"How could I not? It was almost the end of me."
Cassandra's chin gave a little quiver. "I made it especially for you. But if you don't want it... well, I'll not cram it down your throat, even though I did burn three fingers baking it up for you." She displayed the tiny blisters with the artlessness of a six-year-old.
"Sir Aidan, surely you can at least taste it." Norah Linton's voice was as censorious as if she'd caught him plucking the wings from a fairy princess. "I only wish that I could eat it."
Cassandra looked at her with woeful eyes. "You can't eat at least a little?"
"Not unless you want me to break out in the most dreadful scarlet spots," Norah explained.
Aidan eyed his own plate fatalistically, knowing that between Norah's refusal and his own fatherly transgressions he would probably have to lick the crumbs from his plate.
Manfully, he dredged up a forkful of cake fairly oozing with raspberry sauce and put it in his mouth. It was all he could do not to go into fits of choking. Horrendous, bitter, he was reasonably certain that scum-covered dishwater would've tasted more appealing.
He glanced at Norah, hoping that somehow the Englishwoman would say something, do something that would allow him to forgo poisoning himself with Cassandra's latest brew. But Norah was gazing quite wistfully at her untasted portion. When she nibbled at a bit of plain chocolate cake and smiled at Cassandra, saying how wonderful the stuff must taste, Aidan was convinced that Norah Linton must be a runaway from Bedlam.
Cass was positively radiant at her praise. "Papa is always tormenting me when I help Cook. When I baked him a birthday cake last year, he was abominable! He even said he dared not feed it to his dogs, lest they turn their toes up dead."
"Cass, even you couldn't eat the stuff," Aidan protested, aware of Miss Linton's quelling stare.
"But I've been practicing, and Cook says this is the most delicious raspberry sauce she's ever tasted. Miss Linton, couldn't you just take the tiniest taste?"
"I'm afraid not, but it looks delicious. Whatever did you put in this?" Norah asked, with what could only be genuine interest.
Cassandra cast him a baleful glare, then preened. "Why, lots of sugar, and berries, of course. Fresh-picked. And then, well, there were some other ingredients." She gave a most unsettling smile. "But I promised to keep them a secret."
Whatever they were, Aidan was damned sure he didn't want to know. He took another forkful, swallowing it with all the haste of a child taking codliver oil. To keep from gagging, he washed it down with a gulp of wine. The footman scurried over to refill his glass, and Aidan was tempted to ask him to leave the bottle. God knew he was going to need it.
He must've devised a dozen schemes of slipping the horrendous confection off his plate and into the oblivion where it belonged, but it seemed as if Cassandra watched every mouthful, prodding him unmercifully with wistful comments about his former rejections of her efforts, bolstering her demands by drawing countless compliments from Norah.
By the end, Aidan was certain he would've betrayed his own mother to spare himself one more forkful of the dish he'd already christened Cassandra's Curse.
But when he saw the look of absolute delight in his daughter's eyes when he was finished, he was almost tempted to ask for more. He would have, had he not been prey to a serious wish to survive the night.
His insides were already markedly unamused. He could only sincerely hope they wouldn't fly into outright rebellion. But in truth, he couldn't be certain exactly what was leaving him so on edge: Cass's concoction, or his own sense of guilt as he watched Cassandra catch Norah Linton's hand, bubbling with enthusiasm as she led her into the drawing room.
What worse torment could he have endured than listening to their laughter as Norah expounded on her shortcomings in the accepted feminine accomplishments of needlework, music, and drawing, describing in detail the samplers that had been relegated to dust cloths, the watercolor landscapes that had all the pastoral tranquillity of Armageddon, complete with rampaging sea monsters instead of swans.
It was as though the knowledge that she would soon be leaving somehow freed the woman, left her at ease, and the demonic fates were determined to show Aidan exactly how perfectly she was suited to deal with his daughter.
He lounged in his chair, listening to Cassandra's chatter and Norah's replies, their subtle wisdom hidden in drolleries that left Cass gasping with laughter. The same comments left him sullen and resentful, angry and aware, for the first time, how insular his nights with Cass had become. How this woman's laughter blew like spring's fresh breezes through the room.
