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“Didn’t
you?”
“You shouldn’t even have to ask. If anything good has come from this insanity, it’s been you.”
That did it. The lump choked off her breath. But not the hot tears blurring her vision. “No, let’s be clear. It’s my talent you admire. Once the translation is complete, I’ll be out on the street without a second thought.”
Why was she having this silly argument? What admission was she trying to force from him? He’d kissed her. So what? She’d had plenty of randy gents try their luck once they knew her history. Geordie had sent them packing in quick order. But Geordie wasn’t here. She was on her own. And instead of sending Aidan packing, she was playing as if a kiss meant for keeps. She, of all people, knew that for the fallacy it was.
“Cat?” He tipped her chin toward him. Searched her face. “What’s going on? Or should I say, che cosa sta accendendo?” His eyes crinkled with laughter, the burning intensity brightening to a sunshine brilliance.
She wrenched away from him. “I knew it. I knew you were only biding your time. What did that wretched jaw-me-dead tell you? I have a right to know.”
Aidan didn’t even flinch. “He told me your father was a naval man. Captain of a thirty-two-gun frigate stationed in the Mediterranean. ”
She blinked back tears. Wiped them away with the back of her hand. Crying for a father she barely remembered. A lost future. Would things have been different had he lived?
“His ship was lost during a storm. My mother remarried. A brewer. He lives in eternal hopes of a knighthood for exemplary service to the crown.”
“Supplying them with the best ale in Ireland?”
She laughed. “Something like that,” before sobering. “Did Mr. Danvers tell you the rest? I’m sure he couldn’t wait to fill you in on the sordid details. He was always an enthusiastic tattler of tales.”
“He said there was a scandal involving a gentleman. You disappeared soon after.”
Damn Danvers’s wagging tongue. May his journey be fraught with bad weather, poor roads, and rotten meals.
“Was his name Jeremy?” Aidan asked quietly.
“You’re like a dog worrying at a bone.” Hands on hips, she faced him down. “You want to know? Truly? Then, by all means, let me enlighten you once and for all. I was twenty-one. He was twenty-five. I met him at a dinner. He was charismatic and handsome, and he made me feel special. A sensation I experienced rarely in my stepfather’s household.” She squared her jaw in defiance. Met Aidan’s gaze dead on, daring him to speak. Or even flicker a shocked eyelid. “When he said he loved me, I believed him. And later when he said he could never marry me, I believed that too.” She paused, her heart fluttery as a bird’s beneath his hand. “He was never anything but truthful.”
Aidan’s eyes were round with shock, a stricken look upon his face.
“So there you have my tragic tale,” she challenged. “Are you satisfied? Relieved you have the virginal Miss Osborne waiting for your return with trousseau packed?”
Loss stabbed beneath her breast, a gnawing hollow despair that had nothing to do with the dark-haired charmer she’d given her body to. All to do with his son.
“I don’t know what to say,” he answered.
“Don’t say anything,” she said, laying a hand upon the door. “I don’t want your pity nor do I care about your disapproval.”
“One more time, Daz. And this time, slowly. Who is Máelodor?”
Aidan clutched the letter while he paced the drawing room. Crates and boxes rose up on either side of him. Old furniture. A pianoforte draped in a pair of tasseled velvet curtains. A space directly in front of the hearth had been cleared, leaving room enough for two chairs and a table set with the remains of breakfast.
The old man shifted in his seat, fingers nervously toying with his lap rug, eyes darting from the congealed egg on his plate to the smoking fire to Aidan. “Found the name in an old book, he did. Did I ever tell you that?” He gave Aidan an expectant look before continuing. “Found it and decided he’d take it as his own. Said his real name carried too much of the Duinedon. Who ever heard of a master mage named Henry Simpkins?” Daz’s nervous worrying intensified. “What he said, not me. Mind you, I’d no problem with his name.”
Simpkins . . . Simpkins. He’d no recall of any Simpkins prowling Belfoyle. The name Máelodor didn’t strike any sparks either. But it was obvious by the letter Cat found that not only had this man been an intimate of his father, but he also understood the indecipherable language of the diary.
Thoughts of the letter and Cat sent his mind spinning off course to this morning’s bungled questioning. He’d all but cornered her into confessing her disgrace. Should he be surprised she was angry? Or assumed he’d view her ruin as cause for either pity or scorn? No doubt she’d experienced large helpings of both. But it was impossible to pity someone who so obviously refused it. And though he dug deep, he unearthed neither disdain nor contempt in the welter of feelings Cat produced in him. Exasperation certainly. Irritation occasionally. Frustration definitely.
He rubbed his face, forcing his mind back on Daz, the letter, and the topic at hand. Forget Cat. He had bigger worries. Her offended sensibilities would have to wait. “What happened to Máelodor after my father’s murder?” he asked. “How did you get this letter?”
Daz’s gaze fell on the paper in Aidan’s hand. “Don’t know about a letter. Never saw it. Brendan brought me things. Warned me to keep them safe.”
“Brendan’s been here?” Aidan almost shouted.
Daz jumped. “Aye. Brendan Douglas.” He squinted. “Do you know him?”
