"Mrs.
Brindle! Sometimes I think she's the worst o' all of us! Acting so stern and
all prunes and prisms, when she's as soft on the girl as any of us! She's the
one who finally surrendered to the girl. The surprise seemed to mean so much to
Miss Cass, it did. And well, sir, no one understands how persuasive Cassandra
can be better than you do. You've never been able to say no to her
yourself."
"I've
never been able to say no to one last roll of the dice either, Cadagon, but
throwing them has usually gotten me neck-deep in trouble. Give Hazard an extra
measure of oats once he's cooled down."
Aidan
strode up to the castle, and a footman scrambled to open the heavy door still
emblazoned with the crest of the family the Kanes had disinherited generations
before. But Aidan barely returned the youth's greeting. He hastened through the
corridors of the glistening haven he had built for his daughter, then took the
stairs two at a time, unable to quell the strange tightness in his throat as he
hurried up to his daughter's room. When he reached the landing, the door was
ajar, and he flattened his palm on it and gently pushed it wide.
Sunbeams
filtered through the wide windows he'd had carved out of the castle's old
defenses, brilliant diamond patterns of stained glass setting the exquisite
chamber aglow.
If
the weavers of legend had set out to fashion a fairy bower, it would have
mirrored this suite of rooms at Rathcannon. The walls were warmed with
tapestries stitched by the holy sisters in France ages past. Unicorns laid
their heads in maidens' laps, knights tested their courage against dragon fire.
Trees spilled gold and silver fruit into children's hands while blossoms grew
in exquisitely sewn fields.
Even
the furniture that filled the chamber had been patterned after the fanciful
stories Cassandra Kane adored: Nymphs and woodsprites danced across the
rosewood armoire, dainty fairies with gauzy silver wings adorned the
candlesticks. The four posts on her huge tester bed were wound about by
garlands of flowers, so delicately wrought it seemed that when one touched them
their fingers should come away wet with dew. Curtains—which Cass had insisted
were the impossible blue-green of a mermaid's hair— draped the bed, the velvet
hangings embroidered with winged horses that seemed so lifelike the mere brush
of a hand should make them take flight.
But
to Aidan the most miraculous creature in the room had always been the girl who
drowsed among coverlets sprinkled with gold-flecked stars.
Cassandra,
half angel, half imp—a treasure that fate had foolishly thrust into a rogue's
awkward hands. The most intense battle Sir Aidan Kane had ever waged had been
his struggle not to destroy her.
With
a stealth acquired by years of practice, he slipped across thick carpets from
lands of spice and mystery, and his throat felt oddly tight as he saw a gilt
chair drawn close to the bed. A blanket had been draped across its seat, and a
small satin pillow placed atop it, small luxuries he knew Cassandra had set out
the night before in an effort to make him more comfortable when he took up his
customary vigil.
He
could remember the first time she had devised the chair, heard her child's plea
echo in his memory. She had been seven years old, still reeling from her
mother's death in the disaster that had nearly cost Cassandra her own life as
well.
She
had grasped his hand, tight in her own, and stared up at him with wide blue
eyes.
Papa,
when it's time for you to visit, I wake up and wake up and think you are here,
and run to your room again and again until I'm quite fractious indeed and my
feet are very cold. If you slept in the chair, when I woke up I could reach out
and touch you and make certain you are real.
Aidan
would have walked through fire for his daughter. It had always seemed a small
sacrifice to please her by taking up a vigil in the chair on the nights he
arrived at the castle. What he hadn't expected was that those night watches
would become the most precious moments of his life.
Times
when he could watch Cassandra's little face, soft, rosy, content, her lashes
feathering across her cheeks. He could know that she was safe, that she was
happy, and that, for a brief, precious space in time, nothing could hurt
her—not even Aidan himself.
Slowly,
he reached out, to draw back one of the bed's embroidered curtains, his gaze
taking in the tumble of silver-blond curls tossed across her pillows. For an
instant, he pictured her cuddling the doll he'd bought her in London, imagined
his daughter's rosy little mouth sucking on two fingers, the way she had when
she was small.
