"Aye," she replied, swallowing thickly as she recalled that strange encounter in the library. Sure and he'd been a dark and brooding soul that night. And hadn't she been three times a fool, to be roaming the lord's library at such an hour? "His lordship's sanctus sanctum," she later heard Jepson call it. She counted herself lucky she'd not been turned off on the spot.
Reaching the library, Adam lighted a branch and set it upon a shelf above the table where his favorite chess set rested. An old one, with men of carved ivory and ebony worn to a fine patina. Inherited from his father, who'd taught him how to play. Not the set he'd employed with a certain midnight visitor, no. That bitter reminder had been relegated to the fire in a fit of rage.
"Here, allow me." He drew a chair back from the table, from the side bearing the ivory pieces, and gestured for Caitlin to sit. "You're the beginner," he said at her questioning look. "I think it only fair you play white."
Caitlin nodded without speaking, too aware of his nearness, of his sheer physical presence as he seated her. On impulse, she closed her eyes, confirming what she already knew: She could identify him by smell alone. She was instantly aware of scents she'd come to recognize as belonging to him, and no other: a faint drift of spice from the soap he used ... of leather from a pair of driving gloves tucked carelessly into a coat pocket ... of starch from the immaculate stock tied at his throat ... and the fresh, clean scent of his hair, which shone with health and was blessedly free of the pomade some gentlemen used.
Adam was no less immune to her. As he tucked in her chair, a hint of some long-forgotten fragrance— wildflowers, perhaps—drifted up to tease his senses. Coming around the table to take his seat, he noted how the candlelight bathed her skin in a soft luminescence; it drew the eye and pronounced what it saw as flawless. Yet those same flames drew fire from her hair. An abundant mass of molten copper, it glinted with fiery highlights: living flame that danced along the shining silken strands. He found himself imagining how her hair might appear loosened from its modest confinement, spread out upon a pillow—no!
You've no business sullying this innocent with such imaginings, you sorry, thrice-damned fool. Yes, thrice damned— doomed by your profligate ways, condemned by your heedless tongue, and consigned to hell by your own hand!
"Is-is something amiss, milord?" The candlelight made it difficult to be certain, but Caitlin thought he grimaced, as if in pain. Jepson and Mrs. Hodgkins spoke of injuries he'd taken in the war. Were they troubling him? "Are yer wounds—are you in pain, milord? I... I've a draught I can ..." Her words faded as he shook his head no. Yet everything from the tormented look in his eyes to the grim set of his mouth belied the denial.
"White moves first," he said tautly, indicating the ivory pieces.
"Aye, milord."
They began to play. And Caitlin began losing men at every turn. She realized it was only a matter of minutes till she'd find herself checkmated. Still, she hardly minded, for his mood had lightened considerably once into the game. On the other hand, she knew this was but a temporary reprieve, and that wouldn't do. She'd not risked the certain danger she knew was tied somehow to this game merely to secure him a brief respite. There had to be a way to draw him out as they played, to learn whatever it was that troubled—
"You're playing badly."
His words, uttered so baldly in the midst of these thoughts, had her sitting bolt upright in her chair. "I ...I niver pretended t' be an expert player, milord!" she protested, stung.
Adam cursed himself for his thoughtless words. "Forgive me," he said, and smiled gently in apology. "What I ought to have said is that you're not concentrating. I never expected you to trounce me—after all, I've been playing for decades. But it's clear you've not been giving your moves the forethought essential to mastering the game. You seem ... distracted."
She nodded, hoping he didn't see her flush. Of course she'd been distracted—puzzling how to help him! Yet he'd surely deem this presumptuous of a mere governess, so she couldn't tell him so. She was a healer by training, a governess by accident, but he seemed to see her only as the latter. The rest of the household believed she had healed Andrew, and perhaps she had, with God's help. Yet she sensed the marquis was disinclined
to believe it. What he did hold responsible for his son's recovery, she'd no idea. Sure and he didn't seem at all a man of faith.
