Cates, Kimberly (12 page)

Hope
that could never be realized once she was Aidan's wife. Dreams she could never
fulfill in his bed.

Aidan
grimaced. Damn, what a heartless bastard he was. For he had promised Norah
Linton that he would not demand his conjugal rights only two hours before, but
already he could almost feel the satin-ribbon tie of her nightgown between his
fingers and imagine what it would be like to slip the bow free, taste the
ivory-satin skin along her delicate collarbone, the hollow of her throat—a far
different sensual flavor than the wanton fare he had become accustomed to.

Aidan
swore, disgusted with himself, berating that part of any man's nature that
allowed him to be led about by what was tucked beneath the flap of his
breeches.

He
had always enjoyed women—all women—buxom and bonnie, temperamental and passionate,
exotic beauties and giggling little idiots, the size of their busts far
outstripping the size of their intellects. He'd had females clambering after
him even before his father took him to lose his virginity—and he'd been offered
more than his share of trysts in the ill-spent years since.

But
the only temptation he had faced when confronted by a woman of Norah Linton's
mold was the devil-inspired craving to drive them to distraction, to break
through their proper facades with the hot whispers and teasing suggestions that
had sent them fleeing in the opposite direction whenever they laid eyes on him.
Surely it should be easy enough to keep himself distant from such a pale,
solemn slip of a thing as Norah Linton. Surely he wouldn't be tempted....

A
sudden sound, barely audible over the voice of the sea, made Aidan stiffen. He
wheeled Hazard about. Aidan's eyes narrowed, searching the tumble of stone and
heather, gorse and rowan that spangled the hills around him, searching the
faint track of bare turf that couldn't be described by any term so grandiose as
"road."

Night
sounds. Wind whispered in the leaves, rustling creatures skittered beneath
hedges, concealed by the darkness. He had heard those sounds on a hundred
different rides. He had felt the prickling at the nape of his neck, the
sensation of someone watching him, waiting—for what, he'd never been certain.
To watch him plunge down into hell, perhaps, or to send him to the devil with
help.

Never
had Aidan cherished any delusions about the danger that lurked beyond
Rathcannon's boundaries. If hate-filled looks were daggers, the country folk
who dwelled among the wild Irish hills would have put him in his grave years
before. His death would be a fitting blood price for his family's nefarious
deeds throughout the years.

But
his demons drove him to dare their wrath, to plunge into their territory, their
havens, and challenge them.

It
wasn't until tonight, with Cassandra's fears still reverberating through his
mind, that he had considered what might happen if he pushed the Irishmen too
far. If one night he had not ridden back to Rathcannon's stable, exhausted,
exhilarated, but rather been hauled there on a litter, past the ability to hold
his daughter or shield her ever again.

His
fingers moved to the butt of the pistol he had shoved into his boottop before
setting out on his ride. He spurred Hazard toward the road, but the horse
reared, nearly unseating him, when a crouched shadow appeared nearly beneath
his nose. Eyes flashed in the moonshine, wide and defiant by the silvery
light—the face of a zealot beneath a shaggy tangle of hair, something unwieldy
cradled in his arms. A boy who looked to be Cassandra's age was crumpled like a
child in the larger man's arms, a man whose rugged features seemed strangely familiar
to Aidan despite the darkness.

No,
it was not the man who was familiar, Aidan assured himself. Rather it was the
scent that filled his nostrils, a metallic mixture of blood and gunpowder and
desperation that still haunted his senses from a dozen different battlefields.

Yet
these two figures had been silent, still as rabbits cornered by the ravaging
fangs of a fox.

"What
the devil!" Aidan started to dismount.

"Ride
out now, murdering English bastard, or die!" the man snarled.

"Your
boy there needs help. Let me—"

"He'd
rather have his last drop of blood soaked up by Irish soil than have his wounds
bound up by a thieving Kane of Rathcannon! Leave, before I have to kill
you!"

