Cates, Kimberly (13 page)

Blood.

But
there was no other sign that anyone had taken shelter in the copse of
underbrush.

"Damn
your eyes," Aidan snarled into the darkness, his gaze slashing about him,
seeking some hint of where Gilpatrick and his wounded compatriot had fled to.
"Let me help you! The boy will never last."

But
only the wind whispered an answer, mocking Aidan, taunting him. Damn the Irish,
they could melt into the hills themselves when they wished it.

Aidan
stood up, furious, feeling as if he'd been trapped there forever, caught
between the English soldiers at his back and the Irish cupped in the palm of
the sheltering night. He belonged to neither, was loathed by both, held in
contempt.

Nearly
as much contempt as Aidan had for himself.

He
swore as he grasped the reins of his stallion and swung up into the saddle. The
devil take them all, then. Just as the devil was bound to take him.

Aidan
tightened his knees about Hazard's sides and urged the stallion into flight. He
plumbed deep to the hard, reckless part of himself. Let the whole lot of them
plunge into the sea. He had more important matters to tend to.

He
had to prepare for a wedding.

He
grimaced.

Unless
he had already convinced the bride that allowing Sir Aidan Kane to slip his
ring on her finger would be the biggest mistake of her life.

How
did one greet a suspected murderer over a plate of scones and clotted cream?
The absurd question tugged at Norah as she hovered outside Rathcannon's
breakfast parlor.

I
see that you are reading the
London Times,
Sir Aidan. Are there
any edifying pieces on the most propitious time to bury corpses beneath the
rosebushes?
Or, better still:
I
received the most intriguing
message last night. I do believe the droll fellow was attempting to tell me you
killed your wife. Do confess if you did!

It
was insane, absurd. The perfect coup de grace in an entire night of madness.
Madness or the most ridiculous bout of melodrama Norah had ever indulged in.

She
grimaced, berating herself for the all-too-vivid imagination she had nurtured
as a lonely child. Hour after hour last night, she had lain in the huge bed
that had belonged to Aidan Kane's first wife, her gaze flicking time and again
to the silver jewel box where she had stashed the mysterious note, her heart
hammering.

Norah
had even considered attempting to move the armoire in front of the door joining
her chamber to Kane's in an effort to block his entry, but she'd doubted she
could move the heavy piece of furniture alone, and she'd supposed it would be a
trifle awkward to roust up the irrepressible chambermaid and ask for
assistance.

Pardon
me, Rose, could you help me barricade myself in this bedchamber? You see, I
suspect that your master might be a murderer.

The
thought of such a ridiculous scenario had finally driven Norah to clamp her
eyelids resolutely shut. After all, Aidan Kane could hardly murder her on the
first night, could he? Cassandra would be bound to ask questions if the bride
she'd provided her father were found dead. Besides, Norah had reasoned with
grim optimism, even if he
were
a murderer, Kane had been married to his
first wife a long while before he'd done her in. Norah had barely known him a day—hardly
enough of an acquaintance to be worthy of homicide.

And
yet, as slumber had overtaken Norah, she'd been forced to admit that it wasn't
the specter of some murdering fiend that danced upon her nerves like a razor's
edge. It was the image of a man with a far more subtle weapon, one more
dangerous than anything Norah had ever known.

Eyes
that taunted, that challenged, that seduced. A mouth cast with a blatant
sensuality that made promises to the secret wanton who lurked in the heart of
every woman.

She
had been haunted by dreams of that dangerous, beguiling face, cleansed of
dissipation by the touch of loving hands. She had been mesmerized by the image
of the hard, cynical light in those green eyes shattering, exposing the man who
lay beneath Aidan Kane's dissolute facade.

She
had awakened with her skin damp and excruciatingly sensitive beneath her
nightgown, her nipples tingling as if the fingers of her dangerous lover had
left their spell on her forever. She'd sprung out of bed as if she could shed
those sensations as easily as the bedclothes. Then she had attempted to put
some small mark of normalcy on the morning by crossing to Delia Kane's
escritoire.

