Heir of Danger

by Alix Rickloff

  Instead, he dropped his arm to his side, stepped back, the mage energy seeping away, leaving him hollow with renewed loss.

  Once the Sh’vad Tual was in Scathach’s possession. Once he’d been freed from the Amhas-draoi death sentence. Once the threat of Máelodor had been defused.

  Would he go home then?

  He turned away with a grim laugh.

  Not even gamester Jack would take odds on that question.

  Upon returning to Dun Eyre, Brendan waited until the house grew quiet. Then, to be safe, he waited an hour more.

  Leaving his rooms, he crept down the nearby servant stairs, taking the long way through the gallery.

  “As you were,” he quipped, tossing a salute to the rows of long-dead Fitzgeralds as he passed.

  Elisabeth’s chambers stood at the far end of this floor. Sliding inside, he took up his seat once more at her dressing table. Opened her jewelry case, hunting for the stone that would set him free of the noose closing around his neck.

  He needed to retrieve the Sh’vad Tual and leave. Everywhere he turned, the past reached out to him with clawing, bony fingers. Naught would change for all his wishing. Those dead would remain dead. Their faces forever etched upon his brain like acid upon metal.

  Lifting out an inner tray, he smiled his success.

  There it was. The Sh’vad Tual.

  As he palmed it, mage energy crackled up his arm. Buried itself deep in his brain. Words pounded against his skull in a tongue he, who had studied ancient languages with an academic’s obsession, barely understood. A warning? A threat? Light flashed through the stone’s milky iridescence like lightning against the flat of storm clouds. A scene surfaced as if rising up through black water. A man. A sword. Then the stone went dark. Silent.

  “You,” a voice hissed from behind him.

  Shoving the stone deep into his pocket, he spun to face Elisabeth, frozen in a look of panic he knew mirrored his own.

  He recovered instantly, his face breaking into a wicked smile.

  “Is stealing into my bedchamber your idea of a joke, Brendan? Because I’m not laughing.”

  “Is it so difficult to understand why I’m here? Or have your aunts not had that talk with you yet?”

  Her mouth snapped shut, her eyes murderous. She stomped to face him toe-to-toe, wrenching the sash to her dressing gown tight around her middle. Unfortunately that did nothing but emphasize the ample curves of breast and hip and buttock she tried to hide beneath the silken robe. She lifted her chin to him, the scent in her hair and upon her skin faint and lemony.

  “Never mind what my aunts have told me,” she snapped. “You must think me ten times a fool if you’re using seduction as your excuse.”

  He tucked a curl behind her ear, ignoring her flinch at his feather-light touch. “Never a fool, Lissa.”

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  Mere inches separated them. The heat and anger rising from her body stirred his blood. He had but to lower his head to touch his lips to hers. To kiss the full, soft mouth. Pull free the rippling tangle of her hair until it hung loose and wild about her head.

  “If you leave now, we can forget any of this happened,” she said.

  “There hasn’t been any of this yet.”

  The tip of her tongue flicked across her lips, her eyes so dark a brown as to be obsidian in the moonlight. Her breathing quickened, arousing a dangerous need. His blood pounded in his veins, and what had begun as mere improvisation deepened to something more carnal and exhilarating.

  “This isn’t heathen Istanbul where women swooned at your feet.” Her words came harsh with recrimination. Or was it jealousy he detected?

  “I wouldn’t say they swooned.”

  “This is Ireland,” she asserted. “Safe, normal Ireland where women do not entertain men in their bedchambers. Especially men who’ve proven they’re not to be trusted.”

  “You talk too much.” Assessing the situation, he chose to risk it. He couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to. She was too close, his heart racing too fast. Cupping her cheek, he brushed his thumb over her lips. Lowered his head and kissed her. Her mouth as petal-soft and sweet as he imagined.

  She didn’t slap him. Or scream. Instead, she answered his advances. Her lips moved on his with virginal timidity. Though not for long. Elisabeth might be innocent, but she wasn’t naive. She caught on quickly. Her unschooled eagerness heady as any wine.

