Lords of Ireland II

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Without a word, he stalked to where his stallion was tethered and unfastened the reins. He mounted the restive animal, then pulled Norah up in front of him, his arms surrounding her. Spurring the horse to a gallop, he raced down the dark road along which he had found such unexpected enchantment. But the night was shadowed now by dark happenings, secret dangers that reached out to clutch at him from the night.

  No, Aidan resolved, tamping down his panic with savage resolve. He would find the bastards who did this. And when he did…

  A feral snarl spread across his face. When he did, hell would not be a dark enough place for them to hide from his vengeance.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cassandra was sleeping at last. Aidan sat beside her bed, her fingers linked in his, clinging with quiet desperation, despite her closed eyes and even breathing. The candles beside the bed flickered, picking out the bruised circles of exhaustion beneath her eyes, the tiny scratch that had marred one soft cheek during the scuffle with whoever had attempted to carry her away.

  She had been so shaken, his brave little Cass, all but flinging herself at Aidan, and clutching Norah, murmuring again and again that she was sorry; sorry for being angry, sorry for her temper, sorry she hadn’t come to the wedding the day before.

  She had been so racked with guilt and fear that that Aidan had suffered his own grim self-recriminations.

  Cassandra had the face of an angel who had suddenly crashed to earth, experiencing the realities he had tried so hard to shield her from. She realized, perhaps for the first time, that chilling truth. Papa might slay imaginary dragons, or send her soaring on a stone-carved Pegasus. He could love her to desperation. But even though he would give the last drop of his heart’s blood to keep her safe and protected, it was possible that sacrifice would not be enough to shield her from pain, from danger, from men like those who had charged into Cassandra’s world tonight and left fear and uncertainty in their wake.

  Regret crushed his throat at his own helplessness in the face of the world’s wickedness. Aidan reached out to stroke his daughter’s hair. The candlelight glistened on the delicate necklace she had worn since that long-ago night when another mysterious man had attempted to steal her away from Aidan—that man aided by Cassandra’s own mother.

  The thought that someone would dare attempt such villainy again seethed inside Aidan, eating him alive with rage and fear, hate and the fierce resolve that they would never, ever, touch her.

  He started at the soft sound of footsteps entering the tower room, the scent of roses wafting over him, subtle, soothing. Norah. He didn’t turn, didn’t move. Just waited for her to touch him, secure in the certainty that she would.

  Her fingers curved tenderly against the tousled darkness of his hair, stroking his rigid shoulders. He wanted to turn in the chair, to bury his face against her body, to drive away the nightmare that had shattered this night.

  Instead, he stared at his daughter, reminding himself how close she had come to being hurt, reminding himself that once again he had been helpless to shield her.

  Norah said nothing, giving him the gift of her silence, her touch, until the fingers of emotion crushing his chest drove him to speak.

  His finger stole out to touch the heart-shaped locket that gleamed in the candlelight. “Do you know that this never leaves Cassandra’s throat?”

  “It’s beautiful,” Norah said softly. “Strange, I never really looked at it closely before. My mother had one like it a long, long time ago, with her miniature inside it, and my father’s.

  “It broke my heart when she hid it away after my father died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago. Cassandra’s locket is lovely. Was it a gift from you?”

  “No. It was Delia’s, doubtless a gift from one of her lovers,” he said, his finger running over the bent gold clasp. “They were always giving her trinkets—diamond bracelets, rings, and ropes of pearls for her hair. The night Delia died, she gave this to Cass to distract her, to keep her quiet as they made their escape. I hate this damn piece of gold. Every time I see it—every time—I remember what it was like to come so close to losing Cassandra forever. I imagine her little forehead cut and bleeding, the feel of her so limp in my arms, sobbing. I wonder if this locket was a present from the bastard who was driving the coach that night. It drove me crazy, the way Cass cherished the damned thing, so crazy I thought… I thought if I got rid of it, she’d find it easier to forget—Delia, the accident, everything. I’d find it easier to forget.”

