“He crept out earlier and caught butterflies in a crystal box, then he hid them, and…” Cassandra gave a soft laugh. “The next morning I went to find the boys who had been teasing me, told them they were wrong. That I’d held a fairy in my hand. They said I couldn’t prove it.”
She stopped, the wonder of it all still evident in her eyes. “Papa was coming in from the stables and heard them. He said they were right, he supposed. The only way to prove you’d touched a fairy was if you could see fairy dust on your skin. He held up my hand to the sunshine, and there were flecks of gold, sparkling, glittering on my skin.”
“How? How did he do it?”
“He’d scraped some gilding off the leg of a chair and sprinkled it on my hand while I was sleeping. It wasn’t until Mrs. Brindle told me what he’d done years later that I knew.”
The girl gave Norah a smile that trembled just a little. “Papa still insists they were fairies.”
Fairies and unicorns, Pegasus wings and cascades of shimmering stars. Dreams Aidan never dared for himself but lavished on his daughter. Love welled up in Norah. She closed her eyes, imagining other children, with dark hair and mischievous green eyes, fairies cupped in their hands.
She imagined placing that kind of wonder in Aidan’s grasp. Somehow making him see what Cassandra saw when she looked into his eyes, the wonder Norah felt when she touched him.
Please, Aidan. She whispered into the night. Please come home safe, so we can make you believe….
In happily ever afters and fairy-tale princes saved by a maiden’s kiss. In quests that ended not in glory but in forever joy.
Where was he now? Her husband, her love?
She peered into the wild Irish night, and imagined the fairies Aidan Kane made his daughter believe in. Prayed that the magic might shield him from the evil he’d ridden out to confront.
Silence fell in the ring of stone, echoing back Aidan’s agonized words.
Kill me… just swear you’ll leave my daughter and wife alone.
Nothing could be worse than dying, knowing that Cassandra and Norah were still in danger.
Aidan focused on Gilpatrick’s face, on the knotted scar that had haunted his nightmares for so many years. He willed the rebel leader to speak.
“I don’t make war on children, Kane,” Gilpatrick rasped, his lungs straining for air every bit as badly as were Aidan’s. “And I’m not going to kill you. Not this time.”
A roar of protest welled up from his men, but Gilpatrick silenced them, flinging his weapon to the turf. “A life for a life,” he bellowed, his gaze lashing the ranks of his followers with the force of a cat-o’-nine-tails.
“But what life has a Kane ever spared?” a banty rooster of a man demanded.
“My son’s.”
Aidan could picture all too clearly the Irishman’s desperate face the night he’d stumbled across them on his wild night ride, the lad cradled against Gilpatrick’s chest as English wolves in red coats hunted them.
“Yer son is dead!”
“Because of Kane, he died in his mother’s arms, with his sisters all around, instead of in an English gaol. He died in peace, instead of suffering the hell of those Sassenach bastards trying to beat your names out of him before he slipped beyond their grasp.”
Aidan winced at the strange, twisted patterns that had always interwoven his life with that of Gilpatrick. While Aidan had been warring for England in the Peninsular War, Gilpatrick had been fighting for Irish freedom. While Gilpatrick had been a fugitive rebel, Aidan had been a fugitive as well, running from himself. And in this very cycle of the moon, both their children had been in danger. Gilpatrick’s was dead, Aidan’s own saved only by the courage of a footman. Aidan shuddered, imagining all too clearly the pistol ball that had pierced Calvy’s leg finding another target, blood blossoming on Cassandra’s breast, Aidan cradling her, knowing he was helpless….
Gilpatrick had tried to prevent such a horror from overtaking a man he hated.
Aidan levered himself upright, his head still spinning, sick with confusion and regret.
“I’m sorry,” Aidan grated. “About the boy.”
Gilpatrick reached out, his callused, hoary hand closing on Aidan’s and pulling him to his feet. Aidan could feel the grief in the rebel leader, one Aidan understood far too well.
