Seacliff (35 page)

Gwen instantly knew what was coming, and turned away. “That won’t do, Gwen Thomas,” she said softly. “It will still be there when you turn around again.”

“You can’t do it,” Gwen told her, and stepped across the threshold into the room.

Caitlin followed slowly, glancing once toward the doorway. The guard was not in sight. “What do you think I do up here all day, count dust motes?”

“I know, I know,” Gwen admitted with an impotent wave. “But there’s no one now to help you.”

“There is,” she said. “You, Davy, and Orin.”

“How? When?”

“The
how
I will tell you when the time comes and no sooner. The w
hen
shall be…” She looked over her shoulder at the clouds. “When hell comes to Seacliff.”

Gwen’s face formed a mask of bewilderment, but Caitlin only kissed her cheek and allowed at the top of her voice how the supper on her tray was worse than fodder for a dying horse. She ate, however, and chatted about the weather, the reading she had done, the lives of the villagers, as if her father were still master of the estate. Gwen did her best to hold her end of the conversation, but there were moments when she lapsed into puzzled silence and clearly doubted the stability of her mistress’s mind. And the more concerned she grew, the more Caitlin laughed aloud until the hour just after dark passed as if the good times had returned and there was no man in their lives named James Patrick Flint.

Then, just before Gwen left, Caitlin took her wrist and peered deep into her eyes. “You will tell Orin it’s my birthday,” she said.

Gwen opened her mouth, but Caitlin raised a hand to quiet her. “Tell him,” she said firmly. “And tell him the tether must be long enough to reach the sky.”

Gwen left shaking her head and muttering to herself, not even bothering to stop a second and swear at the guard. Once the door had closed behind her, Caitlin busied herself by laying a fire and as she knelt before the hearth, she felt the eyes of her father staring down at her from the mantel. She looked up, and grinned. Shadows played across the stone face, so that the eyes seemed to blink, the mouth to twitch, and the brow to crease in approval. The comfort of the illusion was enough to keep her steady when, four days later, the outer door slammed open while she was preparing for bed, and Flint strode in.

She was sitting at her mirror, a pearl-handled brush in her hand, and had been marveling at the way the luster remained in her hair after so long a confinement. She remembered an evening when, as a child, she’d sat at her mother’s feet and watched hypnotically as her mother brushed through similar strands, releasing the firelight in soft starbursts, darting across the mirror as if fireflies had been trapped within. The woman, whose face had grown slightly blurred as Caitlin grew older, had hummed to herself and smiled dreamily. Caitlin had taken to praying for whatever happiness had brought her mother such contentment.

She’d been remembering and had just sighed, a smile on her lips, when Flint strode in.

She was wearing little more than a flimsy nightgown over which she had thrown a robe whose cuffs were furred, the neck feathered, and the hem encrusted with semiprecious stones. Flint was taken aback by his reception and stopped in his tracks, the thought striking him that perhaps the woman had something up those elegant and voluminous sleeves of hers. It was not like her to greet him in such a fashion; the best he expected was wintery indifference, and the worst a sharp tongue honed by months of incarceration.

He himself was in a dressing gown of black and silver, his shirt opened to the waist and black slippers on his feet. A split second was all it took to realize she had not yet recognized him, that she was still in a dream world from which she was returning by slow stages. He waited. Having guarded his patience this long, a few more moments would make no difference.

And when she started as if dashed with cold water, he smiled. “Your answer,” he said as she gathered her wits about her. “I’m afraid, my dear, I have little time left to play your foolish games.”

“I do not play games with my life,” she told him. And her left hand fluttered to her chest when she saw the frank direction of his gaze. A flush of anger and embarrassment only increased the tension, and to break it, she looked back to the mirror, picked up the brush and pulled it harshly through her hair. His reflection appeared behind hers, and she was barely able to prevent herself from shuddering when his hands grasped her shoulders and began kneading them.

“Nevertheless, Caitlin, I must know what to do with you.”

“You have done quite enough, I should think.”

