Lightning flickered, and the wind howled like a thing gone mad. Adam scanned the room in a panic while another peal of thunder rumbled angrily overhead. Leaping from the bed, he called Caitlin's name, hoping she was merely in the water closet, using the necessary. When no answer came, he used the flare of another bolt of lightning to scan the face of the clock. The hands said it was not long past half-ten, but ... something didn't feel right.
***
"Early ... am I?" Appleby said with a disingenuous lift of his penciled brows. "Dear me, you are quite the stickler. I was merely being accommodating, do you see." A sheet of parchment suddenly materialized in his hand. Caitlin knew at once this was the contract she'd sworn to sign.
"You'll require the typical moment or two, to peruse this, I'll warrant, to satisfy yourself it's accurate," he added with a snide certainty as he handed it over. "And it wants sufficient time for you to sign it properly, of course." Again, out of thin air, he produced the small silver blade she recognized all too well.
Caitlin forced herself to remain calm as she read over the contract. This was the paper she must destroy before he claimed her. It wanted careful timing. She must, must not get it wrong! In essence, the language stated what they'd agreed upon three nights before: Caitlin would forfeit her immortal soul in exchange for Andrew Lightfoot's leg made whole and Adam Lightfoot's freedom. Which brought her to the next step of her agenda: "My husband's auld contract, Mr. Appleby—where is it?"
"My dear marchioness," he replied with heavy sarcasm, "have you noted the time?" He used his walking stick to point at the clock. "It is nearly—"
"Ye know very well I cannot sign this contract without seein' the ither destroyed," she said sharply.
It was clear to Caitlin that Appleby had still hoped to trick her somehow. His face contorted and went instantly sour. The rouged and maquillaged features became the chilling travesty of a clown's face: a visage meant to amuse, but upon which someone had got the paint all horribly wrong. He muttered invective against her and all the Irish—he had always hated them, he informed her with an irate snarl. But Lord Appleby— alias Satan, alias Beelzebub, alias Lucifer, alias Old Harry, Old Scratch and countless other sobriquets, great and small—produced the contract. With a sullen, put-upon look, he held it up for her perusal.
Satisfied, Caitlin gave him a curt nod. "Destroy it."
With an aggravated glare, he produced a burst of flame that came out of nowhere. Thunder growled overhead as he incinerated it on the spot.
"Now, my clever little Druid pet," he said, handing over the small silver blade, "you will sign ..."
***
Adam went to a window, hoping somehow to gain a better sense of the time from nature. He knew in an instant this was futile. The howling storm obliterated the moon and stars; indeed, made it impossible to see two feet beyond the sash. Sheets of wind-driven rain had soaked the draperies; they billowed wetly about the sash, and his bare feet squished on the carpet before the windows. Adam ignored it all, concentrating on the building sense of dread permeating every atom of his being.
He could well envision Caitlin slipping away to meet Appleby. It was just like her to do all she could to prevent him putting himself at risk trying to save her. And in that, she would not be off the mark. He had given the fiend no sworn promises! His ultimate plan, if all else failed, had been to offer himself in Caitlin's stead. After all, the little bastard had, as yet, no signed contract from her. If Caitlin were prevented from honoring her promise—even if it meant knocking her senseless, he'd do it in trice to save her—well, the fiend still had the one Adam himself had signed. He'd offer to forego the forty years clause, strike and initial it—after pricking his damned finger, of course—and go to hell, on the spot. He rather thought Appleby just might take him. A bird in hand ....
But all that was something he'd envisioned happening at the so-called witching hour. Yet here it was, not yet ten o'clock, and Caitlin ... where the devil could she be? He couldn't begin to think where she'd go, in a raging storm, in the dead of night. Unless ...
***
Caitlin took the proffered knife and pricked her finger. She stared stoically at the tiny drop of blood that welled scarlet at the tip. Wet and glistening like a crimson tear in the candlelight, it stood out starkly against her pale skin. She handed back the knife. The thunder overhead was deafening.
"Excellent," said Appleby, and the blade vanished. Though he never raised his voice to be heard above the storm, Caitlin noted with a shiver, he nonetheless made it possible for her to comprehend every syllable clearly. "Now, he added, "it wants a proper nib.'' He produced an elaborate quill, out of nowhere again, just as he'd done with all his other nefarious equipment. With a mocking flourish, he handed it to her and gestured at the little escritoire by the window. "Over there!" he snapped, all courtly behavior suddenly gone. "Quickly!"
