Heir of Danger

by Alix Rickloff

  Brendan retreated to a chair, tipping it back against the wall. Arms crossed, annoyance and frustration clouding his gaze. As if he had any right to be annoyed with her.

  She wanted to scream at him. Hit him. Beat him senseless for doing this to her. This and all the other this-es he was guilty of. Instead, the room swirled around her in a mad gyration, and all she could do was seethe and count the minutes until vengeance could be hers.

  “Where are we?” she asked, through chattering teeth.

  “On the road between Corofin and Gort.”

  That far? Even if they departed immediately, it would take hours to arrive at Dun Eyre. “How long”—she swallowed—“how long have I been here?” She couldn’t bring herself to add, alone with you, unchaperoned. It would only serve to emphasize the catastrophe that already loomed greater than life-size.

  “Twenty-four hours, give or take.” Disgust clear in his voice.

  A full day. She should be married by now. A respectable matron preparing to leave on her wedding trip to London. Instead, Gordon must be frantic. Aunt Fitz and Aunt Pheeney in a panic.

  Or . . . She sucked in a horrified breath.

  Aunt Fitz knew Brendan had been at Dun Eyre. Elisabeth had even joked about his ridiculous claim of stealing the bride away. Was it possible everyone believed Elisabeth had run off with Brendan? Could they imagine this had been an elopement rather than an abduction? Could her life get any worse?

  Brendan rocked the chair forward with a thud. Stood to pace the cramped room, tapping a finger against his chin. “We can’t stay here much longer. If you’re not better soon, I’m going to have to heave you aboard Onwen and take my chances on the road.”

  “Heave me . . . good luck with that. I’m not going anywhere with you, except home.” Mayhap she could explain how she was called away unexpectedly, in the middle of the night, alone, in her nightgown . . . and mayhap pigs could fly. Who would believe such a ridiculous tale?

  He faced her, a grim light in his eyes. An unfamiliar hardness to his features. “Believe me when I say I wish I could. But Dun Eyre isn’t safe. Máelodor’s bounty hunters are on their way there.”

  Anger overpowered the tiny frisson of fear rippling up her spine. “Isn’t safe? What are you babbling about? Who’s Máelodor?”

  “Someone who currently wants to take me apart piece by piece. Preferably with a dull blade.”

  She clenched her teeth. “I know how he feels.”

  Still nervously stalking the cramped room, he rubbed his hands over his face as if trying to keep awake. Until then, she hadn’t noted the deep shadows beneath his eyes or the grayness of his skin. Served him right if he was coming down with something. She hoped it was fatal. “Remember when I told you I’d angered a few people and needed to hide at Dun Eyre?”

  “I’m surprised it’s limited to a few.”

  A quirk of his lips and a bleak chuckle met her comment. “Hiding wasn’t the only reason. I needed to retrieve something I’d left on the estate.”

  “And the reason you kidnapped me?”

  “Dun Eyre was the perfect place to conceal the Sh’vad Tual. None would suspect such a treasure hung round my fiancée’s neck. It would be safe until I needed it again.”

  “The pendant. That’s what you came back for.”

  And why did she feel a tiny sting of disappointment at that bald-stated fact? She was ill and out of her head. That must be it. There was no conceivable reason on this good earth why she should wish for even one blink of an instant for Brendan to look on her as a desirable grown woman rather than a pesky nuisance only a few years free of the schoolroom. No reason at all.

  “Somehow Máelodor’s discovered where I hid the stone,” he continued. “He knows you have it, and he’s sent his men to Dun Eyre after it.”

  “So take me home, and I’ll tell them they’re too late. You’ve already stolen it.” She arched a brow. “I assume you’ve stolen it.”

  He shot her an offended look. “I prefer ‘collected’ to ‘stolen.’” Returned to pacing. “And that would be well and fine if Máelodor didn’t have a tendency to kill anyone who stands between himself and the things he wants. His men won’t accept you don’t have the stone, and they don’t handle failure well.”

  His incessant marching back and forth added to her a headache. “You stole me away from my family, my friends, and the man I was about to marry to—save me?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Next time, let me take my chances with certain death.”

