Aidan
winced at the cruel mockery of fate—the strange, twisted patterns that had
always interwoven his life with that of Gilpatrick. While Aidan had been
warring for England in the Peninsular War, Gilpatrick had been fighting for
Irish freedom. While Gilpatrick had been a fugitive rebel, Aidan had been a
fugitive as well, running from himself. And in this very cycle of the moon,
both their children had been in danger. Gilpatrick's was dead, Aidan's own
saved only by the grace of God and the courage of a footman. Aidan shuddered,
imagining all too clearly the pistol ball that had pierced Calvy's leg finding
another target, blood blossoming on Cassandra's breast, Aidan cradling her,
knowing he was helpless....
Gilpatrick
had tried to prevent such a horror from overtaking a man he hated.
Aidan
levered himself upright, his head still spinning, sick with confusion and
regret.
"I'm
sorry," Aidan grated. "About the boy."
Gilpatrick
reached out, his callused, hoary hand closing on Aidan's and pulling him to his
feet. Aidan could feel the pulse of agony in the rebel leader, an anguish Aidan
understood far too well.
"The
blood of kings did flow through his veins," Gilpatrick said softly.
"And he died like a king—brave beyond his years, fighting for a patch of
ground that was the life blood of his heart. Ever since he was a wee babe in my
arms, I dreamed of giving it back to him. Scooping up a handful of Rathcannon
turf, closing his fingers about it, and..."
Gilpatrick
turned away, as if suddenly aware of how much he'd revealed to Aidan, his most
hated enemy. Aidan knew the savage ache vulnerability could be. He spared
Gilpatrick the only way he knew how, by shifting the subject to one that would
cause the rebel no pain.
"Then
you didn't hurt my daughter," Aidan said. "I'm sure of that now. Tell
me who did."
Aidan
could see Gilpatrick fold away the anguish that had savaged his features, a
dark light of gratitude filling the rebel's eyes as he once again donned the
mantle of leader. "I don't know who was responsible. It was pure chance
that I got wind of a plot while buying powder from an English bastard who knew
we'd hated each other from birth."
"A
plot?" A dark shudder wrenched through Aidan's gut, the word diabolical,
terrifying.
"The
Sassenach thought I would rejoice in your downfall," Gilpatrick said.
"God knows, I thought I would too. Until I saw what lengths this animal
would go to to see you destroyed. You have a powerful enemy, Kane. That is all I
know."
An
enemy who would stalk Cassandra, who would spill poison into the safe world
he'd fought so hard to create for his daughter. Of all the darkest fears that
had preyed on Aidan in the night, this was the most chilling. That his child
should pay for his sins.
"Tell
me everything you know."
"The
attempt to abduct the girl is part of three wagers struck in some devil's
bargain to destroy you."
"Three
wagers?"
"You
blue-blooded devils are always striking the blasted things. It's a game, Kane,
and somebody is delighting in the sport of running you to ground."
"What
are they, these blasted wagers? And who the hell made them?"
"I
don't know. One had to do with your daughter being taken. Another... there was
something about your wife."
"Norah?"
Aidan felt as if Gilpatrick had jammed the scythe blade into his gut.
"Think, man. You must have heard something, anything... some clue to help
me unravel this."
"Not
so much as a whisper."
"If
it's an official wager, it would be recorded somewhere," Aidan said,
groping for something to stem the tide of panic engulfing him, the wild,
shattering helplessness. "Damn, it must be—"
"What,
Kane? You think this villain strolled into your high-brow White's and scribbled
it in the betting book?" Gilpatrick shook his head. "Only a madman
would write such a thing down, leave evidence that could fall into careless hands."
"A
madman," Aidan said between gritted teeth, "or someone so arrogant,
so certain of victory, they delighted in their own boldness."
An
arrogant madman, plotting vengeance against a child—pressing his blade of
uncertainty against his foe's most devastating vulnerability. A man who would
joyfully tear out Cassandra's throat to cause Aidan pain. And Norah... Now she
was in danger as well.