Taking contract and quill with her, Caitlin crossed to the writing desk, keeping a careful eye on her adversary. He'd risen from the rocker and was standing before it, watching her intently. Laying the contract atop the desk's flat surface, she dipped the nib into the blood on her finger, began to sign ...
The crash of the door against the wall was nearly obliterated by the latest crack of thunder. Adam burst into the room with a vengeance. "Appleby," he demanded, "take me instead! Now, this very instant! I'll make it worth your—"
His eyes found Caitlin at the escritoire, and they widened in terror. "Caitlin—stop it! I can't let you do this, d'you hear? It's got to be me. "He dashed across the small space that separated them, panic-stricken, for Caitlin's shoulders had squared, and she resolutely continued to scratch out her name.
Then several things seemed to happen all at once. Ding. The clock on the mantel, a delicate thing with a charming sound, began to chime the hour of midnight. Ding. As Adam tried to force her hand from the parchment, the fiercest bolt of lightning yet split the heavens. Ding. Caitlin caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Ding. It was Appleby! Ding. He strode toward them. Ding. The fiend's hand was raised. Ding. 'Twas a gesture she recognized. Ding. He was after stopping Adam with one of his horrific little lessons, sure! Ding. Without thinking, Caitlin shut her eyes and invoked the charm toward her husband. Ding. The contract dropped to the floor, forgotten. Ding.
But she'd already signed it. Ding. And midnight was upon them! With her eyes closed, the Gaelic words still tumbling forth, it was only when the fiend's hand closed on her arm that Caitlin realized her mistake: She'd sacrificed her soul for nothing. He wasn't after harming Adam at all. Her contract was in his hand—and with the other, he was claiming her.
As the last syllables left her lips, she opened her eyes and squirmed in the archfiend's grasp, desperate for a last look at her beloved. As she did this, her hand involuntarily brushed against the parchment.
Appleby screamed. An inhuman sound, monstrous in its hatred and rage, it contained all the writhing agonies of the ages. The contract went up in flames, consuming an entire sleeve of his dandified coat, turning it and the fine linen shirtsleeve beneath to ash, the skin of his arm to a charred and blackened ruin. "Scheming Irish witch!" he shrieked. Venom and fury lanced each syllable, overpowering the storm that howled and raged overhead. "You tricked me—me, the Lord of Hell!"
"Thank God, oh, thank God!" Adam's hoarse cry rose above the storm.
Caitlin heard, and her eyes, fierce with triumph and joy, met the fiend's. "Ye'll not have either of us, now, Father o' Lies." She lifted her arm, pointed to her husband. "Adam Lightfoot just prayed."
The look on Appleby's face said he knew she spoke the truth. Rage, primeval and terrible, distorted his dandy's mask. The storm outside shook the room as he swelled and grew. Gigantic, membranous wings crowded the walls and ceiling. Assuming his true shape, he towered over them, blood and gore dripping from inhuman jaws as he gnashed his razor teeth. With a last, bloodcurdling howl of rage, he vanished.
Caitlin slid lifelessly to the floor.
&nbs
p; "Oh, my God—Caitlin!" Adam ran to her, dropped to his knees beside her prostrate body, and felt for a pulse. It was thready and weak. "Caitlin, please ..." His mouth twisted in anguish as he closed his eyes and whispered brokenly, "Not now, oh, God, not now." Tears clogging his voice, he caught her to him. "Caitlin, I beg of you—don't die."
He felt a slight movement. Hardly daring to believe, he pulled away to look at her face. Her eyes fluttered open, just briefly, but it gave him a thread of hope. Her voice was weak, the barest whisper. "We . .. won, a stor ... we ... beat him." She lost consciousness again.
The wind outside had died to nothing. Adam didn't notice. Grief and loss, terrible and all-consuming, washed over him in a gray tide of despair. Clutching his wife's lifeless body to his heart, he closed his eyes. Tears coursed down his face, unchecked. With the storm gone, his quavering voice echoed loudly in the still room:
"Our ... Father ... ," he began, groping for the words that had once been familiar, so many years ago, "Who art in Heaven ... hallowed ... hallowed be Thy name ..."
