As he turned to go back into the house,
another bolt of lightning lit the fields beyond the stables, and he
stopped, fairly certain he had glimpsed a solitary rider riding
across the valley floor.
‘Bewitched’ was the right word. After all,
everyone knew Ireland was the land of ghosts and faerie folk. Of
pagan priests and haunted hillocks and storm-riding banshees who
carried with them the promise of sudden death.
He stared out into the darkness until
another flash illuminated the scene. There it was again—a hooded,
dark-caped phantom—and it was covering ground. The rain-slick sides
of the black horse gleamed as it tore across the valley. As the
blackness enveloped the field again, Nicholas could see in his
mind’s eye the windswept cape flying behind as this ghostly rider
rode hard out of the heart of the storm.
He waited, listening for the approach of the
horse, but the thunder rolling in across the fields and the teeming
rain obliterated any further sign. When another bolt of lightning
finally lit up the sky, the dark green fields were empty.
He remained still for a long moment, waiting
for any telltale sign of what he might have really seen. There was
nothing in the pastureland beneath the gardens and the stables, but
in a few moments, the sound of a horse drew his attention shortly
to one of the stable wings. As he peered through the darkness, he
thought he saw a horse being led into the paddock. As if prodded
into action, the shaggy gray dog stood up, sniffed the air for a
moment, and then trotted off unconcernedly in the direction of the
stables.
Nicholas stood for a moment more. There was
no sound from the dog. His curiosity finally getting the best of
him, he moved out into the rain. By the time he passed by the
walled formal gardens that separated the house from the stables,
his shirt was soaked through and the rain was dripping from his
chin. He approached the stable cautiously, keeping to the
shadows.
Peering over the stone wall at the line of
stalls opening onto the paddock, he listened for any sign of the
midnight rider.
The rain was pouring off the roof into
puddles, but through it he thought he could make out the sound of a
horse’s hooves shuffling. The soft murmur of a woman’s voice. He
strained to hear. The words had the quality of one speaking
comfortingly to an animal. Nicholas hoisted himself over the wall
and moved along the stall doors. The top half of one door was
partially open.
“
Oidhe maithe agut, mo bourine
.”
Jane. Whatever it was she said, the words
had been whispered in Gaelic, and Nicholas would have wagered that
they carried a far gentler meaning than the curses she’d hurled at
him this morning. He smiled in the darkness and waited, not wanting
to surprise her in the stall. She was quick with a knife, and
Nicholas didn’t trust his own actions if he were to corner her
again. He waited a moment more, expecting her to come through stall
door into the paddock, but there was no other sound.
Finally, he pulled open the top half of the
door, clearing his throat as he did.
The smell of the horse and wet leather
greeted him, and he could hear the mare shift in the darkness
inside, but there was no other sound. A blanket covered the back of
the steed.
Speaking in a low voice to the animal, he
entered. He caressed the beast’s damp mane and glanced over the
high back to another door that led into the stables. Pushing past,
he made his way though the stall to an alley lit only by small
windows. Frowning, he turned and stroked the horse’s forelock.
Even in the darkness of the narrow space, he
could see that everything was in order—all was where it belonged.
Except for the wet face of the horse, and the dripping saddle on
the door leading to the stables, it was as if Jane Purefoy had
never ridden in from a violent storm only moments earlier. The
routine was practiced and perfect.
“So fast and so smart,” he whispered to the
mare before backing out of the stall the way he’d entered.
Retracing his steps toward the house, he
moved through the rain with more speed than he’d employed when
heading down. He wanted a moment with her. Alone. As he strode
quickly up the hill, he realized that he was looking for a reason
to put himself again in her path.
The door where he’d been standing before was
partially open, as he’d left it. Taking the stairs three at the
time, he hurried upward through the house. Whatever secret
passageway or hidden stairs she had taken to this floor and her
bedchamber, Nicholas was determined to head her off.
He arrived at Jane’s chamber too late. A
line of candlelight showed beneath the door. Impulsively, he raised
a hand to knock, but as he did, the light was extinguished.
