Seacliff (21 page)

He’s your husband; this is your doing
, her expression accused.

You cannot blame me for this horror
, Caitlin stared back.

Gwen leaned hard against the jamb, and Orin was at her side immediately, wrapping an arm around her waist while she buried her face in his shoulder. There were whispers now, instructions and oaths, and pity for the young man who could not hear them.

Caitlin watched as long as she could. When it was evident, however, that she was no longer needed she turned on her heels and strode down the corridor, through the door, and into the mansion where she headed directly for the rear drawing room. The room was deserted, the only sign of anyone having been there all day a woven shallow basket of oranges and a decanter of brandy on the table. She grabbed an orange automatically, tore at the rind, and bit into it savagely, consuming more than half before grimacing at the sourness and tossing the remains out the door. To wash away the taste, she poured herself some brandy, and drained the glass in several burning gulps. Her eyes stung and watered, her throat felt lined with a fire that no water could quench. She stood at the French doors and stared out blindly over the lawn, refusing to permit herself to think about the insidious horror she’d just witnessed.

Five minutes passed, and she poured herself another glass.

Two months ago, she thought, she’d been determined not to disgrace her father by admitting to a failed marriage; she had vowed to make it work despite the obstacles, while simultaneously refusing to surrender even one small portion of the land she loved more than any other.

Two months ago she had almost convinced herself she was happy—or at least content with the dizzying circumstances of her life.

But now …

This time … this time she knew beyond doubt that she was in the right and that Oliver was dreadfully, horribly wrong. Nothing short of outright murder should have brought such a punishment down on Davy’s back. There was, this time, no conceivable way Oliver could justify his actions.

Five minutes more, and her glass was empty yet again.

Footsteps approached and stopped just outside the open door. She waited patiently, knowing Oliver could not disregard her wishes now. She had defied him in front of the entire staff, and he would have to make a stand or lose all his control. Not even Flint would respect him if he gave ground.

But her vision was growing slightly blurred, and as she put a hand to her brow and rubbed it gently, the room seemed to grow warm. She reached behind her and opened the French doors, sighed as the tangy breeze caressed her hair and shoulders. For the second time that afternoon she thought she felt the earth move as the surf pounded the cliffs. Then she frowned, puzzled, and glanced over her shoulder. Curious, but she would have sworn the tide would not be in until dusk. No matter. She must be mistaken; the two quick glasses of brandy were befuddling her perceptions.

Fifteen minutes became twenty, but she would not give him the satisfaction of launching a harridan’s hunt. He would come to her; there could be no other alternative.

And if there was one thing she had more of than Sir Oliver Morgan, it was patience. She would wait right here all night if she had to. All night. But he would come.

And he did.

One moment she was staring into the empty corridor, the next he was framed by the doorway, still dressed as she had seen him earlier in the day. At first she thought him an apparition so swiftly and silently did he come into view; but when he folded his arms imperiously over his chest and lifted his chin to gaze down at her, she knew her mind was not playing tricks.

But she could not speak.

Try as she might she was unable to find the means to voice her outrage. Instead, she stammered and gestured with her empty glass. He only grunted, and nodded. Not now, she thought desperately; my God, don’t fail now! Yet no matter how hard she tried, all she could do at the last minute was stumble across the room to her chair and sink dismally into it. The glass clinked harshly on the table beside her.

There was something wrong.

She blamed it at first on the brandy. But when she thought about it, two rations no matter how swiftly downed had never affected her like this before. Then she experienced the queasy sensation she’d felt earlier in the day, though this time it was not confined to her stomach. Her vision softened again, and a chill raced along her arms bringing goose flesh that would not subside no matter what she tried. Her throat was dry, her legs, numb.

Something was… wrong. “My dear?”

Solicitous. Oh, so solicitous; you would think Davy’s lashing had never occurred. But why does he just stand there? Doesn’t he know there’s something wrong with me? Can’t he see I’m not… I’m not well?

“Caitlin, you wished to speak to me?”

