Brendan speared his sausage. “No, silly me. Elisabeth’s rolling in the ready, isn’t she?”
Shaw answered with a jovial laugh as if Brendan had made the funniest of jokes.
“London, Gordon?”
His attention flicked to Elisabeth. “I can’t very well get ahead from the wilds of Ireland, can I?”
“I suppose. I—”
“London is a different place for a married woman than for a young maid making her come-out. Far more to do and see than you can imagine.” He warmed to his subject, his voice rising in volume. “The invitations. Parties, dinners, balls. The ton will be clamoring to meet the newest jewel in their crown.”
She straightened, shooting Brendan a dangerous stare. “Of course. I’d forgotten we’d discussed the move, and you’re quite right.”
Taken over by an imp of mischief, Brendan couldn’t help himself. How much would it take to puncture that pompous self-importance? “I suppose your aunts are excited to move. Didn’t Mrs. Pheeney spend a number of years near Richmond?”
“What?” Shaw and Elisabeth both began talking at once. “Aunt Pheeney and Aunt Fitz? They won’t be—”
Shaw recovered first. “They’re needed to oversee things here until a suitable agent is hired.”
“But Mr. Adams?” Elisabeth’s voice came uncertain.
“Is a frightful pushover. The tenants walk all over him, and he’s so coarse. Not at all the way I imagine the land agent for such a fine estate should carry himself. Besides, I see a whole slew of improvements to the house and grounds, beginning perhaps as soon as the autumn. We’ll need someone we can trust to see them through to completion.”
Elisabeth’s brows contracted in a frown. “Dun Eyre doesn’t need improving.”
Uh-oh. Brendan knew that look. He’d seen it most recently last night just before he’d taken a fist to the face. Apparently Shaw had yet to experience Elisabeth’s temper. He barreled on, oblivious to her tight jaw and set shoulders.
“We’ll start with the gardens,” he said. “I’ve just the plan—”
“Not the gardens!” Brendan and Elisabeth spoke in unison.
Shaw cast them a sympathetic smile. “No one likes change, but when we’re finished, Elisabeth, this old place will rival any of the great houses in England. Chatsworth or even Blenheim.”
“Blenheim?” Great-aunt Charity roused herself from her dry toast. “Went there once as a girl. Got pinched by the late duke and slept in a horrid bedchamber smelling of camphor. Never went back.”
“Probably weren’t invited back,” was Shaw’s cool comment as he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
“That was Sir Wallace, Charity. And you married him,” Miss Sara Fitzgerald corrected.
“Well, had to after that, didn’t I?” Great-aunt Charity argued. “He was a rake and a cad, but oh, what hands.” Her eyes went dreamy and vague.
Miss Sara buried her nose farther into her paper while Mrs. Pheeney flushed crimson. The rest of them shifted uncomfortably, trying to rid themselves of the picture created.
Brendan broke the awkwardness by waving his fork in Elisabeth’s direction. “It’s a lovely trinket you’re wearing, Lissa. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a stone such as that one. Family heirloom?”
Shaw’s gaze slid to Elisabeth’s collar while her lips pursed thin and white. “This? A mere trifle.”
Great-aunt Charity chose that moment to rouse herself from lascivious memories of her dear departed husband and remark in a voice loud enough to be heard in the next county, “Ain’t that the necklace young Douglas gave you just before he murdered his father and ran off?”
Miss Sara stood abruptly, shooting Brendan a long, studying look. “We’ve all lolled about here long enough.”
“But I’ve still half the paper to read,” Mrs. Pheeney complained. “You know what they say: Knowledge is power.”
“And no news is good news,” her sister snapped, half-hauling Great-aunt Charity, who remained oblivious to the crosscurrents, out of her seat.
“A rogue, that Douglas boy was. Though he could charm when he chose. You were lucky to escape that marriage, Lizzie. This new lad’s a much better catch. And handsome as the devil. I bet he’s got a pair of hands on him like my Wally.”
Shaw nearly choked on his piece of toast while the family froze in various poses of mortification and horror. Poor Elisabeth’s few remaining freckles were lost amid the furious red of her face.
