Come Midnight (2 page)

Caitlin shuddered. She'd not told Crionna about the dream at first. She'd been too frightened even to think about it, and Crionna hadn't been well. But the old woman had heard her cry out in her sleep the second nine, and she'd asked about it. By then Caitlin had been frantic and grateful for the chance to unburden herself. So she'd told the
bhean uasal
... all of it.

Crionna's reaction had been passing odd. True, she had cautioned Caitlin not to assume 'twas evil, just as she always had. But then she'd said she needed time to "think what to do." She had also said Caitlin was to tell her if the dream came again.

That had been over a fortnight ago, and in the meantime she'd had the dream of Crionna dying. They'd spoken no more words about the other. The third occurrence had come only last night, and what with Crionna's state, Caitlin hadn't mentioned it.

But Caitlin had had plenty of time to think the matter through. And try as she might, she couldn't help feeling the dream was a portent of evil, if not evil in itself. She'd spent a great deal of time praying, as Father O'Malley had urged so long ago. Indeed, after last night's recurrence, she'd spent the hours till dawn on her knees. Twas what she longed to do now as well.

With a brief glance at Crionna, Caitlin made the sign of the cross. "Hail, Mary, full of grace," she whispered ....

A gust of wind slammed the cottage door shut. Caitlin gave an involuntary cry. All the lamps and candles had been snuffed, throwing the room into darkness. The only light came from the embers on the hearth.

Quelling a shudder, Caitlin made herself rise and quickly set about relighting the lamps. She was building up the fire when a moan drew her to the bed.

"Are ... are ye there, child?" Crionna's voice was weaker than before, a faded whisper. "I must—"

"Save yer strength, Crionna. Here ... I'll brew us some fresh tea."

The old woman waved her back as she rose to fetch the ketde. "No time ... must... prepare ye."

Caitlin started to argue. A look from the
bhean uasal
stopped her cold.

"Ye've ... had the dream again ... haven't ye, lass." It was a statement, not a question.

Caitlin nodded. "Only last night, though."

"Good ... means we've ... some time."

"Time? Time t' do wh—"

"Listen t' me, lass!" There was no brooking the command, thin and raspy though it was. Crionna had been formidable and impossible to thwart in her time; Caitlin heard the power of her will even now.

"Three times...," the old woman went on, "means a warnin' ... a warnin' ye ... cannot ignore. Ye must heed this dream, Caitlin! T' do itherwise... 'twill mean the difference 'twixt joy and misery in yer life, macushla. Perhaps even ... life or death. Ach, I might as well say it. 'Tis yer very soul's at risk, lass! Yer own ... and that of anither."

Her soul. Sweet Mary, Mother of God! Then, Father O'Malley was right! Only, Crionna wanted her to—

"I know what ye're thinkin', child, but ye mustn't. The priest... the priest sees only his side of it. He—"

Crionna fell into a paroxysm of coughing that shook the bed. Quickly, Caitlin did what she could. Again, she elevated the pillow, but to no avail. She offered water the healing tea she'd learned to brew from Crionna herself. Useless. She'd been trained by the
bhean uasal
in the use of herbs and simples to heal the sick; yet Crionna's affliction was beyond remedy, and she knew it. In the end she was forced to stand by helplessly and watch. Tears were streaming down her face when it was over.

The old woman's eyes peered out of sockets that were sunken hollows in a bloodless face. She trained them on Caitlin's, forced herself to go on. "Time ... time fer but ... one thing, lass. 'Tis a protection ye'll ... ye'll need. A charm ... and 'tis in the auld tongue, so .. listen carefully. And ... and ye must repeat it ... after me ... with yer eyes open, d'ye hear? Open! There's ... good reason fer this. 'Tis necessary because ..."

In halting phrases, the old woman told Caitlin about the protective chant. Told her that to work, it must be spoken with the eyes closed. That it was so powerful, it should be used only twice at the most. Crionna wasn't certain—she'd never heard of it being done—but she suspected a third time would kill the user.

