“That infernal hound of yours again, Carlisle,” Daniel Ashmore chuckled. “Does he never leave your side?”
“Mathias will have to reconcile himself to Mason’s heel now that Cassidy has arrived at last,” Devonna offered teasingly. Cassidy stumbled slightly as she reached the table. Mason withdrew a chair for her, and she allowed him to seat her.
“Whatever is the matter with you?” he whispered quietly in her ear as he slid in her chair. The sudden warmth of his breath on her neck gave rise to hundreds of goose pimples over her neck, shoulders, and arms. Thankfully they vanquished quickly without notice from anyone else.
Cassidy heard nothing of the dinner conversation. Rather, she registered nothing, although her ears certainly must have heard it. The only thing occupying her mind was Gabrielle’s apparent effort to dominate Mason’s attention. She laughed beautifully, throwing back her head now and again, sending her lovely flaxen ringlets dancing at her shoulders and flaunting her slender neck and satiny shoulders. And after dinner, as they all sat in the drawing room talking of this and that, Gabrielle’s hands often found reason to rest on Mason’s shoulder or brush a breath of lint from his cheek.
To credit his character, Mason did not give Gabrielle any more encouragement than he did her younger sister, or her mother for that matter. For all outward appearances, he seemed indifferently friendly to them all.
Then the horrifying situation grew worse when Devonna commented, “I hear that you’ve quite the voice of a lark, Cassidy, darling. Would you bless us with the melody of it?”
“Oh, yes, darling!” Cylia exclaimed. Cassidy knew she was anxious that her daughter display her talent, but Cassidy herself was sickened at the thought. Not once in her entire life had she felt less like singing before people. How could she possibly sing in listening distance of Mason? In listening distance of his lover, who sat not two feet from her?
“Oh, coax her, Mason! Please do,” Devonna begged of her son, putting an anxious hand on his knee as he sat in a large chair to Cassidy’s left.
“Mother, if she doesn’t wish to sing…I see no reason to force her to do so,” Mason mumbled.
“You’ll do it for me, won’t you, my dove?”
“LaMont!” Devonna exclaimed as all in the room turned to see Lord Carlisle, though underdressed for the occasion in a heavy robe and slippers, standing, apparently strong, in the doorway.
“Father!” Mason too exclaimed, fairly leaping to his feet and going to assist his father to a chair. “You shouldn’t be about this late.”
“Nonsense. I cannot be without these loveliest of ladies for long periods of dreary, dreary time. Come now, dove,” Mason’s father spoke to Cassidy as he seated himself with difficulty near her. “A song for me. Your newest friend, eh?”
How could she refuse him? How could she refuse this handsome older version of Mason, ailing and capturing her heart, his request? It was obvious that Mason held no interest in hearing her sing for them, but she was assured within her bosom that his father did.
“Of course, for you, sir,” she relented. “Mother, will you play?” she inquired of her mother, knowing full well that she herself had not the emotional strength to carry both playing and singing.
“Instantly!” her mother chirped, nearly dashing to the piano in one corner. As if walking through the most terrible of nightmares, Cassidy followed her, though more slowly, finally standing near to the piano as her mother played several scales in limbering her fingers, and all others in the room gathered nearer to her.
“But, no, Mother!” Cassidy then begged as she recognized the tune that her mother had begun to play.
“Please, darling! It is your best,” Cylia prodded, beginning again as Cassidy’s mind whirled. Closing her eyes for a moment and praying inwardly for strength to endure this nightmare that was upon her, Cassidy began her song.
As the wind is thy breath, so live I by thee.
As the sun, thy embrace, gives sight and doth warm me,
As the waters refresh, quench my thirst, and revive me,
As the meadow with color and fragrance delight me,
So live I…by thee.
For without thee is breathing and warmth thus denied me.
Without thee is beauty, refreshment refused me.
Without thee my heart may beat not within me.
So live I…by thee.
Touch not my heart falsely, for live I for thee.
Give not careless your kiss, taste not mine own simply.