He listened as Cassandra cozened Norah into singing, despite protestations that she couldn't carry a tune if it were nailed inside a keg. And then he was furious to find her off-key warbling more endearing than any of the practiced solos he had heard in the finest drawing rooms of London.
The only time a shadow fell across features illuminated by candlelight was when she hazarded a glance his way. Then a shyness darted into her eyes, an uncertainty that made him want to cross the room in three swift strides and press his lips against hers to remind her—and remind himself—that she would be leaving in the morning. He needed to still the sound of her laughter, her voice, to banish it, the way he wished he could banish the delicate scent of milk of roses that drifted from her hair to tantalize his nostrils.
He gritted his teeth, assuring himself that it was not desire for this woman that he felt, but the residue of the encounter he'd had with his mistress before he left the gaming house two nights before—the fact that he hadn't taken the time to fulfill the sensual fantasies Stasia had been whispering in his ear from the first roll of the dice. Those were the pent-up tensions that set him on a blade edge of awareness with this woman whom he'd thought boasted little claim to beauty. Until he had seen her lips reddened from his kiss, felt her gasp with astonishment and pleasure as his tongue had slipped into the sweetness of her mouth. Until he had found her with her hand pressed against the window, her incredible eyes filled with sorrowful dreams.
And now she sat, smiling with his daughter, as if she would be at Rathcannon forever, acceding to Cass's every plea, her hand sweeping out to stroke his daughter's fairy-gold hair with a heartbreaking tenderness, a sense of loss buried so deep in those dark eyes, Aidan was certain he was the only one who could see it. It was a genuine tenderness, not the careless caresses Delia had so rarely given to their daughter—as if Cassandra were a pretty little pug, whose mistress sadly neglected her, yet refused to part with her plaything.
The realization ate inside Aidan like poison, coiling inside him with the raging tension that had been building in him from the moment they had left the dining table.
"Papa!" He was startled from his dark thoughts by Cassandra's plea. "You're being a far worse boor than Norah's toad-person! You've barely said a word all night. Whatever is amiss?"
It was as if his daughter's petulant question shattered something inside him. The sight of Cassandra, an angel in white muslin, clasping Norah Linton's hand made reality crash down about Aidan's shoulders.
"Cass, there's something you need to know," he said, his stomach knotting painfully. "Miss Linton is leaving Rathcannon in the morning."
"What?" Cassandra shrank back, her face even more stricken than Aidan had feared it would be. "But things have been going so—so wonderfully. She—Miss Linton, you— you like Rathcannon.... You think it's beautiful. I know that you do! And me..." Her voice trailed off uncertainly, questions welling up in her eyes. Aidan could see the uncertainties were breaking Norah's heart.
"I think you are charming, sweetheart," Norah said. "But..."
"Is it Papa, then? I know he was reprehensible when you arrived, but he's promised that he'd court you now. And he must be good at it, because all the housemaids sigh over how—how handsome he is, and how dashing. I'm not supposed to know that, but I can hardly help it."
Those dark eyes flicked to Aidan's, distress and confusion warring in their
depths—that, and just enough accusation to put Aidan's teeth on edge. "Cassandra, the simple truth is that your father doesn't want a wife. He loves you very much, and I know how much he wants to make you happy. But you cannot force people to... to fall in love."
"You don't have to fall in love right away," Cassandra insisted. "Oh, it would be lovely if you did, but you don't have to in order to marry. Tell her, Papa. You and Mama, you didn't love each other."
Aidan reeled at Cassandra's words, sick with the certainty that she must have some memory of the vile mockery that had been her parents' marriage. "Cass, your mother and I... we cared about each other at first. We lost each other as time passed. The difference is that we had you to bind us together."
"I'm certain in time you and Miss Linton can have more babies, little brothers and sisters for me to spoil quite abominably. That would make you happy, Miss Linton, wouldn't it? In your letters, you said how much you wanted children. With Papa, I'm certain you'll have the most beautiful little green-eyed babies."
