Lord of Shadows (6 page)

He held his fear close, but flashes of it speared her consciousness. Punched through her strongest defenses until she sensed his dread. Understood his panic. Her mind reeled with untamed emotion. It hammered behind her eyes. Kinked the muscles at the base of her neck. Never had anyone affected her in such a dramatic fashion. Bursting into her consciousness like a tidal wave.

Did he know what effect he caused? Or was his invasion unintentional?

She forced herself to relax. Clasping her hands in a posture of patience, she focused on locking her mind more firmly against his intrusion. It worked. Somewhat. At least she could breathe again. But the sensation of being caught and buffeted in the rip curl of his thoughts and feelings lingered.

“I’ll help if I can, but there’s not much to tell. One of the village children discovered you washed up in the shallows.” There. She’d managed two complete sentences without stammering like a child. “It’s an odd sort of cove.
The current brings all sorts of things into the rocks there. Old timbers, broken barrels washed off ships. Bodies or what’s left of them.” Catching her gaffe, she stuttered to a halt. Just when she found herself easing into normalcy, she stepped right in her own words.

His gaze flickered and went still. A hand fisted at his side.

“I can take you there if you’d like.” She heard the words. Looked around in surprise as if someone else had just suggested a lonely trek to the cove. Was she mad? The last thing she needed was to be alone with this man who made her feel as if she’d been turned inside out, upside down, and back to front.

He didn’t answer until she wondered if he’d even heard her. Perhaps she hadn’t spoken aloud after all. Perhaps she was saved from her own foolish impulses. Uncomfortable with his continuing brooding silence, she filled it with the first thought that popped into her head. “You speak Welsh.”

“I do?” An excited glimmer brightened his dark gaze.

Her pulse sped up, but she met his eyes with a sheepish smile. “You did last night in your sleep. Just a few words. Nothing that made sense.”

“You kept this from me.” The accusation implicit. “What else have you learned?”

Tipping her chin in a determined show of reserve, she ignored the drumming of her heart. “You mentioned a diary.”

His brows drew together in a scowl of concentration. “A diary? What did I say?”

“You were asking for it. Demanding it. Does that mean anything to you?”

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. His effort to make sense of the riddle she’d presented almost tangible. When he opened them again, tension shivered off him. Stirred the air like a storm charge. “I have sensations. Impressions. But no memories. Not about a diary. Not about anything. My mind’s empty of the past.”

“Except for the woman,” she reminded him, “The one in your dream.”

His gaze narrowed on her with renewed determination. “It was your face. I must know you. I just can’t remember from where. But it’s you. Of that, I’m certain.”

Impossible. She’d know if she’d met this devastating giant of a man whose mage energy radiated like an electrical storm. Men like him didn’t visit the
bandraoi
. And she’d not traveled farther from Glenlorgan than Cork in the last three years.

“People imagine funny things when they’re ill,” she suggested.

“Do they imagine women they’ve never met? I don’t believe it could be so, Sabrina.” Her name like a caress.

Butterflies threatened to explode out her stomach. Smoothing her apron, she cleared her throat with nursely efficiency. “I should be getting back to my duties.” Patted his shoulder like she might a child, though the masculine frame beneath her fingers was decidedly un-childlike, and she was certain he felt her trembling. “You were more dead than alive when the villagers brought you to us. It will take time for you to recover your memory, but I’m sure it will happen.”

He gazed down on his calloused palm, the slash of old cuts evident even there. Closing his fist, he shrugged. “You’ve seen my scars,” he replied, hunching his shoulders as if warding off a blow. “Perhaps it’s best if I don’t.”

“I’ve made up my mind.” Ard-siúr held up a hand before Sister Brigh could argue—again. “And that’s final.”

From her inconspicuous seat behind Sister Ainnir, Sabrina clamped her lips together, smothering a smile. She couldn’t help it. She loved seeing the cranky old priestess stymied every once in a while.

Sister Ainnir’s low-pitched voice responded to Ard-siúr’s resolve. “We can’t make him remain if he chooses to go.”

“No, we can’t force him to stay, Sister Ainnir,” Ard-siúr agreed. “But we can make it clear that his injuries still impair his mind. And while he may feel he’s fully healed, his body can weaken without warning. Dizziness. Fatigue. Headaches. Until he recovers his memory, it would be better for him to remain.”

“But his continued presence disrupts our routine,” Sister Anne chirped. “Already rumors circulate among us. He’s a wanted brigand. A smuggler. A murderer. Each story more hair-raising than the last.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Sister Brigh sniffed. “You just have to look at him to see he’s a dangerous rogue likely to slit your throat. No respectable gentleman carries scarring like that.”

It was true. The man’s body spoke of untold violence and a sinister past as dark as his eyes. But Sabrina had seen no signs of murderous intent. Felt no fear in his presence other than the fear that she was making a fool of herself.

Sister Brigh’s assumptions were taken up with worried agreement by the others. Argument ensued, voices competing for dominance as each brought their views before Ard-siúr.

Sabrina burrowed deeper into her chair. Why she’d been included in this afternoon’s meeting had not been made clear—possibly because Sister Ainnir’s work in the hospital fell more and more to Sabrina as the elderly priestess’s health waned—but she didn’t want anyone to suddenly question her right to be included. That “anyone” most likely to be Sister Brigh, who questioned every decision and took every opportunity to challenge Ard-siúr’s authority.

Ard-siúr’s quiet control cut through the squabbling. “All your concerns are understandable and duly noted, but my decision is made.” Ard-siúr’s pointed stare directed squarely at Sister Brigh. There followed the rustle of skirts, the babble of conversation. “You may go, my sisters.”

