Seacliff (38 page)

She stared down through the glass top of the case and spoke without looking up. “I hear that there is one who manages to best you each time you try.”

A silence followed, and she watched his reflection as he stepped between her and the window. He was frowning.

“I believe it is Griffin Radnor who has the key to your skill.” Silence again. The frown had turned to a deep, wary scowl.

Then: “If you turn around, Master Randall, you will see waiting in the trap a friend of James Flint’s. He will be in here in a very few minutes, wondering if perhaps you haven’t done something horrid to me.”

“M’lady—”

“He is not very nice, to put it mildly,” she went on, ignoring his interruption. “We do not get along, Mr. Birwyn and I.”

Now Randall’s silence was clearly quizzical. When he turned, and Birwyn straightened slightly, he knew the two of them could be observed through the window. He fussed a bit with some of the items, then grunted as he lifted the gold plate from its shelf. A flare of sunlight reflecting from its center made Caitlin turn away, but not before she caught a glimpse of Randall smiling.

“The man has one eye,” the goldsmith said, lowering the plate slowly to the struts atop the case.

“He sees nevertheless.”

She put a finger to her chin and cocked her head as if studying the designs.

“You’ve not been down in a while and some, m’lady.” The voice was neutral.

“I’ve had little choice in the matter,” she answered bluntly, the finger folding into her fist.

“And now you’re to marry?”

“Perhaps.”

An eyebrow rose, but Randall said nothing.

“As I recall,” she continued, biting nervously at her lips and praying she wasn’t mistaken, “there was talk, aside from your exploits in wrestling, that you managed, from time to time, to slip a chest of supplies or two to the men living outside the valley. Our men,” she amended quickly. And held her breath. It was done. If he denied it, if he suspected her of being an agent of Flint’s, she would have to find some other way to contact Griffin Radnor. But by then, it might be too late.

“People do talk,” he said suspiciously.

“And people do, from time to time, manage to slip away to the men, don’t they?”

“I’ve heard it’s been done.”

She looked up at him, locking gazes with him in earnest appeal. “It will be done again, Master Randall. It must be done again, or the Evans family will vanish from Wales as if it had never existed.”

There was nothing readable in his expression. Instead, he picked up the plate again and replaced it in the window, dusted it with the comer of his apron and shook his head slowly. Then he snapped his head around as Birwyn, finally rid of his patience, swung down from his seat and walked purposefully toward the shop.

“Do you hunt much, m’lady?” She blinked, confused.

“There’s a perfect place for deer, in case you’ve a mind for venison on your wedding day. If you ken Alan Carver’s farm at the north end, there’s a trail they follow so the hunt won’t find them.”

The door opened, and Birwyn stood on the threshold.

“I do indeed enjoy hunting,” she said, stepping away from the case. “But I’m sorry to say there’s little enough time left for the work you say you’ll have to do.” She turned to Birwyn and smiled sadly. “I’m afraid James will have to be disappointed, Nate.”

“Sorry, m’lady,” Randall said abjectly. “I do the best I can.”

“I’m sure you do,” she told him.

“M’lady,” Birwyn said, his tone shaded in menace, “it’s time I was takin’ you back.”

She brushed past him without a backward glance, and had just seated herself in the cart when Randall broke from the shop and ran up to her, panting. Birwyn started to whip the pony into motion anyway, but Caitlin stopped him by poking his back.

“M’lady,” Randall said, “I’ve been thinkin’ about the order you’ve given.”

“Yes?” A swift prayer, then, that Birwyn would not hear the pounding of her heart.

“There are some hereabouts who wouldn’t even make the effort.” She looked down the road through the village, at the sullen stares that confronted her, and her throat felt dry. “I know, I know. But I truly do wish that very thing, Master Randall. It would mean a lot. A great deal, in fact.” Then she gambled on Birwyn’s continued confusion over the cryptic conversation and looked Randall straight in the eye. “But I am determined to make this wedding a memorable one, no matter what people may think of me. It may come as a surprise, but I am still my father’s daughter.”

Randall stepped back as if a great weight had been lifted suddenly from his chest. “I shall do my best, m’lady,” he said, bowing, touching his hand to his brow.

