"The
chieftain must have loved her very much to give her such a beautiful
gift."
"I'm
afraid their tale is about as cheery as that of Tristan and Isolde." He
shrugged one broad shoulder. "But then I suppose it would have to be when
the lady in question was called Maire of the Ten Thousand Tears. They claimed
she was both the most beautiful and the most virtuous woman ever to set foot
upon Irish soil."
"Why
was she so unhappy? Because the castle was destroyed? I can see why that would
have broken her heart."
"No.
Caislean Alainn withstood the tragedy that befell Maire and her chieftain. It
wasn't until Cromwell scourged Ireland that the place was destroyed." He
grimaced.
"The
tale of Maire of the Ten Thousand Tears," Norah found herself prodding
him, alive with curiosity about the woman for whom the Castle of Beauty had
been built.
"Legend
has it that my ancestor Eremon of the O'Caighans made a wager with the
chieftain's enemies, claiming that he could make the queen swell with bastard
seed. If he succeeded, he would receive a hundred cattle and a torc of gold.
The legend says Eremon used Druid arts to shape-change into a likeness of
Maire's husband, then slip into the bed of the chieftain's wife in the
darkness. She welcomed him into her body, for it is said she loved her husband
more than life. But apparently the Druid arts did not shift Eremon's touch into
that of the chieftain, and Maire suspected something was amiss.
"She
tried to ignore her doubts, and when she bore a son nine months later, there
was great rejoicing through the land. But as the years passed, the child grew
up not to resemble the chieftain she so adored but became the mirror image of
my kinsman—a man as notorious for chasing skirts as I have been. For ten years,
Maire had been beloved of all, especially of the chieftain, but nothing could
protect her from the whispers, the constant speculation about the child's
birth. After all, she had been barren as the chieftain's wife for so
long."
"But
she couldn't have known... couldn't have guessed," Norah breathed.
"No,"
Aidan allowed, a pensiveness in his voice. "She couldn't have known that
she had already met her doom. In an effort to cleanse the stain of scandal from
her name, the good lady prayed to the Holy Mother to give her some means to
verify the truth of her child's birth. The Blessed Mother answered her in a
dream. Maire of the Thousand Tears gathered the entire sept at the Hill of
Night Voices, where there was a standing stone that supposedly had magical
powers. Then she had my kinsman brought there. She begged Eremon to swear to
the king upon the holy rock that she was a true and faithful wife and never had
they joined their bodies in bed."
"What
happened?"
"My
kinsman laid his hand upon the stone and attempted to lie. Something—supposedly
whatever power was trapped in the stone—flung him to the earth and killed
him."
A
chill shivered through Norah. "It must be just a—a story. A stone couldn't
possibly have—"
"Whatever
power defeated my kinsman's lie—whether it was the Stone of Truth or the fact
that Eremon couldn't resist gloating and finally revealed what he had done to
someone with an unguarded tongue—the lady did realize the truth at last. The
knowledge that she had unwittingly betrayed her husband would have been agony
enough to that gentle lady. The knowledge that her son was a bastard, born of
that unholy union, was torment. But the most hellish torture of all was the
fact that the chieftain she adored would never forgive her this slur upon his
honor. His fierce pride demanded that he set her aside. The grief ate at Maire
until she flung herself from the top of the castle wall. Sometimes, the peasant
folks say, you can still hear her crying."
"What
a tragic story," Norah said, stepping through a narrow space in the fairy
rath and into the castle's enchanted circle.
"Any
tale involving a Kane is likely to be. There is a saying hereabouts that the
only way a Kane could ever get into heaven is to steal the key." Aidan
gave a noncommittal shrug. "As for the legend of Caislean Alainn, aren't
most tales tragic when the players are foolish enough to give away their
hearts?"
Norah
picked her way through fallen rubble overgrown now with wildflowers and pressed
her palm against the pitted stone of Caislean Alainn's wall. Her palm tingled
with an almost painful awareness, as if she could feel the pulse of the people
who had lived here, loved here, died here. As if their grief and joy, hope and
fear, had been trapped forever, preserved inside the fairy ring.
"Cassandra would say the stories were romantic," she said softly.
"Damnably
depressing, that's what they are. It's enough to make a man swear off women for
all time," Aidan insisted, levering himself up to sit on a ledge of stone
and leaning back against the wall. A myriad of glistening sun drops tumbled
across his dark hair as he drew up one breechclad knee and rested his arm
lazily upon it. "The blasted things never turn out happily. Think about it
for a moment. Do you remember Tristan and Isolde trotting off to their castle
to play bed games and eat sweetmeats once their tale was done? Or Orpheus and
Eurydice cavorting through fields of flowers in eternal bliss? No. The poor
bastards always end up the same: in absolute agony, until they die—heroically,
of course." He grimaced. "As if that is supposed to make up for
everything they've gone through. Miserable and dead. That is the end result of
these epic love tales you women get all dewy eyed over."
There
was all the gruff disgust of a boy in those unremittingly masculine features, a
boy who had long since given up believing in Father Christmas but who very much
wished that he still did.
Norah
was stunned to feel her lips tugging into a wary smile. "Surely there must
be one or two with a happy ending."
"Not
a one that comes to my mind." His face stilled, his eyes intent beneath
thick lashes. "I wonder how our tale will end, Norah Linton."
Norah
turned away from that probing gaze and went to a window that let in a
keyhole-shaped block of light. "Sensibly, I would hope," she said
with forced lightness. "There is something to be said for avoiding jealous
passions, ill-fated love potions, and such like. The one certainty in the
matter is that it
will
end. And considering the circumstances, the
sooner it does the better."
She
heard the soft crunch of Aidan's boots on the rubble that littered the castle
floor, the sound of Aidan coming near her. She stiffened, aware of him—every
line and sinew, every dark angle and coiled muscle—even before his shadow
covered her.