“Not nearly enough, Caitlin. Not by half.” He leaned down and pressed his lips to the top of her head. In a soft voice he said: “Has it ever occurred to you that in some mysterious and, I admit, rather unnerving way, you have taken my heart.”

“Then I shall give it back,” she said instantly. “I have no use for it.”

His right hand slipped around to the base of her throat, and thrust aside the robe to touch her bare skin. “But I have use for yours.”

“You can’t have it.”

“I shall take it if I have to,” he said. “One way or another.”

Her smile was sardonic. “You have a queer way of courting a woman, Mr. Flint. Soft words couched in threats. It must be hard to fill your bed, I shouldn’t wonder.”

She lowered the brush as his hand eased back and forth, raising a heat she tried to dispel by reminding herself of all the evil he had done. Yet when his fingertips brushed over the tops of her breasts, the shudder that racked her was not due to revulsion.

His smile, always slightly crooked because of the scar, widened into almost a grimace. “I do not wish to see you in prison, Caitlin. You can believe that, if you believe nothing else.”

She did. For whatever reasons, she believed it.

“And neither do I wish to see your lovely body lowered into a grave.”

“Another threat?”

“A prediction,” he qualified. “I’ve been rather successful with predictions, you know. Were Sir Oliver still with us, he would confirm that I long ago predicted the troubles in the colonies, and I could not help but see the king’s own problems.” He tapped his temple significantly. “His sanity’s leaving him, I think.”

“A pity.”

“For the country, yes. Had you been to London with me some months ago you would have heard the merchants complaining angrily about the American war. The colonies are their prime market. Lose them, and a great many enterprises will turn to dust.” He kissed her hair again. “Not a history lesson, my dear, and not idle chatter. If markets shrivel, this valley will go with them.”

“This valley was here before the English came, Mr. Flint, and it will be here when they leave.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Surely you’re not referring to me?” She glared in response.

He clucked his tongue, his hand slipping even lower. He would have cradled her breast had she not stopped him with an angry gesture. A moment later, his left hand cupped her chin gently, lifted her face and turned it to study her profile. “Marvelous. Absolutely marvelous.”

“From anyone else, that would be a compliment.”

She thought she’d pushed him too far when a flash of anger crossed his brow, but it was gone when he replaced the frown with a smile that had no depth, held no emotion, was no more sincere than those she’d seen on the face of her late husband.

“An answer,” he insisted.

“You’ve had it for months.”

“Are you sure, Caitlin? Are you absolutely sure life would be so bad with me?” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “We did have a time, you know. One short, marvelous time back there in Eton. Did… did that repel you so?”

“It does now.”

“Ah,” he said quickly, “but it did not then, did it?” His hands dropped away, back to her shoulders. “And if it did not once, it may not again.”

“You beguile yourself, Mr. Flint.”

“I know myself, Lady Morgan.”

She turned without warning on the stool, forcing him back a step. “Mr. Flint, you have come to learn if I will marry you or not. I will not. You have heard my answer, you know I will not change my mind, and you know I understand full well what I am letting myself into. Now, if you would be so kind as to leave me…”

Flint stared for a moment she thought unbearably long, then took hold of her arms and pulled her to her feet. She held her head back, but he did not try to kiss her. Instead, he pulled her out of the room, through the vanity and into the reception room where a small window faced the valley. He dragged her to it, his strides so long she had to run to keep her balance. Then he virtually threw her against the sill and pointed.

“There!” he said. “What do you see there?”

She looked through the panes only briefly, not wanting to turn away from him. “Night,” she said, simply.

“Look again, Caitlin. There’s a sun out there of my own creation.”

She stiffened against his body, but did as she was bidden. At first she saw nothing but the vague contours of the village below. The moon was hidden in a bank of low clouds, and since a fine mist filled the air, the lantern-light from the village homes burned only faintly. Then, slowly, her gaze was drawn upward to a wavering glare on the opposite hillside. It was a fire, and a large one. Smoke billowed upward as flames writhed toward the low cloud ceiling; though the distance was great, she could just make out tiny figures racing about madly.

