Seacliff

by Andrews, Felicia

  “I believe,” he said, “the proper expression is ‘How dare you, sir!’”

  She giggled and turned to the wall; he stepped closer and slipped his hands around her slim waist. She leaned her head back against his chest.

  “He doesn’t treat you as he should, you know. He doesn’t know what he has.”

  “Oh, he does,” she said sadly. “He really does.”

  “I didn’t mean having Seacliff,” he scolded lightly. Her smile broadened. “Are we back to flattery again?” He seemed to relax.

  She felt herself drifting on a cloud, and realized the danger he was putting himself in by holding her thus; she was right to trust him. A moment, another, and suddenly, quietly, she unburdened herself of her suspicions about the manner of her father’s death, pulling out of the embrace once to indicate the tree and the height of the wall. He listened intently, grunting several times, and finally turned her back to the water filled with night whispers and diamonds.

  “I can understand your concern,” he said, pulling her gently until she was once again leaning against him. “Were I in your position, I would leave no question unanswered until I’d uncovered the truth. But tell me… why haven’t you asked Sir Oliver about this?”

  She shook her head in slow dismay. “He would only laugh. Or worse, he would lecture me and tell me I was being a foolish, grief-stricken woman. I would gain no satisfaction from confiding.”

  She felt his nod of agreement.

  “Do you have anyone in mind?” he asked then. “A culprit?”

  “No. Lord, no, James.”

  “What about Mr. Radnor.”

  She stiffened, unable to prevent herself from wondering if Flint knew what she’d once felt for Falconrest’s master. But when she did not respond immediately, she knew he’d taken her silence for—if not a negative answer—then at least one that did not instantly condemn Griff.

  “He’s an odd one,” Flint said after a few moments. “Is he now?”

  “He is.” She hesitated, and frowned until he cleared his throat softly.

  “There’s word, you know, that he’s in league with the mountain outlaws.”

  “No,” she said, almost too quickly. “There’s a great deal about the man that infuriates me, James, but I doubt he would deliberately flout the law.”

  “Are you sure?” Flint asked her, his voice velvety, his thumbs shifting to brush the underside of her breasts.

  “Are you really sure? I haven’t seen him here. A curious breach of courtesy, don’t you think? An important personage such as he does not, it seems to me, ignore the proprieties. Especially not in a case like this. I find it, in fact, rather reprehensible.”

  Caitlin nearly nodded, checked herself, and held her tongue. She did not tell James of Griffin’s distant pursuit of her, nor did she admit that she’d lied. It would, in fact, take little energy to imagine Griffin assisting the outlaws in the mountains. It would be exactly like him, since most of them were fleeing from English sentences passed down by English judges on rather arbitrary English laws.

  To agree, however, would place her stamp of approval on Flint’s obvious dislike of the man, and that she was oddly reluctant to do.

  And she certainly could not condone the implication that Griffin had been involved in her father’s death.

  “Still,” he said, so quietly she’d almost missed his voice, “the winds here are rather impish, don’t you think? This way and that, and there’s no telling what they might do if they’d a mind.”

  “Do you really think so, James?” A desperation colored her voice, and he hugged her, slowly taking the breath from her lungs. Then he kissed the side of her neck, the slope of her shoulders, and she made no move to stop his hands from cupping and squeezing her breasts. Instead, she closed her eyes and allowed the soft fires of his caresses to warm her, to soothe her, while the heat of his lips branded her flesh.

  “James,” she whispered.

  “I dare not remain for very long,” he told her breathlessly. “Despite Sir Oliver’s arrogance, he is no fool.”

  “James, please.” She tried to turn in the circle of his arms, to see his face, but he would not permit it. “James, you can’t—”

  “Caitlin,” and he buried his face in the coils of her raven-colored tresses, his hands slipping away from her breasts and leaving her with only a sigh of regret. “There is a great deal to be done these next few weeks.”

  Her eyes widened, and this time she wrenched away from him, stumbling back against the wall.

  “What do you mean?” His face was in shadow.