Scarlet spilled onto Norah's cheeks, filling Aidan with images that were far too painfully sharp and clear, images of what it would be like to fill her with his child.
Christ, didn't every man picture such a thing? His woman, glowing, blossoming with the fruit of his passion, a soft, secret bond that could never be broken?
No. He'd learned the hard way exactly how much sentimental rubbish such dreams were.
Aidan's jaw clenched at the memory of Delia's reaction to the joyous announcement that she was going to bear him a babe: hysterics, fury, loathing, as if he'd planted a monster inside her instead of a helpless, fragile new life.
"There will be no babies. There will be no wedding."
"But you said you were going to court her! I don't understand."
"Cassandra, it's too late. I... made mistakes."
"Mistakes? What did you do, Papa? To make her unhappy? Why did you—"
"Cassandra." Norah's voice was sharp yet strangely bracing. "Listen to me. This is not your father's fault. It's not anyone's fault."
"Then why are you running away? Running away like my mother ran away?" The girl wheeled on her father, tears streaking her cheeks. "Papa, why are you making her run away?"
Agony ripped white-hot through Aidan's veins. Oh, God. Had his little girl believed that all along? Blamed him for Delia's defection and death in some secret part of her soul?
"Cass, after what happened with—with your mother and I, surely you must see Miss Linton deserves far better than marriage to a man who cannot love her."
"You could love her if you'd just put forth some effort! I already do! Papa, she doesn't have anywhere else to go!"
"Damn it, Cass, she doesn't want to stay here! Ask her, for God's sake!"
Cassandra cast a desperate glance at Norah. What she saw made her face crumple, a sob tearing from her throat. "It's not fair! I already lost one mother! How can you make me lose another one?"
With that she spun and ran from the room, the sound of her desolate sobs knifing through Aidan's vitals, leaving in their wake the most savage regret he'd ever known.
Silence pulsed in the room for long seconds, Cassandra's desolation seeming to have a life of its own. Slowly, Aidan turned to where Norah stood white-faced, her own eyes glistening with tears.
"I'm so... so sorry," she said, in a quavering voice. "Should I go to her?"
"Why? So she can become even more attached to you?" Aidan lashed out in his own blinding pain. "Just get the devil out of here before you make it any worse."
The tears shivered on her lashes, but Aidan was too far gone in his own pain to care. He turned his back on her as Norah ran from the room.
CHAPTER 10
Norah rushed about the Blue Room, flinging her belongings into her trunk as if to hasten her escape from Rathcannon and the hard-eyed man who had kissed her to madness and the fairy-like girl who had wanted a mother so desperately it broke Norah's heart.
Leave, before you make things even worse, Aidan Kane had ordered her. Had it only been hours before in the drawing room? Even the harshness of his words had not concealed the anguish he was suffering, the scathing wound his daughter's words had raked in his spirit. Norah had known her inevitable departure would be difficult for Cassandra. And despite the shortness of her acquaintance with Sir Aidan, she had realized how difficult it would be for him to upset his only child. A child he adored in a way that wrenched Norah's heart, a child who, she was certain, could easily break Sir Aidan's own—that vulnerable heart the Irish knight tried so hard to deny he possessed.
What had she been thinking of, letting her growing affection for Aidan Kane's willful, delightful daughter show? She had only wanted to drive away the nagging uncertainties of her own future for just one night and enjoy the daughter she would never have. She had wanted to forge a memory to take with her from the ashes of the dreams she had dared to spin during the days after she had received the first precious letter from Ireland.
But she had only tantalized the girl with things that could never be, pointing out with ruthless clarity empty places, not only in her own life but in Cassandra's as well.
Norah placed the last garment into her open trunk, then brushed one hand across the traveling costume she had put out for the morning journey.
No, there was no question she needed to leave Rathcannon. The only uncertainty was where to go when she did so. Was it possible for her to throw herself on Richard's mercy? Did she dare embroil her stepbrother any further in her difficulties, knowing the possible consequences should Winston Farnsworth discover his son was harboring the disobedient stepdaughter who had publicly shamed him?