Chapter 19
"Patrick... Patrick, wake up!" Megan St. Clare shook her husband's massive shoulder till he finally stirred. The bed creaked as the big man shifted his weight. Firelight bronzed his tousled black curls and glinted off the dark stubble on his chin. He blinked owlishly up at her, trying to gather his wits.
They'd had precious little sleep, what with the storm shaking the rafters when they'd prepared to turn in. They'd been sleepy enough, having made sweet and lazy love at length before the fire, but trying to sleep was futile with that hellish wind and thunder fit to wake the dead. And so, quipping that Mother Nature was as good an aphrodisiac as any he could think of, he'd taken his wife in his arms for another loving—as wild and as fierce as the storm itself. The storm finally quit, just as they'd climaxed and lay spent in each other's arms. With a chuckle, he'd told Megan it appeared both they and Mother Nature had won a well-earned rest.
Only, now it appeared his beautiful wife had other ideas.
"Wha ... ?" he questioned groggily. He half raised himself on an elbow, although he'd have liked nothing better than to fall back asleep with Megan in his arms. But something about the way his wife held herself— poised and alert, like some graceful forest creature testing the wind—gave him pause.
"Patrick, somethin' odd's happened—I can feel it"
"Mother of God, Megan," he groaned. Bleary-eyed, he squinted at the tall-case clock that stood across the bedchamber. "We've had ... what? Twenty minutes' sleep? And now you're waking me to tell me something's odd?"
She gave an impatient shake of her head, tossing the fire-bright mane of hair that tumbled about her bare shoulders. "Odd, as in wrong, me love. And ye know I'm niver mistaken about that sort o' feelin'."
Patrick rubbed a massive hand over his face, said good-bye to sleep, and sat up straight in the bed. Megan may not have had the Sight—an ability she still claimed her sister was born with, never mind all Caitlin's denials—but she did have these uncanny premonitions. He still recalled, with a shudder, the first time one of her "feelings" had struck—smack in the middle of Dolly Madison's dinner party. She'd made him drive her home at once. They were just in time to save their infant son from the fire sweeping the wing of their house that held the nursery. Brendan's nurse had stumbled and knocked herself senseless, overturning the lamp she'd been carrying on route to the kitchens, perhaps to fetch him a sugar teat, someone had surmised. The poor woman hadn't been as lucky as their son.
"A feeling about what, love?" He fervently hoped it had nothing to do with the lad. Brendan was miles away, staying with Megan's sister Bridie, in Ireland; while they were here in Kent, as guests of the Westmonts, because of Caitlin's wedding. He hoped it didn't mean trouble at home, either; their Virginia plantation was an ocean away.
Megan had already swung off the bed and begun searching for her clothes. Now she paused, looked at him gravely. " 'Tis Caitlin. I've a feelin' she's—ach, Patrick! The wee colleen made us promise not t' tell, but... well, now the time's come and gone, I suppose there's no longer any harm in it. She—"
"Whoa," he said, holding up his hand. "One thing at a time, love. Made us promise not to tell?"
"Ashleigh was there as well. We went t' see Caitlin the day before the—ach, will ye sit there, askin' questions all the night—or will ye don yer breeches and fetch the rig fer me? The lass is in trouble, Patrick, and I must go t' her!"
"We'll go to her, love." Patrick had rarely heard his wife this overwrought, and he climbed quickly from the bed. "Talk to me while we dress ourselves."
Megan heaved a sigh, then quickly resumed pulling clothes from a portmanteau that lay, half-packed, beside a tall chest of drawers. " 'Tis a long story, Patrick," she said, "and not a tame one. A tale as fearsome as an Irishman's soul when the fury's on him. I fear 'twill sorely try yer wits. At the very least, 'twill severely test yer grip on reality."
Patrick, who was only half Irish himself, grinned at her. "Megan, my love, since when has that stopped you?"
***
In another part of the house, Ashleigh Westmont paced the floor of her dressing room. She did this frequently of late, to spare Brett's sleep when the babe was restless and kept her awake nights. After all, she could always nap during the day. Her husband, however, was an aristocrat who took his duties seriously; he had obligations having to do with his vast holdings, and if he were to meet them, he needed his rest. Yet to say the babe was restless tonight was an understatement.
