But
Aidan only drew away from her, his lips curling, his voice bitter and soft.
"Touche, madam. That was a thrust even Delia would have been proud
of."
With
that, he turned and strode away from her, across the floor of the ruined
castle, through the break in the fairy ring, an exile from Caislean Alainn's
sweet enchantment.
With
her whole body trembling, Norah stared after him, hurting and angry, confused
and raw. He had insulted her in every possible way, mocked her with his sensual
arrogance, tried to bend her to his will by taking shameless advantage of her
inexperience where the ways of pleasure were concerned.
He
had wounded her, bullied her, humiliated her by reaching into the darkest
recesses of her heart and ripping out the fantasies she had once held, exposing
them to the harsh light of reality.
In
the end, he had left her no choice but to fight back in the only way she knew
how. To retain some tiny grip upon what frayed remnants of pride he had left to
her.
Then
why did she suddenly want to go to him, to soothe him? Heal that wound she had
glimpsed for such a fleeting moment in his eyes, assuage the hunger she had
sensed in his mouth, his hands? It was not the carnal desire he had spent in
the bodies of so many other women, but a hunger of the spirit he didn't even
know that he possessed.
Or
had Sir Aidan been right when he'd cast out his accusation? a voice whispered
inside her.
Was
it Norah's own hunger she wanted to ease? The ache of emptiness Sir Aidan
Kane's impassioned kiss had just begun to fill?
The
study at Rathcannon was as grim as Aidan's mood. Heavy burgundy draperies were
drawn tight over the windows, and the dark wood paneling that rose halfway up
the walls cast the lower section of the chamber in pools of dismal shadow. The
pale plaster above seemed alive with phantoms whose macabre robes bled through
the ornate frescoes on the walls. Aidan knew the specters well. Spirits of Kane
ancestors, blackened by devil fire and the reproachful wraiths of those they had
betrayed.
But
tonight they were accompanied by a far more disturbing apparition: that of a
determined seventeen-year-old boy who had stormed away from Ireland and his
family's dark legacy, determined to rise above the scurrilous past he'd
inherited. A boy who had only found that destiny was far stronger than the will
of one reckless fool who dreamed of becoming a hero.
A
fool who had had the dream dust clawed from his eyes by the savage talons of
war, and by a girl as heartless as she was beautiful. A huntress who had used
him and thrown away whatever goodness he'd struggled to dredge up from his soul
in her name.
Aidan
swore, stalking over to where a cut-glass brandy decanter caught the last
fragments of light from the dying fire. Grasping the delicate glass piece by
its neck, he sloshed yet another measure into the goblet that hadn't left his
hand in the hours since he and Norah had disembarked from the mud-spattered
carriage, each ominously silent, melting into the depths of Rathcannon to tend
the wounds each had been dealt by the other.
Aidan
had come to this room to forget, to drown his regrets, his fury... and, yes,
damn Norah Linton to hell, his pain, any way that he could. But he had only
found more specters stalking him, felt the fingers of regrets decades old
clinging to his coat sleeves like beggar children.
And
for some reason—his own crushing guilt, or the haunting memory of the wounded
brown eyes that had gazed into his amidst Caislean Alainn's shattered beauty—
he could not free himself of his demons tonight.
Aidan
crossed to the desk in the center of the room and sank down into the leather
chair behind it. He set the glass onto a surface bared of the usual ledgers and
correspondence, tallies of livestock and business dealings that would have littered
that of any industrious landowner.
Aidan
had long before delegated all such affairs to his man of business. God forbid
the notorious Sir Aidan Kane be distracted by an outbreak of hoof-and-mouth
disease when he was at the gaming tables, or that he inadvertently muddle up
some dealings with his tenants. He didn't understand a blasted thing about
farming, and the people who lived on Rathcannon land already regarded him with
a loathing deepened through generations of conquering Kanes. Besides which, he had
wanted to devote himself to Cassandra whenever he set foot on Rathcannon land.
Yet
tonight he would have been glad of the distraction of a mountain of paperwork
to wade through. He would have been grateful for anything that could divert his
thoughts from the scene that had played out in the exquisite ruin of Caislean
Alainn.
Christ,
what had he done? Last night, upon the moon-dark moors, he had decided to wed
Norah Linton, to use her for Cassandra's sake, and for his own.
He
had vowed to himself that he would woo the Englishwoman any way he could, with
empty promises or hot kisses, with pretty lies he should have been able to
utter without so much as a twinge from the deadened reaches of his conscience.
God
knew, that was why he had arranged the outing at the fair, and afterward taken
advantage of Cassandra's absence to bring Norah to the castle ruin. That was
why he had plied the Englishwoman with romantic drivel, softening her with his
words, his touch, like a master violinist, preparing a familiar instrument to
play the tune he desired.
Even
the kiss had been planned, the finishing stroke to drive away any doubts, to
mold her to his will, to make her want him. Because that was one gift Aidan
knew he possessed: the ability to bend a woman to his will by the use of his
body, the sensual talents that had been but another facet of the Kane legacy.
It was an ability he'd cultivated ruthlessly in the years since Delia's
betrayal.
It
had seemed so simple in those moments when he'd exited the breakfast parlor to
find Norah hovering in the corridor, big eyed and uncertain. But somehow,
within Caislean Alainn's fairy ring, the carefully plaited strands of his plan
had come unraveled, and there had been no way that he could stop himself...
from what? From showing her exactly how ruthless he could be? From exploiting
not just the secrets he'd gathered from the depths of her eyes, but stripping
bare any pretenses, exposing to her exactly what he was doing.
Then,
worse still, he had taken her when she was fragile, uncertain, and forced his
kiss onto her trembling lips, forced her to drink from a sudden and
soul-wrenching river of passion he had not even suspected existed in himself.