Embrace me with purpose, hold me not vaguely.
Gift me love of your spirit that I may love safely.
For live I for thee.
For without thee is tasting of rapture denied me.
Without thee is feeling of strength thus refused me.
Without thee my heart may beat not within me.
So live I…for thee.
Live thou as such…for me?
As her mother finished the final measures of the aria, Cassidy’s gaze met for a moment those disturbing eyes that were Mason’s. She detected something in his countenance that she had thus far never seen. Was it admiration? Approval? Surprise?
“Bravo!” Daniel Ashmore exclaimed, leaping to his feet and applauding wildly with admiration of his own.
Devonna squealed and dabbed at tears on her cheeks. Even the rest of the Ashmores who sat so gloomily could not deny her praise.
“An angel, she is!” Lord Carlisle exclaimed. “Here I’ve been seeing her my dove…and all along, she is an angel!” He struggled to his feet and walked slowly to Cassidy, taking her hands in his own and smiling lovingly down at her. “Thank you, my dove. Thank you.”
“But the tune is as yet unfamiliar to my well-traveled ear,” Vesta commented.
“That is because its composer and lyricist is also your songster,” Cylia proudly explained.
Cassidy wished only to melt away into oblivion! She knew her mother meant well—meant only to give her glory in the eyes of all those who attended her. Yet the song was of great personal value to Cassidy. She had written it some years before upon waking from the most disturbing of dreams—dreams of a man of profound character and carriage, a man that awakened in her all ability to live and to love, a man unknown to her, for she could not discern his face. And yet she had awakened with feelings in her heart that demanded to be expressed and had risen from her bed in the dark of night to write the song she treasured so personally.
“You don’t mean to tell us that you yourself composed this tune and verse?” Gabrielle asked, unconvinced.
“I did. And for personal reasons…I deem it acceptable,” Cassidy fired back in defense of her beloved melody.
“It was meaningful and moving in its message,” Lord Carlisle said to all others in the room, though still looking at Cassidy, “woven of the sounds of heaven in its melody. Mason,” he continued, turning to his son, “what think you of Cassidy’s performance?”
Again Cassidy wished to simply flee from the room. “Yes. What think you, Mason?” Gabrielle repeated. “We all know how selective Mason is in the poetry he admires. And music. What say you to this…this little tune and lyric, Mason?”
Mason had, until this time, been leaning against the wall near his father’s chair, arms folded impassively before him. Now he strode determinedly toward Cassidy, his arms still folded across the broad expanse of his chest.
“‘Give not careless your kiss, taste not mine own simply,’” he quoted, and Cassidy was astonished that he should so well remember the lyric from her song. He continued moving to stand next to his father and took from his father one of Cassidy’s small hands. How she wished she had not neglected to replace her gloves after dinner, for his touch was indeed flustering. “‘Embrace me with purpose, hold me not vaguely,’” he continued. His eyes were warmer somehow as he looked on Cassidy. His touch still sent waves of thrill throughout her being. “‘Gift me love of your spirit that I may love safely.’”
“My, my, Mason. What a quick s
tudy you are,” Vesta commented with sarcasm.
“I find your song and your rendering of it an indescribably superior talent gifted you, Miss Shea,” he said plainly.
Cassidy was at first uncertain that she had heard him correctly until Corbel affirmed exuberantly, “Hear, hear!”
Still, she was doubtful as to Mason’s honesty. Then, he and his father, without any hint of conspiring to do so, simultaneously each took the respective hand of Cassidy’s that he held and raised it to his lips, placing a light yet lingering kiss in its palm. Beginning in the tips of her fingers of the hand Mason held, a hot, trembling, thrilling sensation traveled the length of Cassidy’s arm, enkindling the rest of her body with an excitement that she had never before imagined. It gave her cause to wonder what effect a more intimate exchange with him would have on her senses.
Again, all in attendance applauded and called out encouragement. But Cassidy barely heard their words of praise, was hardly aware of their existence, as the palm of her hand, having just been released by Mason, still burned with the lingering, delightful sensation of his kiss. It was not so with her other hand in which Lord Carlisle had placed his paternal kiss, but in the hand Mason touched still burned thrilling discomfort.