  He ran a thumb over the lilies engraved on the gold, his chest tight. “Eight months after Delia died, I sneaked into Cass’s room and unfastened the necklace while she slept and took the damn thing away. I wanted to crush it with a blasted hammer, obliterate it from my sight. I still don’t know why I didn’t do so the instant I left her room. It was a symbol of my failure, Norah. My failure to protect Cassandra. My failure with Delia.”

  He paused to suck in a shuddering breath. “I hid the infernal trinket away. Hell, maybe I didn’t have the courage to destroy the thing after all. When Cass found the locket was missing, she was hysterical. I’d never seen her so—so… wild. So do you know what I did? Sir Aidan the Noble, bastard extraordinaire? I miraculously found the thing. Restored it to Cass as if I’d returned with the Holy Grail. She thought I was a hero.”

  “You are a hero to her. Everything good and strong and brave. Once I realized she had written the letters I received in England, it was so clear how much she adored you.”

  “Not me, Norah. Some fantasy figure. A father who rides into Rathcannon girded up with all the decency he possesses, then the instant he fears he’ll slip from his pedestal, he flees like the most reprehensible coward.”

  “You are a hero, Aidan. To her. And to me.”

  “Why? I’ve been a bastard to you from the beginning.”

  “You were honest with me, and fair, even if you were a trifle rough tempered. You adore your daughter, you show nothing but consideration for everyone here in Rathcannon. And even when you didn’t want anything to do with me, you didn’t pack me back to Dublin at once, you didn’t hurl me into the streets. You cared for me too, Aidan, though you didn’t want to.”

  “Damn it, Norah, you don’t understand what I am any more than Cass does. You’re just as blasted innocent, your eyes all full of fairy dust and magic.”

  “You were the one who drifted fairy dust into my eyes, Aidan Kane. First, when I was in England, just the idea of you made me want to believe. Tonight, at Caislean Alainn, you took the magic in your hands and poured it over me, like water from a mystic well.”

  Her hushed admission was heaven, hell. “And while I was doing that, my daughter was terrified, a pistol pointed at her, while those bastards tried to drag her away.”

  “Aidan, you cannot guard her every moment. This was not your fault.”

  He released Cassandra’s fingers and stood up, pacing to where the first rays of dawn were staining the horizon, the vast, green sweep of Irish coast that now hid his daughter’s attackers.

  “I’m her father, damn it,” he snarled. “I should have—”

  “Should have what? Guessed that masked strangers would attempt to kidnap her from the midst of a ball? It makes no sense. I still cannot fathom why anyone would attempt such a crazed scheme with so many witnesses about. The child runs wild over the hills unattended all the time.”

  The stark vulnerability of Cassandra during her rovings struck at Aidan like a dagger. “Until I find whoever was responsible for this, the girl won’t so much as fetch an apple from the kitchen without someone to guard her. And neither will you.”

  “I suppose it’s only wise to be cautious. But surely, after being thwarted tonight, whoever did this thing won’t dare try it again.”

  “I suppose that depends,” Aidan said grimly.

  “Depends?”

  “On how much they hate me. How hungry they are for revenge. It’s a poison that can rob one
of reason, until a man will take any risk to reach his goal.”

  “And you think that these people want to—to hurt you?” There was fear in her voice, but he knew instinctively it was not because of her own danger, it was for Cassandra, and for Aidan himself. “Aidan, promise me you won’t take any unnecessary risks. Report this to the authorities.”

  “And they’ll laugh in my face. They hate me as much as the crofters do, Norah.”

  “Surely that shouldn’t matter in a case like this. It’s their duty—”

  “They would gloss past the barest minimum possible, calling it duty, and they would laugh behind their hands as they let the bastards slip away. No. I’ll find whoever did this myself.” But how? The only clue he had to their identity was that they had spoken in Gaelic, and that they were bold enough to charge into a castle full of revelers in their determination to get to his daughter.

