But
all he could do was stand here, isolated by memories that would give him no
peace. He saw himself as he'd been what seemed an eternity ago, watching men
surrounding Delia like some kind of unholy aura.
From
beneath slitted lids, he had observed this squire and that youth, just up from
Trinity College, wondering if they were plotting a tryst with Sir Aidan's woman,
or if they had already lain with her to satiate her greedy desires. He had
watched his neighbors dance with her, touching her hand, devouring her carnal
beauty with eyes that stripped away the glistening angel-faced woman, until
only the harlot remained, eager for the hands of a man on her skin—every man's
hands, any man's hands—except for those of the husband who had planted his babe
in her womb and then been bastard enough to insist that she bear it.
Not
because he'd felt any mad desire to become a father, brainless young fool that
he'd been. Rather because he'd been unwilling to let his wife fall beneath the
filthy knives of some back-street butcher who would likely kill her.
Aidan
leaned against a stone pillar where shadows clung, his evening attire
impeccable, his eyes as hard and bright and filled with hidden fire as the
emerald stickpin that glinted in the snowy folds of his cravat.
He
should have been able to dismiss his memories of Delia. He might have
succeeded, had it not been for the woman who glided about the ballroom now, her
dusky locks caught up in a wreath of gardenias, her eyes dark pools in which a
man could lose himself forever.
He
knew her, every soft curve and velvety hollow, every pleasure place that made
her sigh and moan. When he'd left her last night in that passion-tumbled bed,
he had been certain he'd possessed her so thoroughly she would never stray. But
it seemed he was cursed to repeat the past with yet a second Kane bride—for as
he watched Philip Montgomery hovering about Norah, a thousand long-buried
doubts shivered to life inside him.
Doubts
fired by the hot, pulsing fever Aidan's new bride had afflicted him with last
night in her bed.
God,
how had it happened? He raged inwardly, cursing the fates that had brought this
woman here. How had he lost that devil-may-care attitude with which he'd bedded
every woman since Delia barred him from her chambers? He had made it a game—had
even teasingly labeled bed games as sexual fencing matches, making certain that
the foils were tipped so that they could not pierce the lady in question's
heart, nor his own. It had been an amusement fraught with challenge and
pleasure, yet one in which both parties knew the rules, and could walk away
after the match was over with laughter on their lips.
But
somehow, between the time Aidan had tossed the first card out upon Norah's bed
and the time he had pierced the tender veil of her maidenhead, everything had
changed. The practice weapons had shifted into blade-sharp points, and Aidan
had felt those terrifying emotions drive deep into his chest, far deeper than
even Delia had ever stabbed him.
He
had thrust into the soft haven of Norah's body, felt her very essence melting
into his spirit, felt those tightly guarded pieces of his soul Delia had not managed
to destroy starting to slip into Norah's hands.
Felt
himself... what? Starting to...
love her?
The
mere words sent terror racing through Aidan's vitals, making him feel naked,
vulnerable. No. He'd vowed he would never let another woman have that kind of
power over him again. He would never allow soft kisses and feminine wiles to
deceive him, lure him to believe in happily ever afters, in passions that would
endure beyond the realm of time.
A
fool's dream. A poet's realm of blissful insanity. A draught of nectar-sweet
poison served up by the same feminine hands that would one day betray the man
foolish enough to drink it.
Aidan
shuddered, remembering the desperate craving to be touched by Delia's hands, to
be loved by her, the wild rages of jealousy that had tormented him until he
feared he
would
go mad. And laughter... always Delia's laughter, mocking
him, daring him to be man enough to take what he wanted, until he'd nearly
surrendered what remained of his soul to meet that twisted challenge. Sickened himself
by coming far too close to forcing her to give what she denied him, what she
dangled before him, like tempting sweetmeats before a starving man's eyes.