"This I promise ye ... Caitlin," the
bhean uasal
finished in a voice growing weaker by the second. "The words ... they .. . they'll be needed .. . when the time .. . o' the dream ... is at hand. Now, repeat fter me .. ."

"But—"

"Do it!" There was a ferocity to Crionna's command that had Caitlin nodding, despite the tears still coursing down her cheeks.

"
A Mhathair Mor
," the
bhean uasal
chanted,
"go maire tu i bhfad! Nar lige ..."

Concentrating on the Gaelic words, Caitlin made herself remember them the very first time. Saying them even once seemed to be costing Crionna the last of her strength; Caitlin would not make her repeat them.

The
bhean nasal's
eyes closed as the girl gave them back to her. Caitlin's were so blurred by tears, she could barely see the old woman's face. Next, she promised to use the chant when the need was upon her. They both knew she did this reluctantly, and solely for the
bhean uasal
. She was helpless not to, for she was granting a dying wish.

As she breathed her last, Crionna could only hope it would be enough.

Chapter 1

London, Spring 1816

"I shall never forgive you for this, m'lord—never!"

Lord Adam Lightfoot, fifth marquis of Ravenskeep, ran a bored gaze over his wife. Not for the first time in their seven-year marriage, he wondered what had possessed him to wed her. He supposed Lucinda had been pretty in a bland sort of way. Once. Now he couldn't get past the sour lines of dissatisfaction about her mouth, the irritating whine in her voice.

"Save your histrionics for the rustic set, m'dear," he drawled. "I fear I find them rather ... tedious."

Lucinda shrieked, and lunged at him, her fingers curved like talons. Adam didn't doubt she'd have clawed his face if he let her. He caught her wrists an instant before her nails raked his skin.

"My souvenir from the French will suffice, Lucinda. I hardly require others to keep it company." Irritation mingled with disgust as he thrust her from him.

The marchioness eyed the line of newly healed flesh on his face; the work of a French saber, it ran from the top of his high, sculpted cheekbone to the edge of his perfectly chiseled lips. "What?" she sneered. "Afraid Vanessa Marley won't be able to abide you in her bed, m'lord?"

Adam wondered briefly where she'd learned about Vanessa; he'd hardly had time to break in his latest mistress. This only served to inform him Lucinda had already been in town too long to suit him. Ton gossip invariably found its way to willing ears. It was why he'd determined to keep his wife neatly tucked away on his country estate when he came up for the Season.

But Lucinda had tried to thwart those plans. She'd followed him up to London without his leave, which was bad enough; that she'd dragged their young son with her was reprehensible. He'd be damned if he'd let her use Andrew as a weapon to achieve her selfish ends!

"Well?" Lucinda carped bitterly. "It's true, isn't it? Vanessa Marley's the reason you're sending me back to Kent. You don't want the inconvenience of a wife complicating your disgusting—"

"Spare me your petty jealousies, Lucinda." Adam pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. Damnation, how he hated these scenes! "It isn't as if my lifestyle's a secret. I made it clear from the start, I'd no intention of giving it up. Or were you too busy congratulating yourself on snaring a rich tide to pay attention?"

"You bastard! I did my duty. You had your precious heir—in less than a year's time! Why shouldn't I enjoy the Season in town? Other wives—"

"Your duty,"he spat. "That's all it ever was to you, wasn't it, Lucinda? Bloody hell! It's a wonder Andrew exists at all, given the ice between your thighs!"

Ignoring her gasp, Adam closed the distance between them. He caught her arm when she raised it to strike him. A tight smile spread across his face, but it didn't reach his eyes. With his free hand, he cupped one of the breasts that filled the muslin bodice of her high-waisted gown. Lightly abrading its center with his thumb, he awaited the reaction he anticipated, and wasn't disappointed: Revulsion filled her face.

