Old grump, she thought with a giggle, and turned onto a side path much narrower than the road—scarcely wide enough between low, thick hedging for a single cart. For over a mile she rode beneath a tangled overhang of trees that lowered the temperature and colored the air with a soft green tint. Bright-winged birds flashed out of hiding, scolding and whistling; a vixen and her kits ducked into a burrow beneath the exposed roots of a towering ash; a kingfisher darted from its rock when Caitlin splashed through the cold-running stream.
And as she rode her weariness slipped away; her resentment of Oliver vanished in the sunbath and dissolved under the cobalt sky. She was alone, and she reveled in it. Here she could say nothing to offend anyone. Here she could forget the pressures of Seacliff, the hidden but palpable presence of James Flint; she could concentrate on simply breathing the richness and beauty of life. It was, simply, luxury.
Up and over a low rise, she found herself at a sprawling collection of ringstones, most of which had been toppled centuries ago. The immense area was overgrown with leafy shrubs and grass. There was no visible evidence that the prehistoric site had been visited by anyone within the past decade. As the roan picked its way through a natural path toward the center, she examined the fallen monoliths, and the four still standing to loom ten feet above her, blocking the sun. Most of the villagers avoided the area completely.
“It’s not a fine place,” Gwen had told her once. “There are too many things felt in the ground. It’s not that I believe the tales, mind, but I’d just the same not sit on rocks where folks have been murdered in heathen rites.”
Caitlin, however, had never felt such intimidation; indeed, she relished the peace and the solitude, and guarded it jealously.
A swift glance to check for intruders, and she slipped from the saddle lightly, drew the reins over the horse’s head to keep it from roaming, and perched on the center horizontal stone, pulling her knees to her chest where she grasped them tightly.
A cool breeze tickled her chin. There was a scurrying in the brush. And she allowed her eyelids to droop sleepily while she thought how she should have done this ages ago, when Oliver first brought tears of rage and hurt to her eyes by a single word. She should have come here to think it all through, to decide the best way to approach the problem without bringing his wrath down on her. Hiding herself in her father’s books was no solution; she’d learned that only this morning.
Oliver hadn’t changed. And it wasn’t until she’d found the ringstones that she’d realized, with an abrupt awakening of her dormant mind, that he was doing more than simply taking charge of the estate: he was taking it over. And taking her with it.
The roan snorted and tossed its head.
She glanced up to scold it, and saw on the nearby slope a rider coming toward her swiftly.
She stiffened, looked around, and suddenly recognized her location.
But though she slipped off the monolith with every intention of leaving, she knew it was too late. She had been seen, and there was nothing to do but face a most awkward encounter.
15
The tall sleek stallion seemed on parade as it expertly picked its way through the tangle of underbrush to the ancient ringstones. And once inside them, Griffin Radnor dismounted with a flourish and allowed his mount to wander off to graze.
He had not changed, Caitlin thought as she recalled him waiting for her by the road to Seacliff. Perhaps his eyes were a little more black than blue, and more mocking as they examined her without shame. And perhaps his hair was a little darker, his one-sided smile more bitterly sardonic than she remembered, but he was still a powerful-looking man, and the way he strode toward her with his thumbs hooked in his waistband proved he had lost none of his swaggering arrogance.
He stopped a few feet from her and shifted his hands to his hips.
His head tilted slightly to one side, and his smile grew wider. “Well,” he said. “Well, well, well.”
“Well yourself, Griffin Radnor,” she snapped, and instantly regretted it. A bolt of anger flared in his gaze, subsided as she warned herself to be the lady of Seacliff, not a simpering little waif who couldn’t keep her wits about her in the presence of a man. She looked deliberately away, toward the sprawling house on the hillside, wondering how she’d missed it while she’d been riding. She must have been blind.
“Indeed,” he said, his voice deep and melodic, carrying a lilt that promised at any moment to break into song.
She nodded toward Falconrest. “You seem to be prospering.”
“I have had my share of good fortune,” he admitted without modesty. “At least I don’t tremble each time the king’s collectors come round. They go off happy, and I still get some.”
She grunted meaninglessly and, after a moment’s struggle with indecision, returned to the altar stone to resume her place— though this time she did not draw up her legs. The roan had edged back toward the lane. She followed its movements carefully, but she did not call it to her. Griff would have laughed at her.
“It’s been time, hasn’t it?” she said into a silence she could not abide; and the instant the words left her lips she groaned silently, cursing herself. She could not understand why she was guarded so suddenly, why she didn’t release all the things she’d been dwelling on since leaving Eton. Where was her temper now that she needed it to bolster her courage?
“It has,” he acknowledged solemnly, his hands dropping to his sides. He cleared his throat. “I grieve for your father, my lady.”
“Thank you.”
So formal, she thought; good Lord, we’re being so formal!
“I’m pleased you’ve returned.”
She thought of him stalking her, riding the fields and lanes, keeping just out of reach of her call. “Are you?”
He glared at her, and from the comer of her eye she caught a flare of sunlight from the copper in his hair.