Aidan
swore, his gut churning so viciously he feared he'd spill the contents of his
stomach on the turf.
"As
if that twisted pleasure were not enough, there is also gold to consider."
"Gold?"
"The
payment for your destruction is enough to ransom a king."
"But
who?" Aidan demanded, as much of himself as of Gilpatrick. "God
knows, it could be any one of a dozen men in England. And in Ireland."
Aidan gave a bitter, agonized laugh. "It would be easier to name who would
not
be willing to aid in my destruction."
"For
your daughter's sake, I wish I could tell you who is responsible. But I don't
know. All I am certain of is that there are two types of men when it comes to a
mission of vengeance. Those in whom passion and fury rage out of control until
they do something reckless, rash—who fling themselves openly and honestly at
their nemesis." Gilpatrick's smile was twisted by his scar. "You and
I are men of that kind, Kane. And then there are those who caress their
vengeance as if it were a whore, planning every pleasure, savoring every press
of their fingertips on the points that will spill agony into their enemy's
soul. That is the kind of opponent you face now, Kane. May God have mercy on
your soul."
The
words insinuated themselves like knife blades beneath Aidan's skin, exquisite
torture honed with truth.
Sickened,
he battled to picture faces across gaming tables, over dueling fields, faces
from battles on blood-soaked Spanish soil. Hatred, malevolent, lurking like
some beast sprung from hell. Hell, or the wicked reaches of the netherworld
that had so long shrouded Aidan's soul.
No.
He wouldn't let that evil drown the only two decent treasures in his life. His
daughter. And—the knowledge clawed at the vulnerable places inside him—his
wife.
"They'll
try it again. Your only hope is to keep your wife and daughter well guarded
until you uncover whatever wickedness is afoot."
"No.
My chance is in finding the bastard who told you about this plot in the first
place. Where can I find him?"
"In
the graveyard of St. Colmcille's. When I arrived for our last meeting, I found
him rottin' in his own blood, his throat slit." Gilpatrick's features went
grim. "The powder and lead he was to sell was still layin' there. One of
the crate boards loosened, bloody fingerprints on the wood. Somehow he'd
managed to slip a letter he'd been carryin' into the crate before he died. A
letter intended for you, demanding payment for warning you there was a plot
against your daughter."
Aidan's
blood ran cold. Was it possible this man had died because he'd known of the
scheme against Aidan? What kind of ruthless beast was stalking those Aidan
loved? And what, in God's name, could he do to protect them?
"So
you took the note?" Aidan asked numbly.
"I
merely passed on the information it held, without the demand for Kane
gold."
Aidan
looked with glazed eyes into Gilpatrick's face, his chest aching with gratitude
as well as raw, numbing terror. The Irishman had discovered the truth and put
aside generations of hatred in an attempt to warn him. Gilpatrick had known
what was to befall Aidan's daughter and had chosen honor instead of vengeance.
But
how had he known other things? That Norah was coming to Rathcannon? "You
knew Cassandra was in danger because you stumbled on the note. But the first
message was to Norah, warning her not to wed me—it was delivered before I even
knew a bride was to arrive."
Gilpatrick
shrugged. "There has been a Gilpatrick spy at Rathcannon since before your
great-grandfather was born, Kane. When your daughter wrote letters huntin' you
a bride, they were intercepted, read, then passed on their way. I figured that
if this Norah Linton were my daughter, my sister, I'd want her to be aware what
she was stumbling into."
"The
arms of a man who murdered his wife?"
Gilpatrick's
mouth hardened. "If ever a woman needed killin', it was that one. Even so,
lookin' at you here, now, I doubt you could've stomached snuffing out her
life."
Wary
respect, exchanged despite years of hate, despite the hideous scar, the stolen
lands. Despite everything.
"What
the devil am I supposed to do to find the bastard who made the accursed wager?
Where am I to start?"
