"Heaven has little to do with watching over children," he spat. "One look at London's poor ought to have told you that."
And when she didn't respond: "The East End is teeming with pitiful young beggars. Children who will die before they can raise a beard or take on a woman's healthy curves. Emaciated babes with running sores. Climbing boys coughing their lives away, covered with burns from the hot chimneys they're forced to enter."
He leaned over the board, the blue of his eyes burning into hers. "And where is your fool's heaven then, Caitlin?" he asked in a voice grown low and dangerous.
" 'Tis"—she swallowed past a fearful lump in her throat, confused by his sudden anger—" 'tis merely a thing some say, milord. I'm sure they mean no—"
"But you've seen those wretched beggars, haven't you?" It was a demand, not a question. "Those children without a shred of hope ... without a future?"
"Aye ... I've seen them," she replied gravely. " 'Tis why I've tried t' ... t' do what I could ... t' help them in some small measure."
"Yet now you're here." He searched her face for a reaction. "Engaged to teach a rich man's child his letters. And playing chess with that rich man ... with a tided lord."
"There are all kinds o' need, milord," she said quietly. "And I go where ... I'm needed."
Adam caught the slight hesitation. He wondered if there were some deeper meaning hidden beneath the surface of her reply. He thought he might have glimpsed something significant—an unspoken message, perhaps, in her eyes—then dismissed it as his imagination.
"And if you weren't engaged here as governess?" he questioned, bent on discovering what she was made of. She intrigued and fascinated him. More than any woman he'd ever met, and he needed to know why. "The Irish Angel would still be out there"—he gestured toward the world beyond the windows, with their snugly drawn draperies—"plying her skills, wouldn't she?" Again, it was not a question.
Caitlin flushed and ducked her head. "She .. . she still is . .. occasionally, milord."
"What!"
"I ... I do it only on me own time!" Color stained Caitlin's cheeks as she raised her head to look at him. "And—and not too often. 'Tis just that ... Well, the people remember me, d'ye see. And if I've the time, whilst Andrew's abed, or havin' his bath, or—"
"Do you mean to tell me you go out at night, all alone? To the East End? Good grief, woman! Where the devil's your sense?"
"I ... I—"
"You will tell Jepson exactly where you are going from now on," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Henceforth he will know to have my carriage brought round, with a pair of stout grooms for your protection. You are to travel nowhere without them, Caitlin—is that clear?"
"A-aye ... thank ye, milord."
With a nod of satisfaction, he turned his attention to the board and abruptly moved his queen. "Checkmate."
"Ach—the divil, ye say!"
Sardonic amusement—she couldn't begin to imagine its source—flared in his eyes. "Be that as it may ... ," he murmured dryly.
In her shock, she had knocked a captured knight to the floor. Pushing back her chair, she bent to retrieve it.
"Here, I'll do that."
Caitlin froze. His voice, so near that she felt his breath on her nape, sent a shiver along her spine. And not an unpleasant shiver. When had he moved? How had he come so close? More to the point, could he hear her foolish heart thumping as he stayed her with a hand on her arm?
Adam regretted touching her the moment it happened. He jerked his hand away. She twisted aside at the same moment. His fingers grazed the pliant softness of a surprisingly full breast. A potent curse rose to his lips. He throttled it, and backed away to give her room.
"Never mind the chessmen," he said tightly. He willed himself not to conjecture the shape and color of the breast beneath the modest gown. "I shall put them away."
"I. .." Caitlin was too mortified with embarrassment to finish. Her breast burned from that accidental touch. She burned—and shivered—gone hot and cold all over. What was happening to her? Then a new sensation ... one she understood:
The vision struck with unusual force. It was more powerful than any thrust upon her in the past: She saw herself, sprawled upon silken monogrammed sheets, her unbound hair in disarray. And Adam Lightfoot, lamplight gleaming on his bare shoulders, smiling down at her—his hand upon her naked breast!
"Lesson's over." His words, unnaturally loud in the still room, covered her gasp. She managed to look at him, saw him bow, much as if she were a fine lady. "Good night, Caitlin," he said curdy.
Unable to speak, shaking from the raw force of the vision, Caitlin stumbled blindly from the room.