The storm explained why she and Brett had been unable to sleep for its duration—not that they hadn't put the time to good use, she mused with a wry smile. Only, now the storm had passed, and the child was still so fiercely active, one would think she harbored a cricket pitch inside her womb.
"Poor sweetheart, he's got you pacing again, has he?" Brett appeared at the doorway, bare-chested and disheveled—not so much from sleep as from their recent play abed, Ashleigh knew. He eyed her belly and gave her a lopsided grin. "One would think a future duke, even one yet unborn, might have better manners."
"What makes you think this one's a he?" she asked testily. Ashleigh's wasn't a high-strung temperament, even when she was increasing, but pregnancy and sleeplessness did nibble at her sunny disposition at times. Fortunately, Brett had been taking it all with the proverbial grain of salt, saying motherhood had its privileges.
"Call it paternal intuition," he replied, coming forward and taking her in his arms. "Or perhaps it's because I'd prefer to think that a daughter, like her sister, would be too much the lady to vex her mother so."
"You're supposed to be asleep, Your Grace," she said grumpily as he dropped a kiss on her brow. "While I nobly sacrifice myself for the future of the dukedom."
"The dukedom can go hang if it means distressing my wife." Turning her gently in his arms, Brett wrapped them about her from behind, resting his chin on her head. When he placed a hand on her swollen belly, however, he gave a startled grunt "The lad has a powerful kick!"
"Do tell," said Ashleigh with a sigh. "Yet, in truth, it was never this bad until tonight. It's as if that wretched storm overset every—"
"I know," he said soothingly, kissing her ear. He adored his wife and was committed to doing everything possible to ease her discomfort during this pregnancy. Fact was, however, he'd been largely absent when she'd carried their first, and he was fascinated by everything about this one. At the moment, though, in deference to Ashleigh's sensibilities, he decided not to mention the interesting small bulge—he could swear he saw the shape of a tiny foot—briefly evident beneath her filmy bed gown.
"That bit of weather was a nasty piece of work," Ashleigh went on, but Brett thought she sounded a bit less grumpy as he continued to rub and soothe her distended belly.
"Oh, I agree," he told her. And he did, but of course, with Ashleigh in her present condition, he'd have agreed if she insisted the moon was a purple tennis ball. "Can't recall a storm hereabouts ever being that sav
age—not in tame old Kent At sea, of course, now that's a different kettle of fish."
"Mm." She was smiling now. The babe had ceased its hijinks with Brett's soothing. "I seem to recall one particular storm at sea, however, that had precious little to do with the weather. The ocean was rather calm the night Marileigh was born."
"Don't remind me," he groaned. Their daughter had been born aboard one of his ships, on route from the Italian coast. Yet blessed as that event was, it had triggered a storm of emotional turmoil for him. He'd been forced to confront personal demons that had plagued him nearly all his life. In the end, he came to realize he'd held a host of unjust opinions, especially with regard to women. And not least of those he'd judged unfairly— and cruelly—had been Ashleigh. "I'm still amazed you could love me, after I'd been such a damned witless—
"What the devil ... ?" Someone in the hallway was pounding on their door. "Wait here," Brett told her, and went to investigate.
Ashleigh pulled a wrapper around her and followed him through their bedchamber when she heard Patrick's voice coming from the anteroom beyond:
"Deeply sorry about the hour, Brett, but my damned rig's sprung a wheel. Your cork-brained stableman seems to think I need to ask your leave, so's it all right if I borrow one of yours?"
Brett swore softly under his breath. "My apologies, Patrick. Must be the new man we took on. Borrow anything you like, and tell the fool I'll have his head if he ever again questions—wait a minute. Where the devil are you hating off to at this ungodly—"
"Ravenskeep Hall. Megan's had one of her—look, I'll explain later. Right now, I've a wife down at your stables, threatening to horsewhip your mutton-headed—"
"Patrick," Ashleigh put in anxiously, "does this have anything to do with ... uh, with Caitlin? A-and something that was supposed to happen at midnight?"
He gave her a measuring look. "It does," he said tersely. "Megan's worried—"
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