Cates, Kimberly (5 page)

She
winced at the image of herself, straining for a glimpse of Ireland's shore from
the ship's rail, and shuddered at the memory of the fluttering of her heart as
she'd seen the turrets of Rathcannon.

But
most of all, she was sickened by the soaring sense of hope that she had felt
from the moment she'd first taken up the letter from Sir Aidan Kane. She hadn't
paused to question the oddly rounded, elegant penmanship, so unlike a grown
man's. Instead, she'd drowned in the poignant beauty of the words, words that
had convinced her—just this once—to take a chance. To dare dream of happily
ever afters, and of a man who needed someone to love him.

A
mate who hungered as desperately as she had for a family.

How
many years had she bottled up the love inside her, kept it hidden away, knowing
it would be unwelcome in the house of her cold stepfather? How many years had
she pretended it didn't matter that she was isolated, so very much alone?

But
the soul-deep need to love and be loved had surged up inside her, battering her
like a raging river against an ancient dam, until a fistful of letters had
shattered all her defenses, and she had taken her heart in her hand to offer it
up to a man. A man who didn't want her any more than her stepfather had, any more
than any of the high-brow beaux in London society had.

Crippling
disillusionment tightened its grasp about her throat, making it burn with tears
she would not shed.

She
tipped her chin up high, her face aching with the effort it took not to betray
the turmoil inside her as she made her way up the exquisite staircase, then
passed through the curious throng of servants that seemed to peep at her from
every doorway.

It
should have been simple enough to barricade herself behind the wall of icy
dignity that had been her retreat since she was a wary child, wandering into
her stepfather's domain for the first time.

Never
once in the years that followed had she allowed Winston Farnsworth to see past
her pride into her pain. And yet, the feelings roiling through her now were far
more daunting than anything she had endured before—a churning mixture of
self-loathing, despair, exhaustion, and hopelessness.

Dear
God, what had she done? Charging off to Ireland like a dream-struck fool to
marry a man she'd invented in her imagination. Emerging from the coach—not with
the sense of calm acceptance that would have been sensible, considering the
circumstances—but, rather, with a thousand fragile dreams clutched, like that
ridiculous doll, in her hands. A doll that had been intended as a gift for a
gap-toothed little cherub with skinned knees and plump baby hands.

Dreams
of a man, a lover, a husband, Norah hadn't dared to admit she'd had, even to
herself, until Sir Aidan Kane had stormed out of the castle's massive doorway
and dashed those secret fantasies to bits on Rathcannon's stone stairs.

Sir
Aidan Kane—no solemn hero scarred by battle, no lonely father, wanting to share
his life with a woman.

Rather,
Norah's worst nightmare. A raging, arrogant beast with the hard glitter of
dissipation etched in a handsome face and a mocking edge of cruelty in a voice
roughened with a sensuous burr no woman could help but understand. Exactly the
kind of male who had been casting dismissive sneers at Norah Linton since she'd
been in short skirts.

Most
humiliating of all, Aidan Kane hadn't made the slightest effort to hide his
reaction toward her.

Horror.

Disbelief.

Utter
contempt.

Kane
had looked as if the mere word
wife
were anathema to him, and she had
set out singlehandedly to ensnare him in the jaws of marriage. No, not
singlehandedly, Norah thought, exhausted. There had been two other parties
involved.

Her
stepbrother, Richard, so earnest, so hopeful as he pressed the mysterious
Irishman's letters into her hands, wanting to save her from the hideous
marriage his father had arranged for her. Richard, showering her with a
trousseau so lovely it stole her breath away, with no notion that his attempt
to help her had merely plunged her into an even more calamitous disaster than
the one she was leaving behind.

And
second, Cassandra Kane, penning letters in her father's name, plotting to give
him the "gift" of a bride, never suspecting that her father would be
horrified by the mere suggestion.