There,
she had penned the letter she had promised Richard what seemed an eternity
before, her throat aching at the memory of his earnestness and concern as he'd
pleaded that she let him know when she arrived safely at her betrothed's home.

It
had been too painful to imagine his distress over the disastrous situation she
had fallen into, so she had merely written that she was safely at Rathcannon
and that he was not to worry. She had sealed the missive and grimaced, certain
she would be doing enough worrying for both of them.

She
doubted she'd have come downstairs at all, were it not for the necessity of
posting the letter. She ran nervous fingertips over the paper's edge,
excruciatingly aware of how silly she must appear, hovering outside the door.

Even
with sunshine spilling across Rathcannon's corridors and Cassandra's excited
chatter echoing from the breakfast room, Norah was appalled to feel a heavy
warmth spread across the tops of her breasts as Sir Aidan's deep chuckle
rumbled from the chamber. Her tongue stole out to moisten lips that were
suddenly trembling.

No.
This was absurd, she struggled to reassure herself. Even when she confronted
Aidan Kane face to face, the man wouldn't have a clue about the cryptic warning
she had received, nor about the scandalous things she had dreamed of: his hands
stripping away her gown, his mouth searching out the dips and hollows of her
naked body, where heat pooled, an untamable need to be tasted...

"So
are you going to join us, or should I have your breakfast served here in the
corridor?" The deep male voice made Norah nigh jump out of her skin. She
glanced up to see Aidan Kane lounging in the doorway, one tanned hand braced on
the door frame, a bedazzling grin turning his face into a study in raw
masculine beauty.

A
quotation from Shakespeare's
Hamlet
whispered through Norah's mind:
One
may smile, and smile, and be a villain.

Her
eyes widened, and she took an instinctive step backward, as if to avoid a
shower of sparks. Dazed, Norah struggled to form a coherent reply, but once
again Kane had taken her completely off guard.

"You're
late for breakfast, Miss Linton," he observed. "You must've been
sleeping like the dead." An unfortunate choice of words. Norah caught her
lips between her teeth in an effort to keep another bubble of melodrama from
washing away her hard-won sense of logic.

Kane
seemed oblivious to her unease. He stunned her by capturing her empty hand in
his and raising it to his lips. He chuckled as she snatched her fingers away
from the moist silk of that mouth that had invaded her dreams. "I do hope
you found your chamber comfortable."

"Comfortable?"
Norah choked out. With whisperings of murder clinging to the shadows? With her
own indecent imaginings taunting her?

She
would have had a far more restful sleep if he'd bound her to a bed of thorns.

"I—I
slept just fine," Norah lied hastily, stuffing both her hands behind her
as if half expecting him to take possession of them again. The letter crinkled
in her hand, and one of Kane's diabolically dark brows shot up.

"I
hope that is not intended for me? A letter of farewell?" He seemed
genuinely concerned as he drew the missive from her hand.

"No!
I wrote to my stepbrother to let him know—know I had arrived."

"And
that you'd been met in the carriage circle by the castle ogre?" He leveled
a self-deprecating smile at her, one purely dripping with potent male charm.

"No,
I... there seemed no need to... to—" To what? a voice jeered inside her.
Tell Richard that she was under the roof of a man who might be a murderer? A
man who wanted nothing to do with a wife?

"I
intend to make certain that you will have a great deal to write to your brother
in the future." There was husky promise in that honeyed voice.

At
the slight sound from the far end of the corridor, he angled a glance to where
the bright-eyed Rose was industriously polishing the marble toes of a statue of
Perseus.

"Rose?"
Kane beckoned to the chambermaid. The girl's saucy smile froze as she glimpsed
the object in his hand. Unease tickled the back of Norah's neck as the cheeky
girl hung back a little, wary, her fingers twisting the buffing cloth.