“The blood of kings did flow through his veins,” Gilpatrick said softly. “And he died like a king—brave beyond his years, fighting for a patch of ground that was the life blood of his heart. Ever since he was a wee babe in my arms, I dreamed of giving it back to him. Scooping up a handful of Rathcannon turf, closing his fingers about it, and…”
Gilpatrick turned away, as if suddenly aware of how much he’d revealed to Aidan. Aidan knew how painful vulnerability could be. He spared Gilpatrick the only way he knew how, by shifting the subject to one that would cause the rebel no pain.
“Then you didn’t hurt my daughter,” Aidan said. “I’m sure of that now. Tell me who did.”
Aidan could see gratitude fill the rebel’s eyes as he once again donned the mantle of leader. “I don’t know who was responsible. It was pure chance that I got wind of a plot while buying powder from an English bastard who knew we’d hated each other from birth.”
“A plot?”
“The Sassenach thought I would rejoice in your downfall,” Gilpatrick said. “I thought I would too. Until I saw what lengths this animal would go to to see you destroyed. You have a powerful enemy, Kane. That is all I know.”
An enemy who would stalk Cassandra. Of all the darkest fears that had preyed on Aidan, this was the most chilling. That his child should pay for his sins.
“Tell me everything you know.”
“The attempt to abduct the girl is part of three wagers struck in some devil’s bargain to destroy you.”
“Three wagers?”
“You blue-blooded devils are always striking the blasted things. It’s a game, Kane, and somebody is delighting in the sport of running you to ground.”
“What are they, these wagers? And who the hell made them?”
“I don’t know. One had to do with your daughter being taken. Another… there was something about your wife.”
“Norah?” Aidan said. “Think, man. You must have heard something, anything… some clue to help me unravel this.”
“Not so much as a whisper.”
“If it’s an official wager, it would be recorded somewhere,” Aidan said. “Damn, it must be—”
“What, Kane? You think this villain strolled into your high-brow White’s and scribbled it in the betting book?” Gilpatrick shook his head. “Only a madman would write such a thing down, leave evidence that could fall into careless hands.”
“A madman,” Aidan said between gritted teeth, “or someone so certain of victory, they delighted in their own boldness.”
An arrogant madman who would joyfully hurt Cassandra to cause Aidan pain. And Norah… Now she was in danger as well.
Aidan swore.
“As if that twisted pleasure were not enough, there is also gold to consider,” Kilpatrick said.
“Gold?”
“The payment for your destruction is enough to ransom a king.”
“But who?” Aidan demanded, as much of himself as of Gilpatrick. “It could be any one of a dozen men in England. And in Ireland.” Aidan gave a bitter laugh.
“For your daughter’s sake, I wish I could tell you who is responsible. But I don’t know. All I am certain of is that there are two types of men when it comes to a mission of vengeance. Those who fling themselves openly and honestly at their nemesis.” Gilpatrick’s smile was twisted by his scar. “You and I are men of that kind, Kane. And then there are those who plan every moment, savoring it, and drawing it out like a torture-master. That is the kind of opponent you face now, Kane.”
Sickened, Aidan tried to picture faces across gaming tables, over dueling fields, men from battles on blood-soaked Spanish soil.
No. He woul
dn’t let someone’s malevolent hatred drown the only two decent things in his life. His daughter. And his wife.
“They’ll try it again. Your only hope is to keep your wife and daughter well guarded until you uncover whatever wickedness is afoot.”
“No. My chance is in finding the bastard who told you about this plot in the first place. Where can I find him?”
“In the graveyard of St. Colmcille’s. When I arrived for our last meeting, I found him rottin’ in his own blood, his throat slit.” Gilpatrick’s features went grim. “The powder and lead he was to sell was still layin’ there. One of the crate boards loosened, bloody fingerprints on the wood. Somehow he’d managed to slip a letter he’d been carryin’ into the crate before he died. A letter intended for you, demanding payment for warning you there was a plot against your daughter.”
Aidan’s blood ran cold. Was it possible this man had died because he’d known of the scheme against Aidan? What kind of ruthless beast was stalking those Aidan loved? And what could he do to protect them?
“So you took the note?” Aidan asked numbly.
“I merely passed on the information it held, without the demand for Kane gold.”