"Any distracted player plays badly,'' Adam said kindly, "no matter what his level of expertise." Then, noting her silence: "Caitlin, is there something I can do to help ... clear your mind, that is?"
Aye, help me clear yours of what's weighing it down! But with this silent plea came the realization this could be the entree she sought. "Truth t' tell, milord," she fibbed, "I kept thinkin' about all yer years of experience with the game. Decades, did ye say? Sure and ye started playin' in the cradle."
He chuckled. "Not quite, but my father taught me on this very board, when I was younger than Andrew. Of course, I was a deal older before I bested him. And after that, only rarely."
She noted how his face softened when he mentioned his father. How he fingered the bishop in his hand as he did so, almost... caressing it, aye, that was the word. He had long, capable-looking fingers, strong and well shaped, yet at the same time gentle as they moved over the smooth, age-mellowed ivory. She all at once had an image—not one of her visions, no, but every bit as clear—of those fingers caressing a woman's skin. Her skin?
Heat invaded every inch of that skin. She ducked her head, certain he must see. Holy Mother, what was wrong with her? She was after healing his troubled mind—his poor, tortured soul. Such carnal images had no place in it!
Appalled at her wanton thoughts, she forced her mind back to the matter at hand. That insight into his feelings about his father ... it seemed important. Heretofore, the only thing she'd seen evoke such a tenderness of expression was Andrew. But the father was no longer alive. Jepson had referred to his lordship's inheriting the title; that didn't happen unless the old lord had passed on.
"Yer da ... ," she ventured carefully, not wanting to blunder as she had about his feelings for his dead wife. "Playin' upon this lovely auld board must bring back memories."
Adam stared silently at the ivory bishop. At the tiny marks where, decades ago, a new puppy had scored it with its teeth. Because he'd been careless, forgetting to put the pieces away—always his task after a game. He remembered his distress when he'd found it and had to confess to his father. And Tom Lightfoot's gentle reply: "We all make mistakes, son. The only harm's in not learning from them. I've every confidence you'll never make this one again." He never had.
Strange, but he hadn't thought of that in years. The contrast between his present life and those early years, so secure in the love and warmth radiating from his parents' marriage, was just too painful. Yet now ... it wasn't pain he felt. Just a deep, bittersweet yearning... for something he also hadn't dared dwell upon in years.
He glanced at the small slip of a girl sitting patiently across the table. She had a calm serenity that reminded him of his mother. They looked nothing alike, but Catherine Lightfoot had often sat like that, patiently looking on, while he and his father played. Odd. He hadn't thought nostalgically about either of his parents in recent memory. And here, in the space of a few seconds, Caitlin had evoked memories—sweet, warm memories—of both.
"Yes, it does," he replied softly. "Fond memories. I sat where you are now, my father across from me. In that chair"—smiling in reminiscence, he indicated an armchair by the hearth—"my mother used to sit. She always brought her needlework." He shook his head in wonder. "There she sat, managing all those tiny, perfect stitches—while somehow knowing exactly whose move It was."
"There's no mystery in such mastery o' the womanly arts," Caitlin said with a smile. "In the village back home, we'd an auld blind woman could stitch circles round the younger lasses."
Adam nodded, then chuckled. "I remember thinking my mother used magic ... that she'd an ability to see with a sec
ond set of eyes. I've heard you Irish even have a name for such a thing ... the Sight Isn't that what you call it?"
Caitlin gasped, and covered it by pretending a fit of coughing. "Not... not to worry, milord," she managed, holding up her hand to stay him when he leapt from his chair, concerned.
Adam frowned at her. She'd turned white as parchment, her pallor evident even in the dim candlelight "Here," he said, reaching for a decanter on the sideboard. He poured a measure of brandy, came around the table and placed it in her hand. "Sip it slowly, now."
She did, grimacing at the fiery taste of the liquid. Then began to cough in earnest as it went down. "Saints alive!" she cried when she could speak. "Is that what's meant by 'fightin' fire with fire? Sure and 'tis a case o' the cure bein' worse'n what ails ye!"