  “It will be difficult to see you again.”

  “My God, James, we live in the same house.”

  “Which puts us continents apart, as you must realize.”

  She wanted to reach out to him, to touch him, but her breath was still ragged from his teasing fondling.

  “You must trust me,” he said then. “You must trust me enough to believe that I do not make a habit of dallying with women who are not free.” A hand snaked out of the darkness and swept the gentle slope of one of her shoulders.

  “Trust me, Caitlin. Trust me enough to believe that I know what I am doing.”

  She attempted a lighthearted smile. “I suppose I have no choice, Mr. Flint.”

  “No, my lady,” he said. “You have no choice at all.”

  “And what am I to do in the meantime?”

  “That is entirely up to you. Were I you, however, I would be Lady Morgan. You do it well, you know. You do it very well indeed.”

  His boots crunched on the needles carpeting the ground as he rose; but before he had reached the far edge of the tree’s shadow he stopped and turned back.

  “And I would think about Mr. Radnor, too, if I were you, my lady. Though I share your doubt of his guilt in abetting the outlaws, there are a great many stories wandering the village and elsewhere. Smoke and fire, my lady. Smoke and fire.”

  Smoke and fire.

  She recalled his parting words several times during the next few days, trying to decide if Flint was truly concerned over Griffin Radnor’s apparently growing reputation as a clandestine supporter of the outlaws, or if he was trying to tell her something else, something that carried greater weight. But nothing came to her, and before long even the villagers, who had completed their visitations, left her alone.

  Like Flint.

  True to his caution he stayed at a distance. When he dined with her and Oliver, he made no attempt at all to signal her of his desire to speak with her, or more. Rather, he was achingly formal, emotionally cold, until she felt both angered and depressed, and cut herself off from husband and staff alike. She knew she was behaving irrationally, yet she was unable to prevent herself from haunting the corridors and rooms of Seacliff in hope of catching at least a glimpse of the man. Several times she tried to enter the north tower on flimsy pretexts that even a blind man could decipher, but on each occasion she was stymied by the door’s being bolted on the other side.

  And then, one morning just after the first day of August, she found herself standing outside the narrow door that led to her father’s den. Without thinking, she took hold of the knob and let herself in— and there, waiting patiently for her, was the answer to her distraction.

  14

  The den was much narrower than any other rooms in the house. Its casement window was covered with a soothing wine-colored drapery, its flooring was hidden beneath a faded and worn Persian carpet. As soon as she crossed the threshold she realized with a start, and a grin, why she had been avoiding the room since the day she’d arrived. It was laden with memories of the way she would crawl unashamedly into her father’s lap as a child, demanding he put aside the musty old books and read something to her. Or of the way he would take her out to old Daniels’s so she could be frightened by the ghost tales and cling to his strong frame, or just walk on the rock beach when the tide was out.

  With good-humored grumbling, he would talk about his falling empire, but he wou
ld take her hand and lead her away; he was concerned about cloaking her with guilt, because he adored her so very much.

  And there were the aromas, too: the tobacco clinging to his clothes, the scents he used after bathing, the damp wool in the rainy weather, the leather of his chairs, and the bindings of his books.

  She had not thought herself prepared for any of this, but with Flint avoiding her, with Oliver stomping around the house like a petulant child, and with the villagers staring at her as if she’d suddenly developed an unpleasant likeness to the English queen, she discovered this morning she had no other choice.

  She closed the door behind her, hesitated as the room and its memories took her by gentle storm. She then wandered from the wall shelves to the rosewood desk to the window overlooking the lawn and village. At the desk she looked over the ledgers and letters and took a deep breath.

  This, she thought, is where Seacliff’s mistress belongs. She studied the estate’s workings intently, meticulously, unaware of the days and weeks that flew by. It fascinated her, consumed her, finally sending her one afternoon across the corridor into the sitting room where she dropped into a thickly upholstered armchair with an explosive, satisfied sigh. A moment later, Oliver walked in.

