“You love me still,” he said simply, no doubt in his tone.
A brief wave of anger welled in her, and she slapped away his hands. “Don’t be a fool,” she said venomously.
And suddenly his wry smile returned, the flint gone from his eyes. “I need to know, Cat,” he said, shaking his head and turning away toward the white stallion. Before she could deny his incredible presumption, he was in the saddle, his hair brushed away from his eyes. “I needed to know you didn’t love that man.”
Speechless, she could only gape at him.
“And something else,” he added as the stallion wheeled about, prancing. “I’ve heard the tales Morag’s been telling. I’ve heard the rumors.” His smile twitched. “I’ve even been the object of one of the vicar’s marvelous sermons.” The smile vanished. “I’ve not said a word until now, Cat, because I don’t care what people say. You know that. I’ve a life to live, and I will not be governed by the small minds of small folks. But you remember this, Caitlin Evans: Morag’s little bastard is no child of mine.”
He effortlessly released a whistle, and the white steed exploded through the brush to the fields sweeping up to Falconrest. Caitlin had no strength to do anything but stare after him, his final words clinging like burrs to her sore body.
Slowly, dreamlike, she lifted her hand to her lips. After a moment she dropped it to her chest where it stayed until the stallion and its rider vanished into shadow.
It wasn’t until the roan nuzzled her arm and snorted softly that she broke from her trance. With a start, she looked about her as though she had a no idea where she was or what she was doing there. Uttering a weak sob she pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead. A tear glistened at the comer of her eye, and without awareness, she blinked it away slowly. The roan nudged her again, and blindly she struggled into the saddle, trusting the animal to carry her safely back to the country lane.
She was numb. She felt neither the pull of her muscles as her mount cantered down the lane nor the sun’s heat nor the dust that rose from the ground as they passed. A large portion of her mind had gone into fearful hiding, and all she could do now was pray she’d be able to get inside the house without anyone noticing her agitation. All she needed now was Oliver ranting and raving, hurling questions at her like stones, of Gwen fussing over her like a mother hen.
Across the land rolling to the main road the roan trotted easily, and before long Caitlin was facing the mansion. The shadow-darkened windows stared out at her sightlessly, and the towers loomed against the deepening blue sky. Curious and faint sounds were carried to her on the light breeze, but she dismissed them as nothing as she finally allowed herself to sort out her emotions. But once up the slope and on level ground, she could hear the sounds more clearly; they came rhythmically, and it did not take her long to recognize their nature: the harsh bites of a whip engaged in a lashing.
She shook her head violently, driving Griffin and their strange encounter temporarily out of mind, and cocking her head until she located the sounds. After a moment’s indecision, she dug her heels hard into the roan’s side and galloped around the south tower’s base, skidding to a halt and sliding from the saddle in one fluid motion when she saw the tableau unfolding off to the side.
A tall wooden stake had been pounded into a worn patch of grass, and a crossbar had been lashed to it at just below shoulder height. Oliver, oddly dressed in his major’s uniform, was standing several yards away, his hands clasped firmly behind his back and his chin jutting squarely away from his chest. He was bewigged and enwrapped in a gleaming black sash that hung over his chest. Behind him stood the household staff, the women pressed close to the men, the men glaring straight ahead, not moving at all.
Caitlin’s eyes roamed the tiny crowd until she found Gwen, but when their gazes locked, Gwen looked away.
She took a step forward, and was stopped by a vicious attack of nausea in her stomach.
Flint was standing at the edge of the worn ground, his legs carelessly apart and his coat folded neatly on the grass. His white shirt was stained with perspiration down the length of his spine, and though his back faced her she could tell that his breathing was scarcely labored. He had flung his left arm outward to one side for balance, and in his right hand he held the grooved grip of a long-tailed whip. By the way he looked at Oliver, it was obvious he was waiting for instructions to continue.
Caitlin began walking; no one paid her any mind.
