Come Midnight (19 page)

Chapter 13

Caitlin staggered away from Adam's frozen form. She felt all at once enervated, drained of her strength. Aye, weak as a kitten, and she needn't wonder at the cause. Crionna's cautionings regarding the charm sprang immediately to mind: At most, it should be employed only twice, the
bhean uasal
had warned; a third time would kill the one who used it. Ach, considering how she felt, she could well believe it!

Appleby eyed her with interest, then slowly circled Adam's eerily silent and unmoving figure. "Very nice," he said with grudging admiration. His gaze snapped back to Caitlin as she stumbled and fell into a chair. Amusement danced in his eyes, and he cocked a mocking eyebrow at her. "But you do realize, don't you, my clever young Druid witch, this was the last time that little gambit will be of use to you?"

Druid? Witch! No, never mind him. He's after trying to shake your confidence. They're just sly, treacherous words. Remember, this is the glic diabhal you're dealing with—the cunning devil who tricked your beloved. You'll pay no attention to him, Caitlin O'Brien!

Despite this resolve, it was Appleby's word gambit that brought Caitlin back to her purpose.
I may be physically weak, but I've still my wits about me, thank the good Lord!
"Mr. Appleby," she said, determined not to let the frozen look of anguish in the eyes of the third person in the room distract her, "I do hereby challenge ye ... to a game o' chess."

She had his immediate attention. "My dear Miss O'Brien, how very intriguing! You are full of surprises, aren't you?" He sauntered to the chair he'd occupied before and waved a manicured hand at her. "Do go on."

Caitlin struggled to voice a reply. The charm had so severely sapped her strength, speech itself had become an enormous chore. "As I ... as I said earlier, Mr. Appleby ... Andrew needs his da. If I ... if I win, the lad's leg ... is t' be made whole. And .. . and ye must ... must agree t' take me ... instead o' his father. I propose ... playin' a single ... a single game. The win ... the win t' be determined ... by a checkmate only. If... if a stalemate should occur—"

Appleby's snicker intervened: Clearly, he envisioned anything but. An outcome that implied their skills were so closely matched? He found the notion laughable. "And if you should lose ... ?" he inquired unctuously.

"Ye must ... ye must still heal the lad's leg ... entirely." The hand she held up when he started to object felt leaden; it was all she could do to lift it. Nonetheless, her words drilled the air with surprising force. "That condition isn't subject t' hagglin', sorr! Don't even try."

Appleby sent her a disgruntled frown. "Cheeky baggage! Since when do losers come away with rewards?"

"When they make the winner's compensation worth his while!" she snapped. Anger lent her another spurt of energy, and she continued with increased vigor. "May I remind ye, sorr, 'tis me immortal soul I forfeit—even if I should win? I'm not so daft, I'd propose such a monumental loss without some compensation!"

He eyed her with visible annoyance. "Very well," he said sullenly. "But I've yet to hear what it is you offer if I should win. What of my compensation? After all, I've already the immediate prize of Ravenskeep's soul on offer. What have you to best that?"

"A double forfeit," she replied without missing a beat. She had thought it out carefully by now. Her proposal was a dangerous one, risky in the extreme. She had become fairly adept at chess since that night, months ago, when Adam had begun to instruct her in the fine points of the game. Still, no one knew better than she how far she was from being a master.

The devil, on the other hand, was an excellent gamesman, from all she'd heard. Yet she was willing to risk all for one important reason. Unlike her poor beloved, she could pray. And she would—with all her heart and mind. And, Heaven help me, with all my soul. . . at least, while 'tis still mine to claim!

She wasn't at all certain Heaven could approve of her single, terrible forfeit, of course. Or countenance her bargaining with the devil on any terms at all, for that matter. Still, perhaps there was a chance Heaven would look on what she was doing with compassion: Sure and the dear Lord would understand, far better than any mortal, a sacrifice that was made out of love?

