Seacliff (6 page)

There was no opportunity to protest. Lady Coming brushed past her quickly and headed directly inside. Caitlin was left openmouthed and staring, her anger rising quickly. Then a hand tapped her shoulder. She spun around, eyes blazing, expression daring anyone to cross her.

The man she faced, however, was grinning.

“She’s a right proper bitch, isn’t she?” he said, jutting his chin toward the departing baroness. “You could say good morning to her, and she’d turn it into the most dreadful case of treason England has seen since Charles lost his lovely head.”

4

H
e wore glittering dark silk lace at his throat. His thick brown hair was unpowdered and brushed from a high, creased forehead into a braid that rested between his shoulder blades. Several modest rings adorned his fingers, lace flared at his cuffs, and silver-gold thread was woven artfully into his waistcoat. His breeches were black, fitting snugly and ending just below the knee, and his white stockings remained unwrinkled despite his casual stance. Low-topped boots and gold buckles completed his attire which, despite the jewelry and the flash, was modest compared with that of the rest of the company.

Though a number of tall torches were set around the garden, Caitlin still found it difficult to examine the man’s face as fully as she would have liked. What she could see of it, however, appeared hard-ridged, with deep-set eyes of indeterminate color and a full mouth that curled up at one comer because of a narrow scar that crossed from the side of his aquiline nose. He wore neither beard nor mustache, and from the deep shade of his skin she surmised he worked outside most of the time.

Her first impression was of carefully contained cruelty, her second of a handsome bearing that was far from refined. On any other occasion she might have excused herself immediately from his company, but his jibe at Lady Coming’s expense endeared him to her—-at least for the moment.

“Have I said something wrong, then?” he asked, his voice smooth and somewhat deep.

“No,” she said cautiously. Then, more boldly: “Quite to the contrary, in point of fact, Mr.—” she prompted.

“Flint,” he said, bowing to her with mock formality. “James Patrick Flint at your service, ma’am.”

She gave him a slight inclination of her head. “Lady Caitlin Morgan,” she said, groaning instantly at the coy lilt she’d added to her response. If Oliver had overheard her, he would accuse her of all types of treason.

He smiled pleasantly. “If you’ll excuse me again, ma’am, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I am acquainted with your husband, and have been for some time.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed. And he was quite right, if I may be so bold as to say so. You are without question the most beautiful creature to have come out of Wales in at least a century… and most likely, longer.” She looked for an insult—an automatic reaction—and when she realized there was none, she felt a blush rise from her chest to her cheeks. She turned away quickly to stare at a shrub she could barely make out in the half-light. Despite herself, she was wonderfully pleased. It was the first compliment she had received since arriving at the castle that was not given for Oliver’s sake, or for the sake of formality. This man, she felt, would not bow to any convention that displeased him. There was an almost tangible aura of strength and purpose about him.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” he said then, looking at her as his smile faded. “Am I disturbing you?”

Before she could stop herself she reached out to touch his arm. “No! Not at all, Mr. Flint. I’m afraid that the baroness caught me off guard, that’s all. It’s nothing to do with you, believe me.”

He crooked an elbow toward her and, after a moment’s pause, she took it and permitted him to guide her through the garden’s rare treasures.

“She does that to most people,” he said, keeping his voice prudently low. “I’ve known the old cow for a number of years, and I don’t believe there’s a man-jack in the country who wouldn’t gladly have her heart. She has the idea, you see, that coming from that barbaric land of hers to the north gives her special privileges. The Scots are all like that, in fact. Runny noses, god-awful music, and an unshakable belief there’s a divine plan afoot that will eventually hand them the English throne, move London to Edinburgh, and force men to wear ludicrous skirts. You will notice, however, my lady, how she’s managed to purge her nasal honk of the guttural rolling r’s that mark her as a northerner. A paradox. Worse—a hypocrite. I really do believe she’ll die in her bed quoting that sham, Robert Bums.”

Caitlin, fascinated by the exposition, burst into laughter at the image of Lady Coming propped up by dozens of pillows and attended by sniveling servants, reading at the top of her voice the Scottish poet’s most clamorous verses. Impulsively she hugged his arm to her side in approval, and he smiled down at her.

