Dark of the Moon (37 page)

He had not told her he loved her, and that was part of the poison that ate at his heart. He had not even known it himself until Liam had told him that she was dead. He'd been disbelieving at first, shouting and arguing with his brother. When he'd finally been convinced, for the first and only time in his life he'd wept in his brother's arms. As his leg healed as much as it was going to and his physical pain lessened, he'd thought the pain in his heart and soul would lessen as well.

He'd been wrong. Even after nearly a year, any reminder of Caitlyn was more hurtful than his leg had ever been. Her loss was an open wound that refused to heal.

After he was up and about again, he'd tried to drown his grief in drink. That hadn't worked.

When he was drunk her shade took on substance and form so real that it made the ache that remained when he was sober just that much more painful, as if he had lost her all over again.

Finally he had realized that the most potent Irish whiskey in the world would not bring her back, and he had stopped drinking altogether. Instead he had packed up his brothers and Mickeen, left a caretaker behind at Donoughmore, and taken himself and his family out of Ireland. If he'd thought that would lessen the constant reminders he'd had of her, he'd been right. But the move had not eased his pain.

He'd lost Caitlyn. He did not want to lose any of the remaining members of his family. He'd discovered that he did not deal well with loss, and supposed that it came from the deaths of both his parents when he was very young. He'd felt very small and alone when they'd come to tell him about his mother, and when Mickeen had broken the news of his father's death, he'd felt just as lost, just as frightened. That was how he'd felt after Caitlyn's death as well, how he still felt now whenever be fell into a melancholy that he could not shake: like a child abandoned in the dark. He, Connor d'Arcy, Lord Earl of Iveagh, also known as the Dark Horseman, unfaltering paterfamilias, respected master of Donoughmore, had sometimes, in those first dark days after her death, cried in the wee hours of the night like a bairn. It was a secret that shamed him, and that along with fear for his brothers had driven him out of Donoughmore.

The Dark Horseman had died with Caitlyn. He no longer had the heart to ride, and a very real fear for his brothers' lives made it imperative that they not be allowed to take his place.

He'd brought them with him to England, settling Cormac and Rory in at Oxford to get a long-delayed education, much to their disgust, although in deference to what they perceived as his grief-stricken state they had not protested overmuch. Liam had obstinately refused to leave him and was now ensconced in the London town house they shared. A faint shadow of a smile touched Connor's mouth as he thought about Liam. Quite the man about town had Liam become, though he and Mickeen, who had remained with him as well, acting as his valet of all things, watched over Connor like hens with one chick between them. As months had passed, and to outward appearances his grief had lessened, they had ceased to fret over him every time they set eyes on him, and now confined their searching looks to once or twice a week.

Three months ago, Father Patrick had sent word to him of tenants, a family of nine with a father dying of the lung sickness, on the verge of being evicted from Ballymara because they had no money for rent. There were many such, and Connor knew that their plight was more desperate than ever because the Dark Horseman rode no more. So he had taken up his present form of supplying them and himself with funds, and found that, when he was working at least, the sharp edge of his grief was temporarily dulled. Unless, like tonight, he came across something or someone that reminded him of Caitlyn. Then the aching pain would take up residence in his heart again.

Watching the young woman twirl about the dance floor below, Connor's hands tightened over the polished walnut railing until his knuckles turned white. She was dancing; Caitlyn had never learned to dance. In the brief glimpses he was afforded of her gown as the domino parted, he saw that it was of lace-trimmed silk, very costly. Caitlyn had never possessed a gown like that, never expressed any interest in possessing one. But the color of the skirt was the exact kerry blue of her eyes.

Of course, from this distance he could not see the young woman's eyes. They would be brown, or hazel, or maybe even, if she was a ravishing beauty, green. Up close, they would not be kerry blue, set beneath slanting black brows and fringed with lashes so thick they could be used as brooms. Her nose would not be slender and elegant; her lips would not part to show small, dazzlingly white teeth when she smiled. Her hair would not be a silky black cloud that fell past her waist, and her waist would not be small enough so that he could span it with his hands. In short, if he got closer he would see at once that she could not be Caitlyn.