Holy Mary, Mother of God
, she prayed silently.
I ask that you pray for us all in this critical time. If I am foolish or arrogant in doing this thing I pray you will ask God to forgive me. And if 'tis not asking too much, Blessed Virgin, perhaps you might put in a wee word, besides? Twould be grand if somehow Heaven could show this poor sinner a safe way out of the whole wicked business.

Opening her eyes, she met the fiend's disapproving glare. So he knows I was praying. Well, what did he expect from the "Irish Angel"—curses?"If I should lose," she told him with a gaze that didn't falter, "ye must still heal the lad, but ye may have both Adam's soul and mine for all eternity."

There was but a split second's pause. "Done!'' said the fiend with alacrity. With a flick of the wrist, a parchment suddenly materialized in his hand. "The terms, as you've just voiced them," he said, proffering the contract for her perusal. "Go ahead, look it over. You'll find everything in order."

Caitlin willed her hand not to shake as she took the paper.

"There, do you see?" he said when she'd finished reading. "It's all exactly as you put forth. Now, if you'll just sign—"

"Not so fast, sorr," Caitlin told him.

A small silver knife had materialized in Appleby's hand. "Now, what?" he snapped. Then, noting how she eyed the blade with distaste: "This is no time to be squeamish, miss! The contract must be signed in your own blood. A trifling matter, I do assure you. It will take but a moment to prick—"

"As a healer, I have tended many sick and injured, Mr. Appleby. I am not the least bit squeamish."

"Then, what in blazes can possibly be amiss?" he hissed. For a brief instant, Appleby's head with its human features wavered, taking on the aspect of a serpent. Its forked tongue darted out, as if to threaten Caitlin, before the image resolved once again into that of the rouged dandy. "It's a perfectly good contract!" he growled.

" 'Tisn't this contract concerns me," Caitlin told him. " 'Tis what's written upon the ither one—the bargain his lordship signed in April. I'll not sign any new agreement till the auld one's cancelled. I must insist ye produce it, sorr—that I may see it destroyed with me own eyes. Without that, I'll sign naught."

"Presumptuous Irish chit!" he muttered irritably. But, in truth, she had him. He could easily produce Ravenskeep's contract, of course. But even hell had its rules: He wasn't at liberty to alter or destroy a contract without the consent of the undersigned. Appleby slanted a glance at the immobilized marquis. Hell would freeze over before he agreed! His gaze fell again on Caitlin. "Er ... I'm afraid I don't have his lordship's contract with me," he hedged.

Caitlin suspected he was lying. He who dines with the devil must use a long spoon, the old adage went. She'd do well to remember it. She didn't trust Appleby as far as she could spit, and perhaps not even that far. "Ye'll forgive me, sorr, if I have trouble believin' ye. Why can't ye produce it? After all, I saw ye conjure this one"— she tapped the parchment in her hand—"out o' thin air."

Appleby made a disgruntled sound in his throat, but this wasn't what alerted Caitlin. Just before he did so, she saw his glance flicker irritably to Adam.

She knew scarcely anything of formal contracts; what little she had gleaned came from the village, back home. She recalled a disagreement over a written contract Father O'Malley had once been asked to settle. Drafted by the priest—one of the few in the village who could read and write—it had to do with the sale of some chickens. A fox had stolen two of the fowl before the transfer could be made, but the buyer had already sent payment. Yet the seller intended keeping the money, saying a bargain was a bargain. This outraged the buyer, who asked Father O'Malley to intervene: Could he cancel the old contract and set up a new one, based on a fair price, given the reduced livestock? The priest said he'd urge the seller to "do the right thing," of course. But, he pointed out, only with the consent of both parties could the old contract be torn up, a new one drafted, and then signed. (She recalled the seller caving in, under the priest's forbidding mien.)

"Mr. Appleby ... ," she said, praying she was right in the conclusion she'd drawn. "Could it be ye're required t' have his lordship's consent in the matter?"