  “That’s gratitude,” he grumbled. “Look here, Lissa. Do you think I’m any happier about this than you?”

  She had to admit he appeared as foul-tempered and frustrated as she. Belligerent jut to his jaw. Brows drawn low over eyes burning hot. Not exactly the disposition of a lover. Could he be telling the truth? Could she really be in danger? Or was this just his way of keeping her close while he wooed her? Although if this was his idea of seduction, he was extremely lousy at it.

  She fixed him with a scowl she hoped speared a hole right through him. Unfortunately, the pain in her head slid into her neck and down her shoulders until her whole body hurt, and she closed her eyes before her brain oozed out of them. “I’m going to be sick again.”

  “It was a simple spell. How was I to know you’d have such a strong reaction?”

  “Simple, he says,” she muttered, turning her face to the wall.

  She heard him moving about the room. The crackle as he stirred the fire to life. A scrape of a dragged chair. The grumble as he strove to make himself comfortable.

  Helplessness did not suit her. If Brendan thought she’d simply allow him to toss her aboard his horse like a sack of flour, he was very much mistaken. But what choice did she have? She was in no position to argue or fight back. She didn’t even have clothes, for heaven’s sake. She was completely at his mercy.

  For now.

  She pulled the greatcoat tighter around her while she sifted through his explanation. Magic. Spells. The Other. They didn’t belong to the well-ordered normalcy of her life. They were part of something strange and dark and forbidden. Whispers behind closed doors. Wondrous stories told by her grandmother, stirring Elisabeth’s imagination with tingly, delicious excitement.

  A bit of what she’d once felt when she was with Brendan. As if once they were together she’d finally discover that colorful, exotic, elusive world. That, as his wife, she’d finally understand the powers that drove him, shaped him, and glittered off him like diamonds.

  She’d been granted that childhood wish with a vengeance.

  But instead of wonder, all she experienced was a sense of standing upon the edge of an abyss, frightening beyond her ken. A held breath. A tense expectancy. As if her world and his stood poised upon a brink.

  A single flinch and there would be no turning back for either of them.

  “What is that hideous rag?” Elisabeth asked.

  Brendan held up a shapeless piece of drab-colored fabric splotched with stains of unknown origin. “Your dress. Its former owner charged me an entire shilling, so treat it with care.”

  “Were the lice extra?” She gave a rude bark of laughter. “No, really. What is it?”

  “It’s that or your nightclothes until we reach Dublin.” He dropped petticoats, an apron, stockings, and a sturdy pair of half boots upon the pallet. “There’s no time to have the local dressmaker create something for you.”

  Wrinkling her nose, she studied the dingy gingham with disgust. That was a dress? Perhaps long ago in a previous life. Now it more closely resembled a burlap sack. An ugly burlap sack. She sighed. Things went from bad to worse. At least she’d recovered from the horrible, bed-spinning, stomach-whirling illness of yesterday. She’d celebrate the small victories. Besides, clothed—even in rags—she stood a better chance of regaining her freedom. She’d write to her aunts for help. Gordon would charge to her rescue. All would be well again.

  “Fine. If I’ve no other choice.” She snatched the
garment from Brendan. “But once we reach the city . . .”

  “I’ll shower you with silks, I promise. Now get dressed, we’ve wasted enough time dawdling here.”

  Her gaze flicked pointedly between the dress and him and the dress again. She cleared her throat.

  “It’s pouring outside. I’ll be soaked,” he whined.

  She shot him a look that spoke volumes.

  “All right. Come on, Gordon,” he said, gesturing to the dog.

  “That’s not funny.” Tears choked her throat, but she refused to let him see her cry. That would be the final humiliation.

  For a moment contrition surfaced in his gaze. “I’m sorry. Stupid joke. He doesn’t answer to it anyway. Prefers ‘Killer.’” The dog leapt to his feet, wagging his tail. “See?”

  Elisabeth hiccupped and sniffed, a smile tugging at her mouth despite herself. Brendan wasn’t supposed to be charming. He was supposed to continue being rude and bossy and arrogant. It made hating him so much easier. “Well, take Killer outside. I’ll holler when I’m presentable.”

