Come Midnight (10 page)

Aye, help me clear yours of what's weighing it down!
But with this silent plea came the realization this could be the entree she sought. "Truth t' tell, milord," she fibbed, "I kept thinkin' about all yer years of experience with the game. Decades, did ye say? Sure and ye started playin' in the cradle."

He chuckled. "Not quite, but my father taught me on this very board, when I was younger than Andrew. Of course, I was a deal older before I bested him. And after that, only rarely."

She noted how his face softened when he mentioned his father. How he fingered the bishop in his hand as he did so, almost... caressing it, aye, that was the word. He had long, capable-looking fingers, strong and well shaped, yet at the same time gentle as they moved over the smooth, age-mellowed ivory. She all at once had an image—not one of her visions, no, but every bit as clear—of those fingers caressing a woman's skin. Her skin?

Heat invaded every inch of that skin. She ducked her head, certain he must see. Holy Mother, what was wrong with her? She was after healing his troubled mind—his poor, tortured soul. Such carnal images had no place in it!

Appalled at her wanton thoughts, she forced her mind back to the matter at hand. That insight into his feelings about his father ... it seemed important. Heretofore, the only thing she'd seen evoke such a tenderness of expression was Andrew. But the father was no longer alive. Jepson had referred to his lordship's inheriting the title; that didn't happen unless the old lord had passed on.

"Yer da ... ," she ventured carefully, not wanting to blunder as she had about his feelings for his dead wife. "Playin' upon this lovely auld board must bring back memories."

Adam stared silently at the ivory bishop. At the tiny marks where, decades ago, a new puppy had scored it with its teeth. Because he'd been careless, forgetting to put the pieces away—always his task after a game. He remembered his distress when he'd found it and had to confess to his father. And Tom Lightfoot's gentle reply: "We all make mistakes, son. The only harm's in not learning from them. I've every confidence you'll never make this one again." He never had.

Strange, but he hadn't thought of that in years. The contrast between his present life and those early years, so secure in the love and warmth radiating from his parents' marriage, was just too painful. Yet now ... it wasn't pain he felt. Just a deep, bittersweet yearning... for something he also hadn't dared dwell upon in years.

He glanced at the small slip of a girl sitting patiently across the table. She had a calm serenity that reminded him of his mother. They looked nothing alike, but Catherine Lightfoot had often sat like that, patiently looking on, while he and his father played. Odd. He hadn't thought nostalgically about either of his parents in recent memory. And here, in the space of a few seconds, Caitlin had evoked memories—sweet, warm memories—of both.

"Yes, it does," he replied softly. "Fond memories. I sat where you are now, my father across from me. In that chair"—smiling in reminiscence, he indicated an armchair by the hearth—"my mother used to sit. She always brought her needlework." He shook his head in wonder. "There she sat, managing all those tiny, perfect stitches—while somehow knowing exactly whose move It was."

"There's no mystery in such mastery o' the womanly arts," Caitlin said with a smile. "In the village back home, we'd an auld blind woman could stitch circles round the younger lasses."

Adam nodded, then chuckled. "I remember thinking my mother used magic ... that she'd an ability to see with a second set of eyes. I've heard you Irish even have a name for such a thing ... the Sight Isn't that what you call it?"

Caitlin gasped, and covered it by pretending a fit of coughing. "Not... not to worry, milord," she managed, holding up her hand to stay him when he leapt from his chair, concerned.

Adam frowned at her. She'd turned white as parchment, her pallor evident even in the dim candlelight "Here," he said, reaching for a decanter on the sideboard. He poured a measure of brandy, came around the table and placed it in her hand. "Sip it slowly, now."

She did, grimacing at the fiery taste of the liquid. Then began to cough in earnest as it went down. "Saints alive!" she cried when she could speak. "Is that what's meant by 'fightin' fire with fire? Sure and 'tis a case o' the cure bein' worse'n what ails ye!"

Adam's lips quirked, but the smile faded as he ran his eyes over her. Her color had come back, but .... "Caitlin ... are you ill?" She didn't appear consumptive, but the disease was all too common, especially among the poor.

