Heir of Danger

by Alix Rickloff

  His eyes flicked once more to Jack’s drink. It had been years since he’d felt such unbearable need.

  Pushing away from the table, he shrugged into his coat. Pulled on his gloves. Gods, he’d forgotten how damned uncomfortable Ireland was.

  “I need you to head to Knockniry. Find Daz Ahern. He’s holding something for me. A ring. He’ll know why I need it. Meet me back in Dublin. At Macklins on Cutpurse Row.”

  “So you still intend on going through with this mad scheme? The Amhas-draoi seem the kill-first, ask-questions-later type. You show up among them, and they’re liable to separate your head from your shoulders without pausing for breath.”

  “Which is why I’m going directly to Scathach with the Sh’vad Tual. With luck, she’ll at least listen before she decides my fate.” That was his hope anyway. The head of the Amhas-draoi was known to be just. She was also known to wrench out innards with a barbed sword but he conveniently put that aspect of her nature out of his mind.

  “What will you do with Miss Fitzgerald?”

  Brendan plowed a hand through his hair. “Hell if I know. She’s never been exactly biddable at the best of times.” He gave a resigned shrug. “No doubt something will occur to me.”

  “I can think of a few things,” was Jack’s cheeky answer. His normal roguish tendencies never far from the surface, even in the most hopeless of situations. “Here. You might need this.” Jack pulled a pouch from his jacket pocket. “I won it off a lieutenant whose head for drink far exceeded his head for cards. Once he wakes from his stupor, he’ll be a poorer but wiser soul.”

  Brendan scooped up the coins. He’d lived better in the past year than in the previous six thanks to Jack’s skills at the card table. “Has anyone ever told you you’re incurable?”

  “My mother. Frequently. I’m sure she attributes my tragic killing to that very trait.”

  “Which brings me to my second errand.”

  “Aye, mon capitaine?”

  He’d been trying to do this for weeks. Now was the time. “Once you’ve met me back in Dublin, I want you to go home.”

  “As in turn up alive?” He spread his hands. “Ta-da! And claim the stories of my demise were a tad premature? We’ve had this conversation before.”

  “Aye, we have. And until now I’ve allowed you to persuade me that your playing a corpse works to our advantage. But no longer. Let’s call it even. I saved your life last spring. You saved mine this winter. We’re square.”

  The amusement faded from Jack’s eyes. “Máelodor has the diary and the tapestry, Brendan. If he captures you while you carry the stone . . .”

  “I’ll worry about that if and when it happens.”

  He’d grown adept at locking his fear away. He’d been on the run for seven years. The race to survive driving him deeper into the shadows as he fought to stay one step ahead of vengeance from both justice-seeking Amhas-draoi and Máelodor’s bounty-driven assassins. If he was successful, that ever-present hand on his shoulder would lift. That nightmare would finally be over. If he failed . . . He forced his mind from that thought. He would not fail.

  “My showing up alive will only fuel questions about you,” Jack said. “They’ll want to know where I’ve been all this time and, most importantly, who I was with.”

  “Tell them you fled to the Continent to escape your gaming debts.”

  “I don’t have any gaming debts. Or at least none I’d be so silly as to fly to the continent to avoid.”

  “So pretend.”

  “And how am I supposed to have survived my unfortunate run-in with Máelodor’s executioner? I imagine the question will come up.”

  “Do I have to think of everything? Use that famed O’Gara ingenuity.”

  “You can’t do this on your own, Brendan. Admit it.”

  “I managed for seven years.”

  “No, you buried yourself away amid a bunch of foreigners and drowned your sorrows in alcohol and opium.”

  Brendan felt as if he’d been struck. His gut rising into his throat, a horrible sick churning as if he might be ill all over Mr. Crowdy’s floor. “How?”

  Jack’s gaze dulled, jaw tightening as if he knew he’d crossed an invisible line. Still, he didn’t back down. A sign of his dogged courage. “No one avoids alcohol the way you do unless they’re blind scared of it. The opium I surmised by things you’ve said. Other things you took pains to avoid saying.” He faced him straight-on. “Are you still . . .”

