Dark of the Moon (22 page)

He smiled at her with slow relish. "I could kill you, you know. To keep you silent." That should put a scare into the little viper, he thought with satisfaction.

She smiled faintly in turn and shook her head. "You wouldn't." The statement was positive.

Her eyes met his fearlessly.

Annoyed, Connor pursed his lips. "Well, now, we're at a stalemate, it seems. For I don't think you'd turn in the Dark Horseman either."

That rattled her a little, he could see. Her eyes widened, and she moistened her lips again.

Then she frowned, so that her lovely silky black eyebrows met in a line over her small nose, and looked at him levelly.

"But then you could never be sure, could you?"

She was calling his bluff, just as he had called hers.

And for all that he was fairly certain that a bluff was all it was, he was going to permit her to get away with it. If "permit" was the right word.

"So you'd make me a bargain: your silence if I allow you to stay."

"Aye."

His mouth twisted with derision that was laigely self- directed as he glared at her in not-quite-unwilling surrender. " 'Tis a spawn of the devil you are, Caitlyn O'Malley. Very well, you've got your bargain. I wish you the joy of the consequences."

She sagged with relief. A tentative smile teased the corners of her mouth. Watching her, Connor felt a renewed twinge of foreboding. Every grain of sense he possessed screamed that he was looking at a gargantuan catastrophe in the making.

"Are you angiy with me, Connor?" She was peeping at him through the incredible fringe of her lashes, her head slightly atilt. It was an enchanting trick, one that she employed frequently of late and, he thought, unconsciously. He shook his head at himself, remembering the cocky, ragamuffin lad he'd thought he'd brought home with him from Dublin. How could he have ever imagined that those eyes belonged to anything but a lass?

"Furious."

She eyed him. Then the tentative smile turned into a real one. Before he realized what she was about, she ran around the side of the bed, leaned over him, put her hands on his bare shoulders, and planted a soft kiss on his unshaven cheek. He almost reeled at the sudden assault on his senses. The very unexpectedness of it saved him. Before he had time to respond in any fashion, she straightened. If there was anything untoward in his expression— and if his body was any indication, there must have been—she didn't seem to notice.

"You're not." She was turning to leave. Silent, he watched her cross the room, infuriated, amused, alarmed— and faintly bedazzled by the swing of her small backside beneath that loose gown. At the door, she turned back to look at him, one arm lifted to rest against the jamb.

Masses of black hair hung in a silken tangle down her back. Her deep blue eyes slanted sideways at him. He was again conscious of a twinge of premonition. She was too lovely by half, without trying in the least. For him, for his brothers, for Donoughmore itself, this lass spelled trouble. Yet he was letting her stay.

"Thank you, Connor," she whispered. And then she disappeared into the darkness of the hall.

The next few weeks passed in relative peace and tranquility. No more was said about Caitlyn's leaving, and it was as if the suggestion, with its resulting answer and all that had gone before it, had never been made. It was autumn now, time to cull the flock before winter, and all the d'Arcys were busy in the fields. Connor had set Caitlyn to helping Mrs. McFee make soap and candles out of mutton fat, so she passed her hours by alternately stirring a large ketde suspended over a fire in the yard and dipping wicks into hot liquid tallow over and over again.

The work made her hot, sweaty, and irritable. She had a suspicion that Connor had set her to it just to keep her out of the way. But for the moment she was wary of antagonizing him. They had achieved a kind of truce, and she did not want to be the one to break it.

To tell the truth, she was shy of him now. Shy, and something else. Just thinking about him made her heartbeat quicken; the sight of him was enough to bring a blush to her cheeks. What ailed her exactly she didn't know, but it was uncomfortable and she wished it would go away.

More than anything in her life, she wanted to be Connor's friend. But he seemed to go out of his way to avoid her, and of course she knew the reason why: he hadn't taken kindly to her blackmail. She was a litde ashamed of it herself, but it had been the only way she could think of to stay on at Donoughmore.

The younger d'Arcy brothers were keeping their dis- tance too, and Caitlyn wondered if Connor had had a talk with them. Or maybe it was only that all of them were so busy with the slaughtering. Whatever, she was missing them all, and Mrs. McFee's grumpy companionship was no substitution.

