"Ah, so you recognize the breed! Not many do. Sadly, they're close to extinction. My Finn's among the last of his kind."
Caitlin nodded. "Unfortunately, we Irish became too poor t' keep the great hounds. Tell me, the lad with him ... is he bein' cautious... because o' the crutches?" She noticed other children on crutches were playing the game and doing well at it, despite the blindfolds.
Ashleigh smiled. "Enrico's played the game dozens of times. I suspect he's chosen to join Andrew to make him feel less . . . singular. He's always been sensitive to others' feelings."
"Ach, the darlin'! He must make ye proud."
"Mm," Ashleigh replied absently. She was eyeing her guest, a pensive look on her face. "Forgive me for staring, Caitlin, but do you know ... that is, you remind me of someone. At first I thought it was the brogue. But the longer I look ... tell me, my dear, have you family in Ireland?"
Caitlin said she was an orphan and left it at that; no sense boring Ashleigh with all the details.
"I see." Ashleigh was still regarding her thoughtfully. "And yet, the closer I look ... well, I suppose it could be the similar coloring." She gave her head a shake and laughed. "You really do resemble someone I know. A person I'm very fond of ... someone I adore, actually."
"I do hope you're referring to me, pet," said her husband as he and Adam strolled onto the terrace. Swooping down on his wife, Brett planted a kiss on her nape. "Or I shall be extremely jealous!" Oblivious to their audience, he growled playfully, nuzzling Ashleigh's ear as he fondly rubbed her belly.
"Brett," she cried, laughing, "behave yourself! I adore you above all, but in this instance I was referring to Megan." She glanced from him to Caitlin and back again. "Don't you think Caitlin looks a great deal like her?"
"I'm no judge." Grinning, Brett kissed the top of her head. "I've eyes only for my wife."
"Oh, do be serious!'' She was still laughing, but Adam saw how she looked at her husband: Ashleigh truly did adore him—and Brett, the lucky, unpredictable bastard, adored her.
"I suggest you ask Megan herself," the duke told his wife. "Not ten minutes ago, Ravensford and I spied your brother's carriage coming up the drive."
"What!" Ashleigh rose quickly from her chair. "But I thought Megan and Patrick were in London."
"Not anymore, thank the Virgin and all the saints!" A tall, stunning redhead swept onto the terrace in a swirl of green silk. "Ashleigh," she added, removing her bonnet and tossing it at a footman, "if I iver again set foot in Bond Street this time o' year, mark me ripe for Bedlam!"
"And she means it, too," said the huge man who followed in her wake. "My wife's the only woman in the world who despises the Season, hates to shop, and dares own up to such irreverent thinking! I fear the good ladies of the ton may never forgive her."
Laughing, Ashleigh exchanged hugs with the redhead—obviously the Megan recently under discussion. The image this presented was almost comical: Megan was six feet tall and towered over the tiny duchess. Next, Ashleigh found herself lifted off her feet and soundly kissed on both cheeks by Megan's giant of a husband. "Patrick, you wretch!" she scolded. "Why didn't you warn us you were coming?"
"Pay no attention to her," said Brett, welcoming Megan with brotherly peck. "Ashleigh's mad for surprises. Craves 'em more than any child on that lawn." Grinning at his wife as she pulled a face, he caught her hand and gave it a courtly kiss.
"But come," he said, drawing the couple forward, "and I'll make you known to our guests." He gestured first toward Caitlin at the table. "My dear, allow me to present the St. Clares—the lovely Lady St. Clare and Her Grace's brother, Sir Patrick. Megan, Patrick, this is Miss Caitlin ..." A frown etched the duke's brow as he realized Andrew's; unorthodox introduction had left him woefully ignorant of her surname. "Forgive me, my dear, but I fear you have me at a disadv—"
"O'Brien," Caitlin supplied, dropping her gaze and flushing with embarrassment.
"O'Brien!" It was Megan who interrupted, staring at Caitlin, thunderstruck. "Niver say ye're—but O'Brien's me maiden name! And what's more-—" She turned white as parchment and clutched her husband's arm. "Mither o' God, Patrick, 'tis like lookin' in a mirror!"
Ashleigh took one look at her face and signaled the footman hovering near the door. "Fenton, fetch the vinaigrette—hurry!''
