“The wind is up,” Bradford said as he placed the tray on a low square table in front of the hearth. Then he clucked at Mary’s forgetfulness and busied himself with kindling and logs. The room was chilly. “The wind is up,” he said again, rising.
“It will not be a pleasant day,” she said, taking a chair and allowing him to push it forward.
“Shall I send Mary up to assist you in dressing?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I can manage by myself, thank you, Bradford.”
“As you wish, m’lady.” He bowed and moved toward the door.
“Bradford?”
He stopped.
“Last night, Bradford. Were you… that is, is there something you wish to tell me?”
“No, m’lady. Except that I trust you and Mr. Flint will be most happy this day.”
When he was gone she grabbed a piece of cold beef and chewed on it angrily. She shouldn’t have spoken to him that way, inviting confidences like that. He was a man’s man, and he had no part in her life except to drift through it as the head of the household staff. She was grasping at straws, hoping she might find an ally within the walls as well as outside them.
But, she reminded herself sternly, she was alone in this, and had been from the beginning. And not even a miraculous change in Bradford’s old heart was going to change that.
The lid of the chest was up, the once neatly folded clothes were now in a jumble.
Caitlin stood in front of the mirror and fussed with her gown, first frowning, then glaring, then stepping away from the glass to be sure nothing was out of place. She was wearing a shimmering pale blue gown laced with strands and tiny bows of black and gold. The neckline was fashionably low, but she had covered the exposed portion of her breasts with a veil of nearly transparent cotton and lace, which she hoped the guests and Flint would think a concession to the sobriety of the ceremony and the day. Without Gwen to help her, there was very little she could do with her hair, except painstakingly braid it—at the cost of aching shoulders and back—and then pin it snugly to the back of her head. The style accentuated her high forehead and the lean lines of her face, but the uncomeliness couldn’t be helped. There would be no time later to do anything with it.
Hands on hips, she turned slowly, watching herself, and finally deciding that unless she’d seriously miscalculated there was nothing more she could do. The gown was flowing and bulky, her figure full, and her hair…
“All right, all right,” she said, laughing at her own refusal to believe the evidence of her eyes. “It’s near time, Cat, and you’re not done yet.”
Bradford stood alone in the cavernous front hall. Twice in the last ten minutes he’d been summoned to the door to admit first the vicar, then Martin Randall and that hideous Broary woman. Despite the rising wind and the threat of heavy rain they were all coming, it appeared. There was nothing more he could do now to stop the wedding from taking place. The major’s memory had been short-lived by all except himself; he only hoped he would be forgiven for taking part in this sacrilegious affair.
The knocker sounded again.
He brushed at his spotless livery and touched the sides of his wig to be sure it was straight. A swift check down the hall, to the rooms on either side, and he stepped forward.
“Good afternoon, Mistress Shamac. We are pleased you could attend.”
Nate Birwyn stood outside the door to Flint’s room in the north tower and rocked impatiently on his heels. He was in livery despite his protests, and the bastard had even made him wash his patch and shave the stubble on his pointed chin. Now the only thing he had to do was wait, as he’d been doing since dawn. If the gold Flint paid him didn’t fill his purse so nicely, he’d have been over the hills and back to England in a trice. As it was, he’d had to post all the men around the house, station a few inside, make sure they were armed, with their weapons concealed, and send a half-dozen men back to the barracks for another wash because they smelled like a pig sty.
A nursemaid, that’s what he was. A bloody damned nursemaid. From somewhere in the house a clock chimed one.
He took a deep breath. One hour, and it would be done. They would drink a little wine, stand around chatting as if they hadn’t seen each other in years. The vicar would say his few words, and Nate would be on his way to the kitchen to coax Mary out of her stockings. He grinned to himself and licked his coarse lips. Ah, wouldn’t Flint be a hornet if he knew what Mary did after she left his rooms at night!
A muffled footstep sounded behind him. He came instantly to attention. A minute later the door swung open, and Flint stepped out.