“I am, of course, something of a hypocrite myself,” he told her with a grin that took the confessional sting from his words. “I am quite the opportunist, in point of fact. I’ll espouse any cause, as long as it keeps the tradesmen from pounding on my door. I’ll woo any beautiful woman, any man who is rich, any country that will have me for more than ten days at a stretch.”

“Really, Mr. Flint!”

“Really, Lady Morgan.”

“You shouldn’t denigrate yourself so.”

“My lady, I am above scruples and conscience. I leave them to the nobility, who can afford the indulgence.”

She grinned and sidestepped a bordering stone that had been kicked out of place.

“If you think so little of Scotland, what think you of Wales?”

“A land of unsurpassed excellence, incredible mountains, and marvelously fat sheep that somehow contrive to look like their masters.”

She could barely restrain her laughter as they reached the far end of the garden.

The wall was no more than waist high, giving onto a drop she estimated was easily one hundred feet to the huge boulders below. It made her dizzy to look down so steep an incline and she hastily lifted her gaze to the valley gently rising in front of her. She could hear the night sounds and see the glittery lights of nearby Windsor and Eton. The hills on the horizon were obscured by the night, their outlines marked only by the stars overhead. It was as magnificent a vision as she’d ever seen, literally breathtaking in its scope. Within moments she found herself drawn perilously close to the wall. A hand grasped her shoulder, and she started, blinked furiously, and gulped when she saw how far she’d been leaning over the stone barrier.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Flint asked her.

Flustered, she passed a nervous hand over her eyes. “The wine,” she said, and swallowed twice.

At that moment a liveried young boy passed by with tray in hand. From it, Flint plucked two crystal goblets and handed her one of them. She almost demurred, but the smile in his eyes stayed her. And when he lifted his glass in a silent solemn toast, she knew she could not refuse without giving him offense. It was, after all, a special occasion. There could hardly be any fault in having a bit more to drink.

She emptied the glass as if quaffing ale, and put her fingers to her lips to stifle a giggle. Flint laughed and drained his own, catching the young boy on his way back so he could exchange the goblets for two more.

“No, really,” she protested weakly. Her eyelids were growing heavy, and she heard her words begin to slur. A special occasion was one thing, but turning into a common drunkard was something else.

“I insist,” he said gently. His smile widened. “You Welsh have a particular burden to bear when you visit the Conqueror.” He straightened. “To Lady Coming. May she discover her husband abed with the queen and call it the act of a sublime patriot.”

Caitlin hiccuped and giggled, nearly spilling the wine over her dress. She turned to lean back against the wall. Lifting her goblet she studied the ballroom’s glow in the faceted glass. It was mesmerizing. The wine sparkled, and stars seemed to be entrapped in the liquid. She sipped, sipped again, and did not move aside when Flint stood closer to her. He gestured then to the garden, to the castle, to the valley behind them. “It’s all rather lovely, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice faintly rasping.

“There are no words for it,” she agreed with an emphatic nod. “I take it, then, you’re enjoying yourself?”

“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, excitement welling once again in her chest. “I don’t think I ever want to leave, Mr. Flint. It’s as if I’ve fallen asleep and found some fairyland. I…” She caught herself babbling, and flushed with embarrassment. My goodness, Cat, she thought, you’d think you’d never been to a party before.

He moved still closer. “I know what you mean. It’s not often someone like myself finds a place in these proceedings, and I confess I find it rather hard to breathe.”

“Birds of a feather,” she said. “I’m not exactly a member of the English family.”

An abrupt, elaborate fanfare shattered the peaceful evening, and she looked anxiously toward the castle.

“It’s nothing,” he assured her, a restraining hand on her arm. “The queen is leaving, that’s all. She doesn’t much care for these things and goes to her rooms as soon as she dares. The king will leave in an hour, unless he keeps ‘tasting’ his wine.”

“Mr. Flint,” she admonished, “that’s hardly the way to talk about him, you know.”