Aidan's
fingers trembled, his pulse thudding in his chest at the memory of those sweet
lips.
Do
you want me in your bed?
he'd demanded, already imagining the far different
flavor of passion he would taste in this reserved woman, one that titillated
his imagination, made his sex harden and throb.
Never
in all his planning and manipulating, plotting and arranging, had Sir Aidan
Kane suspected that the kiss of this gentle woman would undo him so completely,
confuse him so utterly.
Never
had he suspected that he would want her.
Not
that it mattered anymore. He grimaced. He had made damn certain he would never
be Norah Linton's lover now.
She
was doubtless in Delia's chamber overhead, gathering up her belongings, intent
on escaping his evil clutches even if she had to walk the entire way back to
Dublin.
She
had to be horrified at what she had seen in his face at Caislean Alainn, and
she was thanking the saints that she had discovered she'd nearly betrothed
herself to the devil before taking marriage vows.
She'd
be insane to wed him now that she'd looked into the darkest places in his soul,
now that he'd let her see...
Aidan
dashed the thoughts away, uncertain why they should pain him so deeply. To
banish them completely, he clung to a far more familiar misery.
He
had failed Cassandra. Condemned himself to a hell beyond even Lucifer's
torturous imaginings. And in the process, he had somehow managed to rise above
the orgy of decadence and gaming, drinking and wenching, that had been his life
these past fifteen years, to sicken even himself.
Aidan
closed his eyes, remembering Norah's face in stark contrast to the crumbling
gray stone of the castle wall.
What
kind of woman would cross a sea to marry a man she had never met, he had
demanded to know. Now his conscience whispered the answer: a desperate woman, a
hurting one, one wounded by the harshness of those duty-bound to protect her.
Friendless.
Alone.
Just
as his own innocent Cassandra might one day be, despite all his efforts to
protect her.
A
knife blade forever buried in his soul wrenched savagely, making him grip the
edge of his useless desk with white-knuckled fingers.
No,
he raged inwardly. Cassandra was worlds different from Norah Linton. He'd
raised his Cass to be brave and bold, confident in her ability to challenge
anyone who dared cross her. If she had to, Cassandra Kane would damn well be
able to defend herself.
And
yet, Aidan reasoned, downing the last of his brandy in a single fiery gulp,
hadn't quiet Norah Linton dealt him a blow that had paralyzed him for long
seconds? Chilled him with its deadly accuracy?
I
am also a man who knows a woman's body better than you do, my sweet innocent,
he had claimed
in his arrogance.
Places that the merest brush of my fingers, the softest
touch of lips or tongue will hold the power to make you lose every one of your
high-brow principles and beg for more.
And
she had gazed up at him, with those haunting eyes that seemed to reflect
condemnation of all the evil he had ever done, and said,
If that is so, then
I cannot fathom why your wife would have sought consolation in so many other
mens' beds.
He'd
deserved that verbal riposte, after all that he had done and said to her. But
that hadn't dulled the brutal surge of uncertainty, the terror of his own
inadequacy that had been Delia's parting gift to the brash youth who once would
have conquered all the world's kingdoms for her sake if she had only taken a
moment to... to what? Aidan thought bitterly. To love him?
His
chest aching, he buried his face in one hand, exhausted by the inevitability of
it all. Disgusted with his failures—with Rathcannon, with Delia, and with the
Englishwoman who had been set adrift by the fates and landed on his doorstep,
like the most capricious of salvations.
If
there were a shred of decency in his jaded heart, he would go to Norah this
instant and apologize, give her whatever aid she required to leave Rathcannon,
Ireland, and most of all himself.
If
he had a lick of sense, he would arrange for her departure before Cassandra got
more deeply attached to her, or he sank deeper into the strange fever Norah's
innocent kiss had inspired in him.
But
he'd spent a lifetime taking up the dice when all seemed lost, to cast them one
last time....
A
soft knock at the door made Aidan straighten, dragging one hand through his
hair in an effort to neaten the unruly tresses. His pulse quickened, and he bid
the person enter, half expecting it would be Norah, wrapped up in pelisse and
bonnet, ready to leave Rathcannon.
But
when the door opened, it was a rosy-cheeked Cass who peeped her head in.
Aidan's brows lowered in puzzlement. God knew he couldn't remember the last
time the chit had bothered announcing herself before she came careening in to
greet him.
"Papa,
whatever are you doing?" she demanded. "We've been waiting and
waiting to start dinner! Do you want Miss Linton to think you're always
late?"
"Miss
Linton?" Aidan echoed, dazed. "She can't mean to dine with..."
With
the bastard who'd humiliated her, who'd taken advantage of her.
"I was
certain that after what happened, she..." He bit the words off abruptly as
his daughter shoved the door wide.
"After
what
happened?" Cass queried, her eyes lit with that unpredictable
light Aidan had long before learned to mistrust. "Papa, what on earth did
you do?"
"Why
are you so certain
I
did something amiss?" Aidan said in an effort
to deflect her curiosity. "Isn't it possible your precious Miss
Linton—"
"Did
what?" Cassandra repeated with a laugh. "Ravish you on the trip home
from the fair?"
Aidan's
cheeks burned, and he looked away, scowling. "Cass, you dumped this woman
in my lap, for God's sake. From now on, can you please let
me
handle the
infernal courtship?"
Cassandra
tossed her curls, candlelight picking out an adorable smudge of flour on her
regal nose. "If you're already sulking in here, you cannot be doing a very
good job of it. And even though Miss Linton
did
come down to dinner
tonight, she's not exactly chattering madly about what a lovely drive the two
of you had back to Rathcannon this afternoon. Even with my very best wheedling,
I could scarce pry out a single word."