Free Come Midnight by Veronica Sattler Page B

ajar. As the sounds of merriment spilled into the hallway, Adam slowed and stood just outside the door. The lilting syllables of an Irish brogue rippled on the air.
    "Ach, go on with ye! Six! The poor man had six fingers—all on one hand? And what o' his ither hand, then?"
    Andrew's giggles didn't abate. "Just five—but he's not a poor man, Caitlin. Jeremy says he's nasty. And rich as Cro—Cro—"
    "Croesus?"
    "Yes, and ... Caitlin, what's Croesus?"
    "Not what, but who, lad. Croesus was a very rich king who lived a long time ago, as I recall hearin' somewhere. But back t 'Jeremy's rich uncle o' the six fingers, boyo."
    A smothered giggle. "His rich, nasty uncle, Caitlin!"
    "Aye, that one. If the poor—er, not very poor man has the normal five fingers on one hand, but six on the ither, can ye tell me how many fingers he has alt'gither, Andrew?"
    Adam's brows lifted as he caught the drift of what she was doing. The little minx was actually conducting a lesson! But had ciphering ever been taught this painlessly? He recollected his own sessions with tutors. Each with a book in one hand—and a birch rod in the other.
    But did the chit's method work? All well and good to spare the rod, but—
    "Eleven!" Andrew's triumphant voice rang out, and his father grinned.
    "Right ye are, boyo!" Caitlin announced, giving Andrew a hug. "Ach, ye're a clever one, ye are, and that's no blarney! Why, most six-year-olds can't even count to eleven, Andrew, yet here ye are—"
    "Ah, but we Lightfoots have a history of producing precocious children, Miss O'Brien." Adam saw the girl's eyes widen as he strolled into the schoolroom. So did his son's, but there was a difference: Andrew merely seemed surprised, while .... Bloody hell. The chit's afraid of me!
    Andrew's giggle pulled Adam from this disturbing thought. "You're going to make her faint, Papa!" the child exclaimed.
    Caitlin tore her gaze from the handsome face with its ominous scar as the child tugged on her sleeve. "What is it, lad?"
    "Papa just Miss O'Briened you!" Andrew chortled. "Shall we ring for the vinai—vinai—"
    "Vinaigrette, t' be sure!" Caitlin exclaimed, thrusting her fears aside for the moment. She slapped her hand comically on her chest. "Ach, I'm feelin' feint already!"
    Despite his ugly mood of minutes before, Adam felt oddly buoyant. His headache was gone. Laughter welled up inside him, drawn by his son's infectious giggles. "Would someone"—he chuckled, looking from his son's delighted face to the diminutive, grinning redhead—"please tell me what's going on?"
    Andrew explained about "Miss O'Briening," and when Adam promised to call the governess only Caitlin from then on, they all laughed.
    At length, the marquis grew serious. "Andrew ..." His eyes moved to a table bearing a chess set, and he strode over to it and carried it to the window seat.' 'While I have a chat with Miss, uh, with Caitlin, would you set up the men as I showed you, son?"
    The boy grinned, complying at once, while Adam drew Caitlin aside. "How's his leg?" he murmured. "Any pain?"
    "Look at him, milord," she whispered. "Does he look as if it hurts him?"
    Adam looked, and heard his son humming as he carefully set up the chessmen. He shook his head. "No, of course not. But. .. it's just that the physicians said—"
    "Physicians don't know everythin', milord," Caitlin sniffed. The one who'd attended the Prince Regent was the most arrogant man she'd ever met. He'd taken one look at her poultices and pronounced them quackery, she later learned. That was after the numbskull sought her out and told her to go back to her Irish bogs!
    "I'm aware," said Adam, "of the rudeness of His Highness's physician toward you, and I'm sorry for it, Caitlin."
    Still speaking in a low voice, he had to bend to reach her ear, because of her diminutive stature, and Caitlin felt herself flush. It wasn't so much because of the incident he cited as it was the man's nearness. He was so close, she could distinguish the tiny