"I've more fat for you, Caitlyn."

Caitlyn straightened away from the huge iron kettle she was stirring with a stick, a hand rubbing the aching small of her back as she digested that unwelcome information. More fat!

That meant more soap and more candles. More work. More aching back.

"Aren't sheep made of anything but fat?" she groaned, looking around at the bearer of the glad tidings, who happened to be Willie. He grinned at her sympathetically, proffering the huge basin he carried in both hands at her. Caitlyn stared at it and groaned again.

"Just set it on the ground," she said without enthusiasm. "I've no doubt that Mrs. McFee will have a hundred uses for it. But at the moment, I don't."

"Think you've got it bad, do you? I'm helping his lordship skin the bloody beasts.'Tis hard work, it is."

Caitlyn leaned on her stick as it rested in the middle of the pot and looked at Willie, the germ of an idea forming in her mind. She was dying to get away from the heat and smell of the soap-making, and she was not loath to have a chance to talk with Connor either. A small, coaxing smile curved her lips.

"Willie," she began, "you're dead tired of skinning, and I'm dead tired of making soap. I propose we consider a trade."

"I don't know ..." Willie frowned at her uncertainly. He and she were still approximately on eye level, she noticed, which meant that he had grown approximately the same amount as she.

But at seventeen she was full grown, while at fourteen he had a way yet to go. Willie might become a good-sized man one day. If only his brain had not kept up with his height.

"What's to know? We'll just trade jobs. Nothing could be simpler."

"His lordship might not like it."

"His lordship won't care a button. Now, all you have to do is stir this—this mess with this stick so it doesn't burn or overflow. Here, like this."

Willie had always been overwhelmed by the sheer force of her personality, and this was no exception. He took the stick, looking unhappy, but obediently began to stir. Caitlyn beamed at him encouragingly.

"His lordship is in the sheep bam?"

"Nay. We finished the skinning. He's out behind it scraping the hides."

The wool and bits of debris that remained after skinning had to be scraped from the hides before they could be made into leather. Caitlyn had never participated in the scraping, but she had watched and knew it for hard work. Still, a change was as good as a rest, and at least she would be near Connor. She had something she wanted to say to him.

"Thanks, Willie." With a nod she left the redheaded lad halfheartedly stirring the thick mixture in the kettle and walked toward the sheep bam. Her step was brisk, for she expected to hear Mrs. McFee's indignant voice calling after her at any minute. But she made it around the bam and out of sight without mishap, then slowed her steps as she drew near the back of the bam. A few yards away she could see Connor, down on one knee as he scraped briskly at a hide stretched over a stone. Despite the mildness of the day, he was stripped to the waist. A fine sheen of perspiration gleamed on the skin of his bare back.

Caitlyn stopped at the comer of the bam and leaned against it, watching. She had seen Connor without a shirt on before—indeed, the night in his bedroom when she had played her trump card rose immediately in her mind—but always before her thoughts had been on other things. Now it struck her suddenly that there was nothing she would rather do than stay in the shadows and watch Connor at work, and that was just what she did.

He was facing away from her, clad only in dusty black breeches and dustier boots, a sharpened scraping tool in his right hand. His black hair formed deep waves about his head, its natural curl increased by his exertions. Con- fined by a narrow black ribbon, it curled into a tail at the nape of his neck. The broad, powerful shoulders and lean back rippled and flexed as he worked. Her eyes followed the ridge of his spine as it disappeared into his breeches.

He moved, shifting sideways a little so that she could see his face and chest. The skin of his face was darker than that of his chest and back, which rarely saw exposure to the sun. His lashes made stubby dark crescents against his cheeks as he looked down at the hide he was cleaning. Seen at a three-quarter angle, his features were lean and hard, almost austere. The faintest shadow of a blue-black beard darkened his jaw.

Caitlyn's eyes fell from his face to his chest. From that night in his bedroom, she had retained an impression of hard muscles and fine black hair. Now she saw that a wedge of hair curled in a V across his chest to narrow over his muscle-ridged abdomen into a trail that disappeared beneath his breeches. She caught her breath, admiring the sheer masculine beauty of him. Just looking at him without his shirt on made her heartbeat quicken. She was conscious of a sudden urge to walk over to him and place her hand on his bare chest. Would the hairs there be soft or wiry . . . ? Then she must have made some sort of movement, because he looked up to meet her eyes. Caught, she could only stare back helplessly, her cheeks aflame at the guilty tenor of her thoughts. He stared at her for a long moment, eyes narrowed. Then he got slowly to his feet.