Flint was unaccountably nervous, but was determined not to let a single one of them see through his facade. He squared his shoulders and looked at Birwyn.
“Well?” he demanded. “Well, do you think the woman will be pleased?”
“Should be hanged if she ain’t,” Birwyn replied.
Flint nodded his satisfaction and pulled the door shut.
He was wearing a deep velvet jacket cut away in back and falling to mid-thigh. Silver buttons marched in rows down his chest, and gold thread wove through his cuffs and hem. His shirt was blinding white, and the lace jabot cascaded from his throat in fluffed layers that added inches to his size. His breeches were of velvet and the same midnight hue; his boots, gold-buckled and gold-topped, reached to his knees and were polished to a mirror finish. Rather than wear his hair in a simple queue, he’d had Mary use the brush and iron to fashion it in gentle waves that covered his ears and fell to his shoulders. He was clean shaven, darkly tanned, and his appearance was marred only by the dead white scar that ran from the corner of his mouth to the side of his nose.
“Yes,” he agreed. “She will be very pleased indeed. If she knows what’s good for her.”
Birwyn chuckled and fell into step beside him as he marched along the corridor to the central hall, crossed it, then started down the opposite corridor to the staff quarters.
“It will be immensely warm in there,” he said, tugging fitfully at his blown lace cuffs. “Be a good man and see to it those two old cows haven’t mined the feast, will you?”
Birwyn saluted him. “Whatever you say, m’lord.”
Flint laughed and clapped his shoulder. “Not yet, Nate. Not quite yet. But you can be sure I’m working on it with all due haste.”
Birwyn vanished on his errand, and Flint turned, hearing voices in the front room. Already it starts, he thought, and looked up to the ceiling, as if he could see through the massive beams and stone to Caitlin’s rooms above. A momentary frown darkened his expression, then passed. And when it did, he broke into a great smile and flung open the corridor doors, his hand extended to greet the vicar while his tongue formed a compliment for the Mistresses Shamac and Broary.
Caitlin heard the clock chime and knew she could no longer remain safely in her room. She hurried to the desk, and from a pigeonhole pulled an emerald-colored sheath; within was a slim dagger she’d spent part of the morning sharpening on a whetstone she’d taken from the kitchen. She laid it on the chest, the scabbard beside it.
Then she walked over to the sculpture on the mantel and cupped her hands around her father’s face. A tear glistened in the comer of her eye, and she banished it with a brush of her finger.
“Good-bye, Father,” she whispered. “There won’t be time later, God willing. Please don’t worry. I’ll be back, one way or another.”
She emitted a deep, prolonged sigh for things past and gone, gathered her skirts in one hand, and strode through the apartment to the gallery in the blink of an eye. The last time she had dressed this way was on the day a candle tree had been lit in the hall below to celebrate her birthday. Now there was only Bradford, waiting patiently by the door. He saw her as she made her way regally down the staircase, and to her surprise, he rushed over to offer his hand as she reached the bottom step.
“Why… thank you, Bradford,” she said.
“You’re welcome, m’lady,” he said, and e
scorted her to the front room.
It took her less than a minute to realize that virtually everyone in the valley had come. It was difficult to maintain her composure in the face of the scene’s similarity to her last birthday. But she managed graciously, accepting murmured congratulations with a brief nod and stilted smile. Then Flint stepped into the middle of the room and reached for her hands.
“My dear,” he said quietly, before turning to the others. “I must say, friends, this is undoubtedly the most beautiful bride in the kingdom.”
A spattering of applause, then a general movement toward a long table set up before the hearth where Mary, ludicrously bedecked in a white and brown dress, flowers pinned in her hair, ladled out generous portions of a wine punch which, Caitlin was informed, had been mixed by Orin Daniels.
When all the glasses were filled, Reverend Lynne stepped over to Flint’s side and turned to face his congregation.
“My dear, dear friends,” he said in English, “I am moved to propose a toast to this couple.”