A
tight ache knotted in Norah's chest, a sense of loss spawned by a child who had
never existed. Cassandra. Not the winsome little waif Norah had been led to
anticipate, a bright-eyed angel rushing over to cradle the doll her new mama
had brought her. A child she could lavish with all the affection Norah herself
had never experienced.

Rather,
Cassandra Kane was a headstrong girl on the verge of womanhood, who had
recklessly plunged both Aidan Kane and Norah herself into this maelstrom of
disaster.

A
budding beauty Norah could never have hoped to be an adequate mother to.

Norah
raised her fingertips to the dusty curve of her cheekbone, wincing inwardly.
No, even if Aidan Kane had welcomed her with open arms, she would not have been
a proper mother to his daughter. She wouldn't have known how to begin to deal
with a lovely, bright, confident little beauty who would never spend her
adolescence as Norah had—staring at her reflection in a mirror, trying not to
regret the ivory pallor to her cheeks, the plain shape of her nose, the solemn
mouth that was far from ripe and kissable.

Not
even the swan's down pelisse Richard had given her could fire color into
Norah's cheeks. Not even the glorious bonnet he'd tucked over her brown curls
could spill beauty into features that were ordinary as any chambermaid's in
Farnsworth House.

Farnsworth
House.

The
name alone was enough to make bile rise in Norah's throat, her fingers tremble.

I
can hardly leave you standing in the carriage circle until I can send you back
to wherever you came from,
Aidan Kane had snarled.

Yet
the very idea of dragging herself back to her stepfather's household, rejected,
humiliated, was more than Norah could bear. She could imagine Winston
Farnsworth gloating over her blunder, certain he would rejoice in his proud
stepdaughter crawling back to his doorstep, placing herself under his control
once more. Likely, the man wouldn't even allow her in the door.

How
very gratifying he would find it to stand like some villain in a Cheltenham
tragedy, driving her into the streets.

The
thought alone made Norah's jaw tighten until it seemed the muscles must snap.
She would never go back. Never afford Farnsworth that kind of satisfaction.
She'd starve first.

No.
That would give him pleasure too. Imagine his pompous delight, waving that
thick finger of doom over her corpse, pontificating about the justice the fates
exacted over an ungrateful child.

But
if she wasn't returning to Farnsworth House, where else could she go? Richard
couldn't help her. It was no secret his father had planted servants willing to
spy upon his son, to assure that he be kept aware of his heir's behavior.
Generous as Richard had been in providing her with a trousseau for this
unorthodox marriage, there was no use entertaining grand delusions of rescue
from that quarter.

Yet,
was it possible that her mad dash to Ireland might have freed her to do as
she'd wished in the beginning? Before Winston Farnsworth had made her feel the
full reach of his power?

Could
she find a position of employment for herself somehow, somewhere her stepfather
would never find her? She might even be able to enlist Sir Aidan Kane's help in
finding a situation.

Norah
grimaced. There was more chance of Sir Aidan Kane coming to her chamber and
falling down on one knee, begging her hand in marriage.

Norah
grimaced as an apple-cheeked servant in a charming white cap came barreling out
of a chamber, a bunch of linens clutched in plump white arms.

"Rose!"
the footman called out. "You'd best drop whatever you be doin' and take
yourself off to the Blue Room directly. The master wants it buffed up right
smart now."

"Tell
'im it's plenty buffed up for them that stays there!" The pert Irish girl
tossed Sipes a smile that must have broken a dozen hearts. "I much doubt a
haunting ghost would have need o' clean bedding."

"Maybe
not, but this lady will." Sipes set down Norah's trunk with a bang.
"She be visiting at Rathcannon, and Sir Aidan ordered she be put in that
very chamber."

"I
don't believe it!" The maid gaped at Norah. "Has the master waxed
mad?"

At
that instant, a precise figure dressed in black swooped from another door, keys
jangling at her waist. "Even if Sir Aidan has taken more leave of his
senses than usual, it's not for you to be gossiping about, Rose. Follow his
orders at once, or—heavenly days!"