Aidan
was stunned that the man had recognized him in the dark. Yet in a heartbeat Aidan
understood the situation as the sound of hoofbeats approached at breakneck pace
from down the road. They were being hunted, the man and the wounded boy. For
what crime? God only knew. Yet their helplessness chafed at Aidan as the two
huddled there, helpless, awaiting certain doom.

He
shielded his eyes with one hand, trying to peel back the veil of darkness. He
caught a glimpse of scarlet, a flash of gold, heard the unmistakable tones of
an English soldier.

"Certain...
can't have gotten far, sir." The assurance drifted toward them. "At
least... one bullet... hit the boy. Sure of it."

"Perhaps
you managed to kill him, Denny. Save the Crown the cost of a new rope to hang
him with, though the hangmen'll be fighting over who gets to stretch the neck
of the other bastard."

A
hanging offense. Whatever these men had done, they were to pay for it with
their lives.

Aidan
glanced down at the Irishman, just in time to see the man lunging toward Hazard
in an effort to grab the horse and make an escape. With the barest shift of his
knees, Aidan sent the stallion bolting out of the man's reach, leaving him
defenseless.

How
many times had Aidan known that sensation of helplessness in the years he'd
battled under Wellington's command? How many times had he felt the blind panic,
the wild surging of fear through his veins as his enemies charged toward him?
How many times had he been certain he was about to die?

Blast
it, these men were no one to him. Aidan attempted to rein himself in savagely.
For all he knew, they could've been plotting villainy against Rathcannon,
destroying his own fields.

But
at that instant he heard the wounded lad whimper, felt his desperation like a
living thing in his own chest. Damnation, could he really abandon them to the
soldiers' vengeance?

Cursing
himself as a fool, he spurred Hazard toward the contingent of soldiers bearing
down on their prey. If he hadn't consumed so much Madeira hours earlier, he was
dead certain he would have pointed the way to the idiots' hiding place, or at
least ridden on, not embroiling himself in affairs that were none of his
concern. Instead, he felt a wave of pure stupidity unfurling in his gut.

"Halt!
Who goes there!" Alarmed commands rang out as Aidan cantered from the
shadows, to find the whole bevy of soldiers bristling with pistols and muskets
aimed squarely at his heart.

With
a reckless laugh, Aidan reined his stallion so that it blocked the narrow
breach in the road. He held his hands aloft. "Don't shoot! I surrender!
Only tell me my crime! Attempting to steal the moon? Disturbing the peace of
the sea gulls? Or something truly heinous, like trampling the fairy folk
dancing in the raths?"

"How
would you like your words rammed down your throat at the point of my
sword?" one of the soldiers growled.

"It
might be a novelty. Last acquaintance I had with a sword, His Majesty was
laying it atop my shoulders, knighting me for heroism. I vow it was one of the
most chilling confrontations of my life."

"His
Majesty—knighting—who the devil..." The portly sergeant sent his mount
trotting toward him, and Aidan turned so that his profile was angled into the
light.

"Sir
Aidan Kane, your obedient servant."

"Sir
Aidan!" The man glared owlishly at him, obviously disgruntled.
"Please remove yourself from our path! We're on a mission of the highest
importance."

"But
of course you are!" Aidan said, as if to a petulant child. "How
diverting for you. Just what is this mission?"

"Hunting
down a pack of Irish rebels who set Magnus MacKeag's barn afire."

"MacKeag?"
Of all those who dwelled around Rathcannon, there was no man Aidan loathed
more—a pompous, self-righteous fool with a penchant for petty cruelty.

He
chuckled. "Doubtless the brigands considered it a mission of mercy to
destroy MacKeag's stable. You know— end the horses' misery in one fell swoop
instead of leaving them to MacKeag's whiplashes. The Irish always did have the
most infernal attachment to the beasts. I wish you happy hunting, gentlemen.
What, pray tell, do these brigands look like? Of course, I'll excuse you if you
don't know. After all, it's dark."

"There
was one of their infernal whelps—they teach them murder and thievery from the
cradle, I vow. Can't say I'd recognize him except for the bullet hole in his
gut. But I'd know the leader's face if I saw it in hell! Donal Gilpatrick, may
he be damned by Lucifer himself."