Appleby's penciled eyebrows shot to his hairline. The chit bore watching! But then, the Irish always had been a meddlesome lot, too clever for their own good. "Not at all," he lied, airily dismissing her interpretation with a mendacious wave of his hand. "The Ravenskeep contract's in our, er, archives. I shall require a deal of time to fetch it—that's all."

"Then, we have a problem," said Caitlin. She still felt he was lying, but given his insistence, she wasn't about to push it ... for now. As for later ... she must wait and see. She'd be wise to keep open any options she could come by. If he was as reluctant as she to call Adam into play, perhaps she could turn that reluctance to her advantage. She sorely needed all the weapons she could get!

On the other hand, unlikely as it seemed, he could be telling the truth. In which case, she might insist he fetch the paper from wherever it was his wretched contracts were stored. But that would take time, and she wasn't certain she had the luxury. She had no idea how long the effects of Crionna's charm would last. Or if prolonging them might do Adam irreparable harm. Not to mention the risk of having the charm wear off by itself, which would free Adam to interfere. She'd no doubt he would do all he could to stop her, given half a chance. "It won't answer," she told Appleby.

"Then, I suggest you come by a remedy, young woman—and soon," he grumbled, pointedly taking out his watch and glancing at it. "I'm a busy man, Miss O'Brien, with countless affairs to tend to. I have interests all over the world, and no time to waste."

With the ticking of the mantel clock reminding her how long Adam had already been enthralled, and her energy slipping away, Caitlin thought quickly. "I should like t' suggest a compromise," she said after a moment.

"Hmph." Appleby was obviously irritated but apparently willing to hear her out—which led Caitlin to suspect her surmise had been on target. "Well, don't just sit there gaping at me," he huffed. "Say your piece!"

"Well, t' begin," said Caitlin, "as evidence o' me good faith, Mr. Appleby, suppose I were t' swear, upon me honor—"

"Upon your soul," he corrected sharply.

She arched a brow at him.

"My dear Miss O'Brien, honor has no credit where I come from."

"Ach—silly me!'' she replied with a flippancy she was far from feeling. And, unfortunately, with a strength she was far from owning. Speech still cost her dearly with each word she uttered. Nonetheless, suspecting it was unwise to let him see just how weak she was, she forced her words to come out smoothly. "Very well, then. I'll swear, upon me soul, t' sign this new contract— the one consigning me soul t' perdition instead o' his lordship's, should I win the game—but only after I've seen Andrew's leg made whole and his lordship's contract destroyed."

Appleby eyed her appraisingly. Oral contracts such as she proposed were worthless in hell—he absolutely had to have a signature in blood. The Irishwoman didn't know the nicety of the rules, however; if she so swore, he made no doubt she'd deliver. Her offer made sense. "Clever chit, aren't you?" he said with reluctant admiration.

"I do me best."

"No doubt," he groused. He pondered the serpent's head of his walking stick for a moment, before meeting her gaze. "It's all highly irregular," he went on, "but I suppose it's acceptable. Swear to the double forfeit if you should lose, and we have a bargain."

Not daring to look at Adam's poor frozen face, Caitlin swore.

With a smug look, Appleby transported Adam's chess set from across the room. In an instant it, and the gaming table upon which it rested, sat between them, in front of the hearth. "Shall we toss a coin to see who goes first?" he inquired smoothly. A shiny copper materialized between his fingers.

Caitlin eyed the coin askance. She'd once seen a prestidigitator at a country fair cheat people with a cleverly weighted coin. And the devil, she was sure, had better tricks up his sleeve than any garden-variety charlatan. "We shall not," she said.

With a put-upon air, Appleby heaved a sigh. "My dear Miss O'Brien, it appears you don't trust me."

Caitlin ignored his much-aggrieved tone. "I do not, sorr."

"Then, what do you propose we do about it?" he growled.