His smile grew into a sardonic grin. “My apologies—and I do seem to be doing that a lot this evening, don’t I? But I had assumed, your being Welsh and all… Well, I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“And you’re right,” she said, stifling a laugh. Her head felt giddy. “But there is such a thing as discretion.”

“Quite.” His smile softened, and his hand began to stroke the lace on her arms lightly. “You must be tired.”

“A little,” she admitted.

“Sir Oliver can be demanding.” And to her questioning look he lowered his gaze. “I have worked with him several times over the past years. Not in the army, directly. In other things.” She frowned, trying to recall mention of James Patrick Flint, but nothing formed in her mind. Oliver never spoke of business except when he’d completed a particularly lucrative transaction. And then he spent the evening gloating, more often than not drinking himself to sleep in his hearthside chair.

Hint spoke again, his lips near her ear: “Do you see the way the light is caught in the windows? Stars, I should think, aren’t nearly as fortunate. And the perfumes of these flowers, even after sunset—they reach the senses like warm wine. You can almost feel them settling into your soul.”

Caitlin’s eyes closed against the man’s softly droning voice, and she could almost feel the course of the wine as it lit slow fires in her veins. She squirmed, without moving away from him; her shoulder shifted under the warm weight of his palm as he continued to whisper the words and gild the images. Sighing when he paused, she turned in the hope that he would continue in that lullaby voice, ignoring the warning chime in her head.

“I should hasten to add,” he said suddenly, “that none of this holds a candle to you, Lady Morgan.”

She smiled almost shyly. “You know how to flatter, sir.” And she thought, Would that Oliver did, too.

He grinned. “I don’t consider myself glib, my lady. But I do feel an obligation as a gentleman to expound upon beauty wherever and whenever I am blessed to be near it.”

For a moment she thought he was mocking her, yet she could find no evidence that he was in his penetrating gaze. “As I said, sir, you flatter well.” And you, she scolded herself halfheartedly, are playing coy games. She pushed herself a little farther away.

“You dislike flattery?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“The Welsh are direct.”

“The Welsh,” she said, “know the value of words.”

She knew she was on the edge of drunkenness, and suspected Flint was teasing her for it. But a gust of wind chased away her renewed caution, and when she felt him lay a solicitous hand against the small of her swaying back, she found no strength to protest.

Raucous laughter rang out from the ballroom, distracting her briefly just as his face closed in on her neck. A momentary panic pushed her away, though not far enough to break off his touch. More guests had begun to wander into the garden— couples with their heads close together in shared secrets, men taking out long-stemmed clay pipes, women rapidly fanning their bosoms and necks against the heat of the ballroom and the exertions of their dancing. A guard shifted noisily at his station in a far comer. On the battlements above, two soldiers met, saluted, turned in about-face, and marched on.

The music swelled, and the night deepened.

She realized she was still holding her goblet, emptied it in four swallows, and felt nothing at all.

“My lady,” Flint said, “have you done much exploring?” She blinked slowly as she looked his way, and put a hand to his cheek to prevent his face from slipping away. He covered it quickly and, before she could stop him, turned her palm upward and placed a gentle kiss in her palm. On the inside of her wrist. And then on the inside of her elbow before her wits returned and she drew her arm away.

“Yet again I apologize,” he said. But his hand remained on her back, penetrating the layers of silk and cotton, sending warm waves along the length of her spine. “Perhaps another brandy?”

She tried and failed to wave a dismissing hand. “No,” she said at last. “I’m really… Nothing more, thank you.”

His breath caressed the side of her neck, spilling over the hollow of her throat to the swell of her breasts.

Oh, dear, she thought, and backed up against the wall. A glance behind her, and she nearly lost all the wine at the whirling sight of the valley spinning slowly under the moon.

“Lean on my shoulder,” he whispered, taking the goblet from her hand and setting it on the ground. “I shouldn’t want you to fall.”

Fall? She had no intention of falling, yet she felt unsteady on her feet. She felt as if a feathered veil had been drawn over her senses; she could not concentrate. The brandy, the music, the laughter of the guests befuddled her and made her giddy.

“My lady, there’s a bench just over here—”