“Your husband is well, I take it.” He changed the topic. She glanced at him briefly, then turned away to look at the ground. There was no expression on his face either of jealousy or interest. “He’s well.”
“England has been good to you, then.”
“Well enough.” She paused as her throat constricted with a tension that swelled from her chest. Then: “There’s plenty to do there, naturally, and we go to London and Windsor now and again.” Her hands wrestled mindlessly in her lap, and she forced them to be still lest Griff misinterpret her apparent nervousness. “I… that is, we were presented, you know. To the king and queen.”
“Oh, really?” he said in a mocking tone. “And did you tell him what you thought of him?”
“I told him,” she said primly, “I was independent-minded, but I wasn’t a fool.”
“I see.”
Do you? she wondered, or do you think I’ve capitulated to English rule like Oliver’s family? And it bothered her disturbingly that she should care what he thought.
The sun had crawled past its meridian, and the westward-reaching shadows slipped darkly, coolly, over the stones. The sea breeze faded. Insects droned on in the cover of the underbrush. A slant of perspiration slid down her chest, and she tried not to wriggle away from the icy, tickling sensation, showing her discomfort.
“Your Mr. Flint,” Griff said, then broke off abruptly and rubbed a hand over his face.
She wanted to tell him James Flint wasn’t hers at all, but she only said, “Yes?” and saw the hard look return to his eyes. “Yes, what about him?”
Griff shook himself slightly, as if coming to a decision he still didn’t trust. “I should tell you he’s not making himself very popular in the valley, Caitlin. It was bad enough, what was done to Lam Johns, but Flint and his fine friends seem to think they own everything in sight.” She sensed rather than saw his wry smile. “They’ve even tried to come at me, but they’ve a fear of my darlin’ pets, it seems.” His smile faded as if it had never been. “It’s a bad business there, Caitlin. I know the types. Soldiers out of service for one reason or other. Me
rcenaries, for want of a better word. Like the Hessians Germany exports for our wars. Hardly the type a true master would use to oversee his charges.”
She stared silently in Seacliff’s direction. The men he was talking about were under Flint’s stewardship. Oliver had explained that they helped James with his duties. She had never seen or attempted to see any of them. They kept to themselves in their quarters in the north tower, and none had ever tried to approach her. She didn’t like the idea, and Oliver had not volunteered any further information about them; nevertheless, before she could stop herself, she heard her voice telling Griffin what her husband had said about the law and its enforcement.
Griff’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You disappoint me, Caitlin. All these years I thought you knew the difference between the law and justice. I thought your father had taught you more.”
“My father,” she said tightly, “taught me a great number of things. Among them, to be wary of those with whom I share my company.”
He almost laughed. “You’ve not changed as much as I heard, thank God. You still have a biting tongue, and you still know how to use it.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“You may accept it as such, if you please,” he said.
“I do not please,” she told him.
“As you will.”
“Absolutely.” She fought to keep from slapping him, so great was her disappointment. Was this the only reason he’d followed her to this place? To voice his doubts about Flint, about her husband? To warn her of possible trouble, in unsubtle terms? Is this all there was going to be?
“This Flint—”
“Oh … damn Mr. Flint! Are you trying to tell me that one man has turned you all into cowards afraid of your shadows? Are these the men my father protected all his life? One little spot of trouble and you run like sheep?”
“Lam Johns was not a ‘spot of trouble,’” he said. She looked at him warily. “There’ve been more?”
He shook his head, she thought too reluctantly.
“Then I suggest you make your peace with Oliver, and things will be right as rain again.”
She would have said more, but the sound of her strident voice silenced her, and the words she’d shouted across the small clearing shocked her into a heated flush. She pressed one hand to her cheek. Had her father been alive he would have switched her without thinking twice, and by the glower of Griff’s face he, too, had a similar reaction. Damn him, she thought; how dare he confuse me like this, make me say such awful things about my own people.
Griffin apparently noted her distress. His expression softened somewhat and, after a brief shuffling of his boots, he made motions to sit beside her on the stone. She shifted away. He took hold of her arm, and she closed her eyes briefly against his touch. But when she tried to free herself, his grip tightened. “Griffin, I’ll thank you to—”
“Dammit, Caitlin! Dammit!”
Control was gone; the tide of her emotions flooded over the dam, and she found herself shouting. “Dammit yourself!” she cried. “How dare you come to me, sneaking around like this, talking to me like this, saying all those terrible things about me when… three years, Griffin Radnor! Three bloody years and not a single damned word out of you. For all I knew you were dead.”
“You’re married now,” he said, maddeningly calm.
“God in heaven,” she cried, “what does that have to do with… with …” She wrenched her head away and stared at the nearest tree, her eyes blinking rapidly, tears welling and stinging them. “You could have been dead. You were dead.”
“Cat,” he said quietly, but harshly, “I do what I want to do because no man holds me. But I do not make a habit of paying unwanted calls on married women.
Especially titled women. Especially… especially you.”
Her hands were clenched so tightly that her wrists began to ache. This was not the proper way to behave, and she knew it; and where was all the anger? Where was all that righteous, self-pitying anger?
