Cates, Kimberly (41 page)

"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 destroy it, crush it,
shatter 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 goddamned 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 in his heart. "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 crazed risks. Report this to the authorities."

"And
they'll laugh in my goddamn 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."

"Damn
it, 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 savage 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. Hideous images rose in her mind, her stomach churning as she mused
what kind of beast would attempt such a horrible 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
heard 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?