  Her heat became his, a slow building pool. He pulled her closer, a fire fast rising through him. The kiss deepened, his tongue slipping within to taste, her breath mingling with his. Pulling loose her robe, he traced the curve of one beautiful breast, her nipple pebble-hard beneath the filmy fabric of her chemise. A whimper escaped her, her hand pressed over his heart.

  That simple act of faith slid between the cracks in his armor. He shouldn’t be doing this. Not with her. Better to spend his lust on an experienced woman who understood the game.

  He’d no time to act on his gentlemanly impulse when Elisabeth wrenched free, a heady flush to her cheeks and a sparkle in her luminous, dark eyes. “No!”

  He schooled his features into bland amusement, a corner of his mouth twitching. “Why not? Technically we’re still engaged.”

  She shoved him away. Knotted her dressing gown with ferocity. “Now I know you’re mad. And what of the last seven years when I thought you were dead?”

  “We’ve been through that. I wasn’t dead.”

  She dropped back into an armchair, drawing her feet up beneath her. “Please leave.” She stared into the dying fire, shoulders heaving as if she sought to settle herself. “You were right to call me fickle. I’ve betrayed Gordon. I’ve kissed another man.”

  “I kissed you.”

  “Yes, but do you think I would have let you if I didn’t want it?” She covered her face with her hands. “What have I done?”

  “Lissa—”

  “I said don’t call me that. You promised me earlier tonight you’d be gone from here by morning.”

  The taste of her still on his tongue, her smell still heavy in his head, he offered a brief nod. “And so I shall. Goodbye, Elisabeth. If the luck of the gods is with me, I won’t trouble you ever again. “

  Walking away was far more than difficult than he’d ever imagined. Yet staying was impossible.

  five

  Elisabeth cut a wedge of cake, licking the sugar frosting from the flat of her knife. A further rummaging through the kitchens unearthed a tin of gingerbread and a box of candied apricots. So much for the latest alterations to her wedding gown.

  Carrying her plate into the front salon, where a fire burned high and bright, she sought respite from her whirlwind thoughts in a comfortable wing chair with the final chapters of The Baron of Falconberg open in front of her. But no amount of drama between the pages or sugarcoated joy dulled her mind’s mad spinning.

  Tomorrow she would marry Gordon. No second thoughts. No backing down. She refused to experience the mortification of another broken engagement. She’d lived through the horrid tittle-tattle and sidelong stares once before. She’d not survive them a second time.

  Yet, Brendan’s unexpected appearance had exposed some ugly and uncomfortable truths. Pieces of her heart still belonged to the brilliant, mercurial boy of her youth. He’d exploded into her world again, stirring to life long-buried hopes, and just as abruptly vanished in an eerie duplication of his disappearance seven years ago. No word. No sign. As if he’d conjured himself away in a puff of black smoke.

  Not out of the realm of possibility, given who and what he was.

  Flames danced in the grate, a breeze sputtering her candle. Shadows moved over the walls, shapes tangled in the crowded midnight gloom. The feeling of spirits lingering just beyond her vision, and creatures living within the space between the candle’s flickers quickened her heart until it thudded against her ribs. Her throat closed as she sought to catch the twitch of a gown or the flash of a wing. A pulling back of the curtain
between the everyday world she inhabited and the fascinating impossibilities lying at the core of Brendan’s life.

  Had this awareness come from her grandmother’s tales of Ynys Avalenn, the summer kingdom of the Fey, and the wonders to be found there? Was it a result of her family’s straddling of Other and Duinedon? Acknowledging that world without accepting it?

  Nervousness tightened her stomach, making her skin crawl as the breeze ruffled the collar of her robe. The candle flamed high then died in a thin stream of acrid smoke. The only light now coming from the fire. Her breath caught in her lungs.

  In the ear-ringing tension, the shush of a footstep stopped her heart. The rattle of a knob and the soft creak of a door being opened froze her in her chair, breath held. But it was no wraith or faery who appeared at the door swathed in nightcap and wrapper.

  “Aunt Fitz,” she sighed heavily. “You nearly frightened me to death.”

  Her aunt eyed the plate at Elisabeth’s elbow reproachfully but kept silent. “Having trouble sleeping?”