  “Damn, but it’s hot,” he complained. “God’s blood, it’s worse than Eton!”

  “Oliver, please,” she said wearily.

  He glowered while scratching at his red, naked scalp. “You’ve been at the books again,” he said accusingly.

  She lowered her hands from her eyes and smiled. “Naturally.”

  “Why naturally? It’s not something for you to fuss over.”

  “Of course it is,” she said. “I have to know what’s going on, don’t I?”

  “I don’t see why,” he said with a shrug. “James and I are doing rather well, I should think.”

  “Oh, Oliver,” she sighed, “I don’t mean I don’t trust you. But this is my property, and I’m not so thick-skulled I can’t grasp its working.”

  He swiveled about abruptly and paced to the open balcony door to stare at the lawn. His hands were clasped behind his back, tucked beneath the brown frock coat he wore when riding. “Caitlin, I do wish you would cease reminding me who has the legal rights to—”

  “Oliver, that’s unfair!”

  “But may I also remind you,” he continued stiffly, “of who rides out there every damned day, dealing with those people and their petty little problems. ‘Sar, if ye’ll pardon me, that ain’t the way Master Evans done it, sar.’ ‘Sar, the milk’s gone dry, sar.’ My God, Caitlin, it’s a wonder they don’t still live in caves.” A pause, and a heavy deep breath. “There have also been sightings the past few days. Damned outlaws. Word is they’re snooping about.”

  “What for?” she said, reaching for an orange in the fruit bowl by her side. “What would they want here?” and suddenly she recalled Flint’s accusations about Griffin.

  “Food, weapons, a head or two of livestock.” He slashed the air sharply. “I’ll have their bloody heads if they come near me,” he said. “And the head of anyone who helps them.”

  The memory of Lam Johns hanging in the grove passed through her mind unbidden. “Oliver,” she cautioned.

  “Well, dammit, they’re criminals, Caitlin. Now don’t tell me you’ve decided to take their side as well.”

  “As well as what?” she wanted to know, wishing she had gone directly to her rooms.

  “As well as trying to make me feel incompetent.”

  She sputtered and half rose, then dropped back into the chair and took a glass of water to refresh herself.

  “I am not trying to make you feel incompetent, Oliver,” she said slowly, measuring each word so she would not be misheard.

  He looked to the table, at the peeled and partly eaten orange. “You should finish that, you know. They say it keeps you healthy.”

  “Oliver, we’re not talking about my health.”

  “Well, you are rather pale, my dear. You should eat better, and get out more often.”

  “I… have … been… busy!”

  “So I’ve noticed,” he said disgustedly.

  “Oliver, when you’re like this, you’re not the man I married at all.”

  “Oh really?” He leaned away from her and raised an eyebrow. “I was under the impression we were still man and wife—unless, of course, you’ve found some marvelous Welsh law that changes that, too.”

  Strangling the impulse to strike him, she rose, then suddenly swayed and had to grab hold of the back of the chair. Dizziness swept over her and made her gasp in surprise. Oliver hurried to her side at once, murmuring his concern, but within moments she was able to wave him off and continue on to her rooms.

  There she swung open the French doors to the balcony and stepped outside, closing her eyes to the sea’s gentle breeze and the warmth of the sun, which was not nearly as intense here as it was below. The balcony itself was less than six feet deep and eight feet long. The wall was chest-high and gap-toothed, and as she stood near one of the openings she felt as if she were riding a cloud. She felt soothed, and she was reminded of how many hours she’d been in the study, poring over the ledgers and reconstructing a life she hadn’t known existed. It was exciting. It was so much a challenge she could easily understand why Oliver lived for his own business and let all else fall by the wayside.

  And she was wondering what it would be like to have the reins completely in her hands, when she heard over the whispering of the breeze someone approaching from behind. She turned, and grinned when she saw Gwen’s stare.

  “Fresh air,” she said.

  Gwen looked doubtfully at the balcony, and the drop beyond, and glanced away. “You could do with more than a stand,” she said. “You could do with a ride.”