Caitlin gaped at the tall redhead, dumbstruck. She was looking into a pair of Irish eyes the exact shape and color of her own. Russet curls the very shade and texture of her own. A face that could be her own. O'Brien's me maiden name.... Her heart began to thud against her ribs like a trapped bird. She was unable to move, only vaguely aware Sir Patrick helped his wife to the chair opposite hers amid what seemed like a babble of voices:
"I knew there was a resemblance!" exclaimed the duchess.
"Faces like two peas in a pod," His Grace pronounced in amazement.
"Like twins, but for the difference in size," Adam Lightfoot marveled.
It was chaos on the terrace for a length of time. Drawn by the stir, the children as well as the enormous hound gathered curiously about the adults. The vinaigrette arrived along with several servants. One bore hartshorn; another, a glass of water; a third, a burnt feather she waved under Lady St. Clare's nose. The redhead waved it away, insisting she had never fainted in her life and wasn't about to start now.
Fortunately, she was right. A sense of calm gradually prevailed, restoring order to the terrace. And finally the connection between Megan, Lady St. Clare, and Caitlin O'Brien, erstwhile orphan ... itinerant healer ... governess, came to light.
It turned out Megan was the oldest child of Pegeen O'Brien; Caitlin, the youngest: The two were sisters. And yet they'd never met. When her father died, Megan had left Ireland for England, determined to find work and send money home when she could; widowhood had left Pegeen destitute, with too many mouths to feed. But Megan had left before her mother knew she was pregnant ... with Caitlin. And Pegeen, ashamed of having given away her infant daughter to the wise woman, Crionna, had waited years before she told her oldest daughter of Caitlin's existence. Waited, in fact, till she knew she was dying; sending for Megan, she confessed it to her and the priest on her deathbed.
"Ach, wee sorcha, "Megan murmured, tears streaming down her face, "it broke me heart, it did. I'm certain our ma loved ye, colleen—niver doubt it. But she couldn't get past her fear o' ye, d'ye see?"
"Fear ... of an infant?" It was Adam who asked. And not just because Megan's use of the word seemed strange. His eyes had focused on no one but Caitlin through the entire sorting out. And Caitlin had just given a violent start.
"Aye, m'lord," said Megan, stroking her sister's tear-stained cheek. "Odd as it sounds, our ma was deathly afraid o' her own babe. Because even in the cradle 'twas apparent, d'ye see — wee Caitlin has the Sight."
Chapter 11
Caitlin worried her lower lip with her teeth as she left Andrew's chamber. Not because his lordship had slipped out when the lad said his prayers; 'twas his habit, and she'd grown used to it. But on leaving, he had asked her to meet him in the library before she retired. And at the Hall that was not his habit. He's after learning the truth behind Megan's words this afternoon, and no mistake! Bracing herself for trouble, she stopped at the library's double doors, which stood ajar. "Ye wished t' see me, milord?"
"Yes ... come in, Caitlin." He'd been standing near the doors. Now he closed them behind her and gestured toward a pair of armchairs by the fire. "Have a seat, please."
She'd not been inside Ravenskeep's library before, perhaps because it was oddly located. According to Townsend, an earlier marquis was an insomniac who'd converted rooms adjoining his bedchamber into a library, that he might easily find reading material in the middle of the night. Larger than the library in London, it was as richly appointed, but with furnishings of an earlier age. A masculine room, she thought, noting the time-mellowed oak paneling, the fine Flemish tapestries, the thick, jewel-toned Turkey carpets underfoot. Yet another handsome chessboard sat on a Jac
obean oak table near the fireplace. But she knew this was not to be about chess.
Stifling a sigh, Caitlin took her seat. She'd tried to make light of her sister's—dear God, it seemed strange even to think of it—her sister's words about her having the Sight. Pegeen's fear, Caitlin had hastened to tell them, was mere superstitious nonsense. May the Lord and my dead mother both forgive me for the lie. And Crionna! Yet better the lie, surely, than the Pandora's box the truth would unlock.
She'd no idea if anyone believed the lie; Megan had sent her an odd look and immediately clammed up . .. out of politeness? Family loyalty? The duke and duchess had simply changed the subject, calling for a magnum of champagne from the cellars to celebrate the sisters' reunion. Which was all very well; indeed, she was grateful for it. Unfortunately, the pensive looks his lordship sent her through the remainder of the visit had intimated he was having none of it.
