Seacliff (26 page)

A footstep sounded behind her, but she did not turn.

“My lady,” Flint said, standing at her left shoulder and watching Oliver vanish around the comer of the south tower. “It appears your husband has a higher calling now.”

She would not deign to look at him. Her voice was as cold as the wind from the sea. “I know what is happening, Mr. Flint.”

“Mr. Flint?” he said, seemingly surprised. “And what happened to James, my lady?”

“James died months ago,” she told him. “In fact, I don’t believe he ever lived.”

“A pity. He seemed such a bonny fellow.”

“You bastard.”

“Be careful, my lady. You heard the man. I’m to take charge.”

He moved to stand beside her, but she started walking toward the house to keep him behind her. “There are those who have not yet given up on me, Mr. Flint. I don’t know what you have in mind, but you will not have me quite so easily as you once did, and you’ll not control me as you obviously do Oliver.”

He followed her in silence for a moment, then reached out suddenly and grabbed her shoulder. She squirmed under his grip, but he did not release her. Turning her roughly, he smiled as if they’d merely clasped hands.

“You speak of friends, my lady. I trust you don’t mean the master of Falconrest.”

With an effort she kept her expression severe. “I do.”

“But, my lady, I thought your little Welsh spies would have told you by now.” A finger to his chin, and he looked up at the mansion. “Ah, but I imagine it’s rather too soon even for such lovely gossip.”

“What are you talking about, Flint?” she demanded.

“Why, Griffin Radnor, my lady. He’s been declared an outlaw, a scalawag with a bounty on his head.”

She wanted to laugh, but her lips parted soundlessly.

Flint nodded. “Yes, you’ve heard me right, Caitlin Morgan. The man, as of dawn this morning, is an outlaw.”

“But what’s he done?” she cried.

“Done?” Flint laughed, a harsh barking sound. “Done? Why, my lady, he’s a killer. He’s wanted for murder.”

20

T
he soft touch of October’s chill had hardened, become brittle, then turned into the dead cold of winter. Caitlin found her limbs locked in place, her throat constricted, her eyes glazed against the afternoon’s dying light. Her first reaction was a vehement denial. Griffin might be many things, but a murderer he was not. Flint, however, had left her immediately after he’d offered the news that obviously delighted him, and she was unable to question him when her thunderstruck speech returned. Then, whirling around, she wondered bitterly what sort of trouble he’d gotten himself into this time: a brawl at the Stag’s Head, perhaps, or something similar during his prolonged stay in London? His Welsh arrogance was such that she would not put it past him to use his fists to defend his country’s honor, the result of which might very well be the accidental death of his opponent.

But murder? That implied a premeditated deed, and Radnor, for all his disdain for the trappings of wealth and the opinions of others, would never purposely take a life. Never.

She glanced around helplessly, fighting her panic. Then, as her concern for his safety galvanized her, she broke into a headlong run toward the stables, her cloak billowing and rippling behind her, her hood catching the wind and slipping from her head. As she raced over the grass she cried out for Davy, and sobbed her relief when he poked his head out the stable door. He gaped at the sight of her and reached inside for a large, sharp rake, holding it to his chest while he searched her wake for the culprit in pursuit.

“My horse!” she called as she neared him. “Saddle my horse instantly, Davy!”

He hesitated. He remembered clearly the last time she’d attempted riding before she was ready, and he wanted no responsibility for another near accident. Especially now that the master was gone and the demon Flint was left ruling in his place.

Caitlin would not be denied. She shoved past him when he didn’t move from her path, fairly pushing him inside and reaching for the bridle hanging on the wall. Sputtering complaints all the while, hurrying as fast as he could with his back half-bent, he brought the roan from its stall. Before the animal was fully out, Caitlin was palming the bit between its teeth, simultaneously snapping at Davy to fetch the saddle, or did she have to do everything herself?

Moments later she was in the stable-yard, sawing at the reins to keep her mount from rearing. “Get inside,” she instructed, “and tell Gwen to be in my rooms when I return. Then…” She cut herself short and frowned. Behind her in the carriage house, there was an empty space where the first coach should have been. “Why aren’t you with Sir Oliver?” she demanded.