Nicholas lowered his hand. His fist relaxed.
A smile broke across his face, and he shook his head as he started
down the hallway and toward his own room.
He could wait. And tomorrow was certain to
be an interesting day.
***
The bed remained untouched, though the
candles had been put out hours ago. A middle-aged man, looking far
older than his years, sat on a well-worn, upholstered chair by the
window, keeping his solitary vigil. It had been a long night, hang
it. Far longer than usual.
The storm outside was easing a little when
he heard an ancient hinge creak at the bottom of the secret
passageway. As she so often did, she was using the passage that led
from the wall between his and the next bedchamber down into the
cellars of the original castle and out to the old stables.
Instantly alert, he waited until he had
heard the only sounds that brought him comfort these days. He
listened closely to Jane coming up the narrow and dusty stairs, to
the panel in her room opening and closing, to the click of the
latch behind her.
Relieved, Sir Thomas Purefoy flexed his
aching joints, pushed his weary body out of the chair, and padded
silently across the floor to his bed.
Nine years had passed, but he knew nine
hundred more might come and go before she would forgive him.
Jane was so much like him. She never forgot,
and she never forgave. But he was still her father. She would never
know how much he had already suffered from her rejection of
him.
Lying awake, as he had so many endless
nights before, Thomas Purefoy stared up into the blackness of the
bed canopy above him and tried to recall the days when a
black-haired girl had run happily in the green meadows around
Woodfield House.
Her body ached. Her bones creaked from the
impact of Spencer’s hard body landing on hers. But this wasn’t the
worst of it. It was morning.
Mornings were not a favorite part of Jane’s
day—especially not
early
mornings, anyway. The housekeeper
Fey was accustomed to her failings, though, and despite all of
Jane’s complaining, the old servant simply remained, gently pushing
the young woman along until she was up and washed. Supervising with
an air of a benign despot, Fey watched with satisfaction as a maid
helped her mistress into a black riding dress and black boots.
Looking sleepily into the looking glass,
Jane winced at the color of the bruise on her face. Though the
swelling on her lip and the side of her mouth had subsided
considerably overnight, the sixteen shades of green and yellow
seemed to be overtaking the purples and the pinks in the race to
dominate. She touched the tender bruise and cursed her negligence
for the hundredth time for allowing the Englishman to best her the
way he had.
She could only hope the cut on his arm ached
like hell.
Another glance at her reflection and she
knew there could be no going out in daylight looking like a week
old carcass. Despite her customary nonchalance regarding how she
dressed or looked, Jane simply couldn’t imagine parading a face so
hideously discolored in public. It was one thing to shock her
father when he’d demanded that she meet their guests in the parlor,
but today was a different matter entirely. And bringing attention
to herself was something that Jane Purefoy habitually avoided like
the plague.
With a weak smile at Fey, she hobbled out
into the hallway and slipped into Clara’s bedchamber without
knocking. Perhaps her sister would have a solution to her problem.
Clara was already up and dressed and greeted her with the usual
morning cheerfulness that was so much a part of the younger woman’s
nature.
Jane thought this might be a perfect time to
kill the little cherub, if she only had the energy.
“I can put some powder on your face,” Clara
suggested, “and tame down the wilder shades of the bruising.” She
followed Jane to the side of the bed. “But it will still show. And
people will be asking questions. And please Jane, for heaven’s
sake, don’t use the same excuse that you did last night.”
“I thought it was quite clever.”
“Come now. Striking your face on the edge of
the dressing table is an excuse far too lame to try to run over any
distance.”
“You’re starting to talk like Father.” Jane
eyed the smooth bedclothes of the tidily made bed. “I think it is a
very good story. Such an accident could happen to anyone.”
“Indeed, to anyone who is trying to fib. I
don’t believe anyone could possibly roll out of bed, presumably
while half asleep, and do this amount of damage only to one’s mouth
and not the rest of her face…or to her brow…or…”
“I cannot comprehend such analytical
reasoning at such an early hour.” Jane pulled back the bedclothes
and climbed into the bed with her boots and dress on, pulling the
coverlet to her chin. “Go without me, shrew, and let me sleep.”