  “No.” It was all Brendan would allow himself to admit. It wasn’t anyone’s business how low he’d fallen during his years away. He repeated his avowal as if Jack needed convincing. “Not for a long time.”

  “Good. That settles things. I’ll find Ahern. We’ll talk about my resurrection once you arrive in Dublin safely.”

  “You’re not listening.”

  “I’m older than you, Brendan. Think of it as your big brother speaking.”

  “Aidan wouldn’t be so hen-brained.”

  Jack laughed. “It’s surprising how hen-brained your brother can be.”

  “I won’t let you—”

  “You can’t force me.”

  “It’s better this way—”

  “For whom?”

  They spoke over one another until, exasperated, Brendan snapped, “Damn it, Jack. I don’t want you.”

  His cousin gave a slow nod before downing the rest of his drink. Slamming the glass upon the table. “Now we come to the crux of it. Typical Brendan Douglas arrogance. He doesn’t need anyone. He can do it all on his own.”

  “It’s not that,” Brendan argued, stung by the accusation. “I can move faster and easier without worrying about you.”

  “Self-sufficiency’s become a habit.”

  “It’s safer.”

  Ice hardened Jack’s blue eyes, a reminder his cousin’s easygoing nature had its limits. “Aye, Brendan. But it’s also lonelier.”

  Elisabeth woke with a vague unease she couldn’t pinpoint.

  No sound but the normal creaks and shifts of the house. A shutter caught in the wind. A fox’s bark echoing lonely and distant. A thin gap in the closed curtains sent an arrow shaft of moonlight over the carpet and up the bed. A chill in the air drove her deeper under the covers for a warm spot. Twisting, turning, and sighing in an effort to get comfortable.

  Was this restlessness the effect of too much gingerbread before bedtime? Last-minute wedding nerves? Or her troubling conversation with Aunt Fitz? Did it matter? She needed her sleep. She’d not managed more than a few snatched winks during the last few days, envisioning every Brendan-initiated, disastrous scenario her creative mind could conjure. If she didn’t manage at least a few hours tonight, she’d risk falling asleep at her own wedding breakfast. Not exactly an auspicious start to marital bliss.

  Rolling over, she punched the lumps from her pillow. Flopped back with a groan. Stared up into her bedhangings. Counted enough sheep to fill a small meadow. Her limbs grew lax, eyelids heavy. And just as she dozed, a light touch upon her shoulder jerked her awake.

  She had a moment’s horrified impression of hard-jawed, angular features, sun-bright eyes, and a finger pressed against full, sensual lips for silence.

  She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Couldn’t feel her arms or legs.

  So much for Brendan Douglas’s damned luck.

  Against her will, sleep finally dragged her under.

  six

  She woke, heart pounding, nightmare vivid and alive in her mind. Cold raising gooseflesh upon her body. Arms clamping her middle. And an exotic spicy scent tickling her nose. She recalled them with perfect clarity. But . . . she took a ragged breath. Closed her eyes. Opened them again. Everything remained. The cold. The arms. The scent. Heaven help her! Not a dream, then.

  She was being held tightly against an unyielding chest, her legs slung sideways across a horse’s withers. Scrub and hedge enclosed a sunken lane, the gurgle of running water coming from nearby. A whirr of wings scraped the air above as some ni
ght prowler hunted. Beyond that, the only sounds were the horse’s breathing, the creak of saddle and the jangle of bit, and the steady fall of each hoof on the muddy track.

  She lurched, head spinning, stomach lifting into her throat.

  “Careful. The mare’s skittish enough carrying two.”

  No. Not that voice. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t.

  She went stiff, the top of her head connecting sharply with his chin.

  “Ow, bloody hell.” He jerked back, his grip tightening, the mare shying sideways in a dancing skitter of hooves. “Hold still, I said. You nearly made me bite my tongue off.”

  She looked up to see him rubbing his chin, annoyance in every disgusted line of his face. But just that slight movement caused her stomach to turn, and her head to whirl in a dizzy blur.

  “What in blazes are you playing at, you stupid, selfish, arrogant bastard son of a damn bloody son of a . . .” Shaking with rage, fear, confusion, and a growing, belly-rush of nausea, she dredged up every expletive she’d ever heard, their palliative effect considerable, though they had absolutely no influence on their target, who remained frustratingly unfazed.