“Besides,” he added coldly, “your husband is not exactly the sort of man who appreciates men like me.”
She nodded quickly. “Oh, you’re right about that, Griff,” she said bitterly. “You’re so very right about that.” The dam broke, and she was helpless.
“Why?” she pleaded weakly. “Why didn’t you fight for me, Griff? I don’t understand. Why did you let Father believe all those horrid stories?”
“You believe them,” he said simply.
She looked at him squarely. “I believe most of them because I know you,” she countered. “There’s too much in you for you to be still for too long.” She paused, and considered. “I think Father envied you in some way, too. I don’t know quite how or why.”
“He was not a meek man, Caitlin,” Griff said. “I would suspect if you spoke with old Les or Marty Randall, you’d find your father was not in his youth what he expected you to be in yours.”
“Like you,” she said. He shrugged.
“But you never denied anything,” she said plaintively. “You just let them all talk about you, and you never denied a thing!”
Griff straightened. “I never had to deny to those who really cared.”
“You—” The words were lost as she gasped. “You had only to ask, Caitlin.”
She pushed at him angrily. “What chance did you give me? What chance was there?”
The truth of her accusations forced him to look away. They both fell into a shocked, despairing silence. Then he seemed struck by an idea, and searched her face, quizzically. “What else do you believe, Caitlin?”
Stunned by the turn of the conversation, she could only shake her head in rueful sorrow. “You know, you could have found some way, surely, to tell me Morag’s child was… was…” The words caught like hooks in her throat, and she could not dislodge them. Frustration overwhelmed her. Before she knew what she was doing she had raised her arm and, while Griffin’s eyes widened in astonishment and disbelief, she brought the flat of her hand as hard as she could across his cheek.
The crack was like a gunshot.
Both horses stirred, their bridles rattled as they sidled away; a flurry of wings from the foliage indicated a flock of blackbirds had taken flight, and Caitlin put the offending hand to her own cheek, the burning on her palm feeling as though fire had scorched it. Griffin’s eyes turned to flint, but he did not touch the slightly reddened spot. Instead, he grabbed her wrist and held it, squeezing until a strangled cry broke from her lips. Then he yanked her against him, his free hand cradling her back and keeping her from escaping. He searched her face intently, and grunted as if he’d seen in her eyes no more than what he’d expected. And before she could twist out of his painful grasp he crushed his lips to hers, burying his hand in her hair.
She resisted. Not by struggling, but by remaining immobile. Her lips did not soften; her eyes did not close. She glared at him instead and waited until he could see his effect. Her chest rose and fell shallowly, a dim ache spreading from the base of her spine. Waited. Until quite involuntarily she attempted to pull away and take a breath. But he would not permit it. His grip tightened on her wrists and head, and his eyes remained stubbornly closed. Time and vision blurred. The warm scent of his face, the heat from his hair, the feel of his soft shirt all worked to undermine her determination to remain unaffected.
Her left hand fluttered over the stone; her right hand lay motionless in her lap.
He shifted, pressed harder.
She wanted to protest, but she knew if she tried twisting away again he would renew his patience and hold her prisoner until she relented.
Her left hand convulsed, and her right finally moved to his shoulders in an effort to push him away. She had to have air. She had to breathe. And she had to dispel the disturbing images now gathering about her: the glen, his touch, their eventual union which she’d almost come to believe never happened. The way he spoke to her—softly, gently, never doubting her intelligence, praising her b
eauty, never assuming she was anything less than she was; the way he looked at her—searching, idolizing, eyes sparkling with quiet laughter because of the silent communion they shared with no others.
Her resolve weakened. Her hands stopped their pressing, and her lips began to soften.
And immediately he released her with such rapidity that she nearly fell backward.
She gasped for air, confused, frightened, and angry. Her mouth opened to demand explanations, but his stony face buried her words before they were born. An anguished heat then swept from her chest to her face, and with a despairing, unbelieving cry she leaped from the stone and ran for her horse. Tears drenched her cheeks. The world tilted and she stumbled into a shrub. With a foul oath, she kicked at it, yanked her skirts free of the barbs and spun around in a tight circle, trying to locate her mount before Griffin came after her.
It was too late.
Just as she found the roan less than a yard away and reached for the reins, he was at her side, grabbing her shoulders in a viselike grip she could not shake off.
“Bastard!” she hissed, and kicked at his shins. He pushed her away, but refused to free her.
Fury blocked her senses. She shrieked at him, lashed out with her nails and boots, and as her blows landed she could hear him grant in pain. Her head swung from side to side, her breasts felt weighed down, but she kept on filling the air with curses and trying to claw at his face until, at last, she lifted her face to him, and through her tears begged him to release her without saying a word.
He drew her closer, but did not embrace her. Her arms felt like lead, hanging uselessly at her sides. A thin line of blood trickled down his temple to the line of his jaw, and his damp hair was plastered darkly over his forehead. He was panting as well, as if he, and not Caitlin, had been struggling fiercely.
“Please,” she implored. “Griffin, please.”
Seacliff Page 15