Catching his meaning, she quickly shook her head no. "Milord, if I'd the consumption, I'd not be here. I'd niver risk Andrew's health... or yer own," she added at his questioning look. "There's disagreement on it bein' catchin'. But I've seen folk who were in prolonged contact with consumptives. Too many succumb t' the wastin' disease themselves, t' make me doubt it.

" 'Twas just a case o' ... a tickle in me throat," she added, wondering if fibbing to him was destined to become a habit. "And then yer cure, o' course," she added wryly, handing him the brandy glass.

His fingers brushed hers as he took it from her, sending a ripple of sensation across her skin. Sparks flared and burned, like chain lightning, across her nerve endings.

Adam felt it, too. He tried to tell himself it was a variation on that old game they'd played at school: rub your feet across the carpet, sneak up upon an unsuspecting fellow, and send an unpleasant shock through him. But he knew better.

What he'd just felt was a prelude to pleasure. Pleasure whose dimensions he well understood, though he doubted Caitlin did. He was suddenly alert to it in every pore. Alive with it as he took in her innocent look of surprise and wonder. Oh, yes, he understood it only too well. He'd chased its allure across London and back again. He understood its sudden power, its ability to hold him in thrall—at least for a while, if he were lucky—and its name was lust.

What he didn't understand, not nearly, was its unsuspected source. Caitlin? She was a total innocent. As far removed from the likes of Vanessa Marley and her ilk as silk from sackcloth. How could such as she spark the desire surging hot and heavy through his loins?

And yet, he thought, turning to the sideboard—as much to hide the evidence of his lust as to put away the brandy glass—perhaps it made an absurd kind of sense.

Caitlin affected him in more than one way that was totally unexpected: Wasn't he sitting at home, playing chess with her this evening, instead of pursuing his obsessive debauchery? Preferring her company to Vanessa's? And in that innocent company, he'd felt free to reminisce about hopes and dreams long buried. No one else—no one—had been able to do that. She was a breath of fresh air in a stale room. The stale room that had been his life for longer than he cared to remember.

Caitlin wrestled her feelings under control, at last noting his silence as he stood rigidly facing the sideboard. "Milord? Are ye feelin' all right?" she asked for the second time that night. And when he didn't reply: "Are ye ill, or in pain, milord?"

His reaction mastered, Adam turned and gave her a brilliant smile. "Not at all. Fact is, my dear Caitlin, I've never felt better."

His smile was ... wonderful. He didn't smile nearly enough, but when he did, the darkness receded. If only she could find a way to rid him of it forever. If only she could convince him to let her try. "Ach, I'm so glad," she said, meaning it with all her heart. Realizing this man had become important to her in ways she didn't understand. What she did understand—unlike before, when he'd been but the frightening figure in her dream, not this flesh-and-blood man with a terrible need inside him—was that she'd been brought here to answer that need. And that she must not fail him.

The fierce honesty in her eyes hit Adam like a fist in the gut. She meant it. She honestly gave a damn. Not about what he could give her, not about his vaunted title, his wealth and position, and certainly not about his prowess in bed. About him ... as a human being who might, or might not, be in pain. And for the first time since that hellish night in early April, for this brief moment at least, the pain was gone.

Taking a step toward her, Adam searched her face for several long seconds. "What is it about you, Caitlin O'Brien," he said at last, "that seems to banish ills?"

Her trill of laughter rippled over his tortured soul like sunlight on a stormy sea. "Milord, I thought ye knew," she replied. "I'm a healer."

Adam met her green, green eyes and slowly nodded. "Perhaps you are," he murmured softly. "Perhaps you are, at that."

Chapter 8

Caitlin and Adam played chess every night that week. True to his word, he would arrive in time to visit with his son before Andrew fell asleep. He always contrived to avoid the bedtime prayers, however, and if Caitlin or Andrew noticed, they didn't comment. Afterward, it seemed a natural thing to progress with Caitlin to the library and continue her instruction at chess. Yet chess was the least of the lessons learned there. Foremost were the things they learned of each other.