But beneath her mask he could see her mouth, and it was full and red as Caitlyn's had been.

Her jaw was fragile yet strong. And her skin was as white as smooth new cream.

Turning, he saw a footman passing behind him. Crooking a finger, he summoned the man to his side.

"Who is that?" he croaked, pointing. He knew it was folly, knew he was being foolish past permission, but he could not help himself. He had to know who she was— and was not.

"The lady in the domino? I don't know, sir. She came with one of the guests."

Connor's eyes closed for just an instant as the footman started to move away. Then he stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Do you know who she's with? What room she's been given?"

"No, sir. But if you wish, I'll find out."

"Please do."

The footman bowed and disappeared. Connor was left to watch the young woman below.

She was still dancing, though with a different partner, and she held herself stiffly as if she did not like his touch. Her lips were curved up in a small, polite smile. That smile riveted him. It recalled Caitlyn so vividly that his heart shook. It was all he could do not to race down the stairs, shoulder his way through the cavorting crowd, and rip that mask from her face. To do so would call too much attention to himself, of course. It might even lead to his arrest.

But his heart urged him to it.

"Pardon, sir, but none of the staff is acquainted with the lady's name. However, I can show you where her chamber is located, if you wish."

"Yes. I do wish it."

Feeling dazed, Connor followed the footman, who led him to a door along a long corridor on the second floor of the east wing.

"Would you like to get inside, sir?" From the footman's smirk, Connor realized that the man thought he was enamored with the mystery lady and wished to try his luck with her when she returned to her chamber. Of course, he had to remind himself that the females below were all Cyprians, up for sale to the highest bidder. The high-flyer who bore such a heart-stopping resemblance to Caitlyn was naught but a common whore.

Connor inclined his head. With a flourish, the footman produced a key and unlocked the door. Connor pressed a note into the man's hand and entered, pocketing the key. Then, bethinking himself of something, he turned back.

"Say naught of this," he warned in a voice that was far from his normal one. The footman inclined his head and took himself off. Connor closed and locked the door, pulled off his mask, then prowled the room. There was nothing in it of Caitlyn. The clothes in the wardrobe were of the finest material and most fashionable cut. The brush and comb on the dressing table were of chased silver. There were boxes of powder, a tin of rouge. There was even a crystal flacon of scent. Caitlyn had never worn scent.

This young woman was not Caitlyn. He knew she was not. She could not be. He had to learn to accept the unalterable fact that Caitlyn was dead. He should take himself off now, before the thefts were discovered, before his bag of jewels was found in the shrubbery beneath the window, before he himself was exposed. He knew he should, but still he stayed. He was in the grip of an obsession so strong there was no fighting it.

Connor waited for what seemed like hours. Occasionally he heard high-pitched laughter accompanied by lower- pitched murmurs in the hall outside as the female guests retired to their rooms with bed partners in tow. It occurred to him to wonder what he would do if the object of his inquiry was accompanied by a male. Kill him, came the immediate savage thought, and again he had to remind himself that this female was not Caitlyn. If she was accompanied, he would merely ascertain her identity by whatever ruse was necessary and take himself off.

In any event, when she returned to her room she was alone. It was nearer dawn than midnight, and she unlocked the door and stole inside as if she feared being observed. Once inside, she turned the key in the lock and leaned against the panel in a silent posture of relief.

She still wore her costume. At close range, the black silk domino topped by that outrageous plumed and beaded headdress and the cat's-eye mask made her look like some rare exotic bird.

Beneath the disguise, her human identity was still impossible to determine. Connor stared, his hands tightening over the arms of his chair.

The bedchamber was lit only by the fire in the hearth, and it had burned low. It cast but a small amount of light, so he was deep in shadow as he sat in the room's only small chair. She carried with her a candle, which she used to light the taper on her dressing table before she blew out the one in her hand and laid it aside. Then, without becoming aware of his presence, she began to undress.