"You
are ready to be quit of us already, then?" His voice was like aged
whiskey, warm and intoxicating. "I wonder if I could change your
mind."
She
started as those sinewy hands closed on her shoulders, turning her gently to
face him. His touch sent sizzling awareness racing through her veins,
whispering of the danger in him, the perilous allure. His eyes burned her with
a glittering intensity.
"Norah,
do you believe in fate?"
"Fate?"
The echo came out in a breathless whisper.
"That
some things are preordained, no matter how we carry on about having free
will."
"Of
course not. I..." She gave a sad laugh. "No, that's wrong. I
must
believe
in fate. I'm sure I do. Look at my mad actions when I got the letter
advertising for a woman to be your bride."
"How
did you come to receive Cassandra's letters?" he prodded gently.
"My
stepbrother has a friend with connections at the
London Times.
When the
letter came, his friend was making a jest of it, showing it around his
club."
"Perfect."
Aidan winced, and Norah could guess just how uncomfortable that notion made
him. "Bloody perfect."
"Richard
saw the note, and he was certain the position was ideal for me," Norah
hurried on. "He knew how desperately unhappy I was. He gave it to me, and
I—I thought..." She stopped, her cheeks burning, her gaze dropping to
where the crisp white of Aidan's shirt was edged by his dark green waistcoat.
But he forced her to meet his gaze, curving one palm against her cheek, tipping
her face up toward his with warm, callused hands, suddenly almost tender.
"What
did you think, Norah Linton?" he encouraged, more gently than she would
have imagined possible.
"I
thought you were my destiny. Isn't that absurd?"
"If
you had asked me that question yesterday, I would have agreed. But I'm not so
certain anymore."
Norah's
heart fluttered in her breast, her fingers trembled. He was confusing
her—utterly, completely, disarming her.
"Did
you ever stop to think that we need each other?" he asked.
"Badly?"
Need—hadn't
that been what Norah had wanted when she'd set out for Ireland? Some purpose in
her life, some direction? Somewhere to belong? Someone who needed her?
Loved
her?
She
hadn't admitted it even to herself, how much she wanted someone to cherish her,
just a little. The admission alone made her draw back, wary.
"I
need a home, Sir Aidan. And from what you said yesterday, what you need is to
be left in peace. Your life is arranged just as you like it."
"What
would you say if I told you I was drowning, and that you—you may be the one
person in the world who could reach out a hand, pull me back to shore?"
Norah
winced inwardly at the echoing of her own secret dreams, her most dangerous
fantasies. "Now I know where Cassandra inherited her flair for the
dramatic, Sir Aidan. I cannot imagine what I could possibly do to... how did
you say it? Pull you back to shore? Especially since it's so evident you are
swimming with all your power in the opposite direction."
Aidan's
eyes darkened, earnest, almost... supplicant. "You could open the doors to
society for Cassandra. Your name could restore to her everything I threw
away."
Her
heart tripped. It was as he'd said: The honor of the Linton name had been the
one legacy her father had managed to leave her.
"With
Cassandra's beauty, my wealth, and the name Linton to lend her respectability,
I know Cass could weather whatever snubs are directed at her. You know how
winning the girl is. Within weeks, she would have the old dragons at Almack's
eating out of her hand."
"You
think a triumph at Almack's will guarantee her happiness? Did your time among
the haute ton bring you such joy?"
Tempests
swirled in the green mist of Sir Aidan's eyes, a muscle in his jaw working.
"Cassandra is different. Special. If you would only marry me, she could
rise above Delia and me—be what we never could be. Something wholesome and
good, strong and happy... She deserves to be happy."
There
was such passion in his words, a catch of desperation in the husky tones. Norah
couldn't help but feel a tug in her heart.
He
raked one hand through the tumbled ebony of his hair. "Norah, I'm asking
you—no, begging you—to help us."
For
all his attempts to paint himself a villain, there was a fierce pride in the
chiseled handsomeness of his features that allowed Norah to see exactly how
much that plea cost him.
For
a heartbeat, she felt a mad urge to reach up and lay her hand against that
stubborn jut of jaw, smooth back the lock of dark hair that fell across his
brow. But she reined herself in harshly. It would be all too easy to succumb to
Sir Aidan Kane's entreaty. The man was intoxicatingly dangerous, as compelling
as a siren's song.
She
didn't dare forget the perilous bargain he wanted her to make. How could she
enter into such a cold and loveless marriage? Agree to the terms Sir Aidan Kane
had flung out at her like a duelist's glove the night before?
A
marriage that was no marriage. A husband who would slip his ring upon her
finger, then do his best to forget she even existed.
A
business arrangement, he had called it; and yet what would it be like to watch
her husband with his lights o' love? Knowing that those were the women whose
company he would delight in, who would see him laugh and feel the power of his
kiss?
The
instant Cassandra was launched into her own life, Norah would once again be a
stranger in a house that did not belong to her. A useless appendage that her
"husband" would cast away with no more thought than a waistcoat whose
color he had wearied of.
Why
did that stark reality make her suddenly feel so desolate?
She
sucked in a steadying breath. "Sir Aidan, I know you are fearful for
Cassandra's future, but to enter into marriage —to take holy vows—knowing
before we even begin that the promises have no meaning..."
"You
lied to me then when you said you wanted a comfortable home? You hunger after
the
grande passion
instead? As one who barely escaped its fires with my
life, I can assure you, the experience is highly overrated."
Norah
cast her gaze away from him, a troubled churning in her breast at those
careless words, and the ease at which she could picture this man—so gloriously
sensual, so wild and reckless, indulging in such earthly pleasures, such savage
passions—passions Norah couldn't even begin to understand or hope to possess
for herself.