Seacliff (7 page)

She allowed herself to be led away because suddenly she felt she couldn’t stand on her own.

The bench was in the shadows, away from the torchlight. Flint sat beside her, a hand on her knee, his chin brushing her shoulder.

“My husband…” she began, licking her lips, frantically searching for words.

“A fine man,” he told her. He kissed her neck once, then drew away and waited.

“I don’t think—”

“Neither of us should, not on a night like this,” he said. “That’s the trouble with the world these days, you see. One thinks and another disagrees, and the next thing you know they’re bashing away at each other like children at a fair.”

She giggled into her palm. “Mr. Flint, I don’t think my husband would approve your description of battle.”

“A fine man,” he repeated, and kissed her neck again.

This isn’t happening, she thought wildly, as panic and unnerving desire began to mingle disturbingly. Lord, I can’t let this—suddenly, the world began to draw away from her, and her head began to reel. No, she cried silently; I can’t faint now. Oh, God …

“My lady,” Flint said. “Are you all right?”

She wanted to nod, but when he grasped her hand, another surge of excitement forced her to close her eyes. A moment, she decided; all I need is a moment alone.

Flint rose then, solicitous as he brushed the hair from her forehead, pulled her handkerchief from her grip and fanned her lightly. The makeshift breeze was welcome, and she leaned into it gratefully, sighing, thinking what a disgrace it would be to swoon in the king’s garden, and with Oliver nearby.

“I’ll fetch your husband,” Flint said then. “I don’t think you should be alone.”

“No,” she pleaded, thinking of Oliver’s anger. “Not yet, please!”

“It’ll be all right,” he soothed. “I’ll handle the explanations.

You’ve nothing to fear.”

“But Mr. Flint, please—”

“I shall detain him long enough for you to calm yourself. And then,” he added softly, “I’m going to invite myself to dinner.”

5

“I
tell you, Cat, and I tell you true—there are times when I think you should be locked away. Imagine having all that to drink and then almost disgracing yourself, right in the king’s garden!” Gwen paused for a breath, her broad smile putting the lie to the sternness of her tone. “Honestly, you give the Welsh a bad name, you do. Why, what would your father think?”

They were riding slowly along the Windsor road, approaching the Eton turnoff to Caitlin’s English home. Caitlin said nothing to Gwen’s friendly, sometimes laugh-punctuated jibes.

“And Griff,” Gwen said slyly. “Why, if he were here he’d probably have you over his knee in a trice.”

Caitlin nodded to herself. Griff probably would do something like that. The man had no sense of propriety, and certainly he did not have the grace of a man like James Patrick Flint.

A muffled sound of disgust escaped her lips. How, after what he’d nearly done, could she think of him so … so kindly? She drew her cloak more closely around her, though the twilight was anything but chilly.

“Cat? Cat, did you hear what I said? About Griff?”

“I heard,” she answered sullenly, “and I’d appreciate your not mentioning him again. Or prattling on like this.”

Gwen sobered instantly. “Oh. I’m sorry, Cat. I understand.”

But she didn’t, Caitlin thought. Gwen was under the impression that she was feeling great waves of remorse—and she wasn’t, and that was what bothered her.

Three days had passed since the reception at Windsor Castle, and this was the first day she’d left the house without feeling as if every servant and villager in the country could see the guilt on her face. Oliver, fetched by Flint, had scolded her harshly all the way home and had punished her by refusing to take his meals with her. Thus isolated from everyone but Gwen, Caitlin had had plenty of time to review the incident and to thrash over her feelings. And then there had been the dreams: at one moment she was trying to lure Griff into her bed by behaving like a harlot, and at the next she was dancing with him, her gaze unwilling to leave the flashing dare in his eyes. Oliver, too, stalked her at night, smashing through her bedroom door with the butt of his musket, stripping her of her nightclothes and laying open her flesh with steady strokes of a coachwhip. Griffin laughed at her uproariously; Flint consoled her and stroked balm on her wounds; Oliver returned to open them again.

Finally, just after the midday meal, she’d had enough of her own thoughts and ordered Davy to prepare her horse despite Gwen’s protest that it wasn’t safe to ride so late in the day. They rode at a furious pace along the banks of the Thames until both mounts were threatening to lather. Then they walked back for over a mile before they remounted and Gwen began her attempts to bring a smile to her mistress’s face.