Aidan looked with glazed eyes into Gilpatrick’s face. The Irishman had discovered the truth and put aside generations of hatred in an attempt to warn him. Gilpatrick had known what was to befall Aidan’s daughter and had chosen honor instead of vengeance.
But how had he known other things? That Norah was coming to Rathcannon? “You knew Cassandra was in danger because you stumbled on the note. But the first message was to Norah, warning her not to wed me—it was delivered before I even knew a bride was to arrive.”
Gilpatrick shrugged. “There has been a Gilpatrick spy at Rathcannon since before your great-grandfather was born, Kane. When your daughter wrote letters huntin’ you a bride, they were intercepted, read, then passed on their way. I figured that if this Norah Linton were my daughter, my sister, I’d want her to be aware what she was stumbling into.”
“The arms of a man who murdered his wife?”
Gilpatrick’s mouth hardened. “If ever a woman needed killin’, it was that one. Even so, lookin’ at you here, now, I doubt you could’ve stomached snuffing out her life.”
Wary respect, exchanged despite years of hate, despite the hideous scar, the stolen lands. Despite everything.
“What the devil am I supposed to do to find the bastard who made the accursed wager? Where am I to start?”
“By hiding the girl,” Gilpatrick said. “If she were my daughter, I’d keep her locked up tighter than the Regent’s crown. The slightest signal to these men would see you dead. And there are more around every corner, choked up with hate and poverty, needin’ someone to blame for their children’s empty bellies. Your enemy wouldn’t have to flip them more than tuppence for them to bloody a dirk in your chest.”
“Calvy said Cass’s attacker spoke Gaelic.”
“That narrows the field to half the crofter folk in the west country, trying to keep the words alive. None of my men came after your daughter, Kane. But someone did. And if I were a wagering man, I’d guess they were hoping to tell a tale about how they’d breached the walls of Rathcannon and stolen away your princess. Not to mention wanting the gold offered by whoever is thirsting for your pain.” Gilpatrick’s jaw hardened. “Be certain of this, Kane: If I do learn any more about who stalks you, I’ll get word to you as fast as I can.”
“I don’t understand—why… why you are doing this.”
“Because even when your da would’a shot your pony, you wouldn’t fight me, Kane. Not ’til I struck the first blow.”
With that Gilpatrick signaled, and a raw-boned man with a pronounced limp came forward, leading a skittish Hazard by his reins.
Aidan mounted, bewildered as if the cudgel end of the scythe slammed into his skull again.
“If I catch wind of anything more, I’ll send word to you,” Gilpatrick said, turning to stride away.
“Donal?”
It was almost thirty years since Aidan had used that name. An eternity. Yet only yesterday. Gilpatrick turned, meeting Aidan’s gaze with a quiet intensity, a certainty that he was remembering too.
“Give your son a piece of Rathcannon he can keep for all eternity,” Aidan said, his throat tight.
“What?”
“The Gilpatrick crypt is untouched. I’ll leave orders that you are to be allowed on Rathcannon land whenever you wish to visit him.”
The rebel’s eyes widened. “You would… offer that? Why?”
“Because he belongs there,” Aidan said softly. “Bring the boy home, so he can sleep with kings.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The Thorned Paw Inn reeked of neglect, stale liquor, and intrigue. A haven for the dregs of humanity, it was a place most sane men would shun—especially a man like the one who occupied the cramped room. His immaculate breeches and exquisitely tailored coat were as out of place as a handful of sapphires tossed on the splintered oak table. But momentary discomfort was a small price to pay when vengeance was was nearly in a man’s grasp.
Richard Farnsworth paced the room. But despite his agitation, he could wait however long was necessary. Patience was the one virtue he had attained the hard way. His waiting would soon be over.
The men he’d hired to abduct the prize he had plotted so long to make his own should return any moment now.
Cassandra Kane, Aidan Kane’s cherished daughter, an heiress in her own right, would be the perfect weapon with which to exact revenge.
She would be frightened, no doubt—the proud little beauty stolen away from her papa’s castle. But she could hardly expect pity from him. It was ironic justice that she be as terrified as he had been when he first clashed with Aidan Kane.
