Come Midnight by Veronica Sattler Page A

heart and mind. Guilt, because he counted himself fortunate he'd escaped before Andrew asked him to join in. Anger, because .... Damn it, I ought to be glad she's performing that junction so critical to a child's rearing! It's me should be in there, hearing my son's prayers! But even as he ruthlessly chided himself for his cowardice, Adam knew it was all hollow: A damned soul had precious little right to hear the prayers of the innocent. And none at all to pray himself.
    ***
    "Fast asleep," Caitlin informed the marquis as she tiptoed out of the room. Noting his look of distraction, she eyed him quizzically. What, she wondered, could have caused him to leave so precipitously?
    For a moment he failed to comment, then seemed to collect himself. "And well on his way to pleasant dreams, I make no doubt," he told her, not quite managing a smile.
    "Aye." She knew she ought to repair to her own quarters, yet something suggested she linger. He seemed to her somehow ... lost Lonely, even. And wasn't that ridiculous. The man must have friends in the dozens. Didn't he take himself off every evening, after that valet fellow spent hours seeing him all rigged out in his finery? "The lad does seem t' sleep better these days," she offered, uncertain what else to say.
    "All thanks to you, Caitlin O'Brien," he said. "You've a deal of experience with children, I collect, to know so well how to soothe their fears."
    "Ach, I've truly had very little," she said wistfully.
    "Indeed? I thought all you Irish had... uh, that is..."
    "Children in the dozens?" she supplied with a wry smile. " 'Tis no harm in sayin' it, milord. Most Irish do have lots o' children, though not always enough food t' feed those they're blessed with. But as for me ..." She sighed. "I was reared a lone orphan, milord."
    "An orphan," he echoed. He was stunned to realize how little he knew of this woman he'd willy-nilly installed as his son's governess. Yet as he looked at her, he realized he knew she had all the qualities that mattered. Her kindness and compassion toward his son were evident in every word and gesture. Andrew smiled often now, and the laughter they shared had become a familiar sound. In a house that hadn't known laughter in years. Not since he himself was a child, and his parents were alive. And he still marveled at Caitlin's unique ability to use a child's natural love of play to teach—without the pain the Miss Murches of the world felt it necessary to bring to the schoolroom. How did such a young woman—she seemed barely more than a child herself— come by so much wisdom? And an orphan, at that!
    "Do they... have orphanages in Ireland?" he asked, half dreading the answer. He knew something of orphanages, in England at least. Dreary, forbidding places, where they existed at all. The mere thought of Caitlin the child shut up in such a cheerless place distressed him.
    She shrugged. "I'm not aware of any, milord. But sure and the Church does what it can. I was lucky, however, for I'd a carin' foster mother. Thanks t' Crionna, I niver lacked for love and kindness."
    Relief made him smile. "And where is Crionna now?"
    "I buried her in the autumn, milord."
    He caught the sadness in her voice. He'd wondered about the plain frocks of unrelieved black she always wore. Why hadn't he realized she was in mourning? "I'm sorry for your loss, then."
    Caitlin nodded. " 'Twas Crionna's time, though. She was passin' ancient. Not that it keeps me from missin' her, but I've accepted the loss. Far easier t' bear the passin' of an auld woman than a young—ach, forgive me! I-I know ye must be grievin', milord. For—for Andrew's mother," she added when he simply stared at her. "And here I am, remindin' ye—"
    "Forgiveness isn't necessary," Adam snapped, instantly regretting his tone at the look on her face.
    "Mi-milord?"
    Adam sighed. "While I regret her death, there was no love lost between Lady Lightfoot and me," he found himself explaining. And wondered why he did so; none of