Adam made a sound of disgust and released her. The eyes that met hers were hard. Blue-white diamonds in a lace that had been called indecently handsome despite the saber scar. "Did it never occur to you, Lucinda," he asked in a voice that held weary resignation, "there might be a reason I seek other beds? Fact is, my less-than-dear wife, a man courts frostbite in yours."

"Oh, very good, m'lord—place all the blame on me! Truly, I know better."

Lucinda stalked to the door connecting their chambers. Reaching it, she whirled to face him. "Everyone in England knows you for a rake, Adam Lightfoot. It's said you run through women as readily as Brummel changes his linens. Well, let me tell you something, m'lord Rut! You can bury me in the country, but you can't still my tongue. With every mile that takes me from London, I'll curse you with it, d'you hear? You'll rue lie day you did this to me—I swear it!"

As she slammed the door behind her, Adam considered what she'd said. It was true, of course. He'd lost count of the mistresses he'd kept since he inherited at seventeen. Yet he honestly hadn't expected those appetites to extend into his maturity. Tucked in the back of his mind was a hazy yearning he vaguely recalled from years ago ... for a wife to love ... adore, even ... a brood of laughing children ....

Bloody hell, had he ever been that young? That naive? Had he actually expected to find a woman who'd be those things to him? Who'd make him want to retire contentedly to the country estate he now avoided like the plague?

He'd be thirty-four in July. When had it all gone sour? The war had done its part, of course. He'd seen enough carnage to harden a saint. Yet to be honest, he'd begun to grow world-weary well before he purchased his commission. He'd joined the regiment in '09. The year after he'd married. He'd already begun to grow tired of life. Pity he'd survived to ... .

His gaze fell upon a framed miniature on his bed stand, throttling the thought. A child's shyly smiling face looked back at him with eyes the exact color of his own. His son ... the one thing in the world he gave a damn about. As long as he had Andrew, he'd something to live for.

He threw an irritated glance at the connecting door. Lucinda was well aware of his love for the boy. It was what had allowed her to think she could manipulate him with the child. The ploy had nearly worked. If he weren't convinced London was an unsavory place for the lad—

A self-deprecating snort truncated the thought.
At least be honest with yourself, old man! It's unsavory because of the life you lead here. Even now, you await not only your wife's departure, but your son's. So that you'll be free for another night's debauchery!

Another glance at the miniature had him swearing under his breath. Only this morning Andrew had begged to be allowed to stay. The pleading in the child's eyes said it wasn't merely because his mother had put him up to it. Yet Adam had steadfastly refused him, though he'd longed to give in. The hardest part had been his inability to tell the child why. He could still feel the shame twisting his gut when Andrew had asked. He hadn't been able to meet his son's eyes.

How did a man explain to a six-year-old? That what had once been a careless option had become a necessity. That, since Salamanca and Vitoria, he needed the nights of dissipation to forget. To endure.

No, he could hardly tell a child about the bloodletting. The slaughter. The screams of dying men and horses ... limbs and torsos torn apart by cannon, littering the ground.

Since returning from the Peninsula he'd found his mind haunted by agonized pleas from dying men. Young men, pouring out their lifeblood, asking for their mothers. Men hardly more than boys, whom he'd sent to their deaths in the name of duty. Duty. The word made him sick!

The memories gave him screaming nightmares.

So he kept the nightmares at bay ... sometimes. If
he was drunk enough... if the whore was clever enough


... if ...

With a disgusted snarl, Adam tore his gaze from the miniature and rang for his valet. From outside on the drive came the sound of carriage wheels turning on the cobbles. His own carriage, by the sound of it.
Finally departing, thank
—

Adam's bitter laughter obliterated the word he couldn't utter, even in his mind. The Deity had no place in his thoughts... or in his life. Salamanca and Vitoria had left him believing in nothing and no one. Not even himself.

