Come Midnight (6 page)

***

Livid with anger, Adam paced the bedchamber. Andrew was asleep, finally. But not before his father had spent nearly thirty long, agonizing minutes hearing him cry with pain. The leg wasn't healed at all!

Appleby had tricked him. Andrew was alive, yes, but his leg was so badly crushed, even a layman like himself could see he'd never walk again. His son would be a cripple.

Rage, naked and terrible, welled up like lava inside him. "Appleby, you bastard!" he screamed. "Come back here. You've unfinished business with me!"

The walls rang with Adam's fury. The child whimpered and stirred restlessly on the bed. Yet nothing else happened.

No one came.

Adam Lightfoot, fifth marquis of Ravenskeep . .. war hero .. . rakehell... unbeliever, clenched his fists and howled.

***

"Have some honey with your tea, Caitlin," Mrs. Hodgkins urged solicitously. "I've always found peppermint tea soothing when taken with honey, and you do seem a bit out of sorts. "They were sitting at a heavy oak table in the servants' hall, just off the kitchens. Having sent the rest of the staff back to bed, the butler and the housekeeper had ushered Caitlin here after the marquis's brusque dismissal.

"Looks as though she could do with some sleep," Jepson pointed out as Caitlin stifled a yawn. "Fact is, we all could," he added, taking a sip of his own tea. "Been a long night."

"Indeed," Mrs. Hodgkins said cheerfully. "And who'd have imagined it would turn out so different from the way it began?" She beamed at Caitlin. "Thanks entirely to the Irish Angel here."

Caitlin shook her head tiredly. "I truly didn't do all that much." She kept seeing the vastly improved head wound in her mind. Only the Almighty could have done that. She reminded herself never, ever, to underestimate the power of prayer. "But I do worry for the lad's leg, sorr," she added, frowning. "It needs further tendin', and—and ..." Thoughts of the marquis's abrupt dismissal had her biting her lip.

"There, there, child." Mrs. Hodgkins patted her hand. "His lordship isn't a cold man, despite how he seemed. He's just been under a terrible strain, what with all that's happened. I'm sure he'll be more ... approachable in the morning."

"Exactly," said Jepson. He gave Caitlin a level look. "There's no question but that you'll remain, of course."

Remain? In the very house belonging to—

"To oversee Lord Andrew's recovery, if nothing else," said the butler, noting her frown.

"Oh, but I—"

"Indeed, my dear," Mrs. Hodgkins put in quickly. "You've already won a rise in wages, and Jepson and I can see your duties are manageable, so never fret. The important thing is Lord Andr—"

An agonized howl resounded from the upper quarters of the town house. The marquis's quarters.

"Good heavens!" the housekeeper cried. "What—"

It came again. Raw... chilling in its intensity. Frozen, the three looked at one another, worry vying with fear in their eyes.

It was Jepson who broke the tableau. "Perhaps something's happened to ..." He couldn't say the thing they all feared. He leapt instead from the table and made for the stairs. The two women quickly followed, Caitlin's pulse hammering in her throat. Had the lad been taken, after all? Was it the wail of a father's grief they'd heard?

Signaling the women to wait down the hallway, Jepson gingerly approached the marquis's bedchamber. As he raised his hand to knock, something crashed against the door. He hesitated. The sound of splintering wood reverberated through the oak panels. Alarmed, he mastered his apprehension and knocked.

There was a moment of silence before the door swung wide. "I'll wring your stinking—bloody hell! Jepson, I thought I told you to go to bed!" The marquis's face was thunderous, his eyes crackling with rage.

"Beg pardon, your lordship." Jepson backed carefully away. "I ... I was just—I'm on my way, your lordship. At once, your—"

"No, wait!"

The butler stood absolutely still. He'd never seen his employer like this, and he'd served the household many years. The man looked crazed. Had events unhinged him? A soft whimpering from the bed told him the child was alive, thank heaven, but—

"My son ..." Adam made a helpless gesture toward the bed. "It's his leg. He's—"

"I understand, your lordship." Jepson's face sagged with relief: Lord Andrew's suffering had brought on this terrible anger. He took in the broken vase on the carpet, the splintered chair. Understandable . . . entirely understandable. "Shall I fetch someone to tend him, your lordship?"

"Yes ... do that," Adam said tightly. He reached for the coat he'd slung over a chair sometime during the night. Rage still seethed inside him. He'd all he could do to keep it in check, yet he knew he must. Anger sapped the ability to think clearly, and he was having difficulty doing that right now; his emotions were bubbling over. It was why he couldn't go near Andrew. The child's pain threatened to tear him apart.

But overriding all was the burning need to get hold of Appleby. To find that demonic piece of slime and crush him under his boot heel like the vermin he was! "Have my curricle brought round," he told the butler. He'd an idea, and the sooner he moved on it, the better.