"I don't suppose 'twould do any good t' suggest a true gentleman would automatically allow a lady t' take the white? No, I didn't think so. In that case, I suggest we 'shoot' for the right t' go first. 'Tis what the lad and 1 always do ..."

Caitlin felt a stab of pain as it occurred to her she would never again share such things with Andrew. Once the bargains of this night came to pass, that part of her life, with all its simple pleasures, was over. Indeed, life as she knew it was over.
The lad needs his leg made right. He needs his da. Get on with it!

"Each ... puts a hand behind his back," she explained. She found herself laboring over the words. Speech continued to tax her strength, and it was becoming harder not to show it. "Then one opponent selects even.... the ither, odd. Upon the count o' three, they—"

"I know how the bloody thing's done!" he snapped.

"Right." She dragged her hand behind her back with the strength of her will alone. Mustn't collapse before I've seen this thing through! "Now, on the count o' three ..."

Against all expectation, Caitlin won white. This may have owed to sheer blind luck or, as she devoutly hoped, to the compassion of Heaven. Whichever, it gave her a measure of confidence she sorely needed. Because, while her mind may have been unaffected by that second use of the charm—it was sharp and clear as ever—her physical strength was nearly gone.

At one point she found herself wishing the game might be a short one—then cut off that foolish thought. If ever she needed to take her time, 'twas now. She must plan each move with painstaking care, no matter how weak she felt.

As it happened, the game was, indeed, a long one. On they played, into the night. Neither spoke, with Adam Lightfoot's mute witness underscoring a silence broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock. True to his nature, Appleby played with demonic brilliance. Gaming pieces fell, and all too many were white.

Yet black fell, too, though Caitlin's hands were leaden weights, barely able to remove them from the board. It didn't matter. The pleas to Heaven spoken in her head were strong and sure. With each humble prayer, she felt immeasurably empowered. She was playing better than she ever had before. She played so well, in fact, it came as no surprise to her—or to her scowling adversary—when she at last had cause to break the silence: "Checkm—"

"Scheming Celtic witch!" Outrage flared like living flame in the fiend's obsidian eyes. His hands slammed the table, and he rose half out of his chair, glaring at her with naked fury. "Pretending to be the neophyte!" he shrieked. "Hiding your powers under the guise of that pathetic milk-and-water innocence and—"

All at once, as if suddenly remembering something, Appleby eased back into his chair. The smile he sent her was so coldly avaricious and cruel, Caitlin shuddered. "Yet it hardly signifies, does it, my pretty new pet? You're mine now," he purred, "with all eternity to rue the day you tricked the Lord of Hell. Game's over, my dear. Time to pay—"

"I beg t' differ, sorr," said Caitlin, indicating the board with a weak wave of her hand. " 'Tis over"—Holy Mother, help me! I've barely the strength to speak—" 'tis over when . .. when the winner declares ... declares the 'checkmate.' And ... thanks t' yerself ... I've not ... I've not quite said it. . . yet."

"What nonsense is this?" Appleby leaned forward, black eyes narrowed and ugly with threat. "Don't think to gammon me, witch. You swore on your immortal soul!"

It cost her greatly, but Caitlin managed to produce what she hoped was an insouciant shrug. "Accordin' ... accordin' t' the rules I learned, Mr. Appleby, the game ... the game's not ended ... till the checkmate's declared."

"Then, say it, damn you!"

"Not yet. Not before I—"

"What do you mean—not yet ? Need I remind you that you swore—"

"Aye, Mr. Appleby. I swore ... t' do certain things ... when I won ... and I shall... do them. What I... what I require first, however ... is a wee bit o' time ... t' set me affairs... in order." She sent him a smile that deepened his scowl. "Not t' mention ... sorr, time t' see ... the lad's leg made whole ... and a certain ... a certain agreement ... destroyed. Ye did say 'twould ... 'twould take time ... t' fetch ... his lordship's contract ... did ye not?"

