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead. A tear glistened at the comer of her eye, and without awareness, she blinked it away slowly. The roan nudged her again, and blindly she struggled into the saddle, trusting the animal to carry her safely back to the country lane.

She was numb. She felt neither the pull of her muscles as her mount cantered down the lane nor the sun’s heat nor the dust that rose from the ground as they passed. A large portion of her mind had gone into fearful hiding, and all she could do now was pray she’d be able to get inside the house without anyone noticing her agitation. All she needed now was Oliver ranting and raving, hurling questions at her like stones, of Gwen fussing over her like a mother hen.

Across the land rolling to the main road the roan trotted easily, and before long Caitlin was facing the mansion. The shadow-darkened windows stared out at her sightlessly, and the towers loomed against the deepening blue sky. Curious and faint sounds were carried to her on the light breeze, but she dismissed them as nothing as she finally allowed herself to sort out her emotions. But once up the slope and on level ground, she could hear the sounds more clearly; they came rhythmically, and it did not take her long to recognize their nature: the harsh bites of a whip engaged in a lashing.

She shook her head violently, driving Griffin and their strange encounter temporarily out of mind, and cocking her head until she located the sounds. After a moment’s indecision, she dug her heels hard into the roan’s side and galloped around the south tower’s base, skidding to a halt and sliding from the saddle in one fluid motion when she saw the tableau unfolding off to the side.

A tall wooden stake had been pounded into a worn patch of grass, and a crossbar had been lashed to it at just below shoulder height. Oliver, oddly dressed in his major’s uniform, was standing several yards away, his hands clasped firmly behind his back and his chin jutting squarely away from his chest. He was bewigged and enwrapped in a gleaming black sash that hung over his chest. Behind him stood the household staff, the women pressed close to the men, the men glaring straight ahead, not moving at all.

Caitlin’s eyes roamed the tiny crowd until she found Gwen, but when their gazes locked, Gwen looked away.

She took a step forward, and was stopped by a vicious attack of nausea in her stomach.

Flint was standing at the edge of the worn ground, his legs carelessly apart and his coat folded neatly on the grass. His white shirt was stained with perspiration down the length of his spine, and though his back faced her she could tell that his breathing was scarcely labored. He had flung his left arm outward to one side for balance, and in his right hand he held the grooved grip of a long-tailed whip. By the way he looked at Oliver, it was obvious he was waiting for instructions to continue.

Caitlin began walking; no one paid her any mind.

With arms outspread and secured by thongs around the crossbar, with his shirt tom to ribbons, with the flesh of his back exposed to the air, and with the dark blood running freely, young Davy Daniels slumped, his knees buckled and his cheek pressed against the pole.

16

F
ar overhead a flock of gulls flew in a great circle, their cries carried by the sea breeze and their shadows pocking the ground. They swarmed into a cloud, dispersed and swarmed again, and each time they converged they dropped a little lower until their black skull caps could be seen, and the black tips of their wings slashed the air like razor-sharp knives. It wasn’t until they were less than twenty feet from the land that they suddenly scattered in shrill abandon, and they did not regroup until they were no more than pale specks against the sky.

Oliver, oblivious to the chaos above him, cleared his throat impatiently. “Do you in fact repent, Mr. Daniels?”

Davy groaned deep in his chest, and his mouth was misshapen by his agony.

“Mr. Daniels, I am required to ask you again. Do you hear me?

Do you repent?”

Caitlin felt as if the air had hardened above her to prevent her fighting her way toward Davy. It was as though she were swimming, a leaded weight placed on her chest, making her gasp for breath. But she did move, and she was aware that faces were now turning slowly toward her, that somewhere in the crowd a hand was raised in her direction, though whether in warning or in threat she could not tell. Mouths opened, yet she could hear nothing but the fierce thunder of her own blood in her temples, the frantic race of her heart struggling to power her steps forward. And for a moment she could have sworn the earth shuddered under the impact of the breakers against the cliffs.

Flint seemed unaware of her approach. Casually, almost absently, he coiled the whip in his left hand, then released the tail and snapped his right wrist so that the obscenely serpentine leather uncoiled on the grass behind him, waiting. Once more he looked to Morgan, who had taken a lace-edged handkerchief from his sleeve and was daubing the beads of perspiration from the comer of his mouth, the ridges of his brow.