She wanted to weep, with joy and relief. “I know you will, Martin.” Then she poked Birwyn again. “I think it’s time we moved on, don’t you, Nate? Mr. Flint will be waiting.”

The whip cracked, and the cart turned around in the narrow street, and as they swung around the commons’ verdant square, she dared not look again at Martin Randall. She found herself drenched in perspiration, but not from the sun’s heat. A chill worked its way along her spine, but not from the cool breeze blowing soothingly over her skin. And there was a churning in her stomach, but she hoped it was not from having misplaced her trust.

Birwyn whistled tunelessly; the pony’s hooves on the road laid centuries ago by the Romans sounded loudly, like musket-fire; and when they reached the top of the rise, Caitlin stayed in the cart all the way to the stables, instead of hopping out and walking the rest of the way to Seacliff, as was her custom. Though her guardian looked at her strangely, she did not head directly for the house. Instead she moved on to Orin Daniels’s cottage, saw Gwen at the well and before the surprised woman could protest, grabbed firm hold of her arm and pulled her toward the cliff wall.

“I have nothin’ to say,” Gwen muttered several times as they walked. But she did not try to pull away.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Caitlin told her as though she were scolding a child. “All you have to do is listen, and then you can leave.”

“With pleasure.”

At the wall, Caitlin released her, and she stepped hurriedly away, as if Caitlin had the plague. She rubbed at her arm gingerly and spat once against the wind.

“I want you in my rooms tomorrow night,” Caitlin told her, staring out at the water.

“I’d sooner die.”

“You will if you do not.”

Gwen spun on her, eyes flashing hatred. “So that’s how it is, is it?

He’s not only turned you coward; he’s turned you English at last.”

“He’s done nothing of the sort. I just won’t have Mary’s hands on me while I dress.”

“And I’ll not have my hands on that dress. What do you take me for, Cat?”

“I take you for someone who has been through hell, as I have,” she said simply. “And if you truly despised me, you would have tried to get away from here long before now.” Her smile was rueful. “You see, I know you too well, Gwen Thomas. I know you all too well.”

“Well, I don’t know you at all,” Gwen said less forcefully. “You know me better than you think.”

“Do I?”

A voice from the house interrupted them, and Caitlin turned to see Flint standing in the doorway of the rear sitting room. He was dressed for riding, and in his left hand he held the coiled whip she knew all too well. He called her again and beckoned angrily, impatiently.

“Tomorrow night, gone seven,” she said, and did not give Gwen an opportunity to argue further; she walked away with her chin high and her hands buried in her skirts. When she reached Flint, he stepped aside and gestured her into the room.

“Birwyn tells me you spent some time with the goldsmith,” he said accusingly.

Her expression was blank. “Am I to assume you are jealous?”

“You are to assume nothing. I want to know what you found so interesting in that grubby little shop of his.”

Haughtily she drew herself up. “I was, if you must know, hoping Mr. Randall would be able to fashion a gift for you, as I believe I’ve already mentioned.”

“And?”

“And there was too little time. He was much more interested in the coming days’ hunting than he was in our nuptials.” Flint leaned close to her face, and she could smell wine on his breath as well as see the tiny veins inflamed across his eyes. “If you are lying to me, Caitlin…” and the whip uncoiled and snaked toward the floor.

“What would it profit me?” she asked indignantly. “Do you think I’ve asked Mr. Randall to gather the farmers together and storm this house and spirit me away? And do you really think he would even try if I had? Really, Mr. Flint. Really.” He wavered between suspicion and trust, and finally chose the latter by kissing her quickly on the cheek. “You do want to live, don’t you?”

“I would not be doing this thing if I did not.”

“You may go, then,” he said. “But mind,” he cautioned before she left the room. “Mind you do not give me cause to change my tune.”

“Never,” she said sweetly, and with a swish of her skirts vanished into the corridor. Flint waited, thinking she might return for a parting word, then headed outside where he met Birwyn. Together they walked toward the barracks, heads down, Flint’s whip trailing behind.

