Come Midnight (20 page)

Chapter 14

"I've not seen the like of it before, m'lord." Angus Mac Dougall scratched perplexedly with his forefinger at the grizzled hair of a bushy side whisker. "Last night, as you know, there was simply no rousing her. Never saw a case of exhaustion so severe. Don't mind telling you now, m'lord, I feared for the lassie's life."

Adam cast a worried glance at the partially open door to his chambers. It was a few minutes after nine in the morning, and they were standing in the hallway outside. Mac Dougall had just finished examining his patient— for the second time since the frantic summons that had brought him to the marquis's home, at roughly a half hour after midnight. Mac Dougall wasn't the only one who'd feared for her life in those dark hours before dawn.

After Mac Dougall had left, with instructions to call him if there was any change, Adam held Caitlin in his arms for hours. She'd slept like the dead, he thought, suppressing a shudder. Yet it was a comparison he couldn't help making, though it filled him with terror and dread. She'd looked so pale and lifeless. Then, not an hour ago, she'd awakened. Just like that. Gave him a shaky smile and asked if she might have a cup of tea! "And now?" he asked the physician. "Aside from being awake, how is she, sir?"

The physician smiled, showing large, even teeth stained yellow from years of smoking a pipe. The culprit could be seen sticking out of his waistcoat pocket. "Well, you can see for yourself, m'lord. Right as rain, as far as I could ascertain, and you may be sure I examined her quite thoroughly. A remarkable recovery, given the state she was in last night Er, what was it exhausted her so? You never said, and I thought it best not to burden the lassie with questions."

Anxious to return to Caitlin, Adam gave a distracted shake of his head. "Working too hard, I expect."

"Working to the point of exhaustion, m'lord?" The physician looked incredulous. "As a governess?"

Would the man never leave? Adam tried to curb his impatience; Mac Dougall had come without complaint, in the middle of the night, after all. "Miss O'Brien takes her duties as governess quite seriously," he replied. "In addition, she's had training as a folk healer ... herbs and simples, that sort of thing. Spends a deal of her free time ministering to my tenants and their families. And my son, sir, would never have gained the ability to maneuver on crutches without her tireless efforts ... massages, therapeutic exercise and the like. Not to mention her positive encouragement."

"Ah," said the physician, satisfied with the explanation. Didn't he sometimes put in long, exhausting hours, himself, traveling great distances to see patients? "An admirable occupation, m'lord. Unlike many of my colleagues, I have great respect for these country healers. They fill a need, and, unlike some, I don't worry they'll put us physicians out of business. To tell the truth, there just might be a few things we can learn from them."

And some things you'd never wish to learn. With a sigh of relief, Adam saw his majordomo rounding the top of the stairs. "Townsend, I'm sure Dr. Mac Dougall would appreciate some refreshment before he takes his leave." He turned to the physician. "I beg you will excuse me, sir. I'd like to look in on Miss O'Brien."

"Of course, m'lord, of course." Mac Dougall's eyebrows lifted as he watched the marquis hurry through the door to his chambers. Uncommonly concerned over a mere governess . . . if, indeed, that's all she is to him. Well, none of my business. The gentry make their Own rules. And this one, at least, has always paid my fees on time. "Tell me, my good man," he said, turning to Townsend, "would you have a dram of good Scotch whiskey on hand? A wee early in the day for taking spirits, I own, but it's been a devilish long night."

***

When Adam came through the door, he found Caitlin sitting up, propped against a mound of pillows, in the big tester bed. She looked ... lovely, heartbreakingly lovely. He couldn't bear to think of what would become of all that loveliness when ... .but he wouldn't think about that now. Couldn't. He needed to fortify himself, put it off for a few more moments, at least, concentrate on her health. After that, they could address the future .. . her future ... or what was left of it, he thought with a searing stab of agony.