She stood by the bed with its sumptuous gold satin coverlet, her back to him, not more than six feet from where he sat. First she took off her domino, revealing the expensive dress in all its glory. Then she lifted off her headdress, shaking her head so that a mass of black hair tumbled down her back in a silken tangle that reached past her waist. Connor swallowed, watching with growing shock. He leaned forward, ceasing to breathe.
As
she removed her mask and placed it on the bed, he was sure the very blood had stopped coursing through his veins.

He still could not see her face. Her back was to him as she twisted both hands behind her and tried to work the hooks on the back of her dress. She managed one, then the next. The third one eluded her. Finally, out of patience, she yanked at it, tearing the delicate material. The soft curse that followed the faint ripping sound stilled his heart.

"By the blessed virgin," he breathed, staring transfixed at her slender back.

She must have heard him, though he spoke scarcely louder than a breath, because she whirled about. To his stupefaction, Connor found himself staring into the delicately powdered and painted face of his lost love.

"C-c-c -Connor!" Hands to her mouth, eyes wide with shock, she was staring at him with as much horror as if he were the ghost and not she. Despite his own shock, Connor's mind nevertheless managed to function. Immediately it recognized that his first prayerful hypothesis of what her presence, alive and unharmed and here, might mean—that she had totally lost her memory in the fall from Fharannain and would have no idea who she was or where she belonged—could not be the explanation. Because clearly she knew who
he
was, and from her expression was frightened out of her wits.

He could not talk. Eyes never leaving her face, he got to his feet like a man in a dream and took the few steps needed to bring him to her. She looked up at him as he stood in front of her, and there was no mistaking the terror in her eyes. She looked desperate—and desperately scared. Of him? It would seem so. Frowning, he raised his hand to catch her chin, tilt her face up to his for inspection. She shrank away from his touch, but he did as he intended nonetheless.

It occurred to him that maybe he was asleep and dreaming. But her jaw felt real enough beneath his hand, her skin as silky smooth as he remembered. He could sense the tension that emanated from her body. She sank into a sitting position on the edge of the bed as if her knees had suddenly given out. Those kerry blue eyes that had been haunting him for nigh on a year remained fixed on his face. The next possibility—that he was losing his mind, that his subconscious was somehow projecting her features on an unknown young woman—was rejected too. She had called his name, and he had seen the shocked recognition in her eyes.

"C-Connor," she croaked again. She seemed almost as stunned as he. But not quite, he told himself with rising grimness. After all, he had believed her dead, while she had known that he was alive. Or maybe not, he thought as another possibility occurred to him. Maybe she had believed him dead from the terrible wound in his thigh, and maybe that belief had left her too grief-stricken to face Donoughmore again, just as he had been unable to stay on at Donoughmore with memories of her haunting him at every turn. Maybe the whole nightmarish year just past had been the result of nothing more than a horrible misunderstanding. . . .

"Caitlyn." He spoke her name as if his voice had rusted, his hand still under her jaw, his eyes moving over her face as if he had been blind and now could see. The small pink tip of her tongue came out to wet her lips. His stomach clenched. He would know that gesture anywhere.

In happier days it had troubled his sleep more times than he could count. Finally he allowed himself to believe.

"Caitlyn," he said again, deeply, his hands moving to close over her upper arms. Then he pulled her off the bed into his embrace, hugging her so tighdy against his body that the contact hurt. Her arms went around his waist beneath the enveloping black domino that he still wore, beneath the sober blue wool of his frock coat. He could feel the warmth of them even through his shirt, feel the softness of her breasts against his chest, feel the pounding of her heart. His own heart drummed in violent answer. For just a moment she clutched him as fiercely as he was holding her. His head bent, rested against the silky black hair that he had thought never to see again in this life. His eyes closed. Holding her as if he would never let her go, he breathed a silent prayer of thanks.