***
Two nights later—two nights in which he did not ask Caitlin to play chess—Adam visited his mistress. And came home early—staggering with drink. With the effects of Vanessa's fine French brandy. And with Vanessa's words, hurled at his departing back, still ringing in his ears: "Who is she, Adam? Who's the bitch has replaced me in your bed!"
The irony of those words provoked a gust of bitter laughter as he surrendered his curricle to a waiting groom. "Poor V'nessha," he mumbled, lurching drunkenly to his door. Natural for her to assume he was bedding someone else, he supposed through his brandy-induced fog, when he hadn't performed in hers. "Couldn' rishe t' th' occasion—hic—sho t' shpeak—hic." The hiccup gave way to a drunken laugh.
Vanessa's assumption had him shaking his head—a mistake: he slumped against the door, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass. Fact was, he had bedded no one in weeks, and that included his jealous mistress. "Not," he muttered as he fumbled with the latch, "that y' haven' imagined beddin' shom—hic—shomeone, ol boy."
A footman let him in, face impassive as he took in his lordship's disheveled appearance, the reek of spirits permeating the front hall. Clumsily doffing his coat and gloves, Adam handed them over, his words slurred as he ordered the man to bed. A glance at the marble staircase rising gracefully to the second floor produced two sets of stairs; he shut one eye, squinting at the double image until it resolved into one.
Tottering before it, he grabbed the newel post to keep his feet, and blinked. Another image interposed, swimming in the brandy haze, then coming clearer: Caitlin, as she'd appeared that morning. At the top of those stairs, an uncertain smile on her face when she saw him. Just before he'd beaten a hasty retreat to his club. We missed ye last night, milord, the lad and I. Are ye feelin' better now ? I've a powder works wonders for the headache, should ye need it, milord.
Shame washed over him, permeating the alcoholic haze. Shame for the lie he'd sent, rather than face that innocent pair. Rather than risk them seeing the unholy truth in his eyes. Of the lust that had ridden him mercilessly all night. He had never lied to Andrew before— not outright. And to lie in the face of a promise! He'd given his word he would visit the child each night before he fell asleep. And because of his lust for a captivating little Irish baggage, he had broken it—two nights running.
The clock on the landing began to chime, breaking into his unwelcome thoughts, and he set about negotiating the stairs. Squinting at the clock's engraved face, he thought it read midnight, but he couldn't be sure; he'd lost count of the chimes. On drawing near, he saw that both hands were pointing straight up. As the last chime fell away, a wild giggle echoed in the pit of his mind.
With a savage curse, he whirled on the landing, and nearly fell as his gaze swept the shadows below. He gripped the banister with white-knuckled fists, squinting through the gloom. There was no one there.
Growling an obscenity, he resumed climbing. His pace slowed by the laborious, painstaking movements of an inebriate, it was a good deal of time before he found himself upstairs. More indicative of his sodden state was a total inability to recall how he came to be facing a door not his own. This was nowhere near his chambers, but in the servants' quarters ... and then he knew: He was standing outside Caitlin's bedchamber.
There was a faint ribbon of light und
er her door.
Muttering a curse, he shoved a hand haphazardly through his hair, trying to focus his mind. This cost him his balance, and he groped at a console table set against the opposite wall. He managed to steady himself, just barely. Muddled thoughts seeped through the alcoholic fog as he stared at the door: Lovely Caitlin . . . so sweet . .. no . . . move . . . shouldn't. . . must have . . . shred of decency .. . somewhere.
Somehow the shred of decency he hoped to summon from the depths of his damned soul won out. With a final curse, he lurched away from the table—and sent it crashing to the floor.
***
Caitlin finished brushing her hair and was about to braid it when she heard the crash. "Mother o' God— what on earth ... ?" Grabbing her night candle, she hurried to the door, then hesitated. Muttered imprecations competed with the sound of something heavy being knocked about, just outside the door. Then silence.
Undoing the latch, she inched the door open. The servants' hallway wasn't well lit; a single candle burned in the wall sconce at the far end, over the stairs. Yet she had no trouble making out the console table lying on its side. And moving beyond it, a tall, dark figure that could only be ... . His lordship? But what's he doing here? Good God, he's weaving in his tracks! Is he ill?