And the worst part was that Caitlin had been unable to tell Gwen everything. She’d hinted broadly about Flint’s bold advances, but covered herself with lies about her drinking and the silly reactions the wine had produced.

“Cat, did you hear that?”

Caitlin looked up quickly. She saw nothing but the columns of trees that marked the lane into which they were turning.

There was nothing but the early evening’s chorus of insects. And their road sounds were muffled by the foliage overhead. The shadows writhing in the brush heightened her abrupt sense of unease, which she blamed on her friend’s nerves—and her desperate need to feel guiltier than she did. She was, after all, a married woman, with obligations to a husband. No matter that the husband refused to perform his husbandly duties save once or twice every few months, when he was either elated over business, or steeped in his port. No matter. She was married and bound by duty. Yet just when she thought she had banished Griffin’s ghost from her dreams forever, along came James Flint to exchange places with him.

And she didn’t even know him!

“Cat,” Gwen whispered, continuing to speak Welsh as she had throughout the day. “Cat, we’re not alone.”

The chestnut’s ears were pricked up high, and Caitlin tugged lightly on the reins, cocking her head to listen.

She could only hear an owl and the faint rustle of the brush in the shadows.

Directly ahead, the narrow lane vanished into the ebony night. Not even the lights from the house were visible at this distance. A faint wind whistled through the leaves. The jangle of the harnesses, and the clop of hooves rang out.

Suddenly, something huge and black exploded from the brush to her right, and Gwen released a scream that was abruptly cut off. A hand grabbed for the chestnut’s bridle, and before Caitlin had time to dig her heels into the horse’s sides massive hands pulled her from the saddle, clamped hard over her mouth, and dragged her off the lane into the darkness.

She lashed out with her feet, her hands becoming claws, digging into the flesh of the hand that was nearly smothering her. A grunt, and a hard knee into the small of her back knocked the wind from her lungs. She sagged, fell, and shaded her eyes when a lantern was brought near her face. She could hear several things at once: the horses pounding down the lane toward the house, Gwen’s struggles nearby, and a deep-throated chuckle from the lamp holder. She pushed herself up to her elbows and crawled backward until she came against the bole of a twisted elm.

“Who are you?” she demanded, unable to see the face beyond the glowing light. “You can’t do this!”

A laugh, menacing and confident, sounded.

“You don’t know who I am! My God, my husband will have you killed when he finds out.”

“Speak English, bitch!” came a rough command out of the dark, and Caitlin realized that in panic she’d been speaking Welsh. “You ain’t so high-and-mighty, are ye … m’lady.” And the title was dragged out in mocking tones.

Caitlin looked wildly from side to side, seeing nothing but the contours of bushes. She wanted frantically to find Gwen, but even the sounds of her struggles were denied her now.

The lantern was lowered, and a tall form towered over her. She pushed herself hard against the bole, and cried out when two hands from behind the tree grabbed her arms and then pinned them down. The lantern holder chuckled and dropped to his knees. His face was masked with black cloth; only deep-shadowed pits marked the place where his eyes should be. She kicked out when he grabbed her calf, and gasped when his grip tightened to a vise. Her skirt rode up her leg. He snared her other leg and forced it to one side as he moved quickly between her knees.

“Ye’ll not have a great pain if ye don’t fight it,” the man said, his voice muffled by the mask.

“Bastard!” she spat, her rage temporarily overwhelming her terror.

He laughed and pushed her skirts up to her waist, reached out and pawed at her breasts. When she screamed, he slapped her into silence. She could taste salty blood at the comers of her mouth.

“They say, y’know, that Welsh women are wild. Like animals, they are.” The tone was leering and frighteningly calm. “Are ye an animal, m’lady bitch? Huh? Be ye—”

She screamed again—this time because the man suddenly let out a yell and pitched over her left leg into the dark. A second figure charged across the lantern’s low beam, and the hands that pinned her vanished as though stung. Immediately, she pulled her legs to her, hugging herself and trembling violently. Though a fight raged only a few yards away, she could hear it only faintly. Blood was rushing to her ears; her heart beat wildly; and the dim light took on an unearthly red glow, neither warm nor cold.