For Caitlin, it was like seeing several new faces beneath a familiar mask. His lordship could still be sardonic and brooding, yes; but he also had a quiet, thoughtful side. And a fine sense of humor. He was given to lively storytelling—amusing accounts of his childhood, of boyish pranks and hijinks—a side of him she'd never suspected. She learned he had a childhood friend named Robert, son of a neighboring squire. The mischief they got into! Daredevil antics that were both hair-raising and hilarious, when he described them.

"Robert sounds a right scamp, but a wonderful friend," she remarked at one point. "Where is he now, milord?"

At once his face went shuttered and drawn. "Dead," he replied, not a hint of inflection in his voice. "Slain at Salamanca." The bleakness in his response warned her not to pursue it. "Your move," he said, gesturing at the board.

In the matter of chess, he was patience itself: quietly pointing out where she might make a better move; calling her to task only when she forgot to concentrate on her game. The latter, however, happened more often than Caitlin wished.

Alone with him in the library, for hours at a stretch, she couldn't help being distracted from time to time. His low rumble of laughter could easily pull her thoughts away as could the elegant arch of his brow as she made an incautious move; and a simple gesture from those strong, capable fingers could send her thoughts skittering, far, far from opening gambits and endgame strategies. Though he never again brushed those fingers against hers, never touched her at all, she was aware of him from the moment they sat down to play. When that awareness slipped under her guard, chess was the last thing on her mind.

What Adam learned of Caitlin was equally engaging, and therefore precarious. The better he knew her, the more he felt drawn to her: mentally, which was fine; but he was also drawn to her physically—which was not. Because of his determination not to soil her innocence, the nightly sessions became a tormenting exercise in self-restraint. More than once he went to his empty bed with a curse—and with desire clawing at his loins. In the morning he'd resolve to end the lessons forthwith. Yet when evening came, he found himself inviting her yet again.

She was all things young and lovely, pure and untarnished. A woman who was blessedly free of the ton's jaded sophistication and untouched by the ugliness of the world at large. How long had it been since he'd encountered such innocence, such simple goodness and generosity? The filth and brutality of war and its aftermath had stripped such things from his ken. He'd forgotten they even existed—apart from his son and children like him.

And Caitlin, for all her youth, was no child. This was never more apparent than when she described her life in the year after her foster mother died. He found it hard to credit that she'd left her home and all she knew, with little more than the clothes on her back. Traveled the open road, in a strange land, seeking out the sick— for the dubious reward of tending those who'd no coin to pay. It boggled the mind.

Moreover, it was dangerous. "Didn't you ever fear for your own safety?" he asked when she had described a particular incident: A drunken father had threatened to kill her if she failed to cure his son—it seemed the lad was needed for the spring plowing.

"Aye," she replied, gazing soberly at him with those wide green eyes, "but I feared for the child and his fever more."

They returned to this subject one evening toward the end of the week. A dog barking in the distance reminded Caitlin of a time she'd evaded a farmer's dogs by hastily climbing a tree. "They weren't vicious dogs, milord," she explained when he scowled. "Just doin' their job, really. How were they t' know I'd heard their master's wife was ailin'? Still"—she laughed—" 'twas the better part of an hour before the farmer came out to investigate and let me in t' see the poor woman."

"Not vicious," he muttered, clearly disbelieving.

"Tis the truth," she insisted. "Once I was admitted, the beasties even licked me hand." And then, when he merely glared at her, appalled at her naivete: "I took no harm, milord."

He heaved a sigh. "Fate watches over children and fools, I've heard."

"Then, ye've heard it wrong, milord," she said gently.

"Hmm?" he murmured absently, studying the board.

"Heaven watches over children and fools ... That's as I've heard it said, milord."

His head lifted, and he sent her a scowl fiercer than any she'd yet seen. "Then, it's a fool said it!"

"Mi-milord?" she stammered. The darkness was on him now. She saw that at once, but she was at a loss to explain its sudden appearance.

"Heaven has little to do with watching over children," he spat. "One look at London's poor ought to have told you that."