"Sir
Aidan?"

"Have
this letter posted for Miss Linton. It seems her brother is anxious to know she
has arrived in one piece."

"But
I—I know nothin' about such like, not bein' able to read. Calvy Sipes could do
it."

"As
long as someone does. At once."

Rose
took the letter and bobbed a curtsy, then hastened away.

"There.
That should ease your stepbrother's mind. Do you think it would help if I
penned a letter myself?" The timbre of Kane's voice dropped just a
whisper, roughening just enough to set Norah's pulse racing. "A man likes
to know a woman he cares about will be well taken care of when she leaves his
protection."

Norah
stared at Kane, unnerved, confused. The man acted as if yesterday's disaster
had never happened. He had never stood in the carriage circle bellowing at his
daughter, hadn't raged at Norah for her rashness, then stormed into her
bedchamber to lay out a most indecent proposal.

That
angry, sullen, sensual man with his hot eyes and rumpled clothes had been
replaced by an Aidan Kane whose dark hair fell in silken contrast to the hard
lines of a clean-shaven face, whose impeccable breeches were molded to his
thighs and whose dark coat fit his broad shoulders to perfection.

But
it was the flashing smile that made Norah feel even more disoriented than she
had when he'd nearly kissed her in the bedchamber last night. It was a smile
that reminded her of tropical plants she had read of, so beautiful they lured
the unwary to touch their petals, but deadly dangerous beneath that exotic
allure.

The
image was brushed aside by a vision in white dimity and angel-gold curls as
Cassandra darted out of the breakfast parlor.

"Miss
Linton!" she cried. "You will never guess what a wonderful day we are
to have! Papa has agreed to take us on an outing to the Tinmartin fair, so that
the two of you can become better acquainted! We're to have a picnic, and if we
see something pretty he shall buy us both presents."

Norah
glanced from the girl's face to Kane's. The man's eyes were all innocence, but
his mouth curved with a knowing expression, one that set all Norah's instincts
on edge. "A fair?"

Kane
shrugged one shoulder with lazy amusement. "The child has always been
diverted by them. Nothing Cass likes better than gorging herself on pastries,
robbing my pockets to buy herself ribbons and hovering around the gypsy carts,
sniffing their musty herbs and begging for tales of their witchery."

"The
gypsies have the most wondrous things of all. Bright ribbons and magic herbs,
potions and balalaikas that make the most lovely music."

"They're
thieves, every one of them. I can't imagine why I continue to allow them to
strip me of my coin. But perhaps this time I shall find something useful in
their carts."

"What
could you possibly want from the gypsies?" The question tumbled from
Norah's lips of its own volition.

Kane's
gaze caught hers with an intimacy that made her quiver with a pulsing heat that
reminded her all too clearly of the feel of Kane's breath, hot and filled with
dark promise against the tingling curve of her lips.

"What
could I want from the gypsies?" he echoed, in a seductive voice.
"Perhaps a love potion to enchant my betrothed."

"I'm
not your betrothed!" Norah cried, flinging a dismayed glance from that
meltingly sensual grin to Cassandra's brightening face. "Sir Aidan, I
thought we'd discussed—" She pressed cold fingertips to cheeks hot as fire,
angry and discomfited, confused and infuriatingly prey to the shivers of
attraction sizzling through her veins. "It's not necessary..."

Those
green eyes skated over her face with a caress so sensual she felt as if she'd
been touched by Kane's fingertips. "I'm quite certain Tristan and Isolde
didn't think a potion was necessary either, before they mistakenly sipped the
cup that was to bind them," he said.

"Bind
them? Or send them to their doom?" Norah barely knew the words had escaped
her, so stunned was she that the cynical knight even knew of the star-crossed
lovers. But then she supposed that to be a successful rakehell, a man would
have to know the secrets of feminine hearts. And there were few things more
likely to put a woman in a sentimental mood than a tale of love so beautiful it
had clung to people's imaginations for generations.