The
older woman slammed to a halt, pressing one hand to her breasts as she stared
at Norah. "What in the world—"

"It's
a lady come all the way from England." Sipes scurried over to the woman,
relating the debacle in the carriage circle in hushed tones.

By
the time he was finished, the woman looked quite pale, and Norah braced herself
for another bout of recriminations for her foolishness. "Don't tell me
that wicked girl dragged you all this way," the woman blustered, "and
Sir Aidan, without so much as a notion you were to come here. What kind of
female would do such a rash thing as to—"

"To
come to Ireland to marry a stranger?" Norah's cheeks burned as she
interrupted Mrs. Brindle's disjointed tirade. "I don't know. But I would
say that she deserves whatever disaster befalls her, wouldn't you?"

She
looked away from the older woman, hiding the sudden, sharp sting of tears.

The
words seemed to take the woman aback. She drew closer, and Norah smelled a
comforting scent of lavender swirling up from dark skirts.

"Now,
now," the woman tsked. "Whatever brought you here, 'tis obvious
you're a lady. And not a hard one either, with the soft look to your eyes. I'm
Maude Brindle, Sir Aidan's housekeeper and, once upon a time, Miss Cassandra's
nurse. Though if the child's been up to the kind of mischief Sipes is prattling
about, I'm ashamed to own her."

Norah
forced her lips into a tremulous smile. "This was all a terrible mistake,
Mrs. Brindle."

"Anything
where men are involved is like to be one, child," the housekeeper observed
with a shake of her head. "I buried my husband nigh thirty years ago, and
I can tell you right off that men are nothing but trouble, especially men the
like of Sir Aidan."

"I
can't argue with you about that. I intend to leave the moment I can arrange
it."

The
woman's face pursed up in a formidable scowl. "I'm certain if I bundled
you into a coach this instant you couldn't be quit of the two of them soon
enough! Of all the inexcusable mischief!" Outrage streaked across an
ageless face. "Oh, and I shall take them to task for this, I promise you!
You look tired to death, miss, and us not expecting you! Put the trunk in that
room there, Calvy Sipes, and tell Noddie and Claire to bring up a bath for the
lady. And cook can wet her up a bit of tea, and put some cakes on a plate. Poor
thing looks like to fade clean away, she's so pale."

It
seemed as if it had taken forever to traverse the maze of corridors and
stairways of Rathcannon. But in a heartbeat, Mrs. Brindle had swept Norah into
the mysterious Blue Room, enthroning her before a freshly started fire, with a
hartshorn pillow at her back and a heartening cup of tea warming her hands.

The
irrepressible Rose and three other lively maids rushed about, spreading
exquisite sheets on the four-poster bed, dashing blue-velvet draperies back
from windows that hadn't been opened in so many years that their frames were
warped shut. But if they could have been thrown open, Norah doubted even the
sweet-smelling Irish breezes could drive back the mustiness that thickened the
air in the chamber, or the shadows that seemed to press themselves into the
painted wallpaper and huddle in the corners. Shadows that seemed to lodge cold
and dismal in Norah's own breast.

As
a child, she'd been tormented by the oddest notion that at night her stepfather
had torn away the floor outside Norah's room, so that if she set foot beyond
that door to seek her mother she would plunge into a black abyss, filled with
snarling monsters.

She'd
told herself a hundred times to go, to open the door. Certain that if she raced
very fast across the chasm, she'd be able to reach the other side and find her
mother again.

Of
course, she had never dared and had spent the solitary nights trembling beneath
the coverlets, listening for the scritch-scratching of the monsters' claws and
the soft, hungry growls of their stomachs.

Tonight
she felt as if she had finally dared the chasm, outwitted the monsters, only to
find herself at the edge of an even deeper chasm, populated with monsters far
fiercer than the ones she had faced before. And there was no way she could turn
back.