Come Midnight (14 page)

***

Thanking Silas White for the long hours he'd worked the past two months, Adam waved away the man's stuttering gratitude and watched him ride off. The estate manager had a handsome bonus in his pocket, every bit of it earned. Ravenskeep was in excellent shape. He'd given Silas a fortnight's leave as well, suggesting he take Mrs. White on holiday.

Heaving a sigh, Adam surrendered the Hun to a groom and headed for the house. Suggesting how White spend time suddenly in the offing was simple. How to spend his own time now was anything but. Fact was, he'd run out of valid reasons to absent himself from the Hall. And he needed to spend time with his son. To put Andrew off any longer was unthinkable.

Not that he wished to put him off. He loved the child beyond telling, and he would somehow learn to live with the pain of seeing him forever confined to that Bath chair. At times he wanted to howl with rage, knowing that he would never leave it, never walk upright again.

There had been moments in the Peninsula when he thought he might go mad. He had kept himself sane by picturing his son, never in London but here at Ravenskeep, running toward him on sturdy little legs, laughing and carefree. Now that would never happen. Still, the child seemed to have accepted it, and he must do the same.

In any event, the difficulty lay not in being with Andrew. Time spent with him, however, would surely mean seeing a deal of Caitlin. He couldn't justify putting her off any longer, either. She was past due an apology, at the very least.

The thought of facing her with it scared him to death.

He'd ruminated over doing so for untold hours. Pictured himself biting the bullet, going to her, hat in hand—on his knees, even—and all of it had come out wrong. Always, always, the terrible image of her standing there that day intruded. Caitlin ... shrinking from him with fear in her eyes. Even now, he broke into a cold sweat thinking about it. He tried to tell himself he was being a fool. They had dined together, after all. Twice. And she hadn't looked frightened then, had she? Wary, perhaps, but things had come off fairly well ....

Rubbish!
cried an inner voice demanding he be honest with himself.
She very likely pasted on a calm face for Andrew's sake, and well you know it. That hardly lets you off the hook, old boy.

Trouble was, he didn't understand it. What in hell was he afraid of? She was only a woman. A very young one—and a servant, at that. With the exception of his mother, women had always been objects for him to manipulate. To use for mutually advantageous ends, and then move on. How the devil had one little Irish chit got under his skin?

True, he desired her in the face of knowing she was not for the taking. But that was nothing new. He'd been tempted by others who were off limits. He'd refused several of his officers' wives; to dally with the wife of a man he might send to his death was something even he couldn't bring himself to do. And none of them had remotely driven him to this extreme. But Caitlin was more than forbidden fruit. She was ... an enigma. Try as he might, he couldn't fathom how she fit into—

"Look—it's Papa!" Andrew's piping tones cut across his thoughts. Adam suddenly realized he'd reached the house. He had hoped to enter unobserved, by a little used door to the rose garden, but his son's excited voice put paid to that. "Papa, come and see our surprise! Look at me!"

Adam looked, and all at once went very still. Coming toward him on the brick path, flanked by hundreds of roses of every imaginable hue, was his son. Andrew, grinning from ear to ear, propelling himself steadily forward on a stout pair of ... crutches? Where the devil did he... ?

He couldn't complete the thought. Andrew's image had suddenly blurred. Without taking his eyes off the precious figure of his son—the upright figure of his son—Adam swiped at them with his hand, vaguely aware it came away wet.

"Are you surprised, Papa?" The child drew nearer, laughing. "Caitlin said maybe we should tell you, but I wanted it to be a surprise. Look at me, Papa—I don't need that silly Bath chair anymore!"

"No, son ... you don't." His voice choked with emotion, Adam took an unsteady step toward him.

"Stay there, Papa! 'Cause I can come to you now. See? It's not hard at all, and when I get there—would you like a hug, Papa?"

Not trusting his voice, Adam dropped to his knees and held out his arms. Aching with love for the child he'd believed hopelessly confined to the silly Bath chair. "I'd like that above all else," he managed finally, blinking back fresh tears.

Andrew came. Wielding the crutches as though he'd been born knowing how to use them. Reaching his father, laughing, he let them drop and flung himself into Adam's arms. "See, Caitlin?" he cried. "Papa knows how to catch me!"

"Sure and he does, boyo! And he knows how t' hug ye, too, I'm thinkin'!"