"At once, your lordship." Jepson paused, glanced down the hallway where the two women waited. "Ah, shall I fetch the young miss to attend his lordship? The young Irishwoman, that is, your lordship. I mean, since she's already—"

"Yes, yes," Adam replied absently, drawing on his driving gloves and moving toward the door. His thoughts were already on his club. It was where he'd met Appleby. Someone at Brooks' ought to be able to direct him to the bastard's lodgings. Some other damned fool.

***

"I've never heard anyone who talks like you, Caitlin," Andrew told her shyly. "It's quite different, d'you know ... all lovely and—and a little like singing."

The child's smile displayed deep dimples. They made Caitlin wonder if he resembled his father in that respect as well as others. But then, she couldn't imagine that dark lord smiling, no matter how hard she tried.

"Is it, now?" she returned with an exaggerated look of surprise. "Ach! And here I was thinkin' I'd mastered tyin' me tongue in knots and soundin' just like a proper Englishwoman!''

The sound of Andrew's laughter was a joy. Such a far cry from the pitiful whimpering that tore at her heart when she'd first come to try to ease his pain. But the willow bark tea had done its work, and perhaps the fresh poultices she'd applied to the leg as well.

"How's the leg, lad?" she asked with as little concern as she could muster. No sense frightening the child. "And none o' that stiff upper lip blather, me boyo!" she added, wagging a finger at him.

He'd suffered through her ministrations so bravely, she'd wanted to cry herself. There'd been tears in his eyes, and his small square chin had trembled, but not a sound out of him. The lad was brave as they come. Not to mention sweet-tempered, and bright as a brand-new penny. Her heart had gone out to him at once.

"It hardly hurts at all," he said, then slid a glance to the plate standing beside a glass of milk on the bed stand. "But perhaps ... " he added, eyeing her carefully, "if I had another biscuit, I'd feel even better."

"Hmm ... ," she replied, making a great show of giving this due consideration. "D'ye really think so?"

"Oh, yes! Cook makes the most delic—uh, the most helpful biscuits."

Sharp as a tack, and no mistake. Caitlin handed him one of the sugared treats Mrs. Hodgkins had brought up from the kitchens. She, Jepson and Caitlin were, none of them, getting any sleep this night; yet they were so buoyed by the lad's recovery, they seemed to have tapped into a store of energy they hadn't known was there. "But," she said to Andrew, "ye must drink up yer milk with it, lad. Milk's what's wanted for mendin' broken bones, and ye've yer share o' those."

Andrew dutifully took the glass she handed him. "You know lots of things," he said around a yawn.

Caitlin nodded to herself. The sleeping draught she'd given him was working. And high time, too. 'Twas a couple of hours before dawn. "Do I, now?" she said.

Andrew nodded sleepily, swallowed the last of his milk. "Like milk for mending bones. Who told them to you?"

Caitlin saw Crionna's beloved face in her mind's eye, and suddenly she found herself fighting a wave of grief. It was stronger than anything she'd experienced in months. She wondered why she should be so affected now.

The reason wasn't that hard to piece out. She'd been alone for so long, throwing herself into her work. It had kept her busy .. . kept the darkness at bay. But now, suddenly, she was in the midst of a large household. A household with people she'd already come to know in a way she never knew those she encountered in her far-ranging travels. People she'd come to know, aye.. . and care about.

And the caring awoke kindred feelings ... memories of the woman she'd loved. Ach, Crionna! I miss ye so.

How I long for your wisdom and strength. Especially now I've blundered into the dream's terrible—

"Caitlin ... ?" Andrew's prompting pulled her back to the moment. Reminding her he'd asked her a question.

"Who taught me?" she said with a smile. "A wonderful auld wise woman, lad. She told me such things ... taught me all I know. All that's important, that is."

"Was she your governess?"

Caitlin laughed. "In a manner o' speakin', she was. But she was also somethin' more."

"But she wasn't your mother, was she." It was not a question. Andrew stared intently at his lap. "Mothers don't have time to tell you things."

Caitlin felt a stab of pity. So, his mother hadn't had "time" to tell him things, had she? Was that a clue why the lad hadn't asked for her? She'd been thinking them lucky. She and the two upper servants had discussed the marchioness's death, and how it might affect him. They'd decided it wasn't their place to tell him, but they'd worried what to say it if he asked for his mother. Now it seemed there might be reasons why he hadn't. And Caitlin didn't like what she was hearing.

"I think 'tis time ye were asleep, lad," she said. She eased him down and began to tuck the covers around him. "But I'll sing t' ye, t' help the sleep along, if ye like."

Andrew's eyes went wide. "Oh, yes, awfully! Nurse used to sing to me." He frowned. "But that was a long time ago. I have a governess now"—he yawned sleepily—"instead of Nurse. And my governess ... says"— another yawn—"I'm too old ... for a lulla—a lulla—"

"A lullaby?"