Adam's lips quirked, but the smile faded as he ran his eyes over her. Her color had come back, but .... "Caitlin ... are you ill?" She didn't appear consumptive, but the disease was all too common, especially among the poor.
Catching his meaning, she quickly shook her head no. "Milord, if I'd the consumption, I'd not be here. I'd niver risk Andrew's health... or yer own," she added at his questioning look. "There's disagreement on it bein' catchin'. But I've seen folk who were in prolonged contact with consumptives. Too many succumb t' the wastin' disease themselves, t' make me doubt it.
" 'Twas just a case o' ... a tickle in me throat," she added, wondering if fibbing to him was destined to become a habit. "And then yer cure, o' course," she added wryly, handing him the brandy glass.
His fingers brushed hers as he took it from her, sending a ripple of sensation across her skin. Sparks flared and burned, like chain lightning, across her nerve endings.
Adam felt it, too. He tried to tell himself it was a variation on that old game they'd played at school: rub your feet across the carpet, sneak up upon an unsuspecting fellow, and send an unpleasant shock through him. But he knew better.
What he'd just felt was a prelude to pleasure. Pleasure whose dimensions he well understood, though he doubted Caitlin did. He was suddenly alert to it in every pore. Alive with it as he took in her innocent look of surprise and wonder. Oh, yes, he understood it only too well. He'd chased its allure across London and back again. He understood its sudden power, its ability to hold him in thrall—at least for a while, if he were lucky—and its name was lust.
What he didn't understand, not nearly, was its unsuspected source. Caitlin? She was a total innocent. As far removed from the likes of Vanessa Marley and her ilk as silk from sackcloth. How could such as she spark the desire surging hot and heavy through his loins?
And yet, he thought, turning to the sideboard—as much to hide the evidence of his lust as to put away the brandy glass—perhaps it made an absurd kind of sense.
Caitlin affected him in more than one way that was totally unexpected: Wasn't he sitting at home, playing chess with her this evening, instead of pursuing his obsessive debauchery? Preferring her company to Vanessa's? And in that innocent company, he'd felt free to reminisce about hopes and dreams long buried. No one else—no one—had been able to do that. She was a breath of fresh air in a stale room. The stale room that had been his life for longer than he cared to remember.
Caitlin wrestled her feelings under control, at last noting his silence as he stood rigidly facing the sideboard. "Milord? Are ye feelin' all right?" she asked for the second time that night. And when he didn't reply: "Are ye ill, or in pain, milord?"
His reaction mastered, Adam turned and gave her a brilliant smile. "Not at all. Fact is, my dear Caitlin, I've never felt better."
His smile was ... wonderful. He didn't smile nearly enough, but when he did, the darkness receded. If only she could find a way to rid him of it forever. If only she could convince him to let her try. "Ach, I'm so glad," she said, meaning it with all her heart. Realizing this man had become important to her in ways she didn't understand. What she did understand—unlike before, when he'd been but the frightening figure in her dream, not this flesh-and-blood man with a terrible need inside him—was that she'd been brought here to answer that need. And that she must not fail him.
The fierce honesty in her eyes hit Adam like a fist in the gut. She meant it. She honestly gave a damn. Not about what he could give her, not about his vaunted title, his wealth and position, and certainly not about his prowess in bed. About him ... as a human being who might, or might not, be in pain. And for the first time since that hellish night in early April, for this brief moment at least, the pain was gone.
Taking a step toward her, Adam searched her face for several long seconds. "What is it about you, Caitlin O'Brien," he said at last, "that seems to banish ills?"
Her trill of laughter rippled over his tortured soul like sunlight on a stormy sea. "Milord, I thought ye knew," she replied. "I'm a healer."
Adam met her green, green eyes and slowly nodded. "Perhaps you are," he murmured softly. "Perhaps you are, at that."
Chapter 8
Caitlin and Adam played chess every night that week. True to his word, he would arrive in time to visit with his son before Andrew fell asleep. He always contrived to avoid the bedtime prayers, however, and if Caitlin or Andrew noticed, they didn't comment. Afterward, it seemed a natural thing to progress with Caitlin to the library and continue her instruction at chess. Yet chess was the least of the lessons learned there. Foremost were the things they learned of each other.
