Seacliff (2 page)

And afterward, clothed again and listening to the stream’s crystal voice, she whispered, with a grin, “Father says you’re also working with the rebels against the English.”

A kiss on her cheek for an answer. “Well? Are you?”

There was mischief in his eyes. “Would you mind?”

She didn’t know if he was serious or not, but her response was grave just the same. “No. But I do not believe it. Father is… he is ill, and sometimes I think he sees phantoms, even in daylight.” She sighed then and smiled. “No. I don’t believe it.”

“And why not, Cat? Don’t you think I could fight those damnable English?”

“I’m sure you could,” she answered hastily, “but I doubt you do. No matter what stories Father tells about you, I’ve known you all my life. You wouldn’t deliberately put yourself in that sort of danger. Lord, if the king’s men caught you, you’d be hanged!”

He said nothing, only sat up abruptly and gripped his knees with his hands as he stared at the pond. There was no time here in the glen. There never had been enough, but suddenly she felt as if time had aged Griff so that he was much older than she; so much older that she grew a little frightened.

“Caitlin, you know… you know how I feel about you.”

She watched his back warily. “Yes.” A wren sang cheerfully in the boughs overhead. “Yes, I do.”

“But your father is right,” he said, after too long a time. “I’m really not the best catch you could find.” He rose then and stood over her. “And he is your father. It would be wrong to go against his wishes.”

Before she could move, he strode up to his mount and swung into the saddle. She called to him as she struggled to her feet, their loving seeming to have vanished like smoke.

“Griff,” she said, rushing to his side, “what Father said, all those things aren’t true! They’re—”

His expression was painful: love shone clearly in his eyes, but it was veiled by a shadow she did not understand.

“Griff, if you went there,” she said desperately. “If you went to Seacliff and talked with him, you could convince him. I know you could.”

Sadly he shook his head.

Anger, then, and hurt blended to harden her voice. “You mean you will not fight for me?”

“Mr. Evans has spoken, Caitlin.”

“I see. Yes. Yes, I see. If he gave his assent, you would take me without question. But one word, one little word and you fold like a leaf.” She glared. “I thought I was worth fighting for, Griffin Radnor.”

He opened his mouth to speak; instead he shook his head and wheeled his mount around. The stallion bolted into the woods and was, in seconds, little more than a specter among the trees. Within seconds, all she could hear was the sound of hooves, and the flutter of leaves above her.

Why? she pleaded silently. Why, Griff, why?

Then, with a glower, she stamped her foot, forgetting the beauty around her. “Damn you, Griff. Damn you, Griff Radnor! I hope the English take your head!”

PART ONE

Daughter

Eton, England, 1775

1

T
he falcon appeared to be little more than a speck soaring against the sky’s brilliant blue. With its powerful red-tipped wings, it climbed until the gently rolling land below took on distinct patterns: squares of green pasture, silver threads of streams, gem-shaped lakes where fish leaped unnoticed and skiffs rode under canopies of gold. Great oaks blended into sculptured masses, herds of grazing cattle and an occasional solitary horse rounded out the scenery.

The bird rose higher and coasted far above the tiny village of Egham and the narrow band of the Thames. Past Runnymede, then past Englefield Green sprawled atop a low hill. To the parkland on the outskirts of the royal town of Windsor it shuddered and blinked. A soft
scree
sounded to mark a sighting, and within a fraction of a second the beast had folded its wings and plunged into a dive almost too fast for the human eye to follow. Within moments it reached some unseen, but no doubt startled, quarry below.

A woman on horseback heard the hunting cry and reined in her high-strung chestnut to a sudden halt. Her companion just behind was surprised and cried out. The other woman raised her brown-gloved hand to her full red lips—a signal for silence— and the other swallowed her protest. She followed the pointing finger to where the falcon was already rising again, its long-eared prey limp in its talons. The companion shrugged.

There had been nothing novel about either the dive or the falcon; it was a sight she had seen nearly every day of her life, and being in this new country didn’t make it any more savory.

Then she urged her mount alongside the chestnut. “If we don’t get along, we’re going to be late.”

“But it’s so beautiful here,” the woman said, awe in her voice.

Her eyes sparkled as she twisted slowly around in her saddle.

The companion shrugged again. Perhaps it was, but in her present mood all she could see was that every tree and every bush seemed to be stamped “England” in bold lettering—not her notion of beauty.