  Elisabeth shrugged. “It’s been a . . . trying . . . few days. But tomorrow, it shall all be over at last.”

  Aunt Fitz crossed to sit in the chair opposite. In her nightclothes, she seemed smaller, slighter, and older than usual, and Elisabeth’s heart went out to her. Despite her prickles, Aunt Fitz had been everything to Elisabeth growing up. She would miss her sorely when she and Gordon relocated to London.

  “You look dour for a bride on the eve of her wedding.”

  “I was thinking about how much I’ll miss you and Aunt Pheeney. It’s fine to say we’ll see each other often, but we all know it won’t be near as frequently as we’d wish. Gordon won’t want to leave London and his work, you hate to travel, and remember Aunt Pheeney’s last sea journey.”

  Aunt Fitz puffed out her chest, a martyred look in her eyes. “As Gilbert said, ‘We are near to heaven by sea as by land,’” she quoted. “And we all know what happened to him.”

  “Exactly. You’ll never get her back on a ship.”

  Her aunt waved away her worries. “Once you’re married, you’ll be too busy to brood over us old ladies. And we’ll be fine. We have Lord Kilronan close by, should we need a man’s assistance. I hear his sister is home, though none have seen her. They say she’s ill.” Her gaze slid sideways as if she might catch Elisabeth out.

  “I don’t know any more than you. I was told it was the measles, though I’m almost certain Sabrina and I had them the same summer.”

  “They also say His Lordship is away from Belfoyle right now,” Aunt Fitz continued calmly. “The talk is that he might have heard from his brother after all this time.”

  Elisabeth stiffened, feeling the heat creeping up her throat.

  “It would be an amazing thing to have Brendan Douglas back home after we all thought him long dead.” She paused, clearly waiting for Elisabeth to comment.

  Her cheeks burned. “It doesn’t matter,” she mumbled. “It was ages ago.” In a desperate bid to change the subject, she grabbed up her book. Almost tossing it in her aunt’s lap. “Have you read this one yet? Not nearly as thrilling as her last, but you might like it. That’s the last volume, but the first two are in my rooms. I’ll leave them for you.”

  Aunt Fitz regarded the novel as one might observe an ugly baby. A passive smile as she quietly handed it back. “That’s fine, dear. I look forward to it.” And without missing a beat, “If Brendan Douglas actually returns to Belfoyle, it’s as well you’re leaving. It would be awkward, as the families have always been so close.”

  She must be lobster red by now. “It’s not Aidan’s fault his brother is the worst sort of rogue. Besides, as Aunt Charity pointed out, it’s a good thing I didn’t marry him. Better to have been a jilted lover than an abandoned bride.”

  “A shame Kilronan traveled all the way to Dublin”—Aunt Fitz regarded her steadily—“when Brendan was here the whole time.”

  Elisabeth’s stomach lurched. Her aunt’s keen gaze seeming to pick the very thoughts from Elisabeth’s head. At times like these, she wondered how much Other blood Aunt Fitz truly carried. “How did you find out? He tried so hard—”

  “So he did. But at breakfast the other day, I recognized his watch. And he called you Lissa. Small slip-ups, but revealing.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s left again.” Elisabeth added, “and good riddance.”

  “Has he? Then I suppose my worry was for naught. You worshipped him so when you were younger. In your eyes, he could do no wrong. I thought perhaps his return might spur you to . . . well, it doesn’t matter now.”

  “Aunt Fitz! Really! I hope my judgment has improved.”

  “As do I, Elisabeth,” she answered evenly. “Did he say why he came to Dun Eyre?”

  Elisabeth flashed back to that first interview when he’d goaded her mercilessly, the twinkle in his eye, the tease of his smile. “He claimed, like young Lochinvar, he was here to steal me away for himself.”

  Her aunt’s brows lifted. “Yet, he’s gone and you remain.”

  “Does that surprise you? Brendan Douglas wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him.”

  Aunt Fitz closed her eyes, cheeks gaunt, fine lines marring her brow. Her hands hooked around the arms of the chair, her breathing slow and even. Elisabeth could almost believe she’d nodded off mid-conversation. But then a frown touched her aunt’s pale lips. “Or perhaps it was a truth so subtle, the tooth marks have yet to show.”