For Caitlin, it was like seeing several new faces beneath a familiar mask. His lordship could still be sardonic and brooding, yes; but he also had a quiet, thoughtful side. And a fine sense of humor. He was given to lively storytelling—amusing accounts of his childhood, of boyish pranks and hijinks—a side of him she'd never suspected. She learned he had a childhood friend named Robert, son of a neighboring squire. The mischief they got into! Daredevil antics that were both hair-raising and hilarious, when he described them.
"Robert sounds a right scamp, but a wonderful friend," she remarked at one point. "Where is he now, milord?"
At once his face went shuttered and drawn. "Dead," he replied, not a hint of inflection in his voice. "Slain at Salamanca." The bleakness in his response warned her not to pursue it. "Your move," he said, gesturing at the board.
In the matter of chess, he was patience itself: quietly pointing out where she might make a better move; calling her to task only when she forgot to concentrate on her game. The latter, however, happened more often than Caitlin wished.
Alone with him in the library, for hours at a stretch, she couldn't help being distracted from time to time. His low rumble of laughter could easily pull her thoughts away as could the elegant arch of his brow as she made an incautious move; and a simple gesture from those strong, capable fingers could send her thoughts skittering, far, far from opening gambits and endgame strategies. Though he never again brushed those fingers against hers, never touched her at all, she was aware of him from the moment they sat down to play. When that awareness slipped under her guard, chess was the last thing on her mind.
What Adam learned of Caitlin was equally engaging, and therefore precarious. The better he knew her, the more he felt drawn to her: mentally, which was fine; but he was also drawn to her physically—which was not. Because of his determination not to soil her innocence, the nightly sessions became a tormenting exercise in self-restraint. More than once he went to his empty bed with a curse—and with desire clawing at his loins. In the morning he'd resolve to end the lessons forthwith. Yet when evening came, he found himself inviting her yet again.
She was all things young and lovely, pure and untarnished. A woman who was blessedly free of the ton's jaded sophistication and untouched by the ugliness of the world at large. How long had it been since he'd encountered such innocence, such simple goodness and generosity? The filth and brutality of war and its aftermath had stripped such things from his ken. He'd forgotten they even existed—apart from his son and children like him.
And Caitlin, for all her youth
, was no child. This was never more apparent than when she described her life in the year after her foster mother died. He found it hard to credit that she'd left her home and all she knew, with little more than the clothes on her back. Traveled the open road, in a strange land, seeking out the sick— for the dubious reward of tending those who'd no coin to pay. It boggled the mind.
Moreover, it was dangerous. "Didn't you ever fear for your own safety?" he asked when she had described a particular incident: A drunken father had threatened to kill her if she failed to cure his son—it seemed the lad was needed for the spring plowing.
"Aye," she replied, gazing soberly at him with those wide green eyes, "but I feared for the child and his fever more."
They returned to this subject one evening toward the end of the week. A dog barking in the distance reminded Caitlin of a time she'd evaded a farmer's dogs by hastily climbing a tree. "They weren't vicious dogs, milord," she explained when he scowled. "Just doin' their job, really. How were they t' know I'd heard their master's wife was ailin'? Still"—she laughed—" 'twas the better part of an hour before the farmer came out to investigate and let me in t' see the poor woman."
"Not vicious," he muttered, clearly disbelieving.
"Tis the truth," she insisted. "Once I was admitted, the beasties even licked me hand." And then, when he merely glared at her, appalled at her naivete: "I took no harm, milord."
He heaved a sigh. "Fate watches over children and fools, I've heard."
"Then, ye've heard it wrong, milord," she said gently.
"Hmm?" he murmured absently, studying the board.
"Heaven watches over children and fools ... That's as I've heard it said, milord."
His head lifted, and he sent her a scowl fiercer than any she'd yet seen. "Then, it's a fool said it!"
"Mi-milord?" she stammered. The darkness was on him now. She saw that at once, but she was at a loss to explain its sudden appearance.
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