She did not need to hear him whispering in her ear. After a second’s thought, she knew she was watching the funeral pyre of Falconrest.

“You couldn’t have it,” she said throatily, “so you have destroyed it.”

“The fortunes of war, my dear, the fortunes of war,” he said, watching the fire hypnotically. “I will regret it in years to come, perhaps. But for now it gives me a great deal of satisfaction.”

She hardly knew what she was doing. One moment she could not take her horrified gaze from the conflagration lighting the hills like some foul demon’s torch, the next she had turned on Flint and had brought her fist across his cheek. It was a punch, not a slap, and it came as such a surprise that it rocked him into the wall. He put a hand to his aching jaw and glared at her.

Caitlin ran.

She knew it was fruitless—that there was no place to hide— but instinct had taken over, and she hoped to reach the bedroom before Flint could recover.

She almost made it.

Just as she slammed the door and was fumbling with the latch, he kicked at it and flung it wide open, the edge catching her shoulder and tumbling her to the floor. He stood over her, fists at his sides, breathing heavily and swallowing. Then he reached down and took a fistful of her robe. She tried to snare his wrist, but he was too fast. He pulled once, pulled again, and when her arm would not slip through the sleeve the material finally gave. She rolled over and out of the robe, staring around the room wildly in search of a weapon and only at the last moment spied her father’s bust. She leaped for it, but Flint was beside her in one stride, the back of his hand catching her chest and flinging her to the bed.

She crawled backwards frantically, wanting but not daring to pull the hem of her nightgown down over her legs. But before she reached the other side of the mattress he reached out again, caught the neckline of the gown and yanked. Her head snapped forward, and she felt a burning lash across the nape of her neck. He yanked again, and the center seam gave a few inches. The sound made him grin, made her gasp, then dig her nails into the back of his hand. He yelled and released her, and she spun off the mattress to her feet.

Her arms had turned to lead, and something had coated her mouth and throat so she couldn’t scream. Perspiration washed over her, and the gown’s material soaked it up. The damp fabric clung to her like a second skin and revealed to Flint far more than it concealed. She didn’t care. What mattered to her was that he not touch her again.

Slowly, silently, he inched sideways around to the footboard. Before he could move, she was on the mattress again, flinging aside the pillows and pressing herself against the headboard. Her hair covered one side of her face and veiled her exposed breasts. The only light in the room was from the fire in the grate, and it turned his face into a satanic crimson mask that made her dizzy when she watched him closely. He tilted his head and moved on; she sidled away, dropping to the floor when he reached the other side of the bed.

“I am quicker than you,” he said.

She would not speak. While one part of her mind was trying to anticipate his next move, the other was trying to locate a weapon close at hand. If she turned to the mantel he would be on her; if she headed for the door he would have her in two steps; and there was nothing at all near or on the bed that she could use.

“Caitlin, Caitlin, how foolish you are.”

As she backed toward the edge of the bed platform her foot caught on the hem of her gown. She almost fell flat on her face and in that paralyzing moment of helplessness he rounded the comer and, with one hand gripping the bedpost, snared her again. This time she did not move. She stood there, immobile, as he tore the cloth from her body. Then he sat on the edge of the mattress holding the crumpled gown in his hands.

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “Yes.”

She made no attempt to cover herself. Instead, she stepped to the floor and backed away until she reached the hearth. The firelight rippled across the swells of her breasts, the firm plane of her stomach, and added a golden sheen to the perspiration on her flesh. At grave risk to herself—slowly, without taking her eyes from his— she knelt beside the hearth and lowered her head submissively.

“Caitlin, what is it?” Flint said, rising and tossing the shreds of the gown to one side.

“If you want me, there’s nothing I can do to stop you.”

He knelt in front of her and stroked the satin slope of her shoulder, touched her breasts, her abdomen, put his hands firmly on her flanks and turned his face to kiss her. She did not respond. She remained as a statue, neither accepting nor resisting, and though her heart recoiled at the fondling of her breasts, at the callous probing between her thighs, she did nothing but stare at him.