With arms outspread and secured by thongs around the crossbar, with his shirt tom to ribbons, with the flesh of his back exposed to the air, and with the dark blood running freely, young Davy Daniels slumped, his knees buckled and his cheek pressed against the pole.
16
Far overhead a flock of gulls flew in a great circle, their cries carried by the sea breeze and their shadows pocking the ground. They swarmed into a cloud, dispersed and swarmed again, and each time they converged they dropped a little lower until their black skull caps could be seen, and the black tips of their wings slashed the air like razor-sharp knives. It wasn’t until they were less than twenty feet from the land that they suddenly scattered in shrill abandon, and they did not regroup until they were no more than pale specks against the sky.
Oliver, oblivious to the chaos above him, cleared his throat impatiently. “Do you in fact repent, Mr. Daniels?”
Davy groaned deep in his chest, and his mouth was misshapen by his agony.
“Mr. Daniels, I am required to ask you again. Do you hear me?
Do you repent?”
Caitlin felt as if the air had hardened above her to prevent her fighting her way toward Davy. It was as though she were swimming, a leaded weight placed on her chest, making her gasp for breath. But she did move, and she was aware that faces were now turning slowly toward her, that somewhere in the crowd a hand was raised in her direction, though whether in warning or in threat she could not tell. Mouths opened, yet she could hear nothing but the fierce thunder of her own blood in her temples, the frantic race of her heart struggling to power her steps forward. And for a moment she could have sworn the earth shuddered under the impact of the breakers against the cliffs.
Flint seemed unaware of her approach. Casually, almost absently, he coiled the whip in his left hand, then released the tail and snapped his right wrist so that the obscenely serpentine leather uncoiled on the grass behind him, waiting. Once more he looked to Morgan, who had taken a lace-edged handkerchief from his sleeve and was daubing the beads of perspiration from the comer of his mouth, the ridges of his brow.
Davy took the respite to attempt standing, but his pain-weakened legs would not hold him. He sagged, and the strain on his arms brought a whimper from lips which were lined with froth and dried blood.
Morgan shook his head in weary regret. “Mr. Daniels, you really are making this extraordinarily difficult on yourself. You know that, don’t you? You do know that, don’t you?”
To Caitlin, his voice carried the disdain of an adder for its helpless prey.
“All you have to do is nod, Mr. Daniels, and it will be all over, I promise you. Nod, Mr. Daniels, and you will have cool water to drink and a balm for your wounds. Come, Mr. Daniels, don’t prolong this any further.”
Davy’s tongue poked through his lips; it was dark and swollen. “Very well,” Oliver said, and sniffed. “Carry on, Mr. Flint.” After a moment’s pause Flint rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck, and flung back his right arm; the whip writhed on the grass. Then he took a deep breath and, for the first time since Caitlin rounded the tower, he looked to Davy. It was apparent he was coolly measuring the distance between them, to the place on the boy’s back where the lash would sting the most. His biceps flexed in anticipation beneath the smooth shirt, and Davy groaned again.
“Come, Mr. Flint,” Morgan said, glancing toward the horizon. “I see no sense in dragging the lad over the coals.” Flint leaned back slightly, and the air stilled, the gulls were silenced—but as his arm began its journey forwar
d, Caitlin snared his wrist with one hand and snatched the whip with the other. He whirled around with a snarl, fists raised, eyes flashing blackly, the scar from nose to lips pulsing in rage. His oath was muffled by the startled gasp of the assembled staff, but Caitlin refused to back down before either his language or the murderous glare in his eyes.
They faced off in black rancor, Caitlin just as intense as he. “Touch the boy again, Mr. Flint,” she said at last, the words smoldering in acid, “and I’ll use this foul thing on you myself.”
“Lady Morgan!” Oliver commanded, his astonishment strangling his cry.
She ignored him.
Flint wrestled visibly for self-control. Then he drew himself up and bowed to her rigidly before stepping to one side, well out of her reach. Immediately, she turned around to face the staff, searching for Orin. When she spotted him, she beckoned to him, her free hand pointing to the farrier’s brother in unmistaken instruction. There was no hesitation. Several of the women scurried instantly forward to assist the farrier, their faces avoiding Morgan, who was flushed with fury. The others broke ranks and hurried back to their quarters. Only Gwen remained behind, standing alone, neither smiling nor moving.