Sabrina eased out of her chair. Took up her place at the end of the line of chattering women.

“Hold a moment, Sabrina,” Ard-siúr said with a hand upon her arm. Waiting until the flock of women withdrew before ushering her back to her seat. Leaning against her desk, arms folded, lips tipped in amusement. “Do you agree with my decision? Or, like Sister Brigh and the others, do you think I should have sent the poor man on his way?”

The head of the order asked her opinion? This was a first. And a hopeful portent. Perhaps her elevation to full priestess drew close. She hesitated, weighing her words. It wouldn’t do to queer things now with some rash, unthinking response. “I believe, Ard-siúr, you acted in the only way you could. That is to say, all sorts of dangers lay beyond our boundaries. Worse for someone who’d have no idea from where the danger might come.” Her words came faster, her thoughts racing ahead of her tongue. “No, he must stay. At least until he recovers his health. And I
discover . . . I mean, we discover who he is and what happened to him.” Now she babbled, plain and simple.

Ard-siúr’s wrinkles stretched in a half smile. “You’ve taken quite an interest in Daigh MacLir’s fate.”

Heat crept up Sabrina’s throat to stain her cheeks.

Ard-siúr nodded her dismissal, moving past Sabrina toward the door. Turning in a swish of skirts. “I nearly forgot. The letter.” Returning to her desk, she pulled a folded and sealed page from a drawer. Handed it over. “I believe it’s from your brother.”

“Kilronan?” Sabrina asked stupidly, the smooth, expensive foolscap slippery beneath her fingers.

Ard-siúr caught her in a sharp, appraising look. “Would you be expecting word from another brother?”

A dull lump swelled in her chest. Oh, why had she felt it necessary to put the whole horrible episode down on paper? She’d not dwelled on her family’s fractured separation for years. Now she knew why. It hurt too much. “No, ma’am. No letter. Nothing.”

“Very well. You may go.”

Sabrina slid the letter into her apron pocket. Moved with stinging eyes toward the door. Wiped them with the back of her sleeve. She’d tried putting her family behind her. But reliving that tragic day had brought all her hurt and abandonment to the surface like oil upon water.

“And Sabrina?”

“Ma’am?”

Ard-siúr’s solemn, weighty stare pinned her to the floor. “Should Brendan Douglas ever attempt to contact you, you will let me know, won’t you?”

Sabrina escaped without answering. Jostled her blind way through a crowd of women in the passage. Disregarded
Jane’s shouted halloo across the cloister. Ignored Sister Brigh’s outraged mutter as she bumped into her upon the dormitory stairs.

Only stopped to catch her breath in the blessed momentary privacy of her bedchamber. Shuddering. Her back pressed against the door panels. Stupid tears burning her eyes.

For seven years she’d assumed Brendan was dead. How else to account for his lack of letters or visits or any word at all. But could the
Amhas-draoi
be telling the truth? Could Brendan still live? Could he be the blackhearted villain they claimed he was?

Ard-siúr certainly seemed to believe it.

So, what if he did contact her?

Where did her true loyalty reside?

If asked to make a choice between her old family and her new, whom would she betray?

Daigh scanned the room he’d been brought to with a searching eye. Desk. Case clock. A pairing of old cane-backed chairs. A long, low table upon which stood decanters, a scattering of various stones, shards of quartz, a bowl of dried petals. Thick Turkey carpets covered the flagged floor. Wall tapestries moved in the incessant breeze through poorly chinked mortar. He found himself transfixed by stags and hounds in regal red and gold. Stylized sea creatures amid a woolen sea of blues and greens. Flowers and leaves needled in exquisite detail so that one’s eye couldn’t help but follow the woven floral design across the cloth. A rendering of gray-veiled attendants following a curtained litter toward an open tomb. He scowled, focusing on a lone attendant standing with outstretched hands and eyes cast up toward a single star.

“You’ve recovered far faster than we expected, considering the shape you were in upon your arrival.”

He drew his attention back from the puzzled tangle
of his own impenetrable thoughts. Stood body braced and shoulders back. Met the triple spear-point stares of the trio of gray-gowned
bandraoi
with a sharp, assenting jerk of his head.

“After discussing your health with Sister Ainnir, we’ve decided a busy mind and body may bring about your full recovery. Therefore, as you no longer require medical attention, I am putting you in Sister Liotha’s charge.” Ard-siúr motioned toward the tallest of the women. Flat nosed. Wind-burned cheeks. Hands broad and tough as leather. And a no-nonsense manner reminding him of Griffid. That skeptical, show-me air . . .

He staggered against the snatch of an image. His knees weak as water as he clutched at the slippery pieces of memory sliding through his mind.

Griffid?

The grizzled soldier returned to him, gap-toothed and grinning. His face as clear as the cluster of women in front of him. His temples thundered, a snarling pressure knotting his spine as he fought to concentrate. To battle his way through the shimmering stained-glass wash of color bursting across his vision.

“Are you unwell?” A touch upon his forehead. A hand upon his sleeve. And Griffid vanished. Lost in the endless well where Daigh’s past swam but rarely surfaced.

He steadied himself, shaking off the proffered aid. Refusing to let these women see his weakness. His anguish. They saw too much as it was. Picked him apart like a flock of vultures. Yet despite all their probing, soul-searing stares, they could offer him no hint about his lost past. Of that, they were as uncertain as he. Time, they assured. Time and freedom would restore him.