“Praise indeed!” Devonna exclaimed, coming to put her arm protectively about Cassidy’s shoulders as Mason released her hand and turned from her, retiring to a nearby chair. “And,” Devonna continued, lowering her voice, “Mason is one who gives only sincere praise.”
“And sparingly,” Lord Carlisle added. Then, kissing Cassidy’s hand once more, he released it. Turning to the others, he said, “Forgive me, my good friends, but my endurance leaves me quickly these days. I must leave you now and retire for the night.”
“Oh, surely not, LaMont!” Vesta exclaimed, going to take his arm. Cassidy noted the quick glance that traveled between her own mother and Mason’s at the woman’s gesture.
“Surely yes, Vesta,” Devonna countered, taking her husband’s arm almost possessively. “When my LaMont admits his need for rest, then he is most certainly in need of it.”
“It’s well you know me, my dove,” Lord Carlisle said, kissing his wife directly on the mouth. Cassidy’s eyebrows raised at such a public display.
Mason stood respectfully and said, “Good night, Father.”
“Good night, my son. Until we meet once more,” the great man called as he exited the room on his wife’s arm.
“I adore that man,” Vesta said out loud to herself.
“We all know that, dear,” her husband said, though not angrily but chuckling.
“Come, Mason,” Gabrielle chimed, settling herself elegantly at his feet. “Tell us of your adventure in bringing home Miss Shea.”
“Arduous journey it was. The weather was none but the least cooperative that it could be,” he grumbled. “The entire trip was something of a…of a…” Cassidy looked quickly to her mother, who stood calmly listening to Mason’s words. Would he tell them? she wondered. Would he tell them how horrid it had all been? How thoroughly he despised her? “Something of a rush,” he finished finally.
Cassidy found herself breathing relievedly for some reason. Somehow she did not want the entire Ashmore family to know how miserable Mason was with his situation. It made only good common sense to assume that Gabrielle, being who and what she was to Mason, knew already.
However, his next words gave her cause to hold her breath yet again. “Though,” he began, “there was the incident in the inn that added a little adventure to the ordeal, I suppose.”
“What inn?” Corbel asked.
“You know it, I believe. The inn there in Tatiana’s Way,” Mason answered.
“Ah, yes.”
“What incident, Mason?” Cassidy’s mother inquired.
“What?” he asked, feigning ignorance. “Do you mean to say that your daughter has not told you of her peril in the halls in the blackest hours of the night?”
“No! What?” Cylia exclaimed, looking to Cassidy quickly.
“She said nothing of her precarious predicament and my coming to her aid?” Mason glanced at Cassidy, and she knew that he was fully aware of her silence to her mother. Why must he torture and humiliate her so?
“Not a single word,” Cylia confirmed, scolding Cassidy with her expression.
“My,” Mason muttered meaningfully, “how your family does secret things away to avoid worrying each other.”
“Do tell us of it, Mason!” Denay begged, seating herself at Mason’s feet as her sister had previously.
“Well,” he began, much to Cassidy’s mortification, “it was all quite dramatic if I remember it correctly. Was it not, Miss Shea?” His eyes were filled with amusement, and she knew he mocked her inwardly as well as outwardly.
“I am certain it was. Depending on how your memory serves in comparison with mine,” Cassidy challenged.
“There I was,” Mason commenced, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret, “in the corridor, simply out for a breath of air. After all, you know how stuffy that old inn is, do you not, Corbel?”
“Well I do,” Corbel agreed.
“Simply stretching my legs and refreshing my lungs. And what should I happen upon?”
“What, Mason? Tell us! Do!” Denay prodded.
“I will tell you what. There in the corridor, beneath one of the sconces in which burned lowly a flickering candle…there stood Miss Shea herself—her back held firmly against the wall and at her throat the hands of a devilish-looking man!”
The women all gasped, and Cylia again looked scoldingly at Cassidy.