“Lady Morgan!” Oliver growled again.
But Caitlin refused to acknowledge him. She waited until she was certain Davy had been freed from the post and was still breathing; only then did she cast the whip aside and march up to face Oliver.
“Lady Morgan,” he said, his voice rising, “you have overstepped your bounds.”
“Husband,” she retorted, “I will see to Davy. When I am finished, I will see to you. And this time you will not talk to me of what the law demands. This time you will satisfy me.”
And before his enraged astonishment, she whirled and strode into the staff’s common room. She was capable of neither thought nor speech, so she gave her directions in a flurry of ragged arm and head movements. The long table was cleared of its clutter, and Alice Courder brought a pail of warm water from the kitchen. By the time clean rags had been assembled, Orin and two others had brought Davy inside and laid him gently on his stomach. Alice produced a carving knife, which Caitlin took without asking and used to cut away the blood-clotted fabric from his body. Though Davy flinched at the contact, he made no sound; he was unconscious and his head was cradled on his forearms. She worked swiftly, expertly, and silently. And as each reddened and bloody stripe was exposed, Alice commenced a gentle laving of the skin with her well-scrubbed but stubby, liver-spotted hands.
When the shirt was finally off Davy’s back, and Elaine Courder had appeared at the table’s head with a ceramic crock of balm, Caitlin backed away. She barely felt Orin slip the knife from her fingers. Gwen was standing in the doorway, watching the ministrations with trembling lips; but she shook her head vigorously when Mary sidled up to her and whispered a question. She only had eyes for Caitlin.
He’s your husband; this is your doing, her expression accused.
You cannot blame me for this horror, Caitlin stared back.
Gwen leaned hard against the jamb, and Orin was at her side immediately, wrapping an arm around her waist while she buried her face in his shoulder. There were whispers now, instructions and oaths, and pity for the young man who could not hear them.
Caitlin watched as long as she could. When it was evident, however, that she was no longer needed she turned on her heels and strode down the corridor, through the door, and into the mansion where she headed directly for the rear drawing room. The room was deserted, the only sign of anyone having been there all day a woven shallow basket of oranges and a decanter of brandy on the table. She grabbed an orange automatically, tore at the rind, and bit into it savagely, consuming more than half before grimacing at the sourness and tossing the remains out the door. To wash away the taste, she poured herself some brandy, and drained the glass in several burning gulps. Her eyes stung and watered, her throat felt lined with a fire that no water could quench. She stood at the French doors and stared out blindly over the lawn, refusing to permit herself to think about the insidious horror she’d just witnessed.
Five minutes passed, and she poured herself another glass.
Two months ago, she thought, she’d been determined not to disgrace her father by admitting to a failed marriage; she had vowed to make it work despite the obstacles, while simultaneously refusing to surrender even one small portion of the land she loved more than any other.
Two months ago she had almost convinced herself she was happy—or at least content with the dizzying circumstances of her life.
But now …
This time … this time she knew beyond doubt that she was in the right and that Oliver was dreadfully, horribly wrong. Nothing short of outright murder should have brought such a punishment down on Davy’s back. There was, this time, no conceivable way Oliver could justify his actions.
Five minutes more, and her glass was empty yet again.
Footsteps approached and stopped just outside the open door. She waited patiently, knowing Oliver could not disregard her wishes now. She had defied him in front of the entire staff, and he would have to make a stand or lose all his control. Not even Flint would respect him if he gave ground.
But her vision was growing slightly blurred, and as she put a hand to her brow and rubbed it gently, the room seemed to grow warm. She reached behind her and opened the French doors, sighed as the tangy breeze caressed her hair and shoulders. For the second time that afternoon she thought she felt the earth move as the surf pounded the cliffs. Then she frowned, puzzled, and glanced over her shoulder. Curious, but she would have sworn the tide would not be in until dusk. No matter. She must be mistaken; the two quick glasses of brandy were befuddling her perceptions.