"By
hiding the girl," Gilpatrick said. "If she were my daughter, I'd keep
her locked up tighter than the Regent's crown. The slightest signal to these
men would see you dead. And there are more around every corner, choked up with
hate and poverty, needin' someone to blame for their children's empty bellies.
Your enemy wouldn't have to flip them more than tuppence for them to bloody a
dirk in your chest."
"Calvy
said Cass's attacker spoke Gaelic."
"That
narrows the field to half the crofter folk in the west country, trying to keep
the words alive. None of my men came after your daughter, Kane. But someone
did. And if I were a wagering man, I'd guess they were hungering for a tale
about how they'd breached the walls of Rathcannon and stolen away your
princess. Hungering for the gold of whoever is thirsting for your pain."
Gilpatrick's jaw hardened. "Be certain of this, Kane: If I do learn any
more about who stalks you, I'll get word to you as fast as I can."
"I
don't understand—why... why you are doing this."
"Because
even when your da would'a shot your pony, you wouldn't fight me, Kane. Not 'til
I struck the first blow."
With
that Gilpatrick signaled, and a raw-boned man with a pronounced limp came
forward, leading a skittish Hazard by his reins.
Aidan
mounted, bewildered as if the cudgel end of the scythe had yet again slammed
into his skull.
"If
I catch wind of anything more, I'll send word to you," Gilpatrick said,
turning to stride away.
"Donal?"
It
was almost thirty years since Aidan had used that name. An eternity. Yet only
yesterday. Gilpatrick turned, meeting Aidan's gaze with a quiet intensity, a
certainty that he was remembering too.
"Give
your son a piece of Rathcannon he can keep for all eternity," Aidan said,
his throat tight.
"What?"
"The
Gilpatrick crypt is untouched. I'll leave orders that you are to be allowed on
Rathcannon land whenever you wish to visit him."
The
rebel's eyes widened. "You would... offer that? Why?"
"Because
he belongs there," Aidan said softly. "Bring the boy home, so he can
sleep with kings."
The
Thorned Paw Inn reeked of neglect, stale liquor, and intrigue. A haven for the
dregs of humanity, poison seemed to seep through its walls, its floors, along
with the stains water sent oozing down the walls.
It
was a place most sane men would shun—especially a man like the one even now
pacing the confines of the cramped room. His immaculate breeches and
exquisitely tailored coat were as out of place as a handful of glittering
sapphires would be on the splintered oak table. But momentary discomfort was a
small price to pay when vengeance was nearly in a man's grasp.
Richard
Farnsworth paced the room, impatience flashing in his eyes.
Even
so, he could wait however long was necessary.
Patience
was the one virtue Richard had attained the hard way. It had been a long time
to have to hide the poison in his soul, but the waiting would soon be over.
They
should return any moment now, the men he'd hired to abduct the prize he had
plotted so long and hard to make his own.
Cassandra
Kane, Aidan Kane's cherished daughter, an heiress in her own right, the perfect
tool to exact his revenge.
She
would be frightened, no doubt—the proud little beauty stolen away from her
papa's castle. But she could hardly expect pity from him. It was ironic justice
that she be as terrified as he had been when his path first clashed with that
of Aidan Kane.
Richard
downed another mug of wine. Vengeance. That was the only thing left to him. The
goal he would go to any lengths to achieve—even if it meant taking a young girl
into his bed. Distaste drew a shudder from him at the prospect. But there was
no escaping the necessity.
A
drunken
vicar lolled in the inn's chimney corner, his slack flesh so permeated with gin
that a pinprick might burst him like a rotted wineskin. Gin and a heavy purse
would assure his cooperation in performing the wedding rites, the license in
Richard's coatpocket would see that it was legally binding. And the
consummation would be a masterpiece of hellish vengeance beyond Satan's own
imaginings. But the purest pleasure of all would be the instant Kane realized
that he'd been betrayed by yet another wife—that his mousy little bride was the
one who had flung wide the gate to his castle, allowing his enemy in.