Page 68 of A Daring Desire

14th January 1850, Butterwell Lane, near Holbrook

Kilbane walked to the door with Louisa at his side and paused as his fingers grasped the handle.

“You’re comfortable here, Louisa? If you think you might have more society in a town or somewhere with more life—”

“Oh, bless you, no. What a dear creature you are. I like it here. I love pottering in my garden and walking the countryside with Bonbon, not that he will go far without being carried, the lazy devil. I think people are getting used to me too, now they know I am living a retired life and I will not shock them by doing something scandalous. The baker’s wife bid me a good morning just yesterday, which is significant progress, I feel.”

Kilbane smiled at that. “Very well then, but you tell me if you change your mind. What about money?”

“Hush, now!” she protested, sounding quite cross. “You’ve done quite enough, what with keeping me and all of your father and brother’s by blows. You’ll find yourself in dun territory if you don’t look to your own family. Set up your nursery and spend your blunt on them and that pretty wife of yours.”

Kilbane stared at her, an odd feeling in his chest as he considered her words. He had sworn to never have children, never to prolong the accursed line that had spawned so many generations of wickedness. But Catherine’s children would never be like that, even with his blood in their veins. She could never produce a child who would be cruel and heartless, it was impossible. Could he really have that for himself? Could she even now be carrying his child? The idea made him breathless.

He made some answer to Louisa, he wasn’t sure what, but he turned the handle, stepping outside.

“My lord, wait!” Louisa cried suddenly, drawing his attention back to her as she hurried down the passage to the kitchen. “Mary, give me that packet of shortbread for his lordship. Oh, do hurry you silly creature, he’s waiting.”

Louisa trotted back to him, pressing the little parcel into his hands. “You liked them so much, do take a few.”

He smiled at her and nodded, tucking them into his breast pocket. “Thank you.”

“It’s me that thanks you, as I always do and always shall,” she said with a warm smile, grasping his hands tightly. “Now, you take care of yourself and do what I tell you. Go and give that beautiful young woman a baby and you forget all about the past. You’ve things to look forward to, like I always told you. Didn’t I tell you?” she said, giving him an arch look.

He nodded, knowing it was true. “Yes, Louisa. You did indeed, and I thank you for that, above all things.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her soft cheek before turning and walking down the path. Hearing the door close behind him, he turned back and raised a hand in farewell as he saw her waving through the window before opening the gate and looking up to see a man on horseback had stopped in the middle of the lane and stood watching him.

The Marquess of Montagu looked down at him from his position atop a gleaming white stallion, his eyes as cold and hard as a northern sea.

“You damned whoreson,” he growled.

Cat sat back against the swabs with a sigh once Alana and Harry were out of sight and could no longer see her waving. She had spent a delightful time with them and their lovely children. Little Abigail was two now and a bundle of mischief, much to Cat’s delight, and as for baby Edward, she had come over quite emotional when she had held the warm little bundle against her. The baby had grasped her finger, looking up at her with big, trustful eyes. The thought that she might one day hold a child of her own in her arms as Ciarán looked down upon his son or daughter was so magical, she had to hunt through her reticule for a handkerchief. If she arrived in the village, all red-eyed and sniffing, her husband would be alarmed and wonder what was amiss. For he was far more caring than even she had suspected once you got past the barrier of indifference and scorn he showed the world.

She wondered how his afternoon had gone and hoped that whatever had put that worry into his eyes had been dealt with, so he might be easy once more. If only he had the confidence to confide in her and share his troubles. She could ask him, perhaps, but she did not want to appear as if she were prying. With a sudden burst of inspiration, she tugged down the small window in the door of the carriage and shouted ahead at the postilion.

“Would you take me via Butterwell Lane, please,” she asked, waiting until she got a shout of confirmation by reply and closed the window.

After all, it was only a slightly longer route to take into the village, and not in the least a detour. For she was curious to see where the letter had come from, and perchance glimpse the lady who lived there too.

Not many minutes later, the carriage slowed as it navigated the tight turn into Butterwell Lane. On the corner stood a pretty cottage with a thick thatched roof that gave it the look of a benign, sleepy creature with thick eyebrows. As the carriage turned, she saw a neat front garden, and a man at the gate speaking to—

“Stop!” she cried out, banging her hand frantically against the window. She wrenched it down, shouting again. “Stop! Oh, do stop at once!”

The carriage jerked to a halt and Cat fumbled with the latch, bursting from the carriage and running towards Ciarán and her father, who was swinging himself down from the saddle. Both men were white-faced with anger and Cat’s heart leapt to her throat as she saw her father advance on Ciarán.

“Papa! Papa, don’t you dare!” she shouted, beyond relieved the lane was empty, save for the wide-eyed postilion, who was watching with avid interest.

Running as fast as skirts and corsets would allow, Cat flung herself between her father and her husband.

“Leave him alone!” she shouted, glaring at her father who looked so murderous she hardly recognised him as the loving papa she had adored her entire life.

“Catherine, get back in the carriage,” her father said through gritted teeth.

“I won’t!” she flung back.

“Catherine.” A softer voice hailed her, and she turned to face her husband, who complexion was ashen, his expression bleak. “You’d best do as he says.”

“Damned if I will,” she retorted furiously. “What is this about? Does he think you’ve been visiting your mistress without my knowledge?” she asked, watching the shock of her words register in his face. He gasped, shaking his head, but she rushed to reassure him. “It’s all right. I assumed it was something of the sort. If you needed to settle things with her, I quite understand. There is not the least need to look so appalled.”