"That's the last of them, Conn." Rory walked out of the bam, wiping his hands down the backs of his breeches. Connor's eyes shifted to him, breaking the invisible thread of tension that had bound him to Caitlyn. Caitlyn swallowed, both glad and sorry for the interruption. There had been something disquieting in Connor's eyes. . . .

"Aye, and I'm for a swim. Rory stinks like a dead sheep, and I've a notion I do too. Care to join us, big brother?"

"I've still some things to do. You go ahead." Connor's voice as he answered Cormac was completely normal. Caitlyn wondered if she had imagined the way he had just looked at her.

The idea that he might have guessed her thoughts was mortifying. She found that she no longer wanted to talk to him after all.

Melting away from the bam while he was still talking with his brothers, she headed down toward the line of trees that marked the stream. The spring house was there, a small stone building erected over the place where icy water bubbled up from the ground. Butter and milk and cheese were kept inside. Caitlyn felt a sudden urge for a cold drink. Her cheeks were flushed and she felt as warm as if she had walked for miles instead of yards. Of course, she had been working hard all afternoon. Her sleeveless blue dress was splotched and wrinkled and the once-spotless shift she wore underneath felt damp against her skin. The exposed sleeves of the shift were pushed up over her elbows, but still she felt miserably hot. As she entered the spring house she reached up to pull the blue kerchief from her head. Shaking out her hair so that it spilled unconfined down her back, she felt a trifle cooler as air reached her scalp.

The interior of the spring house was dark and cool. Leaving the door open behind her, she walked down the half-dozen steps to the spring. A long-handled tin cup hung from a nail driven into the stone wall just above her head. Standing on the stone platform, she reached up for the cup and then knelt to dip it into the spring. Still on her knees, she lifted the icy water to her lips and drank deeply. It felt wonderful as it flowed down her parched throat.

"I'll just be a minute, so keep your breeches on." The voice was Cormac's, and it came from outside the spring house. A moment later he was inside, coming down the stairs. Caitlyn got to her feet, smiling at him. She hadn't seen Cormac to speak to since she had made her devil's bargain with Connor.

"Caitlyn!" He checked a minute, hazel eyes alight as he took her in. He looked delighted to see her, and Caitlyn's smile widened. Despite his occasional peskiness, she had grown genuinely fond of Cormac. Her feelings toward him were sisterly, pure and simple, untroubled by the dark overtones that sometimes colored her feelings toward Connor. "Where've you been hiding, eh?"

"I've been hard at work. Making soap," Caitlyn answered with a comical grimace. He reached the platform and she stood back to make room for him. He grinned.

"Conn's demanding, ain't he? He's had Rory and me working so hard that we scarce make it to our beds at night before we're asleep. If he doesn't let up, we'll be sleeping in the bam soon, which he'd probably like. No more time wasted shuttling between house and bam."

Caitlyn laughed and held the cup out to him. He shook his head, his hazel eyes twinkling roguishly at her.

"I've something a bit more to my liking in here." he said confidentially. She lifted an eyebrow at him, "A jug of good home-brewed ale," he responded to her unspoken question. "I put it in the spring this morning. It should be just right by now. Rory'll think he's died and gone to heaven."

He knelt to fish in the spring as he spoke. Finding what he was after, he straightened, waving the dripping wet jug triumphantly as he got to his feet. His upraised arm caught Caitlyn's shoulder, making her stagger. With horror, she realized that she was tottering over the spring. . . .

"Oh, no!" Her arms windmilled wildly. Cormac dropped the jug with a crash and a curse and grabbed for her. He caught her just as she was about to go in the drink.

"Christ, I'm sorry!" Her heart was still pounding with fright as he pulled her close against his chest, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her to him. She rested her head against him for a minute, closing her eyes. Although the shelf closest to the platform was shallow, the larger pool beyond was deep. And she had never learned to swim.