Even if she did go back to London, she could hardly remain dependent on Richard forever. The idea of living on someone else's charity once again was more repugnant to her than ever, now that she had escaped that fate even for such a short time.
The notion of acquiring a position as governess and devoting herself to other people's children could hardly be expected to hold any delight when she had been foolishly spinning out daydreams of holding her own babies in her arms.
Babies who had acquired unruly dark hair and flashing green eyes in the days she had stayed at Rathcannon, babies with a softer version of Aidan Kane's bedazzling smile.
She closed her eyes against a wrenching sense of loss. No, there would be no emerald-eyed lover filling her with his seed. No delight in splaying a hard masculine hand over her belly, to feel the first miraculous flutterings of a life they had created together.
She would never lie in a bridal bed, her veins singing with that primitive thrill she'd tasted in the dizzying moments when Sir Aidan had mated his mouth with hers.
Not that she would want to surrender herself to Aidan Kane now, Norah hastened to assure herself. Or would she?
It would have been so easy to answer that question two hours ago. Dismiss Sir Aidan Kane as an arrogant libertine, a cad. But now?
Norah hesitated an instant, her eyes shifting to the door that joined her bedchamber to his own, the agitated sounds of movement beyond that carved oak panel rasping against her nerves.
Yet instead of the intricate carvings, she saw Sir Aidan as he had been in the ruin of Caislean Alainn, so certain of his carnal power over her, disdaining love even as he introduced her to the heady power of passion. She remembered him as he had appeared in Rathcannon's dining room, his eyes dark and aching, subdued when she told him she was leaving.
Is there anything I can do to make you reconsider?
Why had he suddenly made such a plea, sincerity glimmering beneath that usually rakish gaze?
He had looked at her as if she were something precious that was slipping from his grasp.
And when she had asked to go in peace, he had enfolded her hand in his warm, strong one, that touch conveying a far more eloquent apology for his behavior than words ever could.
She had watched him undergo a transformation a dozen times. From the debauched scoundrel to the dot
ing father. From reluctant hero to a man with loneliness hidden beneath his scoundrel's facade—a loneliness every bit as bleak as Norah's own.
A loneliness that had almost given Norah cause to hope... for what? That they could somehow forge a bond on shared misery? That they could weave their futures together in the patterns of one of Cassandra Kane's fairy tales and live happily ever after?
Happy, when so much pain, so many questions and dark mysteries, still lay between them?
Norah's gaze flicked to the silver box in which the cryptic note still rested. She shivered, Cassandra's distraught face rising in her mind; the girl's cry was that of a hurting child as she'd accused her father of making her mother run away.
Sir Aidan had looked sick, stricken, at his daughter's accusation, guilt tearing with brutal evidence across his features. Guilt, and a hideous sense of shock, as if the girl had unconsciously ripped away a meager covering on a festering wound.
Norah couldn't help but recall the sinister hints buried in the mysterious note. What had happened the night Delia Kane had died? Had she been running away, as Cassandra had claimed? If that was so, she had bolted headlong to her own doom.
It seemed impossible. And yet, was she being naive—no, positively foolish—in trying to dismiss such grim charges? Sir Aidan had made no secret that he'd despised his wife, a woman who, from what Kane had confided, had committed transgressions that would have driven more than one man of Norah's acquaintance into a fit of murderous rage. And even Cassandra had obviously known her parents' desperate unhappiness, despite the fact that Norah sensed Sir Aidan would have shielded his daughter from any such ugliness, even if it cost him his last drop of blood.
Norah nibbled at her lower lip. If Aidan Kane were responsible for his wife's death, would his face have taken on that gray hue at the girl's accusations? Would his features have twisted so grimly, like a man in abject agony, battling to get a handle on his pain?
If Aidan Kane's soul were blackened by such a heinous sin, why would she have felt the almost unquenchable need to reach out to him in that moment? To comfort, to heal wounds she doubted he even knew were hidden inside him?