Heir of Danger (30 page)

“She’s welcome to stay with Grand-mère and me until this is over and you return for her.”

Brendan concentrated on knotting his cravat, eyes downcast. Over and under, his hands fumbling with the knot, muttering under his breath.

“You’re not coming back, are you?” Helena ventured. “This marriage of yours. It was all a sham. You plan on skipping out on her just like last time.”

He tossed the damned cravat on the pallet. “My marriage is as legal as I can make it. And you’ll see that Mr. McKelway trumpets his part in matters to the heavens when the time comes. But no, I don’t think I’ll be coming back.” He lifted a brow. “And you don’t either. So between us, let’s stop pretending.”

She smoothed her hands down the sides of her skirt, lifting her chin high, her face a mask of
Amhas-draoi
determination. “Máelodor has to be stopped, Douglas. The
Other
are scared and nervous, the tension between the races thin as spring ice. All it will take is the rise of a leader on
the part of our people to solidify their discontent into rage, and the world won’t know what hit it. Already there are reports of
Other
vengeance and
Duinedon
retaliation. The
Amhas-draoi
are working to contain them before it escalates beyond our control, but we’re stretched thin. It won’t be long before the rage spreads like a torch set to a dry field.”

“It’s what the Nine counted on.”

“You said yourself Máelodor wants you alive.” Her voice almost conciliatory. “His malice might be your best protection.”

He buttoned his waistcoat. Shrugged on his jacket. “I’ll choose death over Máelodor’s version of alive any day.”

“Let’s hope you get the choice, then.”

Perhaps his brains had been addled. Perhaps he looked to shed Jack once and for all. Or perhaps he simply felt sorry for Helena, who’d probably come as close as capable to being compassionate. Come to think on it, perhaps it was her brains that had been scrambled. Whatever the case, he heard himself saying, “I believe you knew a cousin of mine. Jack O’Gara? Tall fellow. Strapping. Frightfully blond and manly.”

She stiffened, giving him a thunderous glare. So much for sympathy. “I did. Is there a point?”

“Well, you see, there’s something you ought to know about Jack—”

“He’s dead, Mr. Douglas. That’s all I need to know.” Eyes like chips of obsidian, she strode out with a swordsman’s swagger, leaving him to sink upon the chair. He should have known any kindness on his part would be rejected, but no one could say he hadn’t tried.

Closing his eyes, he let out a whoosh of spent breath.

What the hell his cousin Jack saw in that woman was completely and utterly beyond him.

“Madame Arana? Are you up here?” Elisabeth called. “I’ve calmed the butcher down enough so that he’s not quite foaming at the mouth, but you’ll need to pay him by next week or he says he’ll come back with his brother, which I believe is meant as a threat. It certainly sounded ominous, and it’s probably not wise to anger men who wield sharp knives for a living.”

Elisabeth topped the attic stairs. Once more struck by the clarity of the northern light, the rich jeweled vibrancy of the rugs upon the floor, the tiny shelves, the neat rows of bottles and jars, the clutter and crush of a woman’s life kept hidden away like a wonderful secret.

Her gaze rested on the mirror, but no clouds moved within its surface today. No lightning-flecked images burned their way up through the roiling darkness. Instead, it reflected not on Helena’s grandmother but Brendan, his golden gaze locked upon a stone she’d last seen hanging about her own neck.

The Sh’vad Tual.

In Brendan’s hand, it took on a new and almost frightening aspect. The blunt, rough-carved broken edges, the light captured deep within its heart, the way it seemed to flicker and burn with a thousand separate colors. His stare deepened as his body went rigid, shoulders braced, face iron-jawed, unmoving by even the twitch of a muscle.

The stone pulsed, the colors writhing as if a storm raged within it.

Brendan squeezed his eyes shut, a shudder running through him.

“Esh-bartsk Breán Duabn’thach. Mest Goslowea ortsk.”

The bloodcurdling rasp and slither of his words caught her breath in her throat.

“Ana N’thashyl bodsk nevresh boa dhil warot.”

