Elisabeth felt her own tension increase, a throbbing at her temples.
“There was too much at stake by then. We couldn’t allow deserters. They gave me the task of persuading him to remain.”
Her mouth had gone bone-dry. She wished Brendan hadn’t used all the water. She could really use a drink right now. “The fire was blamed on the peasants as retaliation for an increase in rents. You were there, you never said—”
He eyed her as if she were daft. “That the deaths of Freddie and his family were my fault? Of course not. But after that, it was never the same between my father and me. I saw the truth of what we were doing. How it couldn’t possibly succeed without the deaths of thousands like Freddie—innocents caught up in our madness.” He gave a grim quirk of his mouth. “Here’s where you tell me I’m a heartless murdering bastard. That I deserve the death Máelodor wants to mete out, and that you hate me and wish you’d never married me.”
She flinched. “I don’t wish that.”
His laugh was rough and cruel and like a nail through her heart. “Though you don’t deny the rest.”
Brendan’s stomach remained fragile, his nerves raw and jumping, but the worst had passed. The hell of gape-mouthed, eyeless dead had faded. Their grasping hands receded into the twisted strangulation of soaked sheets. The hiss and snarl of their curses no more than rain against the window.
In the early days of his withdrawal from the opium, he’d spent weeks pacing the floor as images crashed through a brain afire with insatiable need. Pausing only to take a few drops of water or a foul piece of bread before heaving it up, his stomach unable to handle nourishment.
That had been years ago. His body no longer craved the poison. His mind had been freed from the constant hunger. Or so he thought until he woke from sleep with violent cramps, sweat bathing him, the bittersweet aftertaste of opium upon his tongue.
Had the ministering been purposeful?
None knew of his affliction. None but Jack and those who’d dragged him free of the drug the first time in a grimy set of rooms over a Turkish souk.
A mistake then. But it only underscored how little it would take to bring him to his knees. How easily he could be pulled from his current path. How close to the surface the demons drifted.
Yet something had changed. It had happened so gradually he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, but the certainty of the difference was tangible. He’d not spoken Freddie’s name aloud in years. Had done all he could to push the events of that day as far down within him as possible. Yet never was he able to eradicate completely the shame and the guilt of his crimes.
Until today. And Elisabeth.
Always a surprise. Always unpredictable. Never doing what he expected. Or what any rational female might do when confronted with her husband’s infamy.
Brendan had awakened to that light, citrusy floral perfume of hers, her scent tearing through the fog of his fever. Not truly believing until he’d opened his eyes to see her watching him, her gaze a troubled mix of worry, fear, and affection.
For an instant, he’d known pure happiness. A stab of hope and pride and desire and love so fierce his chest ached with it. He’d almost told her. Almost taken her hand in his and dragged her down beside him where he might show her; the need to wrap himself in these feelings had been almost undeniable. But cooler heads prevailed. Practicality had trumped sentimental dreams.
There was no future for him there. He knew that now. He had given her the dubious protection of his name and the benefits of his ragged honor. To offer anything more would only make the end that much harder. Best to sever this tie now before he changed his mind. Before he drowned in those deep brown eyes or tasted the ripe sweetness of those lips.
So Freddie became the weapon.
A lethal blade he’d mercilessly turned upon himself.
Only somehow it hadn’t been the killing stroke he anticipated. Instead, it had felt as if something had broken loose inside him. He closed his eyes and saw—nothing. No jagged pieces of anguished memory etched upon his brain. As if slicing open the old wound had finally cleansed it of its power.
“Like a cat with nine lives.” Helena Roseingrave stood within the doorway. No knock. No hesitation. She gave him her usual glacial stare, her gaze lingering upon his tattoo, a flicker of some lost emotion in her eyes. “I’ve seen that before.”
He pulled his shirt over his head. “The mark of a lost cause,” he growled.
She entered the room, closing the door behind her. “Your bride sent word you wanted to speak with me.”
The contempt in her tone sent an impossible fury lancing through him. “You can say what you want about me, but I don’t ever want to hear you say one goddamn word about Elisabeth. Do you hear me?”
The flicker became a flame. “Playing at the besotted bridegroom? How noble of you.” She stiffened. “What do you want, Douglas? I’m busy mopping up your mistakes, so excuse me if I don’t swoon like the rest of the female race at your feet. You’ll be relieved to know the fellow you knifed is recovering nicely.”
“Should I send him flowers and an apology?” Helena Roseingrave might be a coldhearted bitch, but she was exactly what he needed to drive Elisabeth from his head. Hard to mope while trading barbs with a woman who’d be more than happy to see him drawn and quartered. “That was the second time one of the Amhas-draoi tried murdering me.”
“And that surprises you? I warned you there was a standing order to kill you on sight. Did you think I exaggerated? If Máelodor’s men have learned of your return, so have the Amhas-draoi. You should have followed orders and stayed close to Rogan.”
“I’m not a child who needs minding. I managed for years without the use of a mage-chaser to keep me out of danger.”
“Even the luckiest lose now and again,” she answered bitterly. “Listen and listen well, Douglas. Had you killed that Amhas-draoi, I’d have butchered you myself, plan or no plan. I may be stretching the rules for you, but if this blows up, you go down alone.”
“How noble of you,” he answered her scorn with his own. “Has the brotherhood discovered we’re working together?”
“Not so far as I can tell, but that could change. Just in case, you can’t return to Duke Street. You can come to gather your things, but then you’ll have to lay low somewhere in the city.” She opened the door, scanning the yard before turning back, jaw set. “It shouldn’t be much longer. I hear the bounty on your head has gone up. You’re quite a catch these days.”
“Máelodor’s growing desperate. The summoning of the Domnuathi nearly destroyed him. Soon he’ll be too ill to work the magic.”
“Alive, he remains a lethal threat. Dead, and any hope of clearing your name is gone. Quite a conundrum.”
“I’m glad you can call it such. I call it a devilish great nuisance.”
Her gaze passed over the squalid ruin of the chamber. “It still amazes me how far you’ve fallen. From the pampered son of an earl to this.”
“The location’s not much but the service is excellent.”
“Always the wit, Douglas, though I think after the last few days I’m in on your little secret.”
“I sleep in the buff?”
Her look shot daggers. “Your guilt almost killed you.”
“Fortunately shame isn’t fatal. It just plays havoc with your free will.” He offered a casual shrug and a flash of a gallows smile before sobering. “What will happen to Elisabeth once I leave the town house? You have to promise me she’ll be taken care of.”
“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.
nineteen
“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 threa
t 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.
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