The woman noted the disapproval and sighed loudly—a rebuke not entirely intentional. “Gwen,” she said, “you’re really not being fair.”

“Fair enough,” Gwen Thomas muttered.

“But look!” she cried, gesturing so strongly that her green velvet cloak fell back over one shoulder. “Look at what they’ve done here. It’s magnificent. It’s stunning. It marks a true eye for beauty, Gwen Thomas, and you cannot deny it no matter how sour you are.”

Gwen’s lips pursed, and she whistled silently. Finally, under the other woman’s steadily smiling gaze, she nodded her reluctant agreement and looked away, knowing her friend would suspect the lie if she added words.

Beyond was the Long Walk. It began on the low hillside to her left, a clearing of underbrush and trees across a lawn nearly one hundred yards wide. The Walk flowed down the slope in a brilliant green flood, jumped the road and the river, and continued for nearly a mile. Marking its end was a sudden rise, above which rose the bannered turrets and Round Tower of Windsor Castle. Around the castle was an impressive sweep of land and an artfully planted double row of trees so that the king, if he had a mind, could look out from his chambers at night and see the green carpet that led to a statue of a mounted nobleman.

“Beautiful,” the woman cried.

Gwen barely contained a groan. “Cat, if we don’t move along we’re going to be—”

Caitlin twisted sharply around, her eyes narrowed and lips taut. “Do not,” she said quietly, with steel undertone, “call me that while we’re here.”

Gwen glanced up and down the road. There was nothing but a cluster of sheep grazing on the Long Walk. “But… but there’s nobody here,” she protested.

“I don’t care,” she said, though less sternly. “If you keep on saying it, you might slip in front of Oliver.”

There was a moment’s pause before Gwen decided not to argue. As much as she hated to admit it, her mistress was right. Caitlin’s husband displayed a severe enough temper whenever the two women slipped unawares into their native Welsh; and to use Caitlin’s familiar childhood name invariably sparked a lecture from Morgan, accusing Gwen of being unseemly and trying to rise above her station. She herself did not mind, because Oliver was English and she delighted in every jab she could safely make. Unfortunately, he saved a portion of his anger for Caitlin, whom he rebuked for encouraging that sort of talk. And God knew, her mistress’s life was hard enough as it was.

“Caitlin.” A soft voice cried. “Caitlin, don’t be mad. I couldn’t stand it if you were mad at me.”

Caitlin considered the sky gravely, and the river, the sheep, the stately arrangement of trees.

“Cat? Please?”

A grin, sly and mischievous, formed, hidden from her friend. “All right, all right, if you’re going to whine like a pup.”

“Whine?” Gwen’s back straightened. She was shorter than Caitlin, plumper but not as voluptuous. Her hair and eyes were midnight, and her will just as strong. “Whine? Me?”

Caitlin’s expression assumed a parody of sternness. “Whine,” she said sharply. Then she poked her riding crop at Gwen’s arm. “You must learn your place, Gwen. It’s not proper for a servant to rebuke her mistress.”

“Servant? You’re calling
me
a servant?”

Her lips quivered in the effort to hold back a smile. “But of course, my child.”

“Child?”

“Just the other day, in Eton, didn’t that duke or baron or whatever the devil he was, tell you he’d like to have you in his household for an evening or two? To help you come of age, as it were. Isn’t that what he said?”

“Caitlin Morgan! If your father could hear you—”

But she was forestalled when Caitlin gestured a warning and began easing her mount to the side of the road. A moment later came the rhythmic sound of carriage and horses approaching behind them. Caitlin quickly adjusted her skirts and cloak, and pushed herself forward so she rode higher in the gleaming English saddle on the chestnut’s back. She threw an apologetic glance to Gwen and began moving sedately along the grassy verge. It was disappointing to have to rein in their joking; it was something they had little time for when Morgan was home from one of his business trips. He always insisted on prim comportment, an attitude he felt befit the wife of Sir Oliver Morgan, retired major in His Majesty’s army. He did not seem to understand— or he refused to acknowledge—that she was also, and most emphatically, Caitlin
Evans
Morgan, daughter of David Evans and mistress of Seacliff, Cardiganshire, Wales. And no matter what Oliver or any of the others might say, it was a heritage that she most profoundly cherished.