  The soft whisper of Norah’s skirts rustling drifted toward him, and she slipped her arms about his waist. “You will find them. I know you will. But now you need to rest. Surely there’s nothing more you can do until Calvy awakens from the sleeping draught the surgeon gave him. Rest, and then when he awakens…”

  “No. I’ll search the area where it happened, question anyone who might have seen—”

  “You look half dead with exhaustion, and it’s such a short time since you were sick abed yourself. Please, come with me.

  “I’m not some weakling child. Don’t interfere.”

  “All right. All right. I—I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I just—Oh, God, Norah, I can’t even describe what this is doing to me. It’s tearing me apart inside. I thought that she was safe. Believed nothing else could ever touch her, hurt her. And now…” His voice cracked, and he buried his face in one hand. “I have to find whoever this is. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” She kissed him gently on one rigid shoulder, then turned to leave the room. He heard her hesitate when she reached the door. “Aidan?” she said softly.

  “What is it?”

  “I love you.”

  Aidan’s throat constricted, his chest felt afire. He waited until her footsteps faded down the stairway and he had heard the quiet greeting of the armed footman standing guard upon the stairs. Then he turned and stalked from Cassandra’s room, with determination surging through his heart.

  He fought back panic and rage and focused on stark resolve. He would find whoever had attempted to do this terrible thing. He would find them before they could harm Cassandra, before they could endanger Norah.

  He would find them. And when he did, he’d make certain they could never stalk his daughter or his wife again.

  Norah entered her bedchamber and shivered. There was no fire burning in the grate, most certainly forgotten due to the commotion that had followed the attempt to abduct Cassandra. It made the room seem strange, somehow, more unwelcoming than ever before, as if ghostly fingers had brushed against the bed curtains and soundless footsteps padded across the carpets.

  But then, Norah thought, setting a lit taper on a candlestand, it was not surprising that she should feel so odd, considering what had almost happened tonight.

  Abduction. Kidnapping. Horrible images rose in her mind, her stomach churning as she wondered what kind of beast would attempt such a crime on an innocent girl. More frightening still, what had they planned to do with Cassandra once they had her at their mercy? Mercy… Norah was certain that was something those who had stalked the girl had not intended to offer.

  She paced to the dressing table, littered with the bottles and creams, scents and combs Cassandra and a pert little maid had used to transform Norah into a creature unrecognizable as herself, a creature of rose-kissed cheeks and velvety flowers, of shimmering green satin that flowed about her like mist over the Irish Sea.

  It seemed as if an eternity had passed in the hours since she had let Cassandra twine flowers in the dark masses of her hair.

  Norah winced, recalling how she’d been sick with nervousness, dropping her fan, fumbling with her gloves, catching her lower lip between her teeth so many times it felt raw. The thought of facing Aidan again after the intimacies they’d shared the night before had taken embarrassment to excruciating new heights. She’d been certain that whenever those intense green eyes skimmed over her body, he would be remembering every gasp, every kiss, every stroke he had made inside her. And he would let those memories show in his irreverent grin, taking pleasure in tormenting her, the way he had when he’d thrown out last night’s first wager.

  As she had stood before the looking glass, staring into her already flushed face, she had decided that allowing Aidan Kane to see how deeply he had moved her, to show him the tender feelings that had sprung up in her heart, would be the most dangerous mistake she could make. For he would look on her with pity or disgust, cynicism or mockery, never with love.

  Yet the night had been nothing like she had imagined it. Aidan had been surly and distant, only his eyes were hot as brands whenever he watched her. He had unnerved her, unsettled her, that discomfort mingling with her own dread of crowds, the inquisitive stares, the whispered speculations. She had all but fled into Philip’s arms, seeking security, friendship, help for Cassandra. But she had never expected passionate protestations, insistent kisses that had bruised more than seduced, repulsed her instead of filled her with the heady wonder she had often imagined would follow such a miraculous happening as the kiss of Lord Philip Montgomery upon her lips.