  “‘Presentable’? We’re not going to visit the queen.”

  “Out!”

  Killer trotting at his heels, Brendan kicked open the door, growled an oath, and darted into the downpour.

  Alone, she slid out of her robe. Studiously avoiding thoughts of its previous owner, she took up the cleaning rag posing as a dress and wriggled into it. Whoever Brendan had bought it from had been considerably thinner, flatter, and a good four or five inches shorter. The side seams barely held together, while the bodice threatened to explode if she so much as breathed deeply. And the whole thing smelled like sweat and stinky cheese. She wrinkled her nose, reminding herself it was a temporary evil. Once they reached Dublin, she’d burn it before scouring herself clean in a long, hot bath.

  “May we come in now?” came an aggrieved voice. “Killer’s floating away, and I’m growing gills.”

  She straightened from adjusting her stockings. “Killer’s allowed. You can drown for all I care.”

  He squelched inside, drenched from head to foot, hair plastered to his head. “It’s a bloody mess out there.”

  She bent to lace the worn leather half boots. Small miracle—they fit. Stood up, shaking out the skirts, adjusting the apron strings as if any amount of primping could turn this sow’s ear into a silk purse. “Do I pass inspection?” She did a slow turn. “Grubby, sooty, and smelly enough for your unscrupulous, villainous self?”

  A smile broke over his tired face. “That’s my girl. When you stop insulting me is when I’ll begin to worry.” His gaze traveled over her new outfit with obvious skepticism. “Not exactly an Ackermann’s fashion plate, but you’ll do.” He remained staring at her for long moments before quickly clearing his throat, suddenly spinning on his heel, agitatedly gathering up their scattered belongings. Stowing them in his saddlebag.

  Grabbing up Brendan’s greatcoat, she pulled it over her shoulders; the scents of travel and sweat and an exotic woodsy aroma clung to the wool. “When you stop insulting me is when I’ll begin to worry.”

  He flashed her another wicked smile, and with a strange ache in her heart she turned away.

  “Don’t you dare,” Elisabeth hissed as Brendan started to assist her onto Onwen. “Last I checked I was still able to mount a horse on my own.”

  He stepped back with a wave of assent. “Be my guest. Hoisting you about’s not the easiest of tasks.”

  She flashed him a thunderous look as she gathered the reins and swung herself aboard. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  He mounted behind her, the mare sidestepping and tossing her head, but a firm hand and a gentle word quickly settled the horse. They hadn’t left the farmyard but already rain soaked through the overcoat he’d scavenged. Dripped off his hat to slither down his neck. The calendar might have said April, but the cold felt more like February, and the rain pelted in torrents. Mud sucked at Onwen’s feet, the road beyond a quagmire.

  Killer watched them from the doorway with interest, his sodden fur spiky with wet. As Brendan urged the horse forward, the terrier followed.

  “Stay,” Brendan commanded.

  The dog paused, its expression almost contemptuous before it once more began tagging behind.

  “I think you’ve gained a friend.” Elisabeth’s amusement was evident.

  “I don’t want a friend. Or a dog. Or a woman.” He shifted in his saddle. “Stay, Killer. Go home.”

  The dog sneezed but remained just behind them. Dodging puddles. Leaping over fallen twigs. Pink tongue lolling in a clever doggie smile.

  “Too bad.” Elisabeth chuckled scornfully. “Looks like you’ve got them whether you want them or not.”

  He glared at the back of her head, choking down a properly sarcastic response. Tried not to notice the way she nestled back against him. Or the way her rear was dangerously positioned between his legs. Or the heady sway of her body in his arms.

  It had been that damn dress. It was hideous. Probably the ugliest rag he’d ever seen on a woman.

  And Elisabeth had never looked more breathtaking.

  The snug fit emphasized every ripe, delicious curve, the bodice cut to reveal honeyed, freckled flesh. Add her wild tumble of dark red curls and those big brown eyes, and it was as if a come-hither sex goddess had suddenly appeared where an annoying little sister stood seconds earlier.

  Disconcerting.

  Onwen stumbled, Elisabeth rubbing against him, the back of her neck temptingly close.

  Uncomfortable.

