Heir of Danger (17 page)

“What of Elisabeth? Máelodor thinks she knows where the stone is hidden.”

“She’s safe enough while she’s under my protection, but surely that’s another reason to assist me. As long as Máelodor is alive, Miss Fitzgerald is in danger. You dragged her into this. It’s up to you to pull her free.”

He didn’t answer. Instead his gaze locked on the flames. The little frame house down the hill from the churchyard. Freddie’s family. Freddie. The place had gone up like a box of tinder. He’d felt the heat upon his face like the fires of hell. And known, at that moment, there would be no escape from what he’d done. He’d tried. For seven years, he’d outraced the devil, but he’d finally been caught. It was time to pay.

Miss Roseingrave resumed her slow pacing, jaw flexing. Pausing now and then to slant an evaluating stare in his direction. “What do you say, Douglas? Bait to catch a killer? End this once and for all?”

Reaching out with the lightest of mental touches, Brendan sought to read the sincerity of her declaration. Slammed against a consciousness locked tight. Probing deeper, he met a tangled honeycomb of thought designed to thwart any intrusion. If she lied, there was no way for him to know.

If you wanted Brendan dead, you’d have done it already. We’ve nothing to lose and all to gain
.

Elisabeth’s words resounded within him. . . .
nothing to lose . . . all to gain.

And he’d run out of choices.

Reaching beneath his shirt, he pulled free the stone on its chain. Light flickered in the rough-carved faces, a smoldering burn like the leading edge of a storm cloud or the flash and fire of a smoke-filled battlefield.

Gold eyes met black. Neither one willing to flinch.

“Agreed,” he said.

Bath over and dress burned, Elisabeth stood at her bedchamber window in a dressing gown. Seeing little of what passed before her eyes. Instead her gaze drew ever inward, her mind a short cab ride away in Merrion Square at the Fitzgerald town house.

Aunt Fitz and Aunt Pheeney might be there now. Worried for her. Disgusted with her. Would they understand when she told them the truth? Perhaps. But there was no way to explain it to Gordon. In his eyes, she would be compromised beyond recovery. A ruined woman. Unfit to be his bride.

The pain accompanying that thought bit deep, though it didn’t shatter her as she thought it might. She’d accepted Gordon, knowing him for the solid, dependable man he was. Knowing he didn’t excite her or send her into raptures. Knowing he might be her last and only chance. So what did that say about her?

“Here, now. An extra blanket in case you get cold tonight, though it’s warm enough now.”

Elisabeth hadn’t heard Helena’s grandmother come in, but there she was, her winter pippin face creased in a welcoming smile.

Killer, who usually greeted all newcomers with a token snarl, remained snoring—belly up, paws in the air—in the middle of the bed.

“Some watchdog you are,” she mumbled.

The old woman eyed the dog with a long, measuring stare. “You’ve had him long?”

“He sort of attached himself to us on the road.”

“Did he?” She studied Killer long enough that the terrier opened one lazy eye to return the shrewd gaze.

“You’re very kind, Mrs., uh . . . Mrs. . . .” Elisabeth fumbled, not knowing how to address her hostess.

Laughter rustled in the old woman’s chest. “Madame Arana.” She draped the blanket upon a chair. “It is nice to have a house full again. Since
ma petite
Helena’s brother died, the quiet has taken over. Too many empty rooms full of sad memories.”

Petite Helena? That was taking things a bit far. The
Amhas-draoi
woman had the build of an Amazon. The looks too, come to think of it. Tall, dark, and cool as ice. Even bathed and changed into clothing that didn’t resemble a charwoman’s Sunday best, Elisabeth felt an absolute frump in comparison.

“I will leave you now. I must see to the young man. He is a poor patient, that one. Typical male.
Plaint toujours
—always fussing. Not trusting to my skills. I know much of the old ways. He would do better to allow me to tend him.”

“I wish you luck. He’s exceedingly stubborn.”

“Ah, but then, so am I.” Madame Arana smiled, her eyes lost in the creases upon creases of her face.