Adam heard the lilting brogue, heard the wealth of love and laughter in her voice. He was able to gather his thoughts for the first time since the sight of his son had moved him to tears. Holding the child to him in a fierce embrace, he lifted his gaze to the woman who'd arranged this wonder.

She stood on the path, framed by myriad roses, their heady scent lacing the soft spring air. She didn't move: a cameo caught in a pool of sunlight. It glinted like copper pennies on her hair, on the tears brimming in her eyes.

In an instant everything fell into place: He knew exactly where the enigma fit, he realized with a mix of relief and sheer terror.

He loved her.

Chapter 10

"You can put me down now, Papa." Andrew wriggled In Adam's grasp, oblivious to the stunning truth that had just struck his father like a blow.

Caught up in the shattering realization, Adam didn't respond.
Caitlin . . . why didn't I see it? She's the dream I once pursued. The forever love I abandoned hope of ever having. And must still abandon. Even if, by some strange twist of fate, she came to love me in return, it's too late! Appleby, you bastard—I smell your hand in this! Who else would damn me to this living hell? This teasing glimpse of a soul mate when 1 no longer have a soul to share!

"Papa?" Andrew was still squirming to be set free. "I need to get down so I can practice my turns. Will you help me get my crutches?"

"Crutches ...?" He realized the child was speaking to him. "Yes .. . yes, of course." Setting him down, he supported him about the waist, reaching for a crutch; but Caitlin was already there.

"Here, lad." She handed it to Andrew. "Weight on the good leg, now, just as ye did when we practiced."

Andrew nodded, wobbling as he shifted his weight. His father quickly steadied the injured leg with his free hand while the boy tucked the crutch under the opposite arm.

"What the devil ... ?" Adam ran his hand over the injured leg as Caitlin handed the child the other crutch. "But... this is amazing!" he cried. "This leg feels ... well muscled." His incredulous gaze went to each of them, then to the limb he was testing. "It feels twice as sturdy!"

Andrew giggled and threw Caitlin a conspiratorial glance. "That's 'cause Caitlin 'saged it! She rubbed goop into it, too—it's made from leaves and things, and it smells odd, Papa, but it's not too bad. An' we did exercises! 'Course, the smith's weights made them ever so much easier than those clumsy books, didn't they, Caitlin?"

"Books?" It was becoming too much to digest. Adam felt battered by an emotional storm. First, Andrew on the crutches; then the bittersweet discovery of his love for Caitlin; now this.

With a laugh, Caitlin explained about the weights.

Was there ever such music as her voice when it's laced with laughter? Adam wondered. "Caitlin...," he began when she'd finished. In the wake of his newly identified feelings, just saying her name tapped a wellspring of emotion he could barely contain. He had to swallow, begin again. "Caitlin, I ... I don't know where to start. Or how to thank you ... except to say I'm grateful.. . most humbly grateful."

Suddenly tongue-tied, Caitlin flushed. Would she ever really understand this man? She'd hardly recovered from seeing him moved to tears; this touching gratitude threatened to undo her completely. Both spoke of his love for the child, and she loved the man all the more for it. " 'Twas—'twas what any healer would have done, milord," she stammered.

Andrew paused during one of his "turns" and nodded. "Mrs. Hodgkins says she's the Irish Angel," he told his father, " 'cause she helps people get better. She helps me lots, but I still call her Caitlin." He eyed the two adults with a pensive frown. "D'you know what I wish, Papa?"

"I will, if you tell me," Adam said with an indulgent smile. "Perhaps, as a reward for all your hard work with these"—he indicated the crutches—"we might arrange it,"

"I wish ... ," Andrew began shyly, "I wish Caitlin could be my new mama."

Adam choked, hid it by pretending to cough. Caitlin turned beet red and ducked her head.

A footman rushed from the house, saving them from comment. "Begging your pardon, your lordship," he laid. "I'm to inform you callers have arrived."

Adam glanced at the first of a pair of cards the servant proffered and nodded. Andrew would be over the moon. He read the name on the second card and arched a brow. Ravensford? What the devil's he doing in Kent at the height of the Season—and with the vicar, no less? "Did they arrive together?" he asked the footman.

"Yes, your lordship, and Master Jeremy as well."

"Jeremy!" In his excitement, Andrew lost control of a crutch, tripping Caitlin in the process. "Oh, Caitlin, I'm sorry!"