About the weather, Oliver, of course. I want to talk to you about the weather. About how terribly hot it is and couldn’t we go back to England where I have my pond and can cool my feet in the middle of the day? Of course I want to talk with you, Oliver. Of course, I do! But there’s something wrong, I can’t get my tongue to move.

Her head nodded slightly forward, and she had to sit up as best she could to drive off the sleep overcoming her.

She frowned severely then: sleep? At this hour?

A shadow engulfed her, and with great effort she managed to look up. Oliver was standing in front of her, his arms unfolded and his face creased with what she supposed was concern. He leaned so closely that she could smell the tobacco and wine on his breath. Where had he been? Smoking a pipe and savoring his port in the front room while she sat waiting for him? And he
knew
she’d been waiting for him.

“Caitlin, can you hear me, my dear?” All she could do was blink once.

He yanked off his wig and tossed it into the chair, then kneeling he touched her cheek gently, her brow, her hair. She wanted to tell him to stop staring at her as if he expected her to die at any moment. But his gaze never left her face as he relaxed his grip on the nape of her neck and scrutinized her closely. He finally turned his head and pressed his ear to her bosom.

“Oh, really, Oliver! You’re carrying this a bit too far, don’t you think?”

Yet though she heard her voice quite clearly—even the sarcasm and the disgust—she sensed that none of it reached his ears. It was as if she’d suddenly been struck mute.

And her panic began to climb.

Her breathing increased rapidly, shallowly, and her hands gripped the grooved armrests tightly.

Another shadow appeared over her—this one more distant. Was he tall? Could it be Flint? She couldn’t see him, nor could she guess his identity from his stride. And the idea that she had glimpsed a white patch over one eye was too absurd to consider. Something was afflicting and distorting her eyesight, so that solid objects twisted and swam, separated and joined before her. A faint throaty whimper broke the silence. She realized it had come from her own throat.

“Caitlin…” Oliver rose and backed off. “Bradford,” he said in his best command voice, “you will fetch Mrs. Courder at once. Then you will send a man to the village for that Broary woman. I understand she has some knowledge of medicines. Immediately afterward you will send the man on to Llewfanon at the valley’s southern end where there’s a physician. Bring him here instantly. And I mean instantly!”

She heard a murmuring behind her head, but she could not decipher the words.

“Wait!” Oliver cried. “The Thomas woman. Find her and bring her here at once. She might know something of immediate help.”

Again the murmur of assent.

The chill returned, and with it the sensation of a dozen small fires breaking out along her spine to the base of her skull. Nothing made sense anymore. She could no longer hear Oliver speaking, could no longer see without having the room spin before her eyes. She closed them quickly, before the brandy found its way from her stomach, and felt a pressure on her left hand. Oliver was holding it. She wanted to smile at him, to signal him not to worry… but she couldn’t believe any of this. What she did believe was that some foul humor had taken hold of her and was poisoning her system, wrenching it, tainting her senses until she could no longer use them.

She was flying, then.

The air around her swarmed like feathers over her arms and breasts, and in the distance, through a muddy cloud that drifted from side to side as if blown by a demon wind, she could see Griffin. He was riding his stallion, laughing and pointing at the cloud, showing the woman riding behind him how curious and wonderful the world looked. The woman had hair the shade of wheat, a round pale face, and a figure lithe and supple. Griffin twisted around and kissed her. Morag Burton kissed him back.

Suddenly Caitlin landed on a pile of feathers laced with ice, coated with fire.

Water trickled between her lips; she gagged.

Her clothes were stripped from her, and she felt that given half a chance she would float over Seacliff and see herself as the gulls and falcons and eagles do before they dive for prey.

“Gwen?”

She was amazed. It was her own voice. She heard it clear as a Sunday bell.

“Gwen?” she repeated.

But the question was so weak, like a child’s, she wasn’t sure Gwen had heard it.

A cold finger touched her chin.

“I’m here, Cat, it’s all right,” a voice said in Welsh, not in English. “Sir Oliver is down in the kitchen, checking all the stores. He thinks there may be something rotten Mrs. Courder didn’t catch.”

But all she could reply was, “Gwen?”