Adam, too, was feeling ill at ease. He was painfully aware of the long overdue apology he owed Caitlin. And just as painfully aware of the difficulty in another matter he couldn't ignore: her denial of her sister's words that afternoon. He didn't believe her. One look at Caitlin's transparent face had convinced him; her denial was what Andrew would call a danker. Yet to question it was to impugn her honesty. And he'd already offended her past all civility in London. She can't think worse of you than she does now, so just get on with it!
"I won't beat about the bush, Caitlin," he said, deciding directness was the best approach. "I behaved abominably toward you in London—no, let me finish ... please. I owe you the deepest apology for my behavior that night. And another for taking so long to address it—for you will agree it has been far too long in coming."
She simply stared at him, as if taken aback, and Adam frowned. Was it so impossible for her to believe a lord would apologize to someone of her station? All the more reason to let her know he meant it, he decided, and plunged ahead. "I humbly beg you will accept my abject apologies, Caitlin, even if you cannot forgive me." He shoved a hand through his hair and shook his head. "What I did was unforgivable."
Ach, not about the Sight, then! Greatly relieved, Caitlin smiled at him. "But, milord, it is. Ye weren't in yer right, er, senses. Indeed, if ye'll forgive me savin' so, 'twas the brandy talkin'."
It was Adam's turn to stare. "The brandy talking ..." he repeated grimly. "And what of the doing Caitlin? It wasn't just my words offended you that night, and we both know it. If you hadn't stopped me with that, that gibberish—"
She suddenly went pale and looked away, avoiding his eyes.
He felt a jolt of recognition. That's just how she reacted to her sister's words this afternoon! "Caitlin," he said, leaning forward in his Chair, "what the devil was that gibberish you spoke that night?"
Reluctantly, Caitlin raised her head, swallowing hard as she met the blue intensity of his gaze. " 'Twasn't ... 'twasn't gibberish, milord. 'Twas merely the Gaelic tongue I spoke."
"Merely? It stopped me in my tracks!"
"A-aye, milord," she murmured, dropping her gaze.
He stared at her bowed head with incredulity. "What the devil was it?"
"An auld Irish . .. charm, milord."
"A charm—a charm for what, in the name of all sanity! Caitlin, look at me," he pleaded. Cupping her chin, he raised it and met her anguished gaze. "A charm to do what?"
" 'T protect me," she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes.
"From me," he said with self-disgust as she began to sob softly. "From the unconscionable rape I'd have perpetrated in my drunken stupidity! And you deem that forgivable?
"Ah, sweetheart, I beg of you, don't cry." It was unbearable that he should cause her pain—yet again. Without thinking, he rose, pulled her gently to her feet, and wrapped his arms about her. "I'm not worth it," he murmured against her hair. "Not a single one of your tears, darling Caitlin, not one."
Caitlin was too distraught and miserable to absorb the tender fervency of his words. It was all unraveling, and she was helpless as ever to stop it. He'd know her for the dangerous creature she was now, and a liar to boot. Cursed with powers she'd neither asked for nor wanted. He'd send her away for sure. When all she'd ever wanted was to help him! " 'Twas m-merely an Irish ch-chant Crionna t-taught me," she stammered between hiccuping sobs. "I niver m-meant t' use it, milord!"
"Adam," he found himself saying. Without knowing why, but feeling the Tightness of it with an intensity he couldn't explain. There could be no more class barriers here. Not with defenses tumbling down... and perhaps, if they were lucky, only the naked truth between them. "I beg you will call me Adam ... no, I insist on it."
There was a pause as she sniffled. All at once, she drew back to gape at him. "Milord, I couldn't poss—"
"Adam," he repeated, stilling her lips with his thumb. "If what I suspect is true, I am about to intrude upon some deeply guarded ... secrets. Secrets I wouldn't dream of demanding you reveal to me ... as one of your so-called betters. But as an equal—and dare I hope, a friend?—perhaps you'll grant me the right to ask. And I swear to you, what you say will never go beyond this room."
Caitlin's head swam. Call me Adam . . . as an equal. . . a friend. Words so far beyond what she had ever dared hope, she feared she was dreaming. Any moment now, she'd awaken and find her arms wrapped about her pillow. Aye, her sterile pillow, and not his lean, hard waist; for he'd yet to release her. Not that she was about to protest—no, never. The dream might end and plunge her into the loneliness of her solitary bed; till then, for this brief moment in time, he was hers. With a soft sigh, she leaned her head against his chest. "Ask, then . .. Adam."