And when she didn't respond: "The East End is teeming with pitiful young beggars. Children who will die before they can raise a beard or take on a woman's healthy curves. Emaciated babes with running sores. Climbing boys coughing their lives away, covered with burns from the hot chimneys they're forced to enter."

He leaned over the board, the blue of his eyes burning into hers. "And where is your fool's heaven then, Caitlin?" he asked in a voice grown low and dangerous.

" 'Tis"—she swallowed past a fearful lump in her throat, confused by his sudden anger—" 'tis merely a thing some say, milord. I'm sure they mean no—"

"But you've seen those wretched beggars, haven't you?" It was a demand, not a question. "Those children without a shred of hope ... without a future?"

"Aye ... I've seen them," she replied gravely. " 'Tis why I've tried t' ... t' do what I could ... t' help them in some small measure."

"Yet now you're here." He searched her face for a reaction. "Engaged to teach a rich man's child his letters. And playing chess with that rich man ... with a tided lord."

"There are all kinds o' need, milord," she said quietly. "And I go where ... I'm needed."

Adam caught the slight hesitation. He wondered if there were some deeper meaning hidden beneath the surface of her reply. He thought he might have glimpsed something significant—an unspoken message, perhaps, in her eyes—then dismissed it as his imagination.

"And if you weren't engaged here as governess?" he questioned, bent on discovering what she was made of. She intrigued and fascinated him. More than any woman he'd ever met, and he needed to know why. "The Irish Angel would still be out there"—he gestured toward the world beyond the windows, with their snugly drawn draperies—"plying her skills, wouldn't she?" Again, it was not a question.

Caitlin flushed and ducked her head. "She .. . she still is . .. occasionally, milord."

"What!"

"I ... I do it only on me own time!" Color stained Caitlin's cheeks as she raised her head to look at him. "And—and not too often. 'Tis just that ... Well, the people remember me, d'ye see. And if I've the time, whilst Andrew's abed, or havin' his bath, or—"

"Do you mean to tell me you go out at night, all alone? To the East End? Good grief, woman! Where the devil's your sense?"

"I ... I—"

"You will tell Jepson exactly where you are going from now on," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Henceforth he will know to have my carriage brought round, with a pair of stout grooms for your protection. You are to travel nowhere without them, Caitlin—is that clear?"

"A-aye ... thank ye, milord."

With a nod of satisfaction, he turned his attention to the board and abruptly moved his queen. "Checkmate."

"Ach—the divil, ye say!"

Sardonic amusement—she couldn't begin to imagine its source—flared in his eyes. "Be that as it may ... ," he murmured dryly.

In her shock, she had knocked a captured knight to the floor. Pushing back her chair, she bent to retrieve it.

"Here, I'll do that."

Caitlin froze. His voice, so near that she felt his breath on her nape, sent a shiver along her spine. And not an unpleasant shiver. When had he moved? How had he come so close? More to the point, could he hear her foolish heart thumping as he stayed her with a hand on her arm?

Adam regretted touching her the moment it happened. He jerked his hand away. She twisted aside at the same moment. His fingers grazed the pliant softness of a surprisingly full breast. A potent curse rose to his lips. He throttled it, and backed away to give her room.

"Never mind the chessmen," he said tightly. He willed himself not to conjecture the shape and color of the breast beneath the modest gown. "I shall put them away."

"I. .." Caitlin was too mortified with embarrassment to finish. Her breast burned from that accidental touch. She burned—and shivered—gone hot and cold all over. What was happening to her? Then a new sensation ... one she understood:

The vision struck with unusual force. It was more powerful than any thrust upon her in the past: She saw herself, sprawled upon silken monogrammed sheets, her unbound hair in disarray. And Adam Lightfoot, lamplight gleaming on his bare shoulders, smiling down at her—his hand upon her naked breast!

"Lesson's over." His words, unnaturally loud in the still room, covered her gasp. She managed to look at him, saw him bow, much as if she were a fine lady. "Good night, Caitlin," he said curdy.

Unable to speak, shaking from the raw force of the vision, Caitlin stumbled blindly from the room.