She appeared a trifle pale, the dear freckles scattered across her nose more evident than usual. Yet she looked a deal healthier than when he'd left her with her tea and gone to summon the doctor. Her hair was neatly braided; her face had a freshly scrubbed look. Someone had replaced her plain cotton night shift. She wore a pretty batiste bed gown trimmed with ruffles and blue ribbons. He remembered Mrs. Needham had sent a pair of maids up to attend to her toilette while they waited for the physician to arrive.

"Adam," Caitlin murmured with a tender smile. Setting aside her dish of tea, she drank him in with her eyes as he hurried to her side.

"How are you feeling, love?" He slung a hip on the side of the bed and reached for her hand. "The doctor said you're 'right as rain,' but..."—he searched her face with troubled eyes—"I need to hear it from you. Are you all right,
macushla
?"

Swallowing hard, Caitlin lowered her gaze; when she raised her eyes to meet his, they were equally troubled. "I'm feelin' physically fit,
a stor
, but"—the rueful twist of her lips was meant to be a smile, but it fell far short— "as t' how I am ..." She heaved a sigh. "I'll be better able t' tell ye that, once I learn whether ye can forgive me ... or not."

He didn't need to ask what she meant. They both knew she'd arrested him with that wretched Gaelic charm to stop him cutting the new deal with Appleby. That she'd then gone on to cut her own deal with the cunning bastard was what loomed between them now. Adam lacked the details, but they hardly mattered; he'd learn them soon enough. It was the crux of what Caitlin had done—while he stood by, blank and helpless—that tore his heart and filled him with bitter remorse: She'd sacrificed herself for him, and he couldn't bear it.

"Why, Caitlin?'' he asked, a world of pain and anguish in his eyes. "Why did you do it?"

"I think ye know the answer t' that,
macushla, a stor
," she whispered. Tears brimmed in her eyes, transformed them into shimmering emeralds. "All ye need do is ask why ye sacrificed yerself for yer son that April night. Ye did it—sacrificed yer immortal soul, t' save Andrew's life—because ye love him. So there it is. Ye gave away yer most valuable possession, Adam, for love... and so have I."

Fighting tears, Adam shook his head in furious denial. "Most valued possession?" he asked bitterly. "Caitlin, the night I summoned Appleby, I scarcely had a soul. What I bartered—gave away, as you say—was next to worthless! My life was meaningless. I was an empty shell, a sad travesty of a man, betraying all my parents raised me to value and hold dear. Don't you understand? I'd already damned myself—with nearly every execrable act you can imagine!"

He gave a mirthless laugh. "Perhaps the archfiend knew all along how little I had on offer. It wouldn't surprise me to learn he trimmed down his part of the exchange to fit, and my innocent son had to pay—''

"That is nonsense!" she cried. "Sheer nonsense, and ye know it. Haven't I heard ye say it, yerself, the divil's a cheat and a liar? So don't ye go makin' excuses for his foul deeds, Adam Lightfoot. And stop evadin' the truth. 'Twas love drove ye t' do what ye did—as it drove me! Deny that, and ye deny us both—rob us both—o' the only worthwhile reason for such a sacrifice."

Her voice softened, but her eyes were fierce. "The love I bear ye, Adam, just like the love we both bear the lad, has no limits or conditions. It doesn't say, 'I shall love ye, but only t' thus and such a point.' It doesn't say, when the goin' gets hard, 'I cannot follow!' Love, as I've come to understand it, t' know it, demands all— and gives all. And so we have,
macushla
,
a stor
, and so we have."

"I don't deserve such love," he murmured brokenly. Cupping her face, he smoothed away her tears with his thumbs. "I don't deserve you."

"Ach! Is that the real reason ye were ready t' send me away? Not t' mention throwin' away forty years o' yer life, on top o' yer immortal soul—instead o' waitin' for me t' help ye find a way out o' yer terrible bargain? I told ye the dreams and visions have a purpose, Adam. That I believe I was sent here t' fulfill that purpose. Just as I believe ye were meant for the Light!"