He nodded.

"Well, that may be because she doesn't know any— but I do!" Caitlin winked at him, and when he grinned back at her, she began to sing ....

***

Dawn was lighting the eastern sky above the rooftops as Adam returned home. Telling the sleepy-eyed footman on duty to find his bed, he made for the stairs. His mood was foul. No one could tell him where Appleby might be found. Fact was, the more he asked about the mysterious stranger who'd appeared in their midst in April, the less he could be sure anyone knew.

Some said they believed he hailed from the south, but they couldn't say where, exactly. Others swore he was a northerner. Still others maintained he'd come from the Continent. Only one thing was certain: Appleby had vanished without a trace.

Disheartened by the whole affair, Adam decided to let it rest until he caught some sleep. He was dead tired and sick with worry over Andrew. Guilt gnawed at him as he approached his chambers. He'd been so caught up in his frenzy to find Appleby, he'd left while his son was distressed and in pain. What in hell was the matter with him?

A grim smile twisted his lips. What in hell, indeed.

He entered his bedchamber, closing the door softly behind him. Light from a few candles guttering in a branch near the bed allowed him to see it clearly. He paused. The scene that met his gaze was reassuring ... and oddly touching.

The little Irish maid sat in a bedside chair beside his son, who'd edged to the side of the bed closest to her. The girl's head rested on her forearm, which lay on the mattress near Andrew's head. She was sleeping as soundly as his son. Her free hand was on the mattress, too, where Andrew clutched it, even in sleep. There was a soft smile on the child's face.

Adam must have made some sound as he approached the bed. The girl came awake with a start. Her head swung toward him, and she gasped.

"Sorry if I gave you a fright," he said, keeping his voice low. He glanced at Andrew; the child hadn't awakened.

"Oh, no, sorr—Ach! Yer lordship, I mean." Caitlin glanced down and carefully extricated her hand from the boy's. " 'Tis I should be apologizin', milord. I ... I didn't mean t' fall asleep here, d'ye see, but I was singin' the lad this lullaby, and—"

"Miss ... Caitlin, isn't it?" As she nodded, Adam ran his gaze over her. He recalled thinking her pretty. Now he realized that had been well short of the mark.

She was exquisite.

Coppery hair, burnished with fiery highlights, fell over her arms and shoulders in a wealth of shining curls. Her eyes, huge in her face, were the most incredible shade of green, not the gray he'd thought them earlier. Soft and deep, they reminded him of mossy banks along a hidden stream in summer.

Her features were soft, too, and delicate. Blinking up at him, still muzzy from sleep, she looked like a sleepy-eyed angel....

He hid a smile. "Caitlin ... the Irish Angel?" He thought he saw her blush, but the lighting made it impossible to be sure.

"Well, Caitlin," he said, allowing the smile to form at last, "there's no need to apologize. It's clear you've been a great help to my son. I'm grateful for it."

Caitlin nodded, too mesmerized to speak. His smile! It thoroughly transformed the man. Utterly, she thought, noting the answer to the thing she'd wondered about earlier. The adult version of Andrew's dimples were deep grooves bracketing his father's mouth when he smiled. The marquis was so handsome, she could scarcely look at him. Beautiful, in a dark sort of way, despite the scar on his ... .

Thoughts of the scar plunged her into the old fear. She tore her eyes from him and quickly stood, searching for something to say. Anything, as long as it banished the thing hovering at the edges of her mind.

"I made some willow bark tea for the lad," she said, gesturing at a cup on the bed stand. "If he should awaken in discomfort, ye might offer him some more. " 'Twill ease the pain, d'ye see," she added when he didn't respond. "And the leg—well, I won't lie t' ye, milord—'tis in a bad way. But I've been applyin' poultices to it"—and prayin' somethin' fierce—"which is what I did for that wound t' his head ..."

"What is it?" Adam asked, seeing her frown. Caitlin met his eyes and nearly looked away. They were beautiful eyes, now he was no longer scowling. A deep, vibrant blue and fringed with thick black lashes, just like Andrew's.

She cleared her throat, swallowed. "Odd thing, that head wound, milord. 'Twas healed remarkably at the time ye left, earlier this evenin', but ..."

"Go on," he said. Her voice had a low, husky quality to it that was at odds with her diminutive size. And then there was that lilting brogue. He thought he could listen to her speak all night and never tire of it.

"Well," said Caitlin, " 'tis healed even further now, milord. Beyond what I found earlier, I mean. Greatly beyond. There's naught but a slight reddenin' o' the skin! Lord Lightfoot, I've presided over the healin' of a great many injuries in me time, young as I am, but..." She shook her head. "I've niver seen the like!"

Caitlin was at a loss to explain the marquis's bitter laugh as he abruptly told her to go to bed.