“Go on, sir! What did you then?” Martin inquired with great interest.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Mason continued, glancing up at Cassidy, the mischief in his eyes all too apparent. “I strode up to him and, pulling my knife from my belt and drawing it across his throat, said, ‘Unhand her, you blackguard!’”
“Did you?” Martin asked, mesmerized by the story.
“I did,” he answered. “And that’s when I saw the mark.” Cassidy’s mind whirled. To what did he refer? She had no recollection of the man having any sort of mark about him.
“What mark?” someone asked. Cassidy could not discern whom, for her attention was on Mason completely as well now.
“The mark he owned just here,” Mason said, raising his arm for all to see. Dramatically he pushed up the sleeve of his shirt and pointed to the underside of his own forearm. “The mark of the serpent. The very same that is tattooed on the arms of all those who sailed on the Ninety of the Blue!”
“Oh, please, Mason!” Gabrielle exclaimed, obviously exasperated. Cassidy could only stand in ignorance. Whatever did he go on about? She did not remember the man in the corridor brandishing a serpent tattoo.
“What?” Mason asked innocently. “You don’t believe my story then, Gabrielle?”
“Not when you speak of pirates and the like, Mason. It’s weary we are of being taken in by your tall tales,” the beauty whined.
“Not me. I love them!” Denay sighed.
“What are you about, Mason darling?” Devonna asked, reentering the room.
“A tall tale, as usual, Devonna,” Vesta informed her irritatedly. “Something about Miss Shea being assaulted in a corridor and the fiend being, of course, a—”
“A pirate,” Devonna finished for her. Devonna smiled and shook her head at Mason. “Truly, son. Such nonsense.”
“It’s not all of it nonsense,” he assured her, chuckling.
“Well? Did you save her then?” Denay asked.
“Of course he saved her, you twit!” Martin grumbled. “She stands there before you this minute!”
“How did you save her, Mason?” the girl asked, undaunted.
“I told him simply to choose life or death. To drop his hands from her or I would slit his throat,” Mason answered calmly.
“From golden earring to golden earring, no doubt,” Gabrielle giggled. Then, turning to Cassidy, she said, “You
will get used to Mason’s goings-on, Miss Shea.” She placed her hand affectionately on Mason’s knee. “He’s forever having adventures in his own mind.”
“Based on truth, Gabrielle. Always based on truth,” he defended himself.
“Loosely,” Gabrielle added.
Cassidy could watch them together no more. “I beg forgiveness from you all,” she said suddenly. “It has been such a long day, and I find that I too am…utterly exhausted. Forgive me. It was wonderful to meet you all. I thank you for your kindness.”
With that, she fairly fled from the room and up the long staircase that led to her chambers. When she reached the crest of the stairs and turned the first corner, she collapsed into a heap of copper satin and sobbing. Quietly she sobbed into the folds of her gown as she sat on the cold floor. It was all too unendurable! Too many emotions battled within her. One moment her body thrilled at Mason’s touch; the next her soul cried at his taunting. One moment he seemed to accept her and in the next reject. One moment he was flattering, the next mocking. It was all too much. Then she felt hot breath on her neck.
“Mathias,” she sobbed as the dog put his front paws solidly in her lap and laid his head on them. “At least you like me, don’t you?” she sniffled, petting him adoringly. Slowly her tears diminished, and she sighed heavily.
“What goes on here?” Mason’s voice bellowed from behind her suddenly. Mathias instantly jumped to his feet, tail wagging, tongue hanging joyously from his mouth as his master approached. “Have you fallen?” Mason asked, taking hold of Cassidy’s arm and fairly yanking her to her feet. “Has he tripped you up then?” he asked, motioning to the dog.
“No, no,” she assured him. “I’m only more tired than I thought.” She felt she had countered well.
“Here then,” he said, “I’ll see you to your chamber.” Linking her arm with his own, he began escorting her toward her rooms. “My mother feared that my tale and teasing had upset you. I, of course, told her that she was mistaken.”
Shackles of Honor Page 10