  Caitlin, to Gwen’s horror, leaned back against the wall. “I don’t know. I suppose.”

  “I was in the village this morning and saw the seamstress.” Caitlin’s brow furrowed as she tried to recall the woman’s name. “Shamac? Grace Shamac?”

  “Susan,” Gwen corrected flatly. “You don’t remember.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Gwen, it’s been so long!”

  “It has been that,” Gwen said. “Mistress Shamac thought you’d gone back to England.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  Gwen put a hand to her forehead and sighed loudly. “Cat, you’re not getting the message. They think you’ve gone. You stay in here all day, every day, and all they see is Sir Oliver and that man of his riding about like he owns the earth.”

  Caitlin stepped inside quickly, combing her fingers through her tangled hair. “Gwen, we’ve already been through—”

  “I know. But I thought you should hear what’s being said.” Caitlin glanced to the bed then and saw her green riding habit and boots waiting. A grin pulled at her lips, and she threw up her hands in surrender. It would be a good idea to get away, she thought, and leave it to Gwen to play mother again. And as she dressed, she asked for gossip, any news that would prevent her from saying something she shouldn’t.

  “Well,” Gwen said, fussing with the ruffled gold blouse and shaking her head in despair at having to hide Caitlin’s sumptuous figure, “seems Quinn Broary and Orin aren’t to be married. They was going to ask your father, but they’re afraid now of Sir Oliver. You know Broary? They say she’s fey, what with all that red hair and that round face. I heard tell that Williams, the cobbler, he’s got gold under his flooring. ’Course they always says that. They think he has little people working for him, too. Then…”

  Caitlin turned at the sudden silence and sat on the mattress, waiting for Gwen to slip on the boots. “Well?”

  “I don’t know, Cat,” Gwen said, kneeling and averting her gaze. “It’s talk.”

  “Having elves make boots isn’t talk?” she laughed.

  “It’s not elves, Cat. It’s… men. No more than a handful, so I’m told, but they come to the village now and again and snoop about. They say sometimes Mr. Flin
t is with them.” She glanced up without raising her head.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Caitlin said. “I haven’t seen Mr. Flint for days, and even then it’s only when he’s riding off on some errand or other.” She waited. “What do these men do?”

  “Snoop, like I said.

  Come into a shop and stand round like they was waiting for something. They come to the Stag’s Head for a pint just after sundown, have themselves their own little comer, they do. Like they was royalty or something.”

  “Funny I wasn’t told about this,” she said, and interrupted Gwen’s muttering by standing and stamping her feet. “I shall have to send for Davy, to tell him—”

  Gwen grinned. “The roan’s already at the door.”

  “Oh, it is, is it? And do you by any chance have my itinerary prepared?”

  Gwen shrugged. “I can’t read your mind, Cat. You go where you please.”

  “I wonder,” she said, only half in jest. “I wonder.” But she did not elaborate when Gwen questioned her, only made her way quickly downstairs and out the front door. Davy stood beside a curried and braided roan mare whose bridle was of green and gold felt, and from whose mane fluttered several red ribbons.

  “Lord, Davy, I’m not on parade, you know.”

  “It’s a lovely day, mistress,” he said, doffing his cap and taking her elbow. “’Twas to make you smile.”

  “I am,” she said, only then breaking out in a smile. She settled herself in the saddle, took the reins in hand and glanced once more at the house before wheeling about and cantering down the lane toward the road.

  The farmland was still a bright green in spite of the continuing heat, and she sighed her contentment at the sparkling of the broad stream and its myriad narrow arms, and the trees and their nesting birds filling the air with lazy song. Above her a hawk shadowed the roan, swerved sharply off toward the misted mountains with a cry that made her smile until she thought her cheeks would crack. A shaggy red dog yelped at her mount’s heels until an old man shambled out of a stone hut with a cane and brandished it wildly to drive the mongrel off. She called her thanks to him, and he bowed stiffly. Though she’d hoped he would offer water from his well, she was surprised when he turned and retreated back inside.