A headache burst against her temples as she dug her nails into her palms and a tiny moan escaped her.

Brendan whirled around, the stone going dark and empty as his eyes.

“If I can’t stop Arthur’s resurrection, Lissa”—the pain in his voice fluttered against her heart—“he’ll die.”

She crossed to his side. Sweat gathered at his open collar, his pulse rapid at the base of his throat. “Who? Who’ll die? Arthur?”

She pried the Sh’vad Tual from Brendan’s fingers. As with the mirror, a numbing icy tingle raced up her arm. Shimmered for a moment at the base of her brain.

Brendan scrubbed his hands over his face, his eyes no longer foggy with confusion. “Aidan. I see his death in my head. He almost died once because of me. He still carries shards of the
Unseelie
within him. A temptation and a darkness that will haunt him forever.”

Like the man in the scrying glass. Bloodied and dying upon the turf. The creature possessing him in a gruesome agonizing assault. She closed her hand around the stone, the pain dragging her free of the memory. Had Aidan suffered this horror?

No. She’d seen the Earl of Kilronan a month ago. He’d been preoccupied. Distant. But quite recovered from last year’s horrible injuries from his fall at the cliffs. “You’re mistaken. Aidan is safe and well. There’s naught wrong with him. When this is behind us, you’ll see for yourself.”

“I told you already, I can’t go home to Belfoyle.”

“That’s ridiculous. Of course you can. You must. You have a life waiting for you there. Your family needs to know you’re alive.”

“You don’t understand, Lissa. I’m the one who destroyed my family.”

Brendan watched from the attic window as the coldhearted Helena Roseingrave hugged Killer to her chest, the terrier nuzzling her wet cheeks, though his thoughts remained focused on the still, pensive figure seated behind him.

“
You
sent the
Amhas-draoi
to Belfoyle. That’s what you meant when I asked you about your father,” Elisabeth said. “Brendan, you can’t hold yourself responsible. You tried to do what was right.”

Brendan’s gaze lifted to the tangle of rooftops, smoking chimneys, low clouds falling into dusk. “And only managed to wreak more devastation. You’re a prime case in point.”

He turned from the window. The setting sun sent bars of light over the floor. Shot sparks into the flame of her red hair. His gaze fell to her left hand, the simple gold band resting on her fourth finger.

Despite Elisabeth’s assertions, he’d not seduced his way through country after country, leaving behind a string of discarded beauties. He’d sought relief when he needed it and offered it on occasion. Unsullied by any emotion deeper than lust and a hunger for mutual comfort. At first appalled by the emotionless coupling and the solace he found in strangers’ arms, then inured to it. But never had he let his heart be touched. There was a risk in letting someone in. It opened one to weakness. To danger. And, worst of all, to loss.

He’d lost too much already.

So, why, then, did the sight of his ring upon Elisabeth’s finger shoot a zing of excitement rather than panic through him? Why did he want to cross the room, grab her in his arms, and kiss that damned sweet mouth of hers until she begged for it?

When had he been fool enough to let her touch his heart?

“Damn it, this wasn’t supposed to happen, Elisabeth. I came back to Ireland for one simple reason. To reclaim the Sh’vad Tual before Máelodor got his hands on it. You didn’t figure into it other than as a faded memory.”

Her face stiffened, eyes darkening. “And now?”

“I let my guard down and you walked in like some ocean wind, reminding me of a past I’d done my best to obliterate. You’re home, Lissa. You’re wide, cloud-filled skies and green fields and cool mists and the sound of pounding surf.”

She brightened. “Then, that’s a good thing.”

“No, it’s the worst possible thing.”

“All right, now you’re just confusing me.”

“When I’m with you I’m forced to see how much I’ve
lost and what I can never have. Not if I want to finally end the threat I initiated.”

“It won’t get to that point. Helena will be there. She and Rogan—”

“I can’t count on them. Máelodor’s not survived so long without knowing the odds and working them in his favor.”

“You forget. You survived too.”

“An answer for everything.”