“You’re right, Aunt Charity,” she stated. “I was extremely fortunate to have avoided marriage to Brendan Douglas.” Her gaze held the scorching power of a lightning bolt. “Much as I’d love to stay and reminisce, I’m late meeting Fanny and the others for our outing. Are you joining us, Gordon?”
He focused a doting smile in Elisabeth’s direction. “What? No. I’m afraid I’m going to have to stay here and catch up on my correspondence, and I have a horrible dull report to complete for Lord Prosefoot.”
“Yes, I suppose you ought to stay behind, then.”
He brightened. “When you return, come find me and tell me all about it.”
“Perhaps I could assist with your report. I’ve spent hours with Mr. Adams in the office. He says I’ve a head on my shoulders the envy of any bailiff.”
“I doubt you know anything of increased customs duties on Irish malt, dear,” Shaw replied with an indulgent smile. “You go on and enjoy your little outing.”
Brendan would have been overjoyed at being released from such servitude. Preparing reports on customs duties? Why not spend the afternoon jamming a fork into your hand? But Elisabeth didn’t seem to see it in the same light. Her expression was crestfallen as if Shaw had denied her a trip to the jewelers’ shop. It roused Brendan to speak when he probably shouldn’t have. “An excursion sounds amusing.”
“You’re welcome to join us,” she answered, the spark returning to her eyes when she turned to him.
He arched a brow. What was she up to?
“We’re to visit Belfoyle. You remember Lord Kilronan, don’t you? We were all children together.”
Touché. “Kilronan? I believe I remember him dimly. Tall chap. Disgustingly accomplished at everything. It was a long time ago. I’m sure he wouldn’t remember me.”
“You’d be surprised. Come. He’d love to renew your acquaintance.”
“No. No. Now that I think on the matter, I believe I’ll kick my heels here and try not to get into trouble.”
Her smile this time was genuine and glittered with victory. “There’s a first time for everything.”
Elisabeth grabbed Brendan’s arm as they left the dining room. Hissed under her breath, “Ten minutes. The long gallery. Meet me.” Just in case he didn’t think she was serious, she added. “Or else.”
Apparently her words held enough menace to sway him. Coming up the east wing’s stairs, she found him. Still wearing the fith-fath’s pleasant but bland features, he waited, hands clasped loosely behind his back, staring up at a portrait of a stern-looking bewigged gentleman attired in gold brocade and lace, the woman seated beside him bearing a pale beauty like a January rose.
“As sour-faced an old prune as I ever saw,” he commented as she approached. “Don’t understand what your grandmother saw in him myself, though”—his gaze cut to her—“the attraction to bores seems to run in the family.”
Elisabeth refused to be goaded or turned from her purpose. “I didn’t ask you here to discuss my ancestors or my attractions.”
“But look at him, Lissa. What a pompous stick-in-the-mud.”
Was he insulting her grandfather or Gordon? “I don’t want to look at him,” she answered through gritted teeth.
“Suppose he couldn’t have been all bad,” Brendan conceded. “Could have locked her away once he knew her for what she was. Had her declared insane. Or worse.” He frowned at the portrait. “Wouldn’t have been the first to use witchcraft as an excuse.” He paused, his frown deepening. “Nor the last.”
Her temp
er snapped. “Enough. You can’t come sneaking back here like a criminal and not expect me to demand answers. This is my home and my wedding. You’re making a fool of me.”
A muscle in his jaw tightened. “A century or two earlier your grandmother would have been tied to a stake and set ablaze for her sorcery.” His last word spat from a mouth hard with anger.
She grabbed his arm. “Stop it. Do you hear me? Why did you come back? I want to know now.”
“Told you. I’m in hiding.”
“You could hide anywhere, Brendan. Why Dun Eyre?”
He finally turned his full attention upon her, his golden-yellow gaze alight and blinding, his expression severe. “It’s Martin. Remember that.”
She choked down a string of profanity. The foul words wouldn’t have insulted him anyway. Brendan had taught her most of them. “I don’t care if you call yourself bloody King George the bloody Third. Why are you here? And why now of all times?”