Adam grabbed her arm to steady her. The first he'd touched her in months. He couldn't avoid it; she'd have fallen if he hadn't. He heard her gasp, braced himself for her reproval—or worse. Her eyes flew to his, and their gazes locked. He felt her trembling. But it wasn't fear or reproval he read in her eyes. His heart began to hammer in his chest. Caitlin's feelings had always been as plain as the freckles on her open face. Could he doubt what he saw? Yet he could swear—swear it was there in her clear green eyes: all the love he thought he would never have.

Caitlin thought she murmured assurances to Andrew he wasn't to blame, but couldn't be certain. She felt dizzy, light-headed. His father's touch ran like living fire up her arm. The look blazing in his eyes had her paralyzed with uncertainty. She had to be imagining—

"Papa, do let's hurry!" Andrew was beside himself with excitement. "We need to introduce Caitlin to Jeremy . .. er, and the vicar."

Adam gave himself a mental shake, reluctantly releasing Caitlin's gaze. If he got through this day emotionally in one piece, he'd call it a victory past anything he'd done in the Peninsula. "Yes, of course," he said, "and I'll introduce you both to another who's come with them."

He glanced at the footman. "Inform Townsend we'll be there directly. He'll know how the vicar takes his tea. But you'd best alert him His Grace may prefer something stronger."

"His—His Grace?" Caitlin gaped at him as the footman bowed and withdrew. "Sure and ye're not after takin' me t' meet a ..." Unable to complete the thought, she glanced at the house in panic, then back at him.

She looked so adorably flustered, Adam ached to hug her. "Afraid there's no help for it," he said with a smile of sympathy. "You're about meet a duke."

***

"Past time you showed your face in Kent, Ravenskeep." Brett Westmont, ninth duke of Ravensford, grinned as Adam handed him a brandy. The two had a private moment while Caitlin and Andrew conversed with the vicar and his son. Adam and Brett had been neighbors all their lives, but knew each other largely from London. As young rakehells, they'd scandalized the ton. Brett, with his startling turquoise eyes and chestnut curls, was as outrageously handsome as Adam. It was said prudent mamas hid their daughters when either was in evidence.

"Huh," Adam muttered, keeping his voice low to avoid discomfiting the vicar. "The pot calling the kettle black isn't in it. Since when have you forgone the delights of the Season? Or begun making tame country calls with vicars, for that matter?"

"Since coming to my senses," Brett replied. "Haven't you heard? I'm married."

"Married—you?" Westmont had always distrusted women in the extreme. Some said his grandfather, the eighth duke, had raised him to despise them. More than once, Adam had heard him vow to escape the parson's mousetrap, dukedom or no. "I confess, Ravensford, I'm shocked. I collect, like me, you caved to the inevitability of doing one's duty?"

"Duty had nothing to do with it. I've set up my nursery, yes, but only because of the lady involved. If you knew my duchess, you'd see why. She's..." With a look in his eyes Adam could have sworn was fatuous, Brett smiled fondly and shook his head. "Ashleigh's like no other woman in the world."

Bloody hell, he's besotted! "Ashleigh . .. have I met this paragon?"

Westmont chuckled. "No, and I'm inclined to keep it that way, but my wife has other ideas."

Adam arched a brow at him.

"Come, Ravenskeep, we both know your appetites. Only a fool would trust you anywhere near his wife ... especially if she's a beauty, and mine is past beautiful, I do assure you. It's because I trust Ashleigh and want her happy, I'm making an exception."

"Exception?"

The duke sighed. "Fact is, she's set on having you for a visit. Nothing elaborate—she knows you're in black gloves. When the vicar called this morning and explained about ... your lad, she hatched this idea— well, it's complicated, and I'll explain if you'll find us a spot of privacy before I leave. But she hopes to include your son in the invitation. Will that suit?"

Adam's gaze went to Andrew, who was showing Jeremy one of his crutches. The vicar's son was a bright child who must have had questions about all that had happened. Adam was thankful he was too well bred to voice them. "I don't know, Brett ..." He heaved a sigh. "Needless to say, Andrew hasn't been up to socializing lately. Young Jeremy's his bosom friend, yet this is the first—"

"Ashleigh means to include the vicar's family. Fact is, when she learned Wells was on his war here, she sent me—my dear Ravenskeep, spare me that supercilious look! You cannot credit how ... agreeable I find, uh, pleasing my wife. In any event, old man, I'm to inquire when you'll be free to spend the day. If you agree, that is, and invitations will arrive forthwith."