“You weren’t going to tell me any of this, were you? What were you going to do, Brendan? Leave today and never look back?”

That’s exactly what he’d planned on doing. “It seemed best.”

“For who? You? Why not? You’ve been running for so long, why not keep going? Leave me behind to pick up your pieces. You did it once before. I imagine it gets easier every time.” Her words grew sharper. “But mark this: From what you’re fleeing, no amount of distance can save you. So go ahead, try and forget. I dare you.”

“Bloody hell. This is just what I didn’t want. An argument with a hysterical female.”

“I am not hysterical.”

“How about delusional?”

The fist came out of nowhere.

“Damn it, woman,” he grumbled, clutching his upper arm. “Can you refrain from beating me senseless until after we’ve stopped arguing?”

She put a hand on her hip. “I don’t know. Can you refrain from being a horse’s ass?”

He smiled in spite of himself. Typical Elisabeth. No feminine tears or blubbering all over his waistcoat. She went straight for the jugular. A stupid sense of pride grabbed
him. This one-of-a-kind, intoxicating, infuriating, radiant, bullheaded woman belonged to him.

He took her gently by the shoulders. Her gaze still shot fire, but the fight seemed to have ebbed from her body. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m finally going to face the devils I’ve loosed. I’m not running anymore. And I won’t forget. I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

Again she didn’t react as he expected. She didn’t fill the deafening silence with false hope or denials. She didn’t curse fate. Didn’t throw herself into his arms with pleas for him to stay that would embarrass them both.

Instead, she regarded him steadily, tiny creases between her brows, her mouth pursed in the slightest of frowns. Long seconds ticked away, the weight of her stare an increasing burden.

What the hell. He’d risk it. He reached for her hand, nerves jumping. Tension banding his shoulders. Terrified of how easy it was to tell her things he’d never revealed to anyone else. Of how much he’d come to rely on her for that.

Of losing her so soon.

And just like that, her fingers slid against his, her palm cool and soft upon his own. She took a step closer, lifting her face to his. Her kiss as gentle as her words had been harsh. Her scent filling his head.

He returned her kiss, probing delicately until she opened to him, the flick of his tongue deep within her heat igniting a reckless hunger. A need to mark her as his own. To brand her with his touch. To set his stamp upon her soul.

Máelodor’s men closed in. He sensed their coming as a weight deep in his bones, a sizzle along his nerves, a questing whisper in his head.

But until then, Lissa was his.

He would taste that honey flesh. Cup those round, firm breasts. Kiss his way down the length of that soft throat. Bury his face in the wild tangle of that hair. It might only be for a few hours; still, he would leave her remembering him.

Before she was widowed, she would be very, very married.

Twining her arms around his neck, Elisabeth answered Brendan’s impatience, hoping to lose herself in the luscious thrill of his lovemaking. Hoping to forget for a few precious moments the reality behind his terrible admission. He was leaving. And, without a miracle of epic proportions, would not return.

He’d tried to make her understand. He’d done everything but spell the truth out for her in big red letters, but in her desperation she’d ignored him. Taken his dire warnings as a last attempt to escape the fetters of an onerous marriage.

Nothing with Brendan was ever that simple.

Faced with his implacable determination to confront Máelodor, she’d been too shocked to respond at first, and then too numb. Arguing would be pointless. Brendan might call
her
stubborn, but a more mule-headed man did not exist, and she knew that bullish jut to the jaw all too well.

“Aren’t you going to tell me I’m a fool?” he murmured, his warm breath against her neck sending shivers fluttering down her spine and into her belly. “Or mad? Or both?”

“Would doing so change your mind?”

His gaze grew dagger sharp, his hands tightening around her waist. “No.”

“Then love me, Brendan,” she whispered. “That will have to be enough.”

His lips brushed her forehead, her temple. Behind her ear. Down her throat. Everywhere he touched, her skin tingled. Every kiss sent sharp jolts of heat straight to her center until she burned with wanting him. His hands fumbled with the buttons at her back until her gown slid free to her waist, her breasts bared. Nipples puckering at the first blast of cool air.