Davy took the respite to attempt standing, but his pain-weakened legs would not hold him. He sagged, and the strain on his arms brought a whimper from lips which were lined with froth and dried blood.

Morgan shook his head in weary regret. “Mr. Daniels, you really are making this extraordinarily difficult on yourself. You know that, don’t you? You do know that, don’t you?”

To Caitlin, his voice carried the disdain of an adder for its helpless prey.

“All you have to do is nod, Mr. Daniels, and it will be all over, I promise you. Nod, Mr. Daniels, and you will have cool water to drink and a balm for your wounds. Come, Mr. Daniels, don’t prolong this any further.”

Davy’s tongue poked through his lips; it was dark and swollen. “Very well,” Oliver said, and sniffed. “Carry on, Mr. Flint.” After a moment’s pause Flint rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck, and flung back his right arm; the whip writhed on the grass. Then he took a deep breath and, for the first time since Caitlin rounded the tower, he looked to Davy. It was apparent he was coolly measuring the distance between them, to the place on the boy’s back where the lash would sting the most. His biceps flexed in anticipation beneath the smooth shirt, and Davy groaned again.

“Come, Mr. Flint,” Morgan said, glancing toward the horizon. “I see no sense in dragging the lad over the coals.” Flint leaned back slightly, and the air stilled, the gulls were silenced—but as his arm began its journey forward, Caitlin snared his wrist with one hand and snatched the whip with the other. He whirled around with a snarl, fists raised, eyes flashing blackly, the scar from nose to lips pulsing in rage. His oath was muffled by the startled gasp of the assembled staff, but Caitlin refused to back down before either his language or the murderous glare in his eyes.

They faced off in black rancor, Caitlin just as intense as he. “Touch the boy again, Mr. Flint,” she said at last, the words smoldering in acid, “and I’ll use this foul thing on you myself.”

“Lady Morgan!” Oliver commanded, his astonishment strangling his cry.

She ignored him.

Flint wrestled visibly for self-control. Then he drew himself up and bowed to her rigidly before stepping to one side, well out of her reach. Immediately, she turned around to face the staff, searching for Orin. When she spotted him, she beckoned to him, her free hand pointing to the farrier’s brother in unmistaken instruction. There was no hesitation. Several of the women scurried instantly forward to assist the farrier, their faces avoiding Morgan, who was flushed with fury. The others broke ranks and hurried back to their quarters. Only Gwen remained behind, standing alone, neither smiling nor moving.

“Lady
Morgan!”
Oliver growled again.

But Caitlin refused to acknowledge him. She waited until she was certain Davy had been freed from the post and was still breathing; only then did she cast the whip aside and march up to face Oliver.

“Lady Morgan,” he said, his voice rising, “you have overstepped your bounds.”

“Husband,” she retorted, “I will see to Davy. When I am finished, I will see to you. And this time you will not talk to me of what the law demands. This time you will satisfy me.”

And before his enraged astonishment, she whirled and strode into the staff’s common room. She was capable of neither thought nor speech, so she gave her directions in a flurry of ragged arm and head movements. The long table was cleared of its clutter, and Alice Courder brought a pail of warm water from the kitchen. By the time clean rags had been assembled, Orin and two others had brought Davy inside and laid him gently on his stomach. Alice produced a carving knife, which Caitlin took without asking and used to cut away the blood-clotted fabric from his body. Though Davy flinched at the contact, he made no sound; he was unconscious and his head was cradled on his forearms. She worked swiftly, expertly, and silently. And as each reddened and bloody stripe was exposed, Alice commenced a gentle laving of the skin with her well-scrubbed but stubby, liver-spotted hands.

When the shirt was finally off Davy’s back, and Elaine Courder had appeared at the table’s head with a ceramic crock of balm, Caitlin backed away. She barely felt Orin slip the knife from her fingers. Gwen was standing in the doorway, watching the ministrations with trembling lips; but she shook her head vigorously when Mary sidled up to her and whispered a question. She only had eyes for Caitlin.