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes, and her voice dropped to a watery whisper. "Could ye not trust me t' find the way?"

The sigh he heaved as he gathered her in his arms held bottomless sorrow and despair. "I was desperate to keep you safe from the fiend's clutches, my Caitlin. Only that. And, fool that I am, I drove you straight into his filthy hands! I'll never forgive myself—"

"But ye must," she cried, pulling away to look at him. "Just as I must—as we must forgive each ither! Tis anither dimension o' love, d'ye see? Unconditional love, Adam. Its very nature is forgiveness ... even o' the unforgivable."

He stared at her for a long moment. Marveling at the positive spirit she wore like a bright, shining banner. Then, with a weary sigh, he nodded. His beloved Irish Angel... so fierce in her defense of this love they had discovered in the midst of ruin and despair! She almost gave him hope that....

He dropped the thought. No sense in hoping for the impossible. "Tell me the terms of your agreement," he said grimly. "How much time do you—do we have?"

Caitlin glanced at the all too familiar face of the mantel clock. "Three days from midnight last," she replied, tight-lipped with anger. She'd been too weak to address it last night, but she knew Appleby had cheated her of several hours. The devil, it appeared, in addition to everything else he represented, was a bad loser. Aye, petty and mean-spirited to the last!

Adam glanced at the chess set, returned to its proper place across the room by the servants. "I saw the board when I... regained my senses, Caitlin. Ah, love, surely, you must have realized he'd win," he added with a sorrowful shake of the head. "I cannot imagine why you ever thought—"

"But he didn't win, Adam. 'Twas I played white."

He looked at her as if she'd sprouted two heads. "But I distinctly saw .. . Caitlin, the black king was hemmed in!"

Belatedly realizing he'd missed critical details of what had gone on last night, including the specifics of the bargain she'd struck, Caitlin quickly filled him in. "Ye'd have been proud o' me, Adam," she finished moments later. "I managed t' play better than I iver dreamed I..."

She gave a quick shake of the head, as if to negate what she'd just said. "No, 'managed' is not the correct word, and I must be honest with ye, even if ye're not apt t' believe me in this. I've no means o' provin' it, d'ye see. But, Adam, there was a greater Power than mine—or Satan's—at work here last night."

When he merely stared at her, mute, she knew he was still unable to cross the great divide that separated them. The lack of faith that had left him vulnerable to Appleby, that lay at the root of his despair. With a sigh, she made another desperate attempt to reach him. "How else would ye explain a player with me level o' skill outplayin' the divil himself? I beat him, Adam— thereby gainin' not one concession from him, but two. Ach, he was furious when he lost! He—"

"Wait a minute!" Adam suddenly exclaimed. He clasped her by the shoulders and looked at her, excitement on his face, hope dawning in his eyes. "Are you telling me you signed nothing? No contract? Is that where you left it?"

"A-aye, but—"

"Then, there is no contract between you! Caitlin, you're free! Without a contract, signed in his victim's blood ..."

He paused, confused by the sorrow and regret in her eyes, the way she sadly shook her head. "What's wrong? Is there something I've failed to comprehend? You did say there was no contract?"

"I said there was no written contract, Adam," she explained. Hating the dying of that bright light of hope in his eyes. "But there's a contract nonetheless. Adam, I swore. Swore on me immortal soul, I'd sign the one we agreed upon, when he ... when he comes for me."

"But ... but"—he ran a hand through his hair in utter frustration, hardly able to believe they were having this conversation— "from what I've been able to collect, such an agreement isn't binding with him!"

"Perhaps not," Caitlin said with a rueful smile. "But 'tis with me. I spoke the bindin' words, Adam. I must honor them."

"Caitlin, that's patently absurd! This is the Lord of Hell we're talking about He doesn't deal in honor."

"Aye, he even said as much, but he does deal in souls .. . and I swore upon mine. Ach, niver think I'm ungrateful, or that I fail t' value yer efforts,
macushla
. No less, yer desperation t' save me. God in Heaven, it touches me t' the quick! But it won't answer," she added softly, caressing his face—his poor face, with its terrible disappointment—tenderly with her hand.