Closing the door behind her, she shielded her candle and padded after him on bare feet. She took care not to startle him. A man in the village back home walked in his sleep, and Crionna had warned his wife not to wake him, saying the shock could be harmful. If the marquis was a sleepwalker. ...
The reek of spirits disabused her of the thought.
Holy Mother and all the saints, he's foxed! Caitlin's lips tightened as she watched her employer stagger toward the stairs. Light from the sconce shone on rumpled clothes, a cravat undone and hanging about his neck, hair that looked as if he'd just climbed out of the covers. Aye, foxed. What's more, he's not likely to thank you for spying on him in that condition. If you know what's good for you, my girl, you'll turn around and go straight to bed.
She was about to heed her own advice when he stumbled and lurched precariously toward the head of the stairs. Caitlin's hand flew to her mouth as his feet went out from under him. Only when he managed to hook his arm about the newel post, narrowly missing a headlong tumble, did she resume breathing.
Heaven might, or might not, watch over children and fools, she thought irritably, recalling their exchange in the library; but one thing was clear: She must watch over this fool before he broke his lordly neck!
Heaving a sigh, she followed in his reeling wake.
She trailed him all the way to his door, not even trying to remain inconspicuous. Someone that pickled, she thought with increasing irritation, wouldn't notice if a cadre of foot soldiers dogged his heels! She'd little patience with drunks. The village had had its share of men who were too fond of the poteen. And their wives and children suffered for it. Not that she believed his lordship was a habitual drunk, but—
"Damn it!" His curse rang out as he fumbled with the latch. The door appeared stuck, and he shoved at it with his shoulder, putting all his weight behind it. Suddenly it gave, and his lordship careened forward, unable to—
"Bloody hell!"
"Milord!" Caitlin entered, and quickly shut the door as he crashed into a bookcase; she could only hope the noise hadn't wakened anyone—especially Andrew. She watched in horror as heavy tomes tumbled over the marquis and onto the carpet. Milord followed them to the floor. Night braid flying, she rushed forward, snuffing her candle as she dropped to her knees beside him. "Milord, are ye hurt?"
With a groan, Adam opened his eyes and blinked. He squeezed them shut and tried again. She was still there. Caitlin, sweet nemesis of his sensual imaginings. Not just the tantalizing image that disturbed his sleep. The innocent provocateur of his wet dreams—a nightly phenomenon lately, which he'd not suffered since he was a green boy—stood before him in the flesh. Warm, living flesh that still carried the scent of wildflowers
"Caiti'n .. ." Not trusting his befuddled brain, he reached up to touch her, to be sure she wasn't a dream.
His hand cupped her small chin and closed on silken skin, solid and real yet softer than his dreams. A sweet, delicate chin that ... trembled? "Caitl'n, don' be 'fraid," he mumbled. "Won' hurt you."
"Milord," Caitlin asked, "did—did ye harm yerself?" She knew she was trembling. Whether from fear or something more subtle—and equally potent—she wasn't certain. That unnerving vision of two nights past was something she didn't want to think about. Not that she'd any choice: Unless deeply immersed in her duties, she thought about little else! How could she avoid it, when every such vision had come true?
But this one—it seemed so impossible. Not to mention outright wicked! Perhaps it hadn't been one of those visions after all. Perhaps it was simply a foolish girl's imagination. Only now, with Adam Lightfoot's hand firm and warm against her skin, his touch exquisitely gentle ....
"Shall—shall I help you up, milord?" she stammered as he began to thread his fingers through her hair.
"Li'l Caitl'n ... sho lovely." Adam's fingers slid to her nape, and Caitlin found herself leaning into the warm caress. "Sho del'cate 'n' shoft," he murmured with a lazy smile.
All at once his slurred speech and brandy breath brought Caitlin back to the reality of her predicament. This was no time to indulge his drunken fancies—or her own wicked imaginings! She must somehow get him to bed—and hope, come morning, he'd not recall how he got there (not at all a vain hope, given his state). Pulling out of reach, she scrambled to her feet, bent to seize him by the hand. "Let's get you up, milord. Come along now, easy does it."