"How much time?" he demanded in an ominous voice.

"Three days should ... suffice."

"Three days! Three hours, perhaps, and even then, I'm being generous!"

Crionna would have recognized the stubborn glint in Caitlin's eyes. "Three days... or it all ends here. I shall refrain, sorr ... from declarin' the 'magic' word. The word that... that must be said ... t' bring ... t' bring ... a formal end ... t' the game."

"You impertinent Irish peasant! You swore—"

"Aye ... I swore." Sensing she had him now, Caitlin summoned a last, desperate thread of energy, and her words rang clearly in die room. "But there's nothin' in what I swore said I had t' finish this game, Mr. Appleby! And, until I do, it appears things must"—she glanced at Adam's immobile figure for the first time in hours— "remain as they are. And by the terms o' the one contract ye do own, sorr, ye've no claim on his lordship for anither forty years.

"Now," she went on with a small smile, "about those three days .. . ?"

"Take them, then!" he snarled.

With a satisfied nod, Caitlin regarded the board, where her remaining knight and two bishops had his king trapped. "Checkmate," she declared.

"Three days," the fiend snarled, "and not a moment beyond! I shall come to collect you at..." With a sudden sly smile, he pointed a finger at the mantel clock. The clock's hands—Caitlin could have sworn, not a moment ago, they'd been telling half-five—both pointed straight up. To the twelve.

"At the final stroke of midnight," he finished with a gloating smile. Throwing a deprecating sneer at her, and another at his immobilized host, Appleby muttered a caustic invective—and vanished.

With a long, shuddering sigh, Caitlin struggled to rise out of her chair. Trembling visibly, thoroughly drained from the ordeal—and weaker than she ever let on to the fiend—she finally pushed herself upright. Only to find herself swaying with fatigue. Then her knees buckled, and she had to brace her hands on the table for support.

When at last she dragged her gaze to her beloved, Caitlin stared at him with bleak chagrin. She had no idea how the charm might be undone! "Adam ... ," she whispered. Just before the room spun and she crumpled to the floor.

Released from the charm as Caitlin fell unconscious, Adam stirred and took a faltering step forward. With a groan, he ran his hand over his face and tried to think. He looked slowly about the chamber. It required but a moment to take in the scene before him and digest its significance. He noted the gaming table before the fire ... his chess board upon it, with its telling arrangement of pieces, both erect and fallen ... the mantel clock with the hands pointing upward ....

Was it only just past midnight? He could have sworn—

Then he remembered... Caitlin had done that Celtic thing to him again, to keep him from—but where was she? His eyes went again to the board, where white had black's king hemmed in for the checkmate. Blood and ashes, had the fiend won, then? Had he taken her?

His eyes darted wildly about the room. Then he chanced to glance down. Caitlin—ah, no! Blood drained from his face as he rushed to her side. "Caitlin! Caitlin!" he cried, half out of his mind with dread. Fearing the worst when she didn't respond, he bent an ear to her chest. Still alive, but breathing's shallow.

Gathering her limp body in his arms, he rushed into the hallway, yelling frantically for the lone footman that was always on duty at night. "Jenkins," he barked as the man came racing up the stairs. "Run and wake Townsend—no, wait! You'd better rouse Mrs. Needham, too. Tell her to bring the hartshorn and vinaigrette. Then saddle my fastest hunter, ride to the village, and fetch the physician—I forget his name."

"Dr. Mac Dougall, your lordsh—"

"Tell Mac Dougall it's a matter of life and death— hurry, man!"

With a nervous glance at the limp body of the governess in the marquis's arms, the ashen-faced servant raced to obey. Then Adam, his eyes haunted and brimming with tears, turned and carried Caitlin to his chamber. Carried his forever love—the impossible dream he'd no sooner found than lost—to his chamber ... and its cruelly mocking bed.