  “You can thank me later,” he growled.

  “Thank you? For what? For destroying my”—she couldn’t breathe—“for kidnapping”—couldn’t stop the overpowering need to be sick—“put me down.”

  “I can’t.”

  She beat against his chest, tears hot on her cheeks, stomach whirling. “Put me down. Now.”

  “What’s wrong?” For the first time he sounded uncertain.

  “Now. Or I’m going to throw up all over you.”

  He lowered her to the ground, where she immediately fell to her knees, digging her hands into the mud. Uncaring where she was or that she seemed to still be in her nightclothes. The dizziness made the world spin and lurch under her as she heaved until her throat burned and her stomach cramped.

  She heard him dismount behind her. He put a hand upon her shoulder as she retched and wept and sniffled and coughed.

  And though she fought it, once more the black well of unconsciousness claimed her.

  “What are you looking at?” Brendan snapped.

  The flea-bitten black-and-white mongrel cocked his head to the side, ears pricked, dark beady eyes filled with reproach. He’d slipped in as the owner had left, sniffing every corner, inspecting every stick of furniture. A process that took about five minutes in the shabby little cabin.

  “I had to do it. That, or let Máelodor’s goons have a go at her.”

  The odd little dog turned away, trotting across to the pallet. Climbed up, settling beside Elisabeth with a grunt of satisfaction.

  “Get off there. You’re probably full of fleas.” He reached for the dog, which grimaced its teeth in a snarl.

  Brendan backed off. “Fine. Let her itch. One more reason for her to despise me. As if she needed any more reasons.”

  He sat down, tipping his chair back against the wall. Crossed his arms over his chest and hunched his shoulders in an attempt to keep warm. The rain had begun again. A draft blew through what passed for walls, and the turf fire sizzled and spit with every drop from a leaky chimney.

  The proud homeowner had vacated to a neighbor’s for the night. Coins in his pocket and a knowing leer on his weathered face. As if dirty one-room hovels conveyed the perfect romantic ambience for a seduction.

  Brendan wished it were that easy. But somehow he didn’t think Elisabeth would quite see her abduction with a rosy, starry-eyed glow. And he’d already experienced her wicked left hook. He rubbed his bruised chin. The last thing he needed was to transport a struggling, hostile female cross-country. They’d have Máelodor’s men, Amhas-draoi, and an angry bridegroom breathing down their necks within miles.

  He toyed with the idea of casting the sleep of the anfarath over her every time she looked as if she might wake. But toting an unconscious woman to Dublin held its own disadvantages. Normally it took the victim a few hours to overcome the nausea and dizziness. He’d never tried to keep someone asleep for up to a week. He couldn’t be sure what the effect would be. Not a risk he wanted to take, especially as rusty as his powers had become. Hell, she might not wake at all at the end of it.

  “Damn Jack and his altruistic tendencies. This is his fault. ‘You have to go back, Brendan. You can’t leave her. Máelodor’s men are on their way,’” he mimicked. “If Jack was so bloody worried about Elisabeth, why didn’t he go back and get her?”

  The dog never even lifted its head, though its eyes remained steady on Brendan.

  “Fine. Elisabeth’s my responsibility, but let me nurse my grudge, will you? It’s keeping me warm.” It also gave him something to do besides wonder how the hell he planned to explain to Elisabeth what would seem like the most heinous of crimes.

  “How can I make her understand it’s for her own good? That the last thing I want or need is an unwilling companion? That I’d be more than happy to return her to Dun Eyre if it didn’t spell her grisly death? That I’m not really the right bastard she thinks I am?”

  The dog blinked and sneezed. Twice.

  “Perfect. Now I’m asking advice from a mop with legs.” Brendan leaned his head back to stare up into the tangle of cobwebs and shadows. Tossed a grim smile to the dusty rafters. He’d never make Elisabeth understand. He was a right bastard, among a host of other less charitable qualities.

  Elisabeth rolled over, murmuring in her sleep, the greatcoat he’d spread over her sliding off onto the floor. Her night plait had loosened, wild red curls escaping to feather her cheeks. But her face remained white as her chemise, a frown wrinkling her brow as she groped for the lost warmth.