“I don’t trust her,” he said.

“Ye’ve a right not to,” Birwyn agreed.

“I want men around this place, starting sunset tomorrow. They will not leave until I give the word, is that understood?” Birwyn faltered, dropped several paces behind, and had to hurry to catch up with his master. “But the frigate—”

“Will not beach for another week. We’ve plenty of time for business. I’m expecting that man from London tomorrow. He will have the gold, and the instructions. I do not, my dear friend, expect to wait much longer before we begin stirring the pot to a boil.”

When they reached the northern arm of the wall, they passed through a ragged gap into the barracks yard. Men who had been lounging beneath the trees jumped quickly to their feet, saluted, and focused their eyes straight ahead of them. Within moments, word had passed to those inside, and the yard filled with all those who were not on duty around the valley. Flint examined them critically, but did not smile until he was satisfied with their appearance.

“Gentlemen,” he finally said, “I’m inviting you to a wedding.”

From her balcony Caitlin watched Flint and Birwyn climb through the wall and disappear into the gathering shadows beneath the trees. She knew where they were headed, and she suspected what Flint would do when he arrived. But it did not matter. One man or a thousand, she had gone too far now to turn back. And it astonished her to discover that, since sparring with him in this very room so many months before, she felt for the first time a tingling, rushing excitement. Much of it was due to the first positive action she had taken since winter; the rest to the inevitability of it all, as if her trials and humiliations were only preparations for a test that would determine once and for all the true strength of her convictions. There would be no more posturing, no more tantrums or rants; no more postponements, no reasons for altering her plans. It was now or never, since she’d given Randall a strong clue to her aims, and by doing this, she’d forced herself to move.

With relief, she found herself humming before her mirror as she undressed. She slipped into her nightgown and robe, then sat before the mirror. Humming as she brushed her hair, every few minutes she broke into a laugh more genuine than anything she’d felt since the beginning of the year.

She wondered if this was how Griffin felt whenever he flaunted the English standards, or whenever he “tweaked the nose of the British lion,” as her father used to say both in admiration, and criticism of Griffin Radnor. If it was, she forgave him all his excesses, and all his shortcomings. The feeling was rather like having drunk an overabundance of wine— giddy and lightheaded, spurring the blood and heightening the senses. She had no illusions about the danger involved. Indeed the danger excited her, almost as much as what lay beyond— freedom.

And there was a beyond even farther away than that, a final goal—returning Seacliff into the hands of its true caretakers. The people who cared.

One day, she thought, one day things will be decided… and this time I will be the one to make the decision, myself.

29

I
t was more an autumn wind than one appropriate for June. Streaking across the water from the southwest and making a ghostly mist from the spray it peeled off the waves, the wind bellowed and howled over the mouths of chimneys, rattled panes and punished the trees that clung desperately to the cliffsides. The weather brought to Caitlin’s mind the deliciously chilling stories old Daniels used to tell as they huddled around the hearth and watched his fleshy hands make shadow-monsters on the walls. That had been an innocent time. A younger time. And even now, as she paced the length of her room, the excitement of the hours to come added extra tension to her already highly strung nerves. The voice of the wind was beautiful in its fury, and it filled her with a hope she once believed she’d never feel again.

On impulse, she threw open the balcony doors and stepped outside. Her dress was instantly flatted against her figure, and her hair was blown to one side. It was long past seven, long past Gwen’s appointed hour, but Caitlin was not worried. Instead, she lifted her face to the night sky and let the wind soothe her eyes, her cheeks, her arms, like cool fingers, then took a deep breath and luxuriated in the bracing chill that confirmed her in her purpose.

Seacliff. Well named, she thought, gripping the wall and leaning into the swiftly moving air. Here was where nature’s power struck first, and where it left last before turning out to sea. In the days of her father and grandfather, there were always ruby red standards flying from the tops of both massive towers, and the valley’s inhabitants would check them every morning and night to learn the direction of the wind. They served as a harbinger of the storms and the calm times to come. The poles were empty now. Oliver had thought the practice frivolous—and a poor excuse for reminding the villagers the Evans family still lived safely within these walls.