And her own voice was the last thing she heard before the muddy cloud of her senses exploded and engulfed her in flaming silence.

17

T
he stallion’s name was Whitefire. And as he paced slowly across the wide expanse of the crescent-shaped clearing he shook his great head and lowered it to the dew-laden grass on which he nibbled. His moon-cast shadow vanished into the darkness of the hill’s forest. The hour was well past midnight, and the only sounds heard were the muted tinkling and creaking of the stallion’s equipage, and the occasional soft hoot of an owl in the branches overhead. He snorted, and swished his tail lazily from side to side. And every so often he turned his head to look for his master, as if to be sure he hadn’t been forgotten.

The clearing was a natural pause in the woodland that covered the eastern range. There were no shrubs or saplings, no burrows or debris from nesting birds. And where the grass ended, an outcropping of brown rock began, leading to a drop of nearly three hundred feet. At its base the trees began again, and stopped only when they reached the ancient stones of Falconrest.

Griffin Radnor squatted on his haunches in the shallow depression of a boulder, and folded his arms across his thighs. A thin woolen cloak was draped carelessly over his shoulders. From behind, he could have been mistaken for just another rock, until his head suddenly swung guardedly to one side. The view was hypnotizing, and every few minutes he was forced to look away.

The valley below seemed to be lightly coated with snow, and glimmered silver. The cottages, long since gone dark, looked like toys, the vast ocean of stars mocked the bay and the channel and the ocean below, and the bulk of Seacliff, even at this distance, loomed like a protective sentinel at land’s end.

Unless it was preparing to become a tomb, he thought morbidly.

It was the end of August. The air had been cleansed twice of its cloying humidity by swiftly moving storms—one charging in from Cardigan Bay on the heels of blinding lighting, the other creeping over the hills from England, dropping three days of torrential rains and thunder on the valley. The first had appeared a fortnight before; the last had ended only two mornings before; and after the two storms Griffin had had a visitor. Gwen Thomas had come to his gates and demanded she be admitted. His man, Richard Jones, knew her and brought her to him, and it was then he’d learned of Caitlin Morgan’s illness.

“The fever takes her and leaves her, takes her and leaves her,” Gwen had said, her hands trembling so hard she could barely hold her mug of cold water. “That old sod from Llewfanon has given her every potion devised since God created the world, but all she does is shake like an autumn leaf.”

“Does she speak?”

Gwen shrugged. “Of a way, of a way. She makes no sense, none at all.” She choked back a sob, wiped a hand over her pale, drawn face and took a deep unsteady breath.

Griffin put a hand on her shoulder but said nothing more. He did not know how to comfort this woman, though he admired her for staying long enough on her feet to make the journey to Falconrest. At the Stag’s Head, he’d heard of Davy Daniels’s lashing and that Seacliff’s mistress had been too late and not forceful enough to save the boy from being permanently crippled. But when he’d broached the subject gingerly, Gwen had grown heated, her dark eyes flashing with indignation.

“Lies!” she’d cried. “Cat came round that tower like an archangel ready for battle. She took the whip from the English bastard’s hand and beat him down with a look. She cut off Davy’s shirt herself, she did. And when blood was all over her, she never batted an eye. Who told you this? Who’d dare tell such a foul lie?”

He’d backed away quickly, though he didn’t physically move an inch, and asked her instead about Caitlin’s ravings.

Gwen subsided instantly, shrinking into an upholstered chair next to Griffin’s hearth until he thought she’d disappeared. “I don’t know. She… there’s talk about geese and birds, and once or twice she blathers about that silly pond of hers back in Eton. The rest is pure raving; I can’t make head nor tail of it.” She sipped from the mug. “One time she was in the middle of a story, and I didn’t recognize it until I remembered it came from some old tale Les used to tell. Then the next thing I know there’s Bradford telling me I have to get on with my work and the mistress needs her rest and”—her voice rose to a keening wail—”and don’t he think I know that I’ve work to do, but I can’t do it, because she’s lying there wasting away with nothing to be done for it? Don’t he know that?”