  And then Aidan had stormed into the garden, looking like a pagan warlord whose bride had been stolen by some rival warrior. The civilized veneer of immaculate evening clothes had done nothing to disguise the raw power and potent masculinity that seared through his rage.

  He had hurt her. Badly. With his words, with his accusations. But then he had knelt to her in a mist-washed castle of dreams, a knight weary from questing alone too long, battered, so exquisitely human in all his flaws and fears. And she spilled her love into his hands, to heal the wounds inside him if she could.

  It had been magic, as if those who had lived and loved in Caislean Alainn had drifted down their own blessings on their union, as if the skies and the sea and the wind had smiled.

  But there were no more whisperings of enchantment in Aidan’s eyes now, only a reflection of terror eight years old, a desperation and rage that his daughter had almost been stolen from him again. And guilt. Guilt Norah sensed the source of. If he’d not been distracted by her, if he’d not followed her to Caislean Alainn, if he’d not taken the time to make love to her there, then somehow he could have protected Cassandra, kept her from being afraid.

  He was blaming himself for what had happened when it was no fault of his own. He was expecting the impossible—no, demanding it of himself. Had he been doing so all his life?

  Norah reached out her fingers to touch the silver box that had belonged to Delia Kane, hating the woman for what she had done to him. She’d left a legacy that still twisted and scarred and maimed.

  One Aidan would never escape.

  Almost by instinct, she righted a scent bottle overturned in her haste and swept up the few fragrant gardenia buds Cassandra had not managed to twine in her curls. The creamy petals were wilting, a few falling free, as she lifted them to throw them away.

  She had barely moved them when she suddenly stilled, her gaze captured by what had lain unnoticed beneath Cassandra’s mound of flowers.

  A folded bit of paper, scribed in a handwriting chillingly familiar. The same writing that had been contained in the note she’d discovered her first night at Rathcannon, the missive that had filled her head with suspicions, lies, that Aidan Kane had murdered his wife.

  The nape of Norah’s neck prickled, gooseflesh crawling down her arms as the flowers fell from her hand. She glanced over her shoulder to where the draperies rippled in shadow, the quiet of the room suddenly ominous. Gibbon Cadagon had said the villains had wanted not only Cassandra but herself as well. Calvy had he
ard them say her name.

  Was it possible in all the confusion that… that what? Someone was lurking here? Waiting for her? That was madness. Who would be crazed enough to do such a thing in a house already in an uproar?

  Swallowing hard, she picked up the note and opened it with fingers that trembled.

  Three dangers has Rathcannon—A girl child, straying toward traps she cannot see, A lady whose heart a blackguard now possesses, Three wagers that shall draw them both into a long-past hell.

  You failed to heed my warning last time. Do not be so foolhardy again. Do not let the girl out of your sight this night.

  Norah stared at the warning, feeling as if the floor were shifting beneath her feet. Was it possible that this missive had been on the dressing table before the ball? That when Cassandra and her maid had bustled in to help Norah prepare, they had tossed the accoutrements they had brought on the table, burying the message beneath them?

  If that were so, it meant that someone had crept into Norah’s room and attempted to warn her that some plot was afoot before the ball. Someone had known… had known the danger….

  Perhaps if Aidan could find this person, he could discover who was responsible for what had happened in the garden.

  Quickly, she slipped the lid off the silver box, retrieving the missive she had hidden there the first night she’d arrived at Aidan’s home. Then she hurried from the room, winding through the corridors, searching for Aidan.

  She heard him first, his rough, impatient voice emanating from the study, in counterpoint to Gibbon Cadagon’s. Norah paused at the door and knocked.

  “Who the devil is it?” Aidan bellowed.

  Norah opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Norah.” He attempted to gentle his voice, but nothing could soften the torment carved in every line of his face. He was bending over a desktop littered with scrawled papers and notes. She glanced down, seeing that they were accounts of what different servants had seen throughout the night. It was a search for some tiny clue in a labyrinth of information.