Elisabeth stepped away from the window, the thick carpet a luxury under her bare feet as she crossed to the bed. Sank into its feathered depths, the faint scents of lavender
rising from the sheets. “Do you know why your granddaughter wants Brendan? Why she’s doing”—she spread her hands to encompass the comfortable, well-appointed bedchamber—“all this? The
Amhas-draoi
want Brendan dead, he told me so himself. Yet we’re welcomed as guests. Why?”

“You
are
a guest, Miss Fitzgerald, if an unexpected one. At no time did we predict your presence. None of my scrying ever alerted us to this possibility. This makes you an unknown. Throws all possible futures into doubt.” Suddenly the golden-eyed grandmother seemed less snuggly tea and biscuits than prescient
Fey
-gifted seer. “My visions are no longer helpful.”

Why had Elisabeth asked? When would she realize questions only brought answers she didn’t necessarily want and bred more questions that raced like rabbits round her brain?

“Helena has searched for Brendan Douglas since word first came of his return to Ireland. The whys are clear in
Amhas-draoi
duty. The brotherhood looks to stamp out the last vestiges of the Nine. Only the manner of her seeking has changed as circumstance changed. As the visions changed. Now do you see?”

She didn’t but nodded anyway. “Who are the Nine?”

“That is not my story to tell. Better to ask young Douglas if you truly wish to understand.”

Therein lay the rub. Did she want to understand? Or would it only pull her in deeper?

Elisabeth placed a hand upon Killer, letting his even breathing steady her own whirling head.

“What do you know of the young man?” Madame Arana asked, a sternness to her face at odds with her earlier cheerful ebullience. “What has he told you of himself?”

“I’ve known Brendan forever. His family’s estates march
next to ours.” She lowered her gaze. “He and I were betrothed once. Long ago. Before . . .”

“Before the Nine’s destruction.” Madame Arana finished her sentence.

“Actually I was going to say before he ran off for parts unknown, but—”

Madame Arana continued blithely on. “Terrible times, those were. Terrible for the
Other
.”

Other
. The Nine.
Amhas-draoi
. It was nothing to do with her.

“Kilronan led them.”

That got her attention. “Lord Kilronan?”

Helena’s grandmother smiled with an I-knew-I’d-pique-your-interest-sooner-or-later look. “
Oui,
the last earl was smart. Clever. A born leader. But the Nine’s greatest hopes lay with the boy. The son of Kilronan. His heir.”

“Aidan was Lord Kilronan’s heir. Not Brendan.”

“In lands and titles, the eldest inherited. In power and skills, young Douglas was all his father hoped he’d be.” Despite her frail appearance, she stooped to poke at the fire. Toss a new log among the embers, her hands roped and tough with hard work. She straightened, lifting her gaze to Elisabeth, a gemstone sharpness in her topaz eyes. “He’s back. Let’s hope he’s not too late. And that he’s no longer the true son of his father.”

“What do you mean by telling me all this?”

“You can’t fight what you don’t understand.”

“I’m not fighting anyone. I’m going back to Dun Eyre as soon as I can.”

Madame Arana shuffled toward the door, glancing back over her shoulder with an ominous glint in her bright eyes. “Are you so certain of that?”

The whiskey appeared unsolicited at Brendan’s elbow.

“You look as if you could use a drink.” Rogan poured one for himself before plopping into the chair opposite.

Brendan roused himself from his contemplation of the fire long enough to stretch. “That bad?”

“Actually, you look as if you could use three or four, but we’ll start slowly and work our way up to complete inebriation.”

“You sound a lot like a cousin of mine. You don’t know Jack O’Gara by any chance?”

Rogan paused, giving Brendan an odd look over the top of his glass. “Why?”

“No reason.”

He ignored the whiskey with great difficulty. To sleep without dreams was always hardest. His usual remedy was exhaustion. Any activity that would deaden his mind and body to a collapsing point. That outlet had been denied him. So he sat. Brooded. Avoided his bed as long as he
could. The steady throb in his shoulder helped. Gave him something on which to concentrate besides the gritty, sandy burn of tired eyes or the intermittent flushes of heat followed by a wash of icy cold that left him wrung like a sponge.