The carriage behind them slowed, and when she turned, she saw two pairs of matched grays approaching, each with a flowing white plume affixed to the leather strap between its ears. The coachman and footman were in scarlet and silver livery, and the closed, gold-trimmed vehicle looked impressively bright beneath its faint powdering of road dust. Within sat a bloated, powdered, and rather myopic old woman who had pulled aside the linen curtain and nodded a stiff, imperious greeting. The coach halted beside Caitlin.

“Lady Coming,” she acknowledged, thinking that of all people she had to encounter on the road it would have to be one of the most self-important harridans she’d ever met.

“My dear,” the older woman said. “Enjoying the air, I see.”

“We’ve just come from Egham,” she said. “We ordered some stained glass for my husband’s home.” She smiled. “Egham is such a lovely little place, don’t you think? And the work there is positively superb.”

“It is indeed. And how are you enjoying your stay in England, child?”

Her smile stiffened somewhat, but her response was nonetheless genuine: “Oh, lovely! I’ve never seen such marvelous things in my life.”

From the shadowed confines of the coach came a barely stifled laugh. Lady Coming’s sister, no doubt, Caitlin thought. “But it’s true,” she insisted.

“Of course it is, my dear,” Lady Coming said. “I hear that response from all visitors to our country. They just cannot seem to get enough of it.”

Caitlin frowned in puzzlement. “But I’m not really a visitor, you know. That is, I do spend almost as much time here as I do in Wales.”

A snort from the sister, and Lady Coming smiled tolerantly. “Wales, my child, is not really England.”

“Well, I know that,” she said, more sharply than she’d intended, “but it’s been part of the country for nearly two hundred years. More, if I’m not mistaken. And certainly far longer than the place those sour-faced Scots call a country.”

“Yes,” Lady Coming said stiffly. “I’m sure.” And at a rap against the door the coach lurched suddenly into motion, forcing Caitlin to back up quickly and turn her head away from the dust raised by the coach’s large red wheels. Once the air had cleared, Caitlin stared after the departing noblewoman and wondered what she’d said to offend her. She’d only spoken the truth as she saw it, and she had certainly said nothing against the old woman herself. Gwen pulled up alongside her, and Caitlin raised an eyebrow in silent question.

“I don’t know,” Gwen said. “I didn’t hear all you said.”

“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I hope I haven’t done it again.” She rode on silently, reviewing the brief conversation over and over in her mind, trying to pinpoint the moment of offense. But she could not; and the more she thought about it, the more it distressed her, pulled at her, tossing her back and forth between two convergent loyalties—her husband, and her country.

And in that moment of melancholy, and in an abrupt surge of homesickness, she saw in the June air before her the mocking visage of Griffin Radnor, his long, dark-copper hair flowing behind his rugged face in some impossible breeze. Oh, Griffin, she thought in momentary desperation, why did you let me do this thing? And the instant the thought formed, she scowled. Griffin Radnor was of the past. Whatever she might have felt for him was over, done with. Her father was right, had been all along. Griffin’s past was too dark to brighten Seacliff’s future, and whatever dreams she might still dream about him were simply the lingering fancies of a young girl, not those of a married woman. They would fade soon enough, just as the twinges of her heart would fade until the sound of his name no longer provoked her.

A sigh, whisper-soft, passed between her lips, and she looked guiltily to Gwen, who returned a quiet smile.

“You’re thinking of Griff, aren’t you?”

“No!” she snapped, almost shouting. Damn that girl. Always bringing up his name when it wasn’t wanted. Implying this and wishing that until Caitlin thought she would scream. Wasn’t it bad enough she and Oliver were locked in a marriage that was in name only? Must she always endure Gwen’s sporadic reminders of what might have been?

A tear welled in one eye, and she wiped it furiously away.

And in that gesture she snapped back to a time almost four years ago, to a glen nestled in the mountains far from Seacliff’s valley. She recalled a soft spring afternoon and a diamond-sparkling stream, birds of all colors weaving rainbows in the trees and deer by the dozens gamboling down to the banks to cool their thirst. She’d been told shortly before by her father that no matter how wealthy Griffin Radnor was, no matter how large his holdings or how respected, there would be no union of the Radnors and the Evanses. There were too many unpleasant rumors about Griffin’s time in the army, in which he did everything from gamble to wench, and perhaps worse. And wasn’t there Morag Burton’s claim that Griffin was the father of her bastard child? Sowing wild oats was one thing, her father had preached, but doing so in your own back yard was something else again.