Fifteen minutes became twenty, but she would not give him the satisfaction of launching a harridan’s hunt. He would come to her; there could be no other alternative.
And if there was one thing she had more of than Sir Oliver Morgan, it was patience. She would wait right here all night if she had to. All night. But he would come.
And he did.
One moment she was staring into the empty corridor, the next he was framed by the doorway, still dressed as she had seen him earlier in the day. At first she thought him an apparition so swiftly and silently did he come into view; but when he folded his arms imperiously over his chest and lifted his chin to gaze down at her, she knew her mind was not playing tricks.
But she could not speak.
Try as she might she was unable to find the means to voice her outrage. Instead, she stammered and gestured with her empty glass. He only grunted, and nodded. Not now, she thought desperately; my God, don’t fail now! Yet no matter how hard she tried, all she could do at the last minute was stumble across the room to her chair and sink dismally into it. The glass clinked harshly on the table beside her.
There was something wrong.
She blamed it at first on the brandy. But when she thought about it, two rations no matter how swiftly downed had never affected her like this before. Then she experienced the queasy sensation she’d felt earlier in the day, though this time it was not confined to her stomach. Her vision softened again, and a chill raced along her arms bringing goose flesh that would not subside no matter what she tried. Her throat was dry, her legs, numb.
Something was… wrong. “My dear?”
Solicitous. Oh, so solicitous; you would think Davy’s lashing had never occurred. But why does he just stand there? Doesn’t he know there’s something wrong with me? Can’t he see I’m not… I’m not well?
“Caitlin, you wished to speak to me?”
About the weather, Oliver, of course. I want to talk to you about the weather. About how terribly hot it is and couldn’t we go back to England where I have my pond and can cool my feet in the middle of the day? Of course I want to talk with you, Oliver. Of course, I do! But there’s something wrong, I can’t get my tongue to move.
Her head nodded slightly forward, and she had
to sit up as best she could to drive off the sleep overcoming her.
She frowned severely then: sleep? At this hour?
A shadow engulfed her, and with great effort she managed to look up. Oliver was standing in front of her, his arms unfolded and his face creased with what she supposed was concern. He leaned so closely that she could smell the tobacco and wine on his breath. Where had he been? Smoking a pipe and savoring his port in the front room while she sat waiting for him? And he knew she’d been waiting for him.
“Caitlin, can you hear me, my dear?” All she could do was blink once.
He yanked off his wig and tossed it into the chair, then kneeling he touched her cheek gently, her brow, her hair. She wanted to tell him to stop staring at her as if he expected her to die at any moment. But his gaze never left her face as he relaxed his grip on the nape of her neck and scrutinized her closely. He finally turned his head and pressed his ear to her bosom.
“Oh, really, Oliver! You’re carrying this a bit too far, don’t you think?”
Yet though she heard her voice quite clearly—even the sarcasm and the disgust—she sensed that none of it reached his ears. It was as if she’d suddenly been struck mute.
And her panic began to climb.
Her breathing increased rapidly, shallowly, and her hands gripped the grooved armrests tightly.
Another shadow appeared over her—this one more distant. Was he tall? Could it be Flint? She couldn’t see him, nor could she guess his identity from his stride. And the idea that she had glimpsed a white patch over one eye was too absurd to consider. Something was afflicting and distorting her eyesight, so that solid objects twisted and swam, separated and joined before her. A faint throaty whimper broke the silence. She realized it had come from her own throat.
“Caitlin…” Oliver rose and backed off. “Bradford,” he said in his best command voice, “you will fetch Mrs. Courder at once. Then you will send a man to the village for that Broary woman. I understand she has some knowledge of medicines. Immediately afterward you will send the man on to Llewfanon at the valley’s southern end where there’s a physician. Bring him here instantly. And I mean instantly!”
Seacliff Page 16