He regarded her for a moment as if considering how much to say. “I’m in a tight corner. I’ve angered a few people who’d like nothing better than to put a period to my existence. Very painfully, I might add.”
“There’s a surprise.”
Amusement glimmered in his eyes. “They tracked me as far as Limerick before I shook them. I’d go to Belfoyle if it wasn’t the first place they’d look. But who would imagine I’d dare hide out with the very woman I abandoned at the altar? No, I’m safer here than anywhere else. At least until I can contrive a way out of this mess. Now do you see?”
His explanation didn’t add up, though Elisabeth couldn’t put her finger on why. She stared at him long and hard as if the truth might reveal itself upon his face.
His gaze drifted to her throat. “Last evening and again today. Should I be flattered you’re wearing the stone I gave you?”
Her ghost of a thought vanished beneath a renewed sense of outrage. “You knew”—she poked him hard in the chest—“asking about my pendant would stir up trouble.”
“Ouch.” He stepped back, rubbing his torso. “It wasn’t me who blabbed the whole in front of Shaw. It was your aunt.”
“You probably bewitched her.” She tried emphasizing her point with a second good poke, but he caught her hand, his fingers linking with hers. They were warm and strong, his palm rough against her own.
“You flatter me.” He laughed, which only served to make her fury grow. “Mind control would be a useful power. Alas, it’s not one I can claim.”
Elisabeth yanked her hand free. “It’s still your fault for bringing up the pendant in the first place.”
“Shaw’s a dead bore, but I don’t see him cutting up stiff over the gift of a dead man, do you?”
“You’re not dead.”
“Not yet, at any rate. Although”—mischief sparkled in the depths of his eyes—“what do you think he would do if he discovered I was alive? Worse, that I’d returned to woo you away from him.”
He reached out as if he might touch the stone, but she warded him off, color creeping up her throat, burning her skin. “You and I both know you’re not.”
His hand hovered before lifting to stroke her cheek. His gaze scalded a path over her face as if memorizing it. The very air between them charged with anticipation. She held her breath.
“No.” His hand finally dropping away. “More’s the pity.”
How did he manage to make her feel hot and cold at the same time? To make her stomach swoop and dive and her throat close? It wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t be so. It was improper. Unseemly. Downright humiliating. She tore away from him to stalk the length of the gallery, arms crossed over her chest as if warding off a blow. “Gordon is everything a husband should be. He comes of a good family. He’s responsible and trustworthy and safe.”
“Sounds like a sheepdog I once owned.”
“Tease if you like, but if you so much as hint at who you really are, so help me, I shall murder you myself.”
“You’re so bloodthirsty, sweet, fickle Lissa.”
“Don’t call me that. And I am not fickle.”
He came up behind her, leaning close, his warm breath tickling her neck, his tone mocking and smooth and tinged with hidden laughter. “No? Then why do you wear a gift from one man on the eve of your wedding to another?”
Far from enjoying her outing, Elisabeth spent the hours worrying over what might be transpiring back at the house. Visions of Brendan disrupting, delaying, or destroying her wedding crowded her head. What he might do remained foggy, but that he’d take pleasure in causing trouble, she didn’t doubt. He was a monumental bomb-thrower. Delighting in mischief and reveling in mayhem. Should she reveal him, she’d be up to her eyebrows in both.
A trouble shared is a trouble halved, or so Aunt Pheeney would say. But there was no one to share her trouble with. Despite what she told Brendan, Lord Kilronan was away from home and none knew when he was expected back. Lady Kilronan had been Aidan’s bride for less than a year. She might not know anything of Brendan. Aidan might have chosen to remain silent on those more sordid bits of his family’s history.
No. Best to keep quiet. Brendan would leave. All would be as it was. She’d be married and leave for London as Gordon’s wife.
London. They had spoken of it. Gordon had been so excited and energetic in its praise. His position as an undersecretary’s assistant in the department of the Exchequer had been such a wonderful opportunity, and she had so wanted to please that she’d nodded and smiled and placed it aside to be worried over later. But later had become now.