That
single memory still had the power to make Aidan's stomach churn, his nerves
coil with revulsion. He had vowed never to allow another woman to make such a
beast of him again, to strip away everything decent inside him, leaving nothing
but rage and lust and cravings that could never be satisfied.
But
here he stood, watching the bride he had taken to his bed one night before, and
the hunger in his spirit was raging more fiercely than it ever had for
beautiful, shallow Delia. White-hot blades of jealousy carved with exquisite
torment every nerve in his body, cleaving away the illusion of self-control he
had clung to since the day he had left his faithless wife's bedchamber for the
last time.
He
was possessed by the need to stalk across the ballroom, scoop Norah up into his
arms, and carry her through the crowd up the broad staircase and into his bedchamber.
He was afire with the need to fling her onto his massive bed, strip away the
layers of satin from her ivory skin, to kiss and caress and suckle every part
of her, until she begged him for release. To tease her to even wilder heights
with his mouth, his hands, his tongue, until he was buried so deep inside her
she would never forget how desperately she wanted him. Him. Only him.
He
wanted to wring cries of pulsing hunger from that slender throat, hear her tell
him that she loved him. Love—not born of a moment's passion, fading away when
dawn's light trickled through the bedchamber window. But the love of a lady for
her knight of old, transcending death itself.
If
only he truly believed such love was possible at all.
He
gave a bitter laugh. Considering the way he'd hurt her in those raw minutes
before he'd stormed from her chamber, he'd be lucky if his bride didn't loathe
him.
"Papa!"
Cassandra's
voice startled him, and he turned to peer down into his daughter's face, the
mere sight of her tonight inflicting yet another blow to his already battered
heart.
Cassandra—his
little scrape-kneed princess—had somehow been magically transformed into a
beautiful young woman, the living image of the willful girl Aidan himself had
fallen in love with in that far-away ballroom in London so many years before.
But
the facial likeness was the only thing that whispered of Delia in the daughter
they had created together. Instead of eyes that begged a man to come hither,
Cassandra's eyes were bright and eager, her mouth sweet instead of seductive,
without a thousand pretty lies at the tip of her tongue. Had Aidan suffered
seeing Cass thus transfigured a month ago— her gown that of a lady, her hair a
woman's shining coronet—the mere sight of her would have shattered Aidan's heart.
But tonight, even his cherished daughter could not seem to break the invisible
chains that had been forged between him and the woman now gliding across the
castle ballroom's floor in the arms of Philip Montgomery.
"Papa,
you are being the biggest blockhead in all Ireland!" Cassandra accused.
"Standing here as if you were hiding, when the whole assembly is fairly
perishing to talk to you."
"Don't
you mean pry into the strange broth that is my marriage, Cassandra?" he
said with a tinge of bitterness. "God knows, even here they've given me no
peace, hounding me for any scrap of scandal they can carry back to share with
some other gossiping fiend. Perhaps I should stop the orchestra for a moment
and make an announcement to the blasted bunch of them.
I'm sure you are all
most astonished at my precipitous marriage, but you see, my daughter found me a
bride and gave her to me for my birthday. And since Miss Linton had no other
more attractive prospects for her future, she deigned to wed me,"
he
mocked. "I can just imagine what a delightful time these old dragons would
have with that tidbit of information."
Cassandra's
hurt glance made him feel like a bastard, but at that moment he saw Montgomery
draw Norah a whisper closer to his body, Aidan's bride tipping her head, as if
eager to capture something his lordship had said.
"Papa,
even if you detest everyone else here, you could at least pay some attention to
Norah."
"It
seems she's doing quite fine without me." Aidan's jaw clenched, his eyes
seething beneath half-closed lids.
Montgomery
had whisked Norah to the far edge of the dance floor, and Aidan saw Norah lean
close to him, whisper something in Montgomery's ear. A fist seemed to slam into
Aidan's gut as he watched the Englishman move out of the bevy of dancers and
tuck Norah's hand possessively in the crook of his elbow. With a hasty glance
to make certain they were unseen, Philip Montgomery led Aidan's wife out the
doors that led down to Rathcannon's gardens.