Richard downed another mug of wine. Vengeance was the only thing left to him. The goal he would go to any lengths to achieve—even if it meant taking a young girl into his bed. Distaste drew a shudder from him at the prospect. But there was no escaping the necessity.
A drunken vicar lolled in the inn’s chimney corner, his slack flesh so permeated with gin that a pinprick might burst him like a rotted wineskin. Gin and a heavy purse would assure his cooperation in performing the wedding rites, the license in Richard’s coat pocket would see that it was legally binding. And the consummation would torment Kane forever. But the purest pleasure of all would be the instant Kane realized that he’d been betrayed by yet another wife—that his mousy little bride was the one who had flung wide the gate to his castle, allowing his enemy in.
Richard rubbed his fingers together, greedy for the moment he saw destruction in Kane’s eyes. The same humiliation and desolation the Irish knight had left in Richard’s own.
The sound of horsemen riding up made Farnsworth straighten, and he all but bolted down the stairs to greet his reluctant bride.
But when the door opened, no terrified beauty spilled in, only the curs he had hired to abduct her, the three looking bewildered, shaken, and chagrined.
“Where is the girl?” Richard snapped.
“She was too close guarded! A bleedin’ army couldn’t a taken her!” a bald man whined.
“We had ’er in hand, and some damned fool servant dodged betwixt us. We shot him, certain sure, but it gave the girl time to get away.”
“Aye, an’ the shot brought a score of people runnin’ from the ball. We were lucky to get away with our very skins.”
Frustration and rage raced through Richard, the knowledge that he’d been thwarted when he’d been so close to his goal was infuriating.
“You fools! You incompetent fools! I should shoot you myself!”
One of the men eyed him warily, a hand flicking to the hilt of a knife.
“Damnation, you’re not worth bloodying the floorboards,” Richard shouted. “Get out, all of you. If you ever breathe a word of this night’s work, I swear I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
The men bolted out, and Richard tur
ned to see the vicar staring at him owlishly, a damn annoying smile on his vacuous face.
“Whatcher goin’ t’ do now, friend? Yer ladybird seems to have slipped the net.”
“I’m going to snare her myself. And when I do…” Richard’s jaw clenched. “I shall repay her a hundredfold for the inconvenience she has caused me.”
“I suppose you’re goin’ t’ walk right up t’ Sir Aidan’s doorstep an’ say how d’ye do?”
“Exactly. It’s time I made a most concerned call upon my beloved stepsister. She will be delighted to see me. She always was.”
With that, Richard stalked to the chamber in which he’d planned to bed his bride. He flung his clothes into a portmanteau. If he hurried, he could reach Rathcannon before nightfall.
Aidan made his way up the castle stairs, suddenly aware of those few Gilpatrick crests his ancestors had neglected to chisel out of the stone. It was as if the former lords were knitted into the very bones of Rathcannon. And even though the castle had been stolen generations before his time, Aidan felt a subtle rasp of guilt.
He clamped his good arm around ribs still throbbing from the blows he’d taken from Gilpatrick’s scythe, pain made worse from the jolting ride home. The gash in his shoulder felt like a ribbon of fire from his collarbone to mid-bicep, his legs dragging like lead weights. But the worst damage he’d suffered was in places where fists and cudgels and blades could never reach.
Nothing was what it seemed. Gilpatrick, his sworn enemy, had attempted to save Aidan’s daughter. Rathcannon, the bastion of safety built to protect Cassandra, had almost been the scene of her abduction. Delia had made Aidan swear never to trust another woman. Yet Aidan had brushed aside the worried queries of Sean and Gibbon, Mrs. Cadagon and Mrs. Brindle, and instead of going up to Cassandra’s tower, was moving as fast as he could toward the one person he needed to see, to touch, to tell.
Norah.
At her door, he released his ribs long enough to turn the latch and steal into the chamber quietly. What he saw in the guttering light of the candles stole his breath away.
Half hidden by the bed curtains, Norah lay with her fingers pressing something soft and white against her cheek. His cravat, Aidan realized as he took a step toward her. She’d been crying against it; salty tracks of tears were dried upon her cheeks.
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