“No! We cannot go without you,” Clara
protested, trying to wrestle the covers off her older sister. “I
cannot be left alone with him on such a long ride. Even with a
groom to attend us, it would not be…”
“Of course you can go. Everyone concerned
knows that our dear mother has already seen to it that the
finishing touches have been put on your wedding dress. I shouldn’t
be surprised if the wedding notices didn’t go out last
evening.”
“Don’t be horrid. You
must
come!”
Clara continued to tug on the blanket that the older sister held
tightly to her chest. “Please, Jane. Do this for me. It is not
proper for me to be alone with Sir Nicholas, and you know it.”
“Proper be dashed. He is here to marry you,
and that’s all there is to it.”
“Jane!” she whined.
The older sister shook her head and held on
tightly. “There is nothing that you two can do now that you shan’t
be doing in a very short while…after you are married. What
difference should a fortnight make?”
She continued pulling. “Please come with
us.”
“I need sleep.” Jane rolled over and pressed
her head into the pillows, tucking the blanket around her. “I need
rest—peace and quiet. Let me be.”
“But I need you. I do not
want
to be
left alone with him.”
Jane let go of the blanket, and Clara fell
back hard on her buttocks on the floor.
“Why not?” Half rising on the bed, Jane
looked down over the edge at her sister.
“That hurt. You intentionally made me
fall.”
“Why don’t you want to be left alone with
him?”
“Help me get up.” Clara stretched her hands
up to her sister.
Jane climbed out of bed, but instead of
helping the younger woman, she crossed her arms and towered over
her. “Is Father forcing you to marry this man against your
will?”
“Don’t be silly. He is not forcing me to do
anything.”
“But you
are
trying, once again, to
be the perfect daughter, are you not? You are going along with this
whole thing, not because of your own feelings toward the
Englishman—as you led me to believe after your return from
London—but because you think this would be best for the family.
Sacrificing yourself for the…”
“I am not doing any such thing.” Clara
pushed herself to her feet and faced her sister. “You are putting
words in my mouth.”
Jane studied the younger woman. “Then
do
you like him?”
“Of course I do. How could one not? He is a
handsome man, well-to-do; he is a baronet and well-connected in
London society. He is every girl’s dream. He is the
perfect
catch.”
“Then, do you
love
him?”
Clara’s cheeks immediately flushed, and she
turned abruptly and walked toward the mirror. It took a long moment
before she answered. “If you want me to tell you that I love him as
you loved Conor, the answer is no.”
Jane frowned, feeling the old and familiar
tightness in her chest as she met her sister’s gaze in the
mirror.
“I know of no woman who could love a man the
way you have loved Conor. I shall probably never come anywhere near
having what you have had—your joy when he was still alive, or the
suffering you have endured since he was killed. Honestly, Jane, I
know of no one else who is as capable of loving a man as you
are.”
A painful lump in her throat kept Jane from
responding. She fought back tears threatening to spill.
“But in my case, you are making a great deal
more of things than you should.” Clara turned and faced her sister.
“The reason why I don’t want to be left alone with Sir Nicholas is
that he is so much older, so much more experienced, and so
naturally I still feel quite shy in his company. I believe, in
time, I will learn to trust myself and not be so intimidated by his
good looks or his charm.”
Jane studied the nervous smile on her
sister’s face and tried to remember if she’d ever felt this way.
She thought of all those times she had run off to meet secretly
with Conor by the standing stones on the moor near Knocknakilla.
That year, she had turned fifteen and Conor sixteen, but shyness
had never been a problem with either of them. But how could it have
been? The two had known each other for all of their lives…she, the
daughter of the magistrate; he, the son of a poor cottager. Just as
Jane’s mind started to drift off toward those memories of the past,
Clara’s voice jolted her back to the present.