She clenched her hands on her reticule. Replace Mr. Adams? What was Gordon thinking? The estate agent had served the Fitzgeralds of Dun Eyre since her grandfather’s day. He knew every stone, stick, tenant, and servant. He could recite annual crop yields, recall to the penny what he spent in outlays during any given season, loved Dun Eyre as much as she did. And who would replace him? Some stranger who would renovate and improve the house until she didn’t recognize it as her home? Someone who would supervise the destruction of her grandmother’s beloved gardens in the name of the latest fashion?
She reached for her pendant before remembering she’d torn the odious thing from her throat with a half-sob and tossed it in her jewelry case right after leaving that disastrous encounter with Brendan. She should have worn it. She could have tossed it from the cliffs and been done with it once and for all. Anger with Gordon easily became anger with Brendan.
How dare he bait her? Ask her impertinent questions? As if it were any of his concern why she wore the pendant. Leave it to Brendan to assume she carried a tendre for him after all these years. That she wore the pendant as some sort of memento to a lost love. Just showed what a conceited, arrogant, vain, ridiculous man he was.
Still some small corner of her worried that Brendan was right. Was she fickle? Did her continuing to wear his pendant signify something she wouldn’t even admit to herself? No. It was absurd. Brendan meant nothing to her, and his pendant even less. She’d prove it. She’d wear Gordon’s necklace tonight. Make a great display of its opulence and expense.
Much heartened by her decision, she listened with equanimity to Fanny’s recital of her last visit to Dublin. “We had dinner no less than three times at Dublin Castle. Once with the Viceroy himself.”
Her children’s superior intelligence. “Not yet four and little Bernard is reading.”
And the bargain she’d haggled on the last gown she’d had made. “Ten yards of beaded brocade for four and six. I couldn’t pass it by.”
It took turning into the iron gates at Belfoyle to break into her cousin’s monologue. And only long enough for her to draw breath and declare as they crested the final hill to view Belfoyle’s tangle of towers and battlements. “What a great heap! It must cost a fortune to heat.”
Elisabeth had always loved the ancient stronghold of Belfoyle. It seemed to drift among the fog-shrouded cliff tops like a fairy castle. And the Douglas family had seemed like kings and queens. The old Lord
Kilronan’s imperious dignity, his wife’s ethereal beauty. Their children, no less regal than their parents. Aidan’s confidence, Sabrina’s quiet gentility, and Brendan’s smug charm. She’d counted the days until she could be one of them. As if marrying into the family would make her brighter, smarter, more clever.
With the old earl’s terrifying murder and his wife’s death following, that glittering future had shattered. Aidan had withdrawn to a hermit-like existence, Sabrina had departed for the sanctuary of the order of bandraoi priestesses, and Brendan—
Brendan had vanished. The implications and accusations of his disappearance swirling round both Belfoyle and Dun Eyre for months following.
Now he was home. A lit fuse. A primed pistol.
It only remained to be seen how many innocent casualties he took with him when he blew.
The courier arrived just after sunset. A bloody sky cast the walls of the study in crimson light and crawling shadows as Oss showed the man in.
Máelodor offered no food or drink. Nor asked after the state of the roads or of the man’s health. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, heaving his false leg onto an ottoman to ease the pain, steepling his fingers as he regarded this latest messenger from Ireland.
He felt the man’s discomfort in his shuttered sidelong glances at the glassy, expressionless features of Oss, the wetting of his red lips, and the destruction of his hat, which he scrunched in his hairy, sausage hands but made no move to ease his tension. He fed off the apprehension and thrilled to the fear. It had always been thus. And as his body’s strength waned, it became all the more important to cultivate men’s terror of him. It served to bind them to him when all other enticements failed.
“You’ve news?”
“Aye, Great One. Men in Cashell spotted Douglas heading west toward Limerick.”
“I knew it. The stone is hidden at Dun Eyre. Just as his father’s diary hinted. Did they lay hands on Douglas?”
“No. He evaded them.”
“Never matter. It’s the Sh’vad Tual that’s important. Once we have it in our possession, Douglas will follow. I’m certain of it.”
Heir of Danger Page 4