Davy, who had already braced himself to sprint to the tower, almost stumbled in an effort to turn around in the same move. “He says he don’t need me, mistress. He had one of Mr. Flint’s lads take the bench for him.”

There was no time for speculation. She merely jerked her head to send him on his way, then kicked at the roan’s flank. The horse reared in surprise, then bolted across the grass, nearly throwing Caitlin from its back. Leaning forward to minimize the effects of the wind, she squinted as she guided the animal onto the lane and down over the rise. There had been a flicker of movement at the front doors, but she didn’t look back. Whether it was Bradford or Flint watching made no difference to her. Neither one would come after her.

Wall and trees swam into a single colorless blur as she sped toward the village; dead leaves already littering the roadway swirled under the horse’s hooves in small dervishes. The ice-tinged air snapped red into her cheeks, penetrated her ruffled blouse and made her shiver. Her hair spun over her back, its color a perfect complement to the autumn shades that swept over the valley in breathtaking abandon. A whiff of burning leaves and twigs, the sharp aroma of cider fermenting in someone’s yard-still, the cutting scent of the sea as it cooled down toward winter—all of fall’s delights were lost on her as she galloped past the church and ignored a startled wave from Reverend Lynne.

Around the commons she raced until she reached the village proper.

Martin Randall, standing in front of his tin and goldsmith’s shop, reached up to doff his cap out of respect for her but he wasn’t fast enough. She was there and gone, and he wondered if she was trying to catch up with her husband’s coach, which had also barreled through the village as if the devil himself were prodding the horses’ rumps. He shrugged. ’Twas no concern of his these days, and maybe it would be better if she did catch him, and not return. Though he was sorry for her being sickly these past weeks, he felt nothing more than he would have if his own dog had fallen ill. After all, at the last hearing the major had refused his petition to wed Quinn Broary, the reason being that the army would be through soon to pick up new recruits, and the major in his kindness did not wish Mistress Broary to wed now and find herself a widow in a year’s time. And in Martin’s view—as in the views of many others— what the major thought, so did the mistress. Which was a pitying shame. She had been such a fine young woman before the marriage had changed her.

Similar thoughts passed sadly through the mind of Susan Shamac, the seamstress, when Caitlin flew past her cottage. She’d been working on a terribly fancy new uniform for that horrid Mr. Flint when she’d heard the frantic hoofbeats and thought someone was being chased by a ghost through the village. Peering through her window, however, and seeing who it was, she only snorted, turned and took out her sudden ill temper on the girls sewing in the dim light of the parlor, cursing Caitlin Morgan for making her remember how it once was.

Ellis Lynne, wringing his hands and frowning, watched as Caitlin reached the last of the houses and began the rough climb toward the gap in the barrier hills. And when she turned off onto the lane to Falconrest, his frown deepened. What did she know? he asked himself worriedly, and did Mr. Flint know where she was going? He vacillated, tom between the urge to follow—at a discreet distance, of course—and the temptation to hurry up to Seacliff with the news of Caitlin’s flight. But by the time the dust had settled on the road it was too late. And just as well. He’d already done enough for the estate’s steward over the past few months, and he thought he could afford to let this item pass. Besides, it wouldn’t do for him to be seen at the ancient castle so soon after the previous night. People might talk. People might put their heads together, do some figuring on their fingers, and come up with four. And that, beyond doubt, would never do at all.

A woman’s voice called his name petulantly.

He glanced toward the rectory and away again. He wasn’t exactly ready for her again, not now, and he was beginning to doubt, too, the high value he’d placed on that bit of Flint’s largesse. The idea of taking in a young woman, unmarried and with a child, had increased his standing in the village, and his reputation as a true Christian. After all, the Reverend Lynne was known for his piety, sobriety, and chastity. What safer place for Morag Burton than in his keeping? He grinned, and quickly released a grateful prayer that the child had spared him the honor of having any of his features.

Caitlin was aware of none of the faces looking on as she rode from the commons to the high road; she concentrated only on keeping her seat on the roan as it took the sharp turn into Radnor’s Lane, slid heart-stoppingly, and burst forward straight out again. She was sitting taller now, trying to spot movement around Falconrest as she approached it. But it had been so long since she’d been there that she’d forgotten what was normal, and she slowed when the towering trees about the wall blocked her view.