Something told her to move. An urgency demanded she escape while she had the chance. But her legs would not obey her. There were tears in her eyes, but she didn’t feel them; an icy coating of perspiration covered her face, but she didn’t feel it. All there was for her was an eternity of waiting, the feel of the man’s hands on her legs, the sinister hatred in his voice, the look of those eyes that had no color at all.

“My lady.”

She started, whimpering, then tried to push herself to her feet. “My lady, please.”

“Go away,” she pleaded. “Go away, go away!”

“My lady, it’s all right. You’re safe now. It’s all right.”

She had no idea how long it took for the words to penetrate, but suddenly the lantern was floating in the air before her, and a familiar voice was saying, “I told you I was going to invite myself to dinner.” And the last thing she saw before consciousness fled was James Flint’s smile, crooked and hard.

T
he darkness was comforting. Several times she had left it, only to find Gwen sitting at her bedside, pale and drawn. And several times she retreated again, though each time now she grew more reluctant to return. But finally with a weary hand over her eyes to blot out a dim sun, she lay amid pillows and quilts and dared ask where she was.

“Home,” Gwen said, and embraced her.

The tears flowed easily and for nearly an hour, before Caitlin rose to a sitting position, and looked around the room as if she’d never seen it before. Then she glanced at Gwen, a questioning look on her face.

“It was Flint who saved us,” Gwen told her. “He’d just arrived when the horses came hell-bent out of the trees. He … he saved us, Cat. He saved us.”

Caitlin rubbed her face hard, pressing her knuckles into her eyes and wincing at the pain. “I thought it was a nightmare.” She sniffed and took Gwen’s hand. “Are you … all right?”

Gwen’s smile turned slightly bitter. “It seems I’m not the prize. I was taken off as you were, but I was not touched. And you?”

Caitlin shook her head slowly. “I hate this place, Gwen,” she said, her voice low and angry. “Every summer we come here and we stay for months on end. We put up with those asses who mock us for who we are, and assault us almost on our own doorstep.” She felt tears well up in her eyes and drove them back; she would not weep. The time for weeping was past. “I’m going to tell Oliver I want to go home.”

Gwen shifted uneasily on the edge of the mattress. “Cat, you’re speaking Welsh.”

“I don’t give a damn!”

“But Sir Oliver…” She glanced at the door.

“Oh, my God,” she said, “I’d forgotten all about him. Is he waiting? Oh, God, Gwen, let him in!”

Gwen climbed off the mattress, off the dais, and opened the door. Oliver strode in immediately, concern making his face pale and his eyes narrowing. He grabbed Caitlin’s hands in his and kissed her soundly on the cheek, murmuring over and over again how sorry he was. She laid her forehead against his cheek, grateful for the solace that lasted several minutes before he drew away and faced her.

“Those men,” he said.

“I never saw their faces,” she told him, shuddering slightly at the image of the eyes behind the mask.

“They ran away, the cowards! Flint was superb, absolutely superb, but there were three men, and they managed to elude him.” He raised a fist that trembled beside his cheek. “I can’t believe it. I simply cannot believe this could happen to my wife.”

“Oliver?”

His scowl softened, but his glaring eyes remained angry. “Oliver, I want to go home.”

He leaned back and stared. “Home? But you are home, my dear.” Then realization struck him. “Ah. You mean, a journey to Seacliff.” He patted her hand, like a father with his child. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now you must rest yourself.”

“Oliver…” Her stomach growled, making her smile. “Oh dear, I think I’m hungry.”

“And well you should be, Caitlin,” he said, rising from the bed to stand with hands behind his back. He smiled. “You’ve been sleeping for nearly a day.”

“What?”

“As a matter of fact, we’re dining in less than an hour. If you should feel up to it …”

“We?”

“Mr. Flint,” he said, “has consented to stay until he is assured you have suffered no ill effects from your … adventure.” She wanted to argue with his choice of words, but merely nodded noncommittally and smiled when he kissed her again before departing.

Flint, she thought as she thrust aside the covers. First he practically tries to rape me; then he saves my life. She frowned, puzzled. She couldn’t stay in bed, now that she knew he was downstairs, waiting. Over Gwen’s protests she dressed simply, moving about the room in small steps until her equilibrium returned. And once she felt sure of herself, she descended the stairs on Gwen’s arm, shaking off her unease as they reached the dining room.