“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.”
<
br /> “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—”
She allowed herself to be led away because suddenly she felt she couldn’t stand on her own.
The bench was in the shadows, away from the torchlight. Flint sat beside her, a hand on her knee, his chin brushing her shoulder.
“My husband…” she began, licking her lips, frantically searching for words.
“A fine man,” he told her. He kissed her neck once, then drew away and waited.
“I don’t think—”
“Neither of us should, not on a night like this,” he said. “That’s the trouble with the world these days, you see. One thinks and another disagrees, and the next thing you know they’re bashing away at each other like children at a fair.”
She giggled into her palm. “Mr. Flint, I don’t think my husband would approve your description of battle.”
“A fine man,” he repeated, and kissed her neck again.
This isn’t happening, she thought wildly, as panic and unnerving desire began to mingle disturbingly. Lord, I can’t let this—suddenly, the world began to draw away from her, and her head began to reel. No, she cried silently; I can’t faint now. Oh, God …
“My lady,” Flint said. “Are you all right?”
She wanted to nod, but when he grasped her hand, another surge of excitement forced her to close her eyes. A moment, she decided; all I need is a moment alone.
Flint rose then, solicitous as he brushed the hair from her forehead, pulled her handkerchief from her grip and fanned her lightly. The makeshift breeze was welcome, and she leaned into it gratefully, sighing, thinking what a disgrace it would be to swoon in the king’s garden, and with Oliver nearby.
“I’ll fetch your husband,” Flint said then. “I don’t think you should be alone.”
“No,” she pleaded, thinking of Oliver’s anger. “Not yet, please!”
“It’ll be all right,” he soothed. “I’ll handle the explanations.
You’ve nothing to fear.”
“But Mr. Flint, please—”
“I shall detain him long enough for you to calm yourself. And then,” he added softly, “I’m going to invite myself to dinner.”
5
“I tell you, Cat, and I tell you true—there are times when I think you should be locked away. Imagine having all that to drink and then almost disgracing yourself, right in the king’s garden!” Gwen paused for a breath, her broad smile putting the lie to the sternness of her tone. “Honestly, you give the Welsh a bad name, you do. Why, what would your father think?”
They were riding slowly along the Windsor road, approaching the Eton turnoff to Caitlin’s English home. Caitlin said nothing to Gwen’s friendly, sometimes laugh-punctuated jibes.
“And Griff,” Gwen said slyly. “Why, if he were here he’d probably have you over his knee in a trice.”
Caitlin nodded to herself. Griff probably would do something like that. The man had no sense of propriety, and certainly he did not have the grace of a man like James Patrick Flint.
A muffled sound of disgust escaped her lips. How, after what he’d nearly done, could she think of him so … so kindly? She drew her cloak more closely around her, though the twilight was anything but chilly.
“Cat? Cat, did you hear what I said? About Griff?”
“I heard,” she answered sullenly, “and I’d appreciate your not mentioning him again. Or prattling on like this.”
Gwen sobered instantly. “Oh. I’m sorry, Cat. I understand.”
But she didn’t, Caitlin thought. Gwen was under the impression that she was feeling great waves of remorse—and she wasn’t, and that was what bothered her.
Three days had passed since the reception at Windsor Castle, and this was the first day she’d left the house without feeling as if every servant and villager in the country could see the guilt on her face. Oliver, fetched by Flint, had scolded her harshly all the way home and had punished her by refusing to take his meals with her. Thus isolated from everyone but Gwen, Caitlin had had plenty of time to review the incident and to thrash over her feelings. And then there had been the dreams: at one moment she was trying to lure Griff into her bed by behaving like a harlot, and at the next she was dancing with him, her gaze unwilling to leave the flashing dare in his eyes. Oliver, too, stalked her at night, smashing through her bedroom door with the butt of his musket, stripping her of her nightclothes and laying open her flesh with steady strokes of a coachwhip. Griffin laughed at her uproariously; Flint consoled her and stroked balm on her wounds; Oliver returned to open them again.
Finally, just after the midday meal, she’d had enough of her own thoughts and ordered Davy to prepare her horse despite Gwen’s protest that it wasn’t safe to ride so late in the day. They rode at a furious pace along the banks of the Thames until both mounts were threatening to lather. Then they walked back for over a mile before they remounted and Gwen began her attempts to bring a smile to her mistress’s face.
And the worst part was that Caitlin had been unable to tell Gwen everything. She’d hinted broadly about Flint’s bold advances, but covered herself with lies about her drinking and the silly reactions the wine had produced.
“Cat, did you hear that?”
Caitlin looked up quickly. She saw nothing but the columns of trees that marked the lane into which they were turning.
There was nothing but the early evening’s chorus of insects. And their road sounds were muffled by the foliage overhead. The shadows writhing in the brush heightened her abrupt sense of unease, which she blamed on her friend’s nerves—and her desperate need to feel gu
iltier than she did. She was, after all, a married woman, with obligations to a husband. No matter that the husband refused to perform his husbandly duties save once or twice every few months, when he was either elated over business, or steeped in his port. No matter. She was married and bound by duty. Yet just when she thought she had banished Griffin’s ghost from her dreams forever, along came James Flint to exchange places with him.
And she didn’t even know him!
“Cat,” Gwen whispered, continuing to speak Welsh as she had throughout the day. “Cat, we’re not alone.”
The chestnut’s ears were pricked up high, and Caitlin tugged lightly on the reins, cocking her head to listen.
She could only hear an owl and the faint rustle of the brush in the shadows.
Directly ahead, the narrow lane vanished into the ebony night. Not even the lights from the house were visible at this distance. A faint wind whistled through the leaves. The jangle of the harnesses, and the clop of hooves rang out.
Suddenly, something huge and black exploded from the brush to her right, and Gwen released a scream that was abruptly cut off. A hand grabbed for the chestnut’s bridle, and before Caitlin had time to dig her heels into the horse’s sides massive hands pulled her from the saddle, clamped hard over her mouth, and dragged her off the lane into the darkness.
She lashed out with her feet, her hands becoming claws, digging into the flesh of the hand that was nearly smothering her. A grunt, and a hard knee into the small of her back knocked the wind from her lungs. She sagged, fell, and shaded her eyes when a lantern was brought near her face. She could hear several things at once: the horses pounding down the lane toward the house, Gwen’s struggles nearby, and a deep-throated chuckle from the lamp holder. She pushed herself up to her elbows and crawled backward until she came against the bole of a twisted elm.
“Who are you?” she demanded, unable to see the face beyond the glowing light. “You can’t do this!”
A laugh, menacing and confident, sounded.
“You don’t know who I am! My God, my husband will have you killed when he finds out.”
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