  He dropped the tipped chair back to the floor. Stood to retrieve the greatcoat. This time, the dog allowed Brendan to approach. Even reached out a cold nose to nuzzle Brendan’s fingers as he draped the coat back across Elisabeth.

  Immediately, she snuggled into its warmth, a smile playing over her lips, a whispered thank-you barely audible.

  A little late. And she probably wouldn’t remember thanking him when she woke. She’d be as waspish and furious as ever.

  Rubbing a hand over his face, he tried to focus, but concentration was impossible. He was cold. Damp. Uncomfortable. And saddled with a woman who would wake in hysterics. Enraged, upset, and sick as a dog—no offense. Not a good combination at the best of times. And this was far from the best of times.

  He tried clinging to the one thing that mattered. The Sh’vad Tual was safe.

  He pulled it free of his shirt, where it dangled from the gold chain. Such an unassuming gem. Crudely hacked edges. Neither brilliant nor beautiful. Yet, as he stared, gold and bronze and rose flickered and grew within the deepest corners of the gemstone’s heart to become amber and citrine and brassy yellow. Dusky claret, light shell pink, and gold-red like good brandy.

  Some colors surfaced and sank. Others flashed and twinkled only when he didn’t look directly at them. And then there were the colors difficult to describe with any palette he’d learned. A brown possessing shades of smoky silver and carrot orange at the same time. A blue that in one shaft of light sparkled in a purply lilac and in the next instant sharpened to a jungle ferny green before darkening to sooty dull black.

  He stared until his eyes stung and watered, the facets of the stone unfolding within his palm like a map. He saw caverns and caves. Sweeping oceans and skies alive with stars and streaming pennants of starshot gas. There were trees scraping clouds electric with lightning and a single drop of water sliding off one perfect veined leaf.

  The clouds parted on a shaft of light. A man stood among the ruins of a battlefield. His golden head slick with sweat and blood. His sword broken. Death descending.

  Pain lanced Brendan’s skull as if someone had taken an ax-blade to the back of his head. The stone flamed against his palm, the colors pouring forth through his fingers in a ribbon of ebony and lavender and emerald and azure.

  “Damn!” Shaking out
his burnt hand, he dropped the stone. Once more cool to the touch. Dull and lifeless.

  Shudders chattered his teeth, and he wrapped himself tighter in his coat. Waited for Elisabeth to wake.

  And the true misery to begin.

  Disconnected images. Jumbled, upended thoughts. They battered her mind with bizarre dreams, leaving her sick to her stomach, a horrid buzz in her ears.

  Aunt Fitz’s odd, mysterious smile. Gordon standing alone in the church, holding his sapphire choker. Flocks of cackling, sharp-eyed pigeons wheeling over Dun Eyre before streaming east toward Dublin and London. Brendan clutching her pendant, light seeping between his fingers. Herself, stuffed into her wedding gown, a piece of cake in each hand.

  Images surfaced before submerging back into an endless twilight. She struggled to stay ahead of the encroaching dusk, but no matter how many strides she took, the shadows stretched closer. She broke into a run. Her fear feeding the gray nothingness just behind. Stumbling, she fell. Cried out for help from the one person she knew could stop the death waiting for her inside the void.

  And came awake, sick and retching.

  “Don’t fight it. It only makes the nausea worse.”

  Fight it? Is that what he thought she was doing? No, she’d long since raised the white flag. She only wanted the floor to remain in one place and the walls to stop spinning. Then she could die in peace.

  “You’re not going to die,” came the exasperated answer.

  She went rigid. Had she spoken out loud? She didn’t think so. “You mean this tenth circle of hell is going to last forever?”

  “Of course not. An hour or two, and you’ll be back on your feet.” Added under his breath, “I hope.”

  He tucked her back under the greatcoat, the straw pallet crackling beneath her head. She shivered, curling into the heavy wool as she tried to piece together where she was. A peasant’s mud cabin. Dirt floor. A few pieces of rough furniture. The odors of sweat and dirt and animals hanging low in the room. Rain puddling in a corner. Wind rattling the door, backing smoke down the chimney.