How
many times had Aidan watched the same scene unfolding? Delia and her lovers
stealing away for thirty minutes, an hour or longer, while Aidan and every
other guest in attendance pictured all too clearly the lusty exchange that was
going on behind the yew hedge or a bank of roses. Delia not caring if she were
discovered—actually delighting in it—then returning, licking those passion-ripe
lips like a cat who had sampled forbidden cream.
Yet
never, in all his years with Delia, had the pain been this brutal, this
consuming.
"Oh,
Papa," Cassandra said, as if realization had just dawned on her. "You
are upset because she has danced with his lordship? If you ask me,
you
are
the one who owes
her
an apology."
"Owe
her?"
"I
don't see why you should act like the maligned hero of some melodrama since you
didn't offer to dance with her yourself! You could hardly expect her to stand
by the wall with the buck-toothed Misses Baldrey, could you?"
"Cassandra,
I—" Aidan stopped, grimaced. She was right. He was sulking in the corner
with all the finesse of the confused, hurting, betrayed youth he'd been when
Delia held his heart. He was acting for all the world like a lovesick fool. The
knowledge enraged him, terrified him, spurring him to straighten, to draw away
from the pillar upon which he'd been leaning. He had watched his first wife
parade countless lovers before his face, but Norah... No, he'd not allow any
man—especially a pompous ass like Philip Montgomery—to touch so much as the hem
of her gown.
"Just
a blasted minute," he said, pausing to scowl down at his daughter in
confusion. "Why this sudden concern on Norah's behalf when you had decided
to hate her?"
Cassandra
squirmed, flushed. "I suppose I saw the sadness in her eyes. The
loneliness—as if... as if she were pressed up against the window of a shop
filled with wonderful treasures but no one had ever invited her inside."
The
insight wrenched at Aidan's gut.
"In
her letters and when she first arrived, she was so kind and funny and so—so
good. Angry as I was at the way she acted while you were sick, well, I just
couldn't believe she could be the lady in the letters and a tyrant at the same
time. I don't know why I acted the way I did."
"Blast,
you're a confusing little baggage. I think you females conspire to drive men
mad."
"I
don't want you to be mad, Papa. I want you to go find Norah. Dance with
her."
"I'll
find her."
With
that, he stalked away, winding through the assemblage, ignoring greetings and
queries, ignoring everything except the wild clamoring in his veins, the
throbbing in his temples, the hot, aching hole that had once been his heart.
The
garden was lit with paper lanterns that glowed in pinks and lavenders and
greens. Stone benches gleamed, silvery in the moonlight, while statues born of
myth and legend reared up in the uncertain light, as if enchanted by some
strange magic that had made them shiver to life.
Aidan
swallowed hard, the echoing of his bootheels upon the path seeming like cannon
fire, his fists clenched at his sides, as if their grasp on nothingness could
somehow contain the emotions tearing through him with such excruciating power.
When
he heard the soft murmur of voices in a tiny arbor, hidden from the eyes of any
who would stray down the pathways, he was tempted to call out. But to what
purpose? To warn Norah so she could spring out of her lover's arms? Aidan
grimaced, disgusted with himself. Norah was not Delia. They were as different
as the silvery moon from the most dazzling sunlight, as different as a dove
from a peregrine with a thirst for blood.
Trying
to get the jealousy tormenting him under control, Aidan strode around the
corner. What he saw all but drove him to his knees.
A
lithe feminine figure was clasped in a man's embrace, her rosy arms twined
about his neck in ecstasy. Laughter, silvery, ethereal, echoed from lips that
Aidan had kissed the night before.
"Philip!
Oh, Philip, you are the most wonderful man in the world! I knew I could depend
upon you to help me! How can I ever,
ever
thank you?"