  He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore his body’s rising response. Lifted his face to the rain to quell the heat centered in his groin.

  This was Elisabeth Fitzgerald. A pest. A nuisance. A spanner stuck smack in the middle of his carefully laid out plans.

  And if he leaned forward just a little, he’d be able to kiss the soft spot right behind her ear.

  Killer barked, tearing beneath Onwen’s legs to dive into the brush after a rabbit. The mare leapt sideways in agitation. A flood of rainwater tipped from Brendan’s hat’s brim down his back in a freezing cascade.

  “Son of a bitch,” he snarled, shuddering.

  But thankfully, the dash of ice water returned life—and Elisabeth—to normal.

  Hellish, but normal.

  seven

  The shine of Brendan’s money overrode the publican’s suspicions, and he ushered them into a tiny rear chamber with a searching look down his long, crooked nose and a recommendation to keep out of the way of the regulars.

  Up to now, Elisabeth had clung with every ounce of willpower to a stony, unbridgeable fury until her chest ached and her head throbbed from the effort. Only in the last hours had she felt her anger slipping away. Too exhausted to maintain it, and besides, a cold shoulder only works if the person being pointedly ignored is aware of it. Brendan seemed completely oblivious. Another reason to be annoyed with him, and yet it only served to loosen that hard knot of rage even further.

  Actually, laughter bubbled through her. A sign of approaching hysteria? Had Brendan finally driven her out of her head? If anyone could, it would be him for certain. He was a master of provocation.

  No sooner had the innkeeper closed the door than Killer wiggled free of Elisabeth’s enveloping greatcoat, flinging himself nails skittering onto the floor. Shaking until his hair stood on end, looking like a black-and-white hairbrush.

  Brendan rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe you brought that dog in here.”

  “We couldn’t leave him outside. He’d catch his death.”

  “He’s a stray, Lissa. He’s used to being outside in all weather.”

  “That doesn’t mean he enjoys it. See?” Killer had curled up on a pile of musty sacks, giving a long doggie sigh as if he’d found nirvana. “He doesn’t want to be out in the rain either.”

  She followed his lead, shedding her waterlogged outer layer before sinking gratefully onto the only chair in the room, a rickety thing with sagging
cane and one wobbly leg. Yet still a pleasant change after being perched atop Onwen’s knobby withers.

  “Bloody Irish weather. I’m growing moss.” Brendan peeled off his own sopping jacket. Plowed a hand through his wet hair.

  “You sound as if you’re surprised. You did live on this island for more than twenty years,” Elisabeth responded, shaking out damp skirts. Peeling herself out of the wet shawl Brendan had purchased off a tinker in Gort.

  He paused from rubbing warmth back into his arms, gaze somber. “That was a lifetime ago. I was another person.”

  Dun Eyre and the whirl of wedding preparations. A smelly roadside tavern and a man she’d thought dead mere days previous. Two halves of the same life severed cleanly down the middle. “I know exactly what you mean,” she answered sourly.

  Until now, she’d kept thoughts off the present by painting rosy pictures of her future. The happy-ever-after ending when Gordon reassured her that no mere scandal could tarnish what they had together. That he would still marry her. That the future they’d talked about was still possible.

  She imagined the wedding, the smiles and laughter, the tearful farewells as they departed for London. After that, it all went blurry. She couldn’t envision the house on Upper Mount Street. Couldn’t fantasize about the life she and Gordon would have there. It was as if her imagination had stretched as far as it could. Beyond that illusory wedding, there was only a foggy unreality.

  Instead, her mind seemed to fall back into the past. Showed her events she’d forgotten until now. As if Brendan’s return had unlocked an entire part of herself she’d buried away after his desertion. The memories rose through her. Slowly. Steadily. Unstoppable as an encroaching tide.

  “Do you remember when I fell out of the tree?” she heard herself asking. A day she’d not thought of in years, yet it sprang into vivid life as if only weeks had passed.

  He brightened. “Do I? Of all the shatter-brained things to do. You’re lucky I didn’t leave you there for some poacher to stumble over.”

  She grimaced. “A gentleman even then. You looked so fierce, staring at me as if I were the worst sort of nuisance.”