“Here, here,” said a voice Caitlin recognized as Davy’s.
The vicar beamed. “To the Widow Morgan, and to James Patrick Flint. May their sojourn on this earth, and at Seacliff, be strewn with life’s treasures and devoid of life’s dangers. May they, by God’s grace, fill this mansion and our lives with cheer, joy, and children. And may none of us ever forget whose children we really are. To the bride and groom!”
Everyone cried, “To the bride and groom,” and quaffed their cups.
The vicar drank quickly, and turned to offer his glass again to Mary. The others were not so quick to drink or to seek a second round, but Flint could not help draining his glass in a single gulp.
“Gads!” he said when he could catch his breath again. “My God, Master Daniels, you’ve outdone yourself.”
Orin, hovering just behind the first rank of guests, tugged at his forelock in embarrassment. Caitlin, however, set her own glass aside; she knew Orin had probably loaded the punch with every kind of liquor he could think of; and even if it was not as potent as Flint suggested, she probably would have lost it all in an explosion of laughter on spotting Orin’s face, and the comically sour look on it.
“It’s a shame we don’t have music,” she said to Flint when, his glass refilled, he took her elbow and led her to the windows.
“Not enough time,” he said. “But there will be music in your heart before this day is done.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek, and she was just barely able to conceal her distaste.
She was saved, too, from further conversation when the villagers began crowding around her, making small talk in Welsh and apologizing to Flint in English for using their language. Soon enough he scowled and headed back for another drink. And, while no one said anything directly to her, Caitlin was positive Randall had spread a few discreet words here and there, for her Welsh guests were polite, cheerful, and behaving as if they saw nothing untoward about her upcoming marriage.
And somewhere in the midst of it all, she heard the deep-throated clamor of thunder rolling down from the hills.
Flint laughed loudly.
A pattering at the panes behind her told Caitlin the rain had finally come.
Flint lifted his glass high overhead and tossed it into the fireplace. Within seconds most of the men did likewise, and the shattering crystal sounded like a volley of musket-fire.
Then, before she was ready, the vicar was standing before her. “M’lady,” he said unctuously, “I believe Mr. Flint is ready.”
A space had been cleared in front of the hearth, the table dragged away, and a white cloth placed over the floor. She allowed herself to be taken forward by the hand, her eyes partly closed and a scream locked behind her tightly clamped lips. The vicar instantly stepped onto a low platform, reached inside his black coat, and extracted a Bible.
He smiled, and with a nod to Caitlin and Flint, indicated they should move closer together. When they had, the vicar opened the holy book, leafed through it briefly, and placed a finger on a crisp page. Flint cleared his throat, while Caitlin struggled not to faint.
Lynne looked out over the assembly and swallowed. Then his smile broadened as he began, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered—”
“You sod!”
A gasp rose from the crowd, and an oath from Flint as he whirled around, glaring.
“You damned drunken sod, how dare you touch her in the face of God!”
It was Martin Randall, shoving Quinn Broary behind him, away from Orin Daniels.
“She’s mine, you damned ass!” Daniels bellowed. “Drunk,” Randall repeated. “Drunk, and a blasphemer!”
“Quiet!” Flint roared, but the command came too late. Orin had formed a fist at Randall’s insult, and had already slammed it into Randall’s chest. The goldsmith staggered back into Broary, knocking her to the floor. A woman screamed, followed by another, and another, and Reverend Lynne waved his arms wildly in a feeble effort to restore order, his face blanched from the effort.
Randall recovered quickly and flung himself at Daniels, his teeth snapping at the farrier’s ear as they toppled to the floor at the crowd’s feet. Flint, screaming imprecations, bullied his way through the crowd, but before he could reach the brawlers Davy had jumped on Randall’s back and was pummeling his head. A hand took his shoulder and dragged him off. He swung wildly, and was instantly caught in a wrestling match that forced the crowd back against the walls where they watched in horror.