It was not a happy prospect. He outweighed her by at least seven stone. His slack-muscled state made all of it feel like dead weight. Still, by pulling, shoving, and what only by the wildest stretch of imagination passed for cooperation on his part, Caitlin somehow managed to heave him upright.
Then the trouble began.
She'd no sooner propped him against the bookcase, his arm over her shoulder, than he stopped being passive. His other arm curled around her waist. Before she could draw breath, he pulled her hard against him. Protest formed, then flew out of her brain as his mouth swooped down and covered hers.
Adam couldn't believe his luck. The minx had actually pulled his arm about her! As she'd done so, out of the brandy haze rose an image of Vanessa doing something similar, her invitation unmistakable. Caitlin had to be of the same mind, and he was happy to oblige her.
Stunned and rigid with shock, Caitlin couldn't have moved if she tried. For a man who, seconds ago, was barely able to point his limbs in the right direction, his arms were amazingly capable—and strong. He held her firmly against him. She could feel, beneath the thin flannel of her bed gown, every nuance of his clothing pressing into her flesh. The folds of his lapels against her breasts... the buttons on his waistcoat pushing into the soft plane of her stomach ... the muscular thighs beneath his breeches hard against her belly and thighs.
And he'd certainly no trouble directing his mouth! Hard and demanding, it plundered and took without restraint, feasting on her like a bird of prey. Gone was the gentle touch of moments before, and she knew its loss with a curious pang of regret. Here was the figure of impending danger from her dark dream. She had to get away!
Her chance came when he broke the kiss, inhaling a great breath of air. As if his very life depended on it, and wasn't that a daft notion. But hers might, she'd remember thinking later, when she could think at all. Which was just as daft: He was out of his mind with drink, but hardly bent on murder.
Yet she was frightened. They were alone in his rooms, the rest of the household asleep. And he didn't seem to know his own strength. At the very least, her chastity was threatened. But what she feared most was a loss of the fragile bridge they'd begun to build between them. If she couldn't stop him, it would never survive—and it must. He needed her help, even if he didn't know it.
"Lord Lightfoot—stop!" she c
ried when he tore his lips free. It was as if he hadn't heard. Murmuring something unintelligible, he slid his mouth along the curve of her neck. Laved the sensitive skin with his tongue. Advanced, openmouthed, to her collarbone ....
"Milord, don't do this!" she begged, twisting her head, the only part of her not held immobile.
The arm about her shoulder slid away. She thought he might have heard after all, that he was about to free her. Instead, she felt his hand close about her breast.
"No!" she cried as he began to squeeze and fondle it "Milord, ye don't want t' do this! I know ye don't—"
His mouth cut off her plea. This kiss was softer than the first, but just as resolute. She couldn't speak, couldn't sway him. Frantic, she clawed at the hand on her breast, to no avail. He suddenly scooped her up in his arms, and panic set in. Reeling drunkenly, he managed to carry her forward two paces without stumbling over the wreckage. Then he turned abruptly, staggered forward again, and advanced with her through an inner door. The door to his bedchamber.
Before she knew it, Caitlin found herself dropped upon his bed. The largest, grandest bed she'd ever seen. Sprawled on its vast expanse of silken coverlet, she felt twice as small and vulnerable. He smiled drunkenly, looming over her, swaying as he reached for—merciful God, he was undoing his breeches. His lordship was bent on rape.
It came to Caitlin suddenly, she'd but one way to save herself. Frightened and trembling, she squeezed her eyes shut: "A Mhathair Mor ..."
She'd no way of knowing if Crionna's charm would work. With her eyes shut, she couldn't check to see what was happening. Fraught with panic and fear, she could only hope it deterred him. Tears were sliding down her cheeks, she realized, and she was filled with a huge sadness. As the last of the Gaelic words fell from her lips, she hoped with all her heart they wouldn't harm him.
There was utter silence in the room. Taking a deep breath, Caitlin opened her eyes. Adam Lightfoot stood just where she'd last seen him, frozen in place. He'd an aspect of mild confusion, nothing worse. Until she looked into his eyes and saw the shadows deep within.
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