Better to think on the night ahead. Yet the forgetting had become harder. Even debauchery had begun to pall. He was all too aware he was fighting boredom along with the emptiness in his soul. If he had a soul. More likely, it had been devoured by the same beast that brought the nightmares.

Well, for now there was always Vanessa. An accommodating Cyprian with a voluptuous body and the practiced tricks of a whore.

And he mustn't forget m'lord Appleby. Though he'd met this latest among his reckless cohorts only a fortnight ago, Appleby showed promise. Of a certainty, he was one of the most intriguing and imaginative roues Adam had ever encountered. Appleby had an inventiveness in the gaming hells that rivaled Vanessa's in the bedchamber. Surely, between the two, he'd be safe from the beast... at least for a time . .. wouldn't he?

A tapping at the door brought welcome relief from his thoughts. Calling permission to enter, Adam surrendered to the ministrations of his valet. Heretofore, he'd never bothered with a personal manservant, priding himself on a self-sufficiency at odds with the ways of the ton. But he'd won the highly touted Parks from Alvanley in a game of whist. Bored by the usual round of wagering one evening at Brooks', he'd wagered a prime piece of horseflesh, purchased at Tatt's only that morning. Wagered it against "the incomparable Parks," as Alvanley's envious cronies had called the servant. Poor Alvanley—the look on his jaded face when he lost! It had brought a measure of satisfaction, however fleeting; he might as well avail himself of the valet's expertise.

"I thought the striped might serve this evening, your lordship," Parks murmured a good two hours later. He held a waistcoat of subdued blue and gray stripes for the marquis's inspection.

"Yes, yes—whatever!" His irritation obvious, Adam allowed the manservant to settle the garment onto his shoulders. The tall-case clock on the landing had just struck nine. Not late by the ton's standards, but he'd had about all he could stomach of the valet's fussing. Blood and ashes, his cravat alone had taken six attempts before Parks was satisfied!

Unruffled by his employer's scowl, the valet helped him into a superbly tailored coat of deep blue superfine. Parks stepped back with a look of admiration. It had begun to rain earlier, and he raised his voice over a peal of distant thunder. "If I may say so, your lordship, we have achieved an image of the perfect Corinth—"

A frantic pounding resounded from the door. Bloody hell—now what? Adam wondered as he barked admittance. A glance at the mantel clock told him he was due to meet Appleby in less than—

A middle-aged woman rushed into the chamber: Mrs. Hodgkins, his housekeeper. "Begging your pardon, your lordship, but there's been—your lordship, forgive me, but I've terrible news!"

Adam eyed the normally unflappable servant sharply. The damned woman was crying. "Spit it out, Hodgkins." His tone was the same he'd used toward nervous junior officers. "What the devil's happened?"

The housekeeper made an attempt at speaking past the tears coursing down her homely face; her voice nonetheless cracked as she delivered her news.' 'There's been a-a carriage—oh, your lordship! Your carriage overturned, killing her ladyship and—"

"My son!" Adam's face was bloodless as he speared the woman with his eyes. "What of my son?"

"Alive, but badly injured, your lordship. He's—" She got no further. The marquis tore through the door, the sound of his rapid footsteps blending with urgent voices from the entry foyer below.

Adam flew down the stairs, trying desperately not to listen to the voice that jeered in his head. You sent them away in that carriage! You did this to him! You!

Jepson, his butler of many years, met him at the base of the stairs. The servant's lined face was tightly composed, if unusually pale. Then he saw the look on the marquis's face. The old retainer's eyes widened in alarm.

"Where is he, man?" No need for Adam to mention Andrew by name; they all knew how he felt about the child.

"Just arriving outside, your lordship. A passerby was kind enough to lend his carriage to—"

The front door banged open, snaring their attention. The blood drained from Adam's face as several liveried servants pushed through. Rain slanted through the open doorway, and their dripping attire puddled the floor. They bore a makeshift stretcher of some kind. A harsh cry died in Adam's throat as his gaze went to the small figure lying on it. Lying so horribly still.