  As with so much else, the coffee room at The Goat’s Whiskers in Ennis remained unchanged in the years Brendan had been gone. Even the landlord, old Ned Crowdy, looked as moth-eaten and bristly as ever. Brendan could almost make himself believe he was twenty-one again. Cocksure, obsessed, convinced of the justness of his cause. And equally baffled by those who could not see the rightness of what the Nine attempted for the good of the entire race of Other.

  Freddie Atwood had been one of those unconvinced by his arguments.

  Freddie’s family paid the price.

  Brendan stood by and did nothing.

  At least, not then. Though his later attempts at atonement meant little to Freddie. Or any of his victims. After all, the dead can give no absolution.

  With grim disparagement, Brendan conceded his inaction had cost Freddie and his family their lives, while his action afterward had resulted in the death of his own father. A sure case of damned if you don’t and damned if you do. And if anyone could count on being damned, it was he.

  His gaze rested on the row of decanters upon the sideboard, but he shoved the desire away almost as soon as it rose within him. Alcohol wouldn’t help. It only numbed the guilt. Never erased it. And he’d emptied enough bottles to know.

  The door burst open on a bluster of lung-clearing wind and rain, sending men scurrying to secure their cards and their newspapers with much cursing and many shouts to close the bloody door already. The newcomer shook out his dripping greatcoat, removing his hat to run hands through his damp hair. Scanned the room from beneath half-lidded eyes.

  Brendan motioned him over at the same time he ordered himself a second pot of coffee.

  Even now, nine months after a near-fatal attack, Jack O’Gara walked stiffly as if he’d been sprinting overlong. But he was walking, which was amazing. Hell, he was breathing, which was a miracle.

  Leave it to Jack to be skewered like a pig on a spit and come away with nothing worse than the hollowed features of a languishing tragedian stage player.

  The Fey-born O’Gara luck at work.

  He slid into the seat, waving the maidservant over. “Brandy.”

  “That bodes ominous, coz,” Brendan remarked after the woman went scurrying in search of Jack’s order.

  “It is.” The brandy was brought. He downed it, eyes closed on a weary sigh of contentment, the deep lines carved either side of his mouth slowly easing. But when he looked again upon Brendan, fear sharpened his gaze. “You have to return to Dun Eyre.”

  “You couldn’t pay me eno
ugh to go back there.”

  “And Elisabeth Fitzgerald?”

  He pulled free his watch, checking the time with a smile. “Is even now dreaming of her trip down the aisle. By this time tomorrow, she’ll be Mrs. Gordon Shaw.”

  “If she lives that long,” was Jack’s grumbling response.

  Brendan frowned his confusion.

  “Máelodor knows,” Jack leaned forward, his words low and urgent. “Somehow he’s figured out you gave the stone to Elisabeth all those years ago. His men are on their way to Dun Eyre as we speak.”

  “Where did you hear this?”

  “From your contact in Limerick. After you and I separated, I headed there to see what I could learn about the Amhas-draoi’s intentions. No news on that front, but the story is that Máelodor has unraveled the stone’s hiding place.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Not long, I’d wager. If Máelodor knows where the stone is, you can bet he’s making all haste to get hold of it. You have to go back, Brendan. If Máelodor’s men seize Elisabeth . . .”

  He didn’t need Jack to finish his sentence. He well knew Elisabeth’s fate should Máelodor’s men get hold of her. His sister, Sabrina, had barely escaped a similar grisly end after becoming entangled in Brendan’s troubles.

  Was he destined to bring disaster down upon anyone stupid enough to trust him? Was he a walking lightning rod? Get too close and suffer the consequences?

  In an effort to safeguard their father’s diary, his brother Aidan had almost died in a one-on-one battle with a conjured killer. Jack—another victim of Máelodor’s obsession—saved only through his not-quite-of-this-world good fortune. The merest chance placing Brendan on that particular road that night. The craziest luck turning that blade from any vital organ. Could Jack be so insanely fortunate a second time?

  Could any of them? Or would Brendan carry the burden of their deaths on top of his father’s? On top of Freddie’s? On top of the mountain of sins already weighting him down?