Page 78 of A Daring Desire

Ciarán wasn’t helping; he illustrated each room with a bitter comment about some awful event that had taken place in it. A duel had been fought on the front lawn: his father had almost killed some poor young fellow who still limped badly to this day. That was where his brother had led a horse through the house with three naked women on its back, to the jeers and cheers of onlookers. That was where Ricky had locked him in a cupboard for three days until the butler had discovered him and let him out. The Earl of Bideford had overdosed on opium in the blue parlour, and Lady Chevenam had tried to kill her husband when he’d told her he was going to Newmarket, and she’d followed him and discovered him up to his ears in another lady's petticoats. Ciarán then showed her the room where his brother had taken his own life, driven to madness by the idea he was cursed. That was disturbing indeed, with scrawled writing over every surface proclaiming The Witch Killed Me. Cat had been only too happy to flee that room.

She listened in silence as the litany went on, from cruel pranks to crimes the old marquess or his eldest son were never held accountable for.

By the time they had reached the bedchambers, Ciarán was pale and so clearly unhappy Cat’s heart went out to him and she wondered if she was asking too much. She took his hand and leaned into him.

“Which is your room?”

He jerked his head down the corridor. Cat tugged at his hand. “Show me.”

Reluctantly, he turned the handle and pushed the door open. Cat went in but he stayed in the doorway, arms folded as she looked around.

It was a huge room, though sparsely furnished, dominated not by a huge bed as she might have expected, but by a piano.

“I’ve never heard you play,” she said, looking up at him.

He shrugged but said nothing, and so she carried on looking around. There were shelves and shelves of books, mostly novels, but some about the flora and fauna of the region, about animals, especially horses, and stacks of sheet music. There were pictures too, and a few framed drawings. Some of these he’d clearly done as a boy, and her eye was drawn to a picture of a crow. Underneath, the name of the bird was written in careful handwriting.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, moving closer. “That’s Hugin?”

She turned to look at Ciarán, seeing the shock in his eyes.

“How do you know of him?” he demanded.

“Well, I didn’t! At least, only his name, and that he was important to you.”

He returned a blank look, and she smiled.

“When you were ill, you spoke of him. I assumed he was a dog, but I remember the story now. Hugin and Munin were Odin’s ravens, weren’t they? He was tame?”

Ciarán nodded stiffly. “I found him after a storm. The nest had blown down and the other chick died. I watched to see if the parents came, but they’d abandoned him. I reared him.” His mouth kicked up at the corners. “He was such a clever fellow, and a good friend to me. I tried to set him free a dozen times, but he kept coming back.”

“I don’t blame him,” she said softly.

His face fell, his expression bleak as he shook his head. “More fool him. Ricky shot him and threw his body at my feet. He thought it great sport.”

Cat gasped, remembering that the memory of Hugin had been one that tormented him at the height of his fever. “Oh, my love,” she said, rushing to his side, tears in her eyes, but he walked past her, moving to stare out of the window. “He killed anything I cared for. It was a wonder Hugin lasted as long as he did, but Ricky was older then and in town most of the time. I hid Hugin when he came back, but… well, crows can fly,” he said with a bitter smile.

Cat moved cautiously towards him and took his hand, twining their fingers together. “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged. “That was family life. I could tell you a dozen such stories, a hundred. There comes a point when you don’t dare show even the smallest sign of affection, that you care for anything, for you know they will take it from you. Then father took Louisa. So, I stopped caring. I thought I had forgotten how,” he added, turning to look down at her. “Until you pushed your way into my life and forced me to pay attention.”

“I knew you were there, Ciarán. I always knew.”

He stroked a finger down her cheek and smiled. “Thank God for you, Catherine.” He bent and kissed her. “But do you see, my love, why I don’t wish to be here?”

She nodded. “Of course I do, but—”

He groaned and rested his head atop hers. “Why must you plague me so?”

“I’m not plaguing you,” she said with reproach. “I am asking a favour.”

“Ask,” he said tersely.

“Give it to me.”

He looked at her blankly. “What?”

“I don’t mean legally. I just mean that if you hate the place so much… give it to me. Then you won’t have to think about it any longer.”