“Damn you!” Flint was bellowing. He reached for Randall’s hair and was knocked off balance when Quinn Broary found herself in a tussle with Mistress Shamac.
“Madness,” he screamed. “Nate! Nate! Get in here and stop this at once!”
Someone lifted the punch bowl and flung it against the wall by the side door just as Birwyn plunged into the turmoil. He had to crouch to get through the mass of onlookers, his brace of pistols suddenly large in his hands. He had no chance to use them, however. From out of nowhere, Gwen tripped and fell on top of him, her skirts covering his head while she shrieked and flailed her arms.
“M’lady,” the vicar implored. “Please do something, m’lady.”
Caitlin turned around and glared at the trembling cleric. “Go to hell,” she said. She then reached out and shoved him off the platform and into the fireplace. Then she pushed her way through the milling, shouting, brawling crowd. She could not see Flint, but she knew there was little time left before his men would come to his aid and restore a semblance of order. She gasped when an elbow caught her in the ribs, gasped again in surprise when an unseen hand pressed into the small of her back and shoved her toward the hall.
Buffeted and propelled, then, she wove her way across the room, broke free like a cork from a bottle, and headed for the staircase. There was no one around, but she could hear footsteps in the corridor leading to the north tower. The soldiers were coming. She hesitated, then fled upward, her mouth gasping for air, her hands pulling her skirts high above her ankles— to expose a pair of boots she had washed with white paint so they would pass, at a glance, for slippers when her feet were exposed.
A shout, and Flint sprawled into the hall.
She took no time to do more than glance at him before redoubling her speed, only vaguely hearing more shouts from the front room, then the onrush of racing feet and breaking glass.
“Caitlin!”
Three-quarters of the way there she saw Bradford waiting at the head of the staircase. She did not stop to think. She moved on, hearing Flint taking the steps two at a time behind her, hearing his ragged breathing and the oaths he hurled along the way.
“Bradford, your life if you don’t stop her!” he commanded.
She reached the top only two steps ahead of Flint, almost falling when Bradford stepped nimbly aside, while making it appear as if she’d shoved him off-balance. She ran, heard an anguished shout, and turned just as Bradford toppled off the step and into Flint’s path. The sound of the two of them plummeting down
the stairs brought a cry to her lips and almost stopped her in her purpose. But deciding she must go on, she kicked open her door at a dead run, ran into the bedchamber, and snatched up the dagger she’d left on the chest. There was no time to fuss with laces and stays; she slashed at the front of her gown until it lay in tatters at her feet. Then she rolled down the sleeves and trouser legs of her father’s clothes, tucked the trousers into the boots, and grabbed a hooded cloak and floppy hat from the wardrobe. The hat fit perfectly over her trussed-up hair, and the cloak concealed her sex instantly.
There was no time to think.
Only a brief moment to pray that Orin had remembered. Then she threw back the balcony doors and stepped into the teeth of the storm.
Lightning flared blue-white over the bay, cracking in jagged lines over the trees in the grove that hid the barracks. She stumbled forward and saw with a shout of delight the four-pronged grappling hook clutching a gap in the wall. She looked out, looked down, wiped the lashing cold rain from her face and climbed through the gap. Grabbing the attached rope, she lowered herself from the balcony. The wind slammed her against the stone; the rope, slick with rain, burned her palms as she descended more rapidly than she wanted. Her elbows bled, her knees bled, and a gash opened on her cheek when the wind, spinning her like a top, smashed her against the tower.
It seemed like ages, eons, later that her hands gave way and she fell, landing in the muddy grass with such force that she knocked the wind from her lungs.
No, she thought as she struggled to her feet, gasping. No, my dear God, please no!
Hands grabbed her arms and she screamed, the scream instantly was lost in the fury of the storm. She lashed out, was held tighter and pulled to the tower’s base where a lantern was resting, protected from the wind by its storm panes. It was lifted, and she saw the roan saddled and ready in the circle of its light.
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