The sun had dipped lower. Shadows crossed the lane to huddle at the wall’s base. A long chain hung from a hole in a wooden box near the gate, and without dismounting she grabbed and yanked it. In the distance she could hear the tolling of a deep bell. She pulled the chain again and maneuvered the roan so that she was framed in the gateway. A hand quickly combed through her hair and pulled the cloak more snugly across her chest.

She waited.

She wondered at the lack of fierce barking that should have accompanied her summons.

The feeling that someone was watching her became overpowering, and she looked up and down the lane, half expecting to see Flint coming toward her, insolently, confidently, and at his own pace. But there was no one. The lane was deserted, and Falconrest looked on indifferently.

She pulled the bell chain again, and the deep ringing had barely been caught by the breeze when she saw Jones striding across the grass from the side of the mansion. He was wearing a black frock coat, a puffed black ascot, black breeches, and stockings. Never a garrulous man, he seemed to intend by his dress and demeanor to cow people into leaving before he’d spoken a word. She saw him falter as soon as he recognized her, and she raised a hand to beckon him should he decide not to admit her.

He came on, however, stopping only ten feet from the gates. “Richard,” she said anxiously, “I’ve just heard about Griffin. I must talk with him.”

Jones, with lean face and sparse black hair seemingly set in plaster, blinked once.

“Richard, for God’s sake, you know who I am!”

“I do, m’lady,” he said, his voice matching his funereal appearance, somber and humorless. “Master Griffin is unavailable.”

Her hand clenched in front of her tightly. “Dammit, Richard…” She put the fist to her lips and forced herself to think. “You are positive he will not receive me.”

Jones nodded, without expression. “Will you give him a message?”

The steward nodded again.

“Tell him—” She knew what she was about to say was irrevocable, but if he was goaded to come to her so she could learn the truth, she was willing to take the chance. “Tell him I recall our conversation at the ringstones. He told me something then; you need not know what it was. Tell him he was right. Tell him I must talk with him before he does something stu—before he acts on the ridiculous accusation made by his enemies. Do you have that, Richard?”

Jones nodded a third time and, neither bowing nor a waving, he turned and began walking away.

“Richard!” she called after him frantically. “I will wait at Seacliff for his answer.”

T
he bay had turned a deep gray-green, and the swells heaved laboriously as the tide moved into shore. Gulls and terns skimmed low over the water, heading for the coves south of the valley where the wharves were receiving the fish-laden trawlers. The horizon was blurred with a faint gray mist, and through it the cyclopean red glare of the sun spread sullen fire over the surface.

Caitlin retreated from the balcony reluctantly, closing the door softly behind her and leaning back against it with a sigh. Her cloak was draped over the back of Oliver’s chair; her blouse was unlaced to expose a fair portion of her breasts. Her hand toyed idly with the tip of one lace, the other hand slapped impatiently at the side of her skirt. Against her back the panes felt cold, but she only straightened her shoulders; she did not move away.

He hadn’t come.

Somehow, during the long ride back, during the interminable dinner, she’d thought Griffin would be right behind her, pounding on the doors before she’d done with her fruit. But everything had remained quiet. Not even Flint had left his apartments to distract her with his acerbic commentary.

And Gwen… Despite Caitlin’s instructions she was not in the house, and no one seemed to know where she had gone.

With a shudder, then, she pushed away from the French doors and took a lighted taper from its sconce over the mantel. Cupping the fragile flame with the palm of her hand she knelt to light the kindling, and with a series of gentle puffs she set the logs to blazing. She blew out the taper and set it down beside her, held her hands to the dancing fire and felt the warmth flow comfortably up her arms.

The sunset’s red glow shifted to black night.

The heat of the fire brought a flush to her cheeks and forehead, made her open her blouse even farther. A vagrant thought told her to move back, but she remained seated in place; a cramp in her calves made her grimace, but she remained; and when the silence of the great house grew too heavy for her, she finally pushed herself to her feet and turned to make her way downstairs.