At least he had Rogan for company. The harper had done much to break the glacial tension between him and Miss Roseingrave. As well as being easy company. Knew when to talk and when to keep silent.

“You and Miss Roseingrave are close.” As sterling repartee it lacked, but Brendan wasn’t up to maintaining appearances.

“You could say that.” Rogan sipped at his whiskey, his long shanks stretched toward the fire. He scratched his knuckles over the salt-and-pepper stubble of his narrow face. “I’ve known Helena since she wasn’t two hands higher than a duck. Second cousins on her mother’s side.” Leaned in closer. “I’m from the disreputable branch of the family.”

“I knew there was a reason you and I got on so well. So, has she always been such an amiable creature?”

Rogan laughed. “She does come off all teeth and claws, doesn’t she? Suppose it comes from being
Amhas-draoi
. Not exactly known for their soft, nurturing side, are they? Guess you’d know that better than anyone.” He flushed an uncomfortable shade of red. “Sorry, lad. Didn’t mean it to sound so callous.”

“Can’t quibble with the truth.”

Rogan toyed with his glass, still looking sheepish. “An ugly episode, from all I’ve heard. How did you . . . that is . . . they’re not known for leaving loose ends.”

“It’s amazing how fast a man can run when his life’s on the line.” Had he said easy company? This line of inquiry
was definitely not helping his mood. He leaned his head back, shutting his eyes.

“Forgot you said you don’t drink.”

He opened his eyes to see Rogan reaching across to retrieve the whiskey. Brendan’s gaze locked on the glass. Mellow gold as a late summer sun. The scent stinging his nose, burning his lungs. Inhaling, he tasted its essence soft and smooth on his tongue. One glass. Surely he could have one glass. Just to sleep. To hold the dreams away. To stop remembering. To stop thinking.

He turned away. “Easier to run sober.”

Silence fell over the room, but for the snap of the fire, a breeze beyond the window.

Rogan stood to retrieve his harp. Settled back into his chair, the instrument resting in his lap. He strummed a run of scales, breaking the spring ice tension growing between them. “Since we’re exchanging confidences, that Miss Fitzgerald of yours is a spirited lass. Facing you and Helena down as she did tonight”—he gave a low whistle—“the looks on your faces were priceless.”

Brendan gave a soft, smiling shake of his head. “Couldn’t fault her logic. A body would be a deuced hard thing to keep from the staff.” He smothered a laugh. “She may look soft and sweet, but rile her and she’s a force of nature. Have to say it was a relief to see her sinking her claws into someone else for a change.”

“She spoke once of her betrothed. . . .”

Brendan grimaced. “Mr. Gordon Shaw. A young man of impeccable character and mediocre disposition. Bloody sod.”

The harper chuckled, the tune arranging itself into a haunting lament. “Is that how it is?”

“Is what how it is? Lissa? And me? Not likely.”

The music eased the whiskey’s lingering temptation. Filling the empty parts of him with something other than alcohol. He’d forgotten the feeling of simple peace such moments brought. It had been long since he’d the leisure to listen. Longer since he’d enjoyed playing himself. It had once been his favorite amusement. A way to forget Father’s mounting expectations. Aidan’s guarded envy. Even Sabrina and Mother in their own quieter ways required something from him, whether it be love or duty.

He could always put that aside as he focused on the complicated twining melody and harmony of left hand and right. Lay aside the burdens of filial responsibility and the weight of fraternal confidence. No one counted on him. No one needed him. He could simply exist.

His final evening at Dun Eyre had been the first time he’d attempted the Mozart. Elisabeth’s arrival in the music room had surprised him. Her questions dragging his old desire for freedom from shadow into light. But with it came something else. A remembrance of the girl who’d been the only one not to see him as either prodigy or threat. She’d never wanted anything from him other than friendship. Never offered him anything but quick laughter and a sure smile. The only one to see him as he saw himself in those brief naked moments while playing.