Read Online Cates, Kimberly by Stealing Heaven - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stealing Heaven
Tags: Victorian, nineteenth century
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children, a home, a husband.
Perhaps, as you said, we can find a way to heal each other.
As he had said? Aidan's cheeks flamed, a sick churning in his stomach.
Pain? Loneliness? Goddamn kindred spirits?
Sweet
Jesus, what had Cassandra written to this woman, that Norah Linton would send
such a reply? What ridiculous caricature had Cass painted of him? Some hero
spun of her fairy stories? Some Galahad or noble knight-errant? Even more
alarming, what had she told this Englishwoman about the past, and the ghosts
that still stalked Rathcannon?
Aidan
ran his fingers through his hair, fighting back a stab of panic. He was getting
himself in a blather over nothing. The girl could not know of Aidan's secret
hauntings. Cassandra had no way of discovering the truth of what had happened
the night her mother died. He had made certain of that, because he'd suspected
from the first that such knowledge would destroy her.
No.
It was far more likely Cassandra had been overdramatizing matters in the
letter, playing things out like some melodrama upon a stage, the way she had
every trial she'd faced from the first blot on her copybook to a tumble from
her horse.
And
heaven knew, the girl had inherited her ancestors' gift of persuasion. The gift
that had made enemies raise their portcullises in battle could hardly have
faltered at such a simple task as luring some lonely woman to journey to Ireland.
Especially
when the method of convincing the woman to take such an insane risk was by
making her intended bridegroom sound like a wounded hero, tormented,
despairing. What the devil was it with women that they should be obsessed from
the cradle with healing such a man?
Aidan
grimaced. He had long since quit trying to understand that suicidal feminine
impulse and had merely enjoyed the benefits of such tender passions in the beds
of the women who hoped to tame his demons. Demons he had joyfully embraced so
many years before.
Never
once had he gilded his own wicked nature, his dissolute ways. Never once had he
been anything but honest about his lack of honor, of the noble impulses women
seemed to set such ridiculous store by.
But
it was obvious that Cassandra had had no such scruples when writing to the
woman she'd chosen as his bride. If the Englishwoman's reply was a reflection
of the kind of romantic rot Cassandra had penned in his name, it was no wonder
the idiotic female had shown up on his doorstep all starry-eyed and hopeful.
Lord,
what a shock he must have been to the damnable woman! No fairy-tale prince. No
hero. No knight to kneel before her and offer up his heart.
Aidan
flinched at the sense of feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way that infuriated
him. He thrust the letters in his pocket, unable to read another word. Damn
both of them!
His
mouth compressed in a hard line, but in the end there was only one thing he
could do. With an oath, he stalked to the table and drained his Madeira in one
gulp. Hoping that the liquor would dash away what little common sense still
reigned in his head, Aidan grabbed up a branch of candles and stormed out of
the chamber. He stalked up the castle stairs toward the room where the woman
lay sleeping.
CHAPTER 4
The
fire was dying. The candles left about the chamber had long since flickered
out, but still Norah couldn't bring herself to return to the tumbled coverlets
of the four-poster bed. It seemed as if every time she stirred, she could feel
the ghostly imprint of another woman's body in the feather ticking, imagine
another woman's scent still filtering through the air.
A
woman beautiful enough to have given Cassandra Kane the face of an angel, the
hair of a fairy queen. A woman Norah could only pity because that woman had
been wife to Aidan Kane.
What
had she looked like? Cassandra's mother? How had Delia Kane's life ended? Had
the tragic accident changed her loving husband into this rogue of a man? The
letters Norah had received wreathed the woman's death in mystery. Cassandra
Kane's
Perhaps, as you said, we can find a way to heal each other.
As he had said? Aidan's cheeks flamed, a sick churning in his stomach.
Pain? Loneliness? Goddamn kindred spirits?
Sweet
Jesus, what had Cassandra written to this woman, that Norah Linton would send
such a reply? What ridiculous caricature had Cass painted of him? Some hero
spun of her fairy stories? Some Galahad or noble knight-errant? Even more
alarming, what had she told this Englishwoman about the past, and the ghosts
that still stalked Rathcannon?
Aidan
ran his fingers through his hair, fighting back a stab of panic. He was getting
himself in a blather over nothing. The girl could not know of Aidan's secret
hauntings. Cassandra had no way of discovering the truth of what had happened
the night her mother died. He had made certain of that, because he'd suspected
from the first that such knowledge would destroy her.
No.
It was far more likely Cassandra had been overdramatizing matters in the
letter, playing things out like some melodrama upon a stage, the way she had
every trial she'd faced from the first blot on her copybook to a tumble from
her horse.
And
heaven knew, the girl had inherited her ancestors' gift of persuasion. The gift
that had made enemies raise their portcullises in battle could hardly have
faltered at such a simple task as luring some lonely woman to journey to Ireland.
Especially
when the method of convincing the woman to take such an insane risk was by
making her intended bridegroom sound like a wounded hero, tormented,
despairing. What the devil was it with women that they should be obsessed from
the cradle with healing such a man?
Aidan
grimaced. He had long since quit trying to understand that suicidal feminine
impulse and had merely enjoyed the benefits of such tender passions in the beds
of the women who hoped to tame his demons. Demons he had joyfully embraced so
many years before.
Never
once had he gilded his own wicked nature, his dissolute ways. Never once had he
been anything but honest about his lack of honor, of the noble impulses women
seemed to set such ridiculous store by.
But
it was obvious that Cassandra had had no such scruples when writing to the
woman she'd chosen as his bride. If the Englishwoman's reply was a reflection
of the kind of romantic rot Cassandra had penned in his name, it was no wonder
the idiotic female had shown up on his doorstep all starry-eyed and hopeful.
Lord,
what a shock he must have been to the damnable woman! No fairy-tale prince. No
hero. No knight to kneel before her and offer up his heart.
Aidan
flinched at the sense of feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way that infuriated
him. He thrust the letters in his pocket, unable to read another word. Damn
both of them!
His
mouth compressed in a hard line, but in the end there was only one thing he
could do. With an oath, he stalked to the table and drained his Madeira in one
gulp. Hoping that the liquor would dash away what little common sense still
reigned in his head, Aidan grabbed up a branch of candles and stormed out of
the chamber. He stalked up the castle stairs toward the room where the woman
lay sleeping.
CHAPTER 4
The
fire was dying. The candles left about the chamber had long since flickered
out, but still Norah couldn't bring herself to return to the tumbled coverlets
of the four-poster bed. It seemed as if every time she stirred, she could feel
the ghostly imprint of another woman's body in the feather ticking, imagine
another woman's scent still filtering through the air.
A
woman beautiful enough to have given Cassandra Kane the face of an angel, the
hair of a fairy queen. A woman Norah could only pity because that woman had
been wife to Aidan Kane.
What
had she looked like? Cassandra's mother? How had Delia Kane's life ended? Had
the tragic accident changed her loving husband into this rogue of a man? The
letters Norah had received wreathed the woman's death in mystery. Cassandra
Kane's
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