He
had spent countless hours worrying that she would ruin the shape of her mouth,
but as he looked down at the girl now, he would have been grateful for such a
minor concern. There were far more painful dangers drawing inexorably nearer to
Cassandra with every day that slipped past.
She
was growing up. Aidan's heart lurched as the morning light revealed the face of
a girl on the verge of blossoming into a woman. Even in slumber, there was an
expectancy in those features that were so familiar and yet suddenly so changed.
A
splinter of pain pierced Aidan's chest at the sudden awkwardness he felt—the
knowledge that he no longer belonged here, keeping vigil. It was time the chair
and blanket were tucked away forever.
It
was inevitable, Aidan knew, this letting go of childhood games once cherished.
But that knowledge didn't dull the ache of knowing it would not be long before
Cassandra abandoned him as well, leaving him behind the way she had the ragged
doll she'd finally outgrown.
Aidan
closed his eyes, hearing the echoes of her chatter on his last visit.
Was
my mother beautiful when you first saw her at General Morton-Syffe's ball?
Aidan
had tried to keep the bitterness from his voice.
Yes, she was beautiful.
Beautiful
and cunning, selfish and greedy for pleasure. A foolish, spoiled, brainless girl
who threw herself away upon the rogue most likely to send her family into
apoplexies....
Mrs.
Brindle says that my mother was the belle of the season, with a dozen beaux
fighting over the privilege of bringing her a cup of ratafia. And when she
eloped with you, three of her suitors went into such a deep decline they had to
be sent to the seashore, and another nearly shot himself in desperation. Do you
think that I will have as many beaux when I have my season in London?
It
had been difficult enough to speak of Delia, costing Aidan untold effort to
keep his hatred of the woman from spilling into his voice or revealing itself
in his eyes, where it could wound the one decent thing that had come out of his
union with Delia March.
But
when dreams of London—balls and theaters, waltzing and flirtations—had crept
into his daughter's conversations, Aidan had finally understood the depths hell
could reach.
My
season in London...
How
many times had those words seared through Aidan the past three years, more
painful than the pistol shot a disgruntled duelist had driven through his
shoulder?
He
had reeled at the realization that Cassandra had spun out fantasies that could
never come true, and his own responsibility for her inevitable disillusionment
had festered inside him, a wound that wouldn't heal.
Since
she was five, he had kept her safe, happy in her castle beside the Irish Sea—a
princess running about her private kingdom in a gilded pony cart, begging for
presents, hurling herself into his arms, laughing, laughing. He had marveled at
her, a miracle of goodness in a lifetime ill spent.
The
only peril he had never reckoned with was the one overtaking them now: his
bright-eyed imp changing into a restless spirit, anxious to fly; a young woman
with no understanding of the word
impossible,
and no inkling that a
scandal from a decade past still had the power to harm her—that the sins of her
father and mother were emblazoned like some hideous brand upon her breast.
Aidan
would have given the last drop of blood in his veins to spare her pain, but
he'd been too selfish, too arrogant, too unthinking during that brief span of
time when he might truly have fixed things for her. And now it was too late.
There were some wrongs that couldn't be righted, some wounds that couldn't be
healed. No one knew that better than Aidan Kane.
He
reached out a fingertip to trace the scar usually hidden by the curls that
tumbled across her brow, the faint white arc a poignant reminder of how close
he had come to losing her forever.
At
his touch, Cassandra's lashes fluttered open, revealing wide blue eyes, so like
her mother's. But instead of the vanity, the deceit that had characterized
Delia Kane, delight shone unabashedly in his daughter's face. She scrambled out
of bed in a flurry of nightgown and flung her arms about Aidan's neck with no
thought to her jealously guarded adolescent dignity. "Papa! You've come!
If you hadn't, I would've been quite desperate!"
Aidan
gave a strained chuckle. He gathered her close, his heart wrenching at the
realization that she nearly reached his chin. He buried his face in her curls
and breathed in the scent of milk and cinnamon and innocence. "Desperate?