Aidan
averted his eyes for a heartbeat as a blinding flash of images jolted through
him: pain, confusion, and two boys who for a moment in time hadn't realized
that they were destined to hate each other. The night-shadowed image of the man
hiding in the shadows shifted into focus, fueled by Aidan's own relentless
memory. A memory already scoring Gilpatrick's face with a twisted scar. It took
immense force of will to school Aidan's features into their usual mocking
sneer.

"And
here I always thought that the dubious honor of damning the Gilpatricks had
been usurped by my ancestors, Sergeant." Aidan flashed his most beatific
smile, cursing himself for a fool, knowing the price he could pay for his
sudden bout of insanity. The Crown was brutal to those foolhardy enough to
shelter fugitives. Still, Aidan couldn't seem to help himself. He
tsked
condescendingly.
"Of course, I dare say it is no wonder you haven't apprehended the
scoundrel yet."

Even
in the moonlight, Aidan could see the soldier's cheeks puff in outrage.
"What do you mean by that, sir?"

"Just
that you are going the wrong way."

"What?"

"I
nearly trampled two men fitting your description five miles north of here, near
the ruins of Castle Alainn. Dashed ugly wound in the whelp, I must say. Fed me
some nonsense about his being gored by a bull while trespassing on someone's
field."

"Are
you quite certain?"

"You
have my solemn oath as a gentleman that it's the God's truth! Damned annoying,
the way the bastards trespass! By the way they act, you'd think the island
belonged to them!"

"I'm
not speaking of that, you f—" The commander choked off the words.

Aidan
raised one brow and examined the tips of fingers encased in the butter-soft
leather of his riding gloves. "If you don't mind me mentioning it, you're
speaking a good deal too much. I fear that your quarry may be getting away. Of
course, if you care to continue your search in this direction, by all means do
so."

"Sir
Aidan." A whey-faced little private with hero worship in his eyes kneed
his mount forward. "I fear that Gilpatrick and his cohorts have been
making things quite uncomfortable hereabouts. In fact, it's rumored that they
are planning some vile skulduggery. Not that they'll ever get a chance to carry
it out."

Aidan's
hands tightened on his reins. Damn, what if the Irishmen were plotting some
dark deed and he were allowing them to escape? "What exactly are they
plotting?"

"We
don't know exactly. We've only heard rumors and such. The vaguest of
whisperings."

The
vaguest of whisperings weren't enough to hand a man a death sentence, Aidan
reasoned grimly.

The
soldier was smiling at him, adoration in his eyes. "If you should hear of
anything that might be of help in bringing him to justice, Sir Aidan, I am certain
your loyalty to the Crown will be as devoted as it was during the Peninsular
campaign."

"I
assure you, the depth of my...
loyalty
never wavers. Please, do inform
me if you arrest the miscreants. I should so loathe to miss the spectacle of a
hanging."

"Never
fear. We'll run the bastards to ground. We know how to deal with traitors to
the Crown." The sergeant shot Aidan an insolent salute, meant to convey
exactly what he thought of the infamous wastrel who had so shamed a hero's
laurels.

Aidan
affected a bored grin until the sound of hoofbeats disappeared; then, with an
oath, he wheeled his stallion and set it at a run toward the place where the
Irishmen had been hiding.

He
was out of the saddle the instant he reached the makeshift shelter, wondering
how the devil he was going to get the wounded lad to safety, wondering why the
devil he should even attempt it.

"Gilpatrick,
the soldiers are gone," Aidan snapped, stalking toward the shelter.
"You can swallow your goddamn Irish pride for once and let me hel—"

He
slammed to a halt, stunned as moonlight drifted over the clump of brush,
illuminating nothing but tangled branches, a dark void. Swearing, Aidan thrust
his hand into the center of it, his skin scratched by bits of bark and thorn,
gritty dirt dusting his fingertips. Dirt, and something wet, clinging to his
skin.