Adam searched her gaze one last time. Hoping against hope he'd misunderstood. Yet he knew he hadn't. Caitlin's honor was as much a part of her as breathing. She wouldn't be who she was if he were able to persuade her to disregard it. Defeated by the very things he loved in her, and held so dear, he caught the hand that caressed his face and brought it to his lips. "I love you so!"

Caitlin closed her eyes against a fresh onslaught of tears. "Adam," she whispered, "I knew ye'd understand. But... just think o' what's gained. Andrew's leg made whole, and the father he adores, t' be with him, and love him, through a lifetime!"

Bleakly, Adam eyed the clock, its steady tick-tock, tick-tock the only sound in the sudden stillness that fell between them.
But at what cost, my love? What terrible, unbearable cost?
"It ... it was clever of you," he said when he could finally bring himself to comment, "demanding to see the old contract destroyed. I'm not sure I'd have thought of that. Though you may be sure, Appleby thought of it, which is why—"

There came a sudden, inordinately loud rapping on the outer door. Adam swung his head toward the antechamber in irritation. "What the devil—"

"Your lordship—I beg you will come quickly! Oh, come, do."

"That's ... Mrs. Needham," Adam muttered, uncertain what to think as he rose to investigate. Not only was it completely out of character for the staid housekeeper to pound on his door; but the woman's normally placid voice sounded on the verge of hysteria.

Caitlin was at his heels when he thrust the door open. "Madam," he said, "I trust you have a good explanation for—"

"Oh, begging your pardon, my lord, but it's"—tears poured down Mrs. Needham's plain, middle-aged face, and she gestured with unrestrained excitement in the direction of the stairs—"it's Lord Andrew! A miracle's happened, Lord Lightfoot. Your son's walking. Truly walking, my lord, on his own two strorg and healthy legs!"

In the pregnant pause that followed, Adam looked at Caitlin; she, at him. Lasting but a heartbeat, the silent exchange contained a universe of comprehension. Steeped in emotions too raw for words, it told of ambivalence and pain, of bittersweet joy and unspeakable regret.

"Papa, Caitlin—you'll never guess what's happened! '' Andrew's voice rang joyous, bubbling over with excitement as he hove into sight, dark curls bobbing above the newel post at the top of the stairs. Then he was running—running—toward them: infectious laughter on winged feet.

Blinking back tears, Caitlin watched Adam swoop Andrew into his arms, the child's giggles competing with the unabashed sobs of the father. Without further thought, she crossed herself. And poured out her heart to one she fervently hoped would understand.
Holy
Mother
, she prayed silently,
how could I not? How?

By then, a number of servants had gathered round. Others crowded at the periphery, trying to see over their fellows' shoulders. Still more poured into the hallway from the far reaches of the house. Some came running, some tiptoed shyly forth, but all wore ginning faces. Caitlin recalled Adam once saying bad news traveled quickly. Perhaps it did, but so, apparently, did good.

"Caitlin told me she believed my leg would grow stronger,'' Andrew was saying to his father. Which, given the crowd about him, meant he said it to them all. "She said it just last night, didn't you, Caitlin?'

Before she could reply, excited whispers stirred the air. Like the ringed circles a stone makes when it's dropped into a still pond, they rippled outward. Hushed voices, full of awe, reaching to the edges of the crowd:

"The Irish Angel's worked a miracle!"

"The work of the Irish Angel, and no mistake!"

"The Irish Angel's handiwork for sure!"

Caitlin and Adam exchanged wry glances. Neither had the heart to demur, nor would it have done any good. The voices of these humble folk held utter conviction. And then there was the larger truth that hovered in both their minds: The "miracle" done this day may have been "worked" by the Irish Angel, but its origins lay in Darkness and must forever remain their terrible, shameful secret.