That sounds rather alarming, Princess. Is there something amiss?"
"No!"
she said rather too hastily. "It's just that... it's been forever since I
saw you last!"
"Three
months only," Aidan corrected.
But when I left, you were still a
child....
She
drew away, looking up at him with eyes suddenly far younger than her fifteen
years. "You used to think that three months was forever too. Remember,
Papa?"
Wistful.
Wide. Her questioning gaze stayed Aidan, left him bleeding.
But that was
before, when I didn't have to face how I've hurt you, simply by being your
father. When I didn't have to feel this grinding guilt.
"Perhaps
I stay away to save myself the embarrassment of making a disaster out of your
presents, girl. Last time I came, I brought a length of muslin for a gown and,
when I saw how tall you'd grown, was forced to face the fact there was scarce
enough fabric to fashion a petticoat for you!"
A
heartbreakingly beautiful smile tugged at her lips. "It is
my
turn
to surprise you with a present this time! After all, it's not every day that a
gentleman turns... How old is it? Eighty? Eighty-one? A great doddering
age."
"Thirty-six,
minx," Aidan said, pinching her cheek. "And seeing you is the best
present I could receive. Except... perhaps one. Pray, tell me you have
not
baked
me a cake again. The last one nearly poisoned me, if I remember rightly."
"I
have a much better gift this year," she said loftily. "I worried over
it until my head ached. But it was worth the agonies. It is absolutely
perfect."
"You
perceive me positively agog with curiosity." Aidan made a great show of
searching the room. "You know, it
is
officially my birthday. When
do I receive this paragon present?"
Cassandra
swirled about to grab up her dressing gown. "I don't know
exactly."
There was an over-bright quality to Cassandra's voice that set alarm bells
rattling in Aidan's head. "Sh—I mean,
it
is arriving by
coach."
"Ah
hah! You nearly said
she!
Let me make a guess! When last I was here, I
told you that Squire Phipps was going to breed that delectable pointer bitch of
his. I'd wager a hundred pounds you've sent for one of the pups from
Dublin!"
"Dublin?
I don't know what you mean."
"You
needn't dissemble, girl. Cadagon already told me how shamelessly you tyrannized
over them, sending the coach clear to town to fetch it! You knew that I was in
the city. If you'd just have written, I could have scooped her up and—No, you
needn't put on such a sour face. I'll have her trained to my hand before the
week is out! Make her the most devoted female ever..."
Cassandra
went quite pale. "It's not a dog! It's something ever so much more—more...
exciting."
Aidan
raised one dark brow. "Why does that particular adjective suddenly make me
nervous?"
"Because
you are far too stodgy and set in your ways, and you need someone to shake you
up royally, sir," Cassandra said, with a most disquieting gleam in her
eyes.
"I
see. And you are just the imp to reform me, eh?" Aidan laid one finger
alongside his beard-stubbled jaw. "Come to think of it, I passed a coach
on the road a ways back, but between the darkness and the crazed pace I was
setting, I didn't even realize it was my own! Perhaps I should roust out Hazard
and go make a search of it." He started toward the door, but Cassandra
lunged for him, grabbing his arm.
"No!"
She glanced at the window as if expecting the king himself to come racketing up
to the door. "You should carry yourself off to make yourself quite
handsome."
"I
should, eh? Since when did you become so particular about my appearance?"
Aidan peered into the gilt-framed mirror that graced one wall. His mouth tipped
up in a rueful grin. Cassandra was right: He was looking even more disreputable
than usual. Stubble shadowed his square jaw, his hair wind-tossed and wild
about sun-bronzed cheeks. His eyes were reddened from a shortage of sleep and
an overabundance of liquor. A spectacular bruise stained his left cheekbone where
he'd been struck by a vase his mistress had flung at him when he'd not tarried
in her bedchamber. His cravat had been mangled by impatient fingers, while his
breeches and boots were dulled by a fine layer of travel dust.