The sound of his name on her lips nearly undid him. A shudder passed through him, and with it, a stab of longing so great, he shook with it. A hopeless longing, for a love denied and steeped in futile, gut-wrenching desire. With a strength he wasn't aware he possessed, Adam willed it away.
"Caitlin, the thing your sister mentioned ..." He stroked her hair, intent on assuring her this wasn't meant to be threatening. "The Sight. I collect it's tied up somehow with—with that protective chant. And none of it is superstitious nonsense, is it?"
With a sniffle, she shook her head no.
The feel of her hair gliding under his palm like living silk brought another surge of longing. Gritting his teeth, Adam again thrust it away. "Your foster mother," he said, keeping his voice neutral. "She gave you these, uh, supernatural powers?" It struck him how absurd he'd once have deemed such a question. A night in early April had made him damned careful, however, what he called absurd.
Still unwilling to lose the comfort of his arms, Caitlin raised her head just enough to look at him. "I had the chant from Crionna, aye, but not the Sight. 'Twas merely that she, bein' what we call a wisewoman, recognized it for what it was. And she niver referred to it as a ... a power. A gift, she called it. Ye may be interested t' know I called it a curse."
Smiling down at her earnest face, Adam was greatly tempted to kiss away the tiny frown between her brows. "Would you care to explain why?" he asked gently.
With a sigh, Caitlin nodded. She gave him a brief history of her troubles with the gift. Including her difficulties with Father O'Malley. Including her fear of it. She went on to describe the nature of Crionna's charm, how she'd memorized it to grant the wish of a dying woman, never dreaming she would use it. She was careful to explain the part of Crionna's legacy she valued, however: the healing skills she had taken with her when her fear of the dreams and visions drove her out of Ireland. She held back one thing only, because she was afraid to speak of it: She couldn't bring herself to mention the terrible vision with him in it.
"A thing like the Sight is frightenin'," she finished at length, "unless ye're Irish and at home with the auld ways. I'm not proud of it, but 'tis why I didn't tell the truth this afternoon. Yet I regret ... Adam, ye don't think too ill o' me ... for lyin'?" she asked, looking worriedly up at him.
"Think ill of you?" I couldn't love you more than I do right now. The
temptation was too great. He cupped her face with his hands and kissed the tiny frown. "My silly darling, I think you're the bravest, finest, most splendid woman alive!"
"But I'm not ..." She almost said "your darling," then decided she couldn't have heard him right. Or else this was a dream, and it was about to explode in her face: the rude awakening she'd feared all along. "A-Adam, would ye repeat what y-ye just said?"
He stood there transfixed, caught by the wonder of her gaze as she searched his face. She was everything to him in that moment, everything he'd ever longed for and thought couldn't possibly exist. "What? Oh .. . I said I think you're—"
"N-no, before that."
"I...."He groaned, at last realizing what he'd blurted out in his zeal to reassure her: My silly darling? You damned fool! Why not blow it all to perdition and confess you love her in the bargain? "Forgive me." His eyes shuttered, and he dropped his hands from her face as if they burned him. "I'd no right to—I ... I must have been delusional or—I beg you will forget what you heard."
The rejection hurt, and she swallowed a sob. And her pride. She'd gone too far now and had to know, even if she was cruelly mistaken. "Yet ye did say it, didn't ye, milord? I didn't just imagine—"
"Never call me that again!" With an anguished cry, he pulled her into his arms and buried his face in her hair. "It's Adam, do you hear? Blood and ashes, Caitlin, can't you at least give me that?"
Caitlin felt his arms close about her like a benediction. "Adam," she murmured through her tears. "Adam, Adam and again, Adam! Aye, Adam—who is my silly darlin', even if he won't allow me t' be h-his."
Adam raised his head. Stared at her honest, tear-streaked face as if she were his last hope. And yet, of course, he had no right to hope ... no right at all. "Caitlin, you don't understand. I cannot—"
"Then, I must brave it alone," she whispered, tracing his anguished face with trembling fingers. "I've foolishly lost me heart t' ye, Adam Lightfoot. I love ye."
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