Warrior's Curse (Imnada Brotherhood)

by Alexa Egan

  She drew back the covers in blatant invitation.

  “Meeryn, I can’t . . . you’re . . .”

  “No more battered than you.” Her eyes traveled his body as if she might spy the wounds he’d taken.

  “A few cuts and bruises. A gash Lucan stitched up for me. I’ll be sore as hell tomorrow morning, but for tonight I’m numb to everything but victory.” He stood up. “I thought I’d lost you. I thought I’d killed you.”

  He traced the cut on her cheek with one tentative finger.

  She covered his hand with her own. “Now we own matching scars. We’re a paired set, like bookends. Break one and the other is completely—”

  “Useless,” he finished for her with a dry laugh.

  “Exactly.” She drew him to sit beside her. His body bore a fever’s heat and he smelled of battle and soap and brandy and sky. He shuddered at the touch of her hand on his arm. “The draught is losing its power,” she said. “Yet you remain . . . human.”

  “I’ve taken the last of it. Tomorrow will see me once more trapped by the curse. But tonight . . . I wanted to be with you tonight.”

  She curled against him so that her head lay upon his chest, his arm around her back. His heart beat strong under her cheek and his slow deep breaths felt relaxed and easy, unlike the usual tension stringing his muscles. “Can you say it again, Gray?”

  She felt his heart drum louder and he tightened his hold upon her body. “Bereth n’hai. My heart.” His voice rumbled under her ear, deep and low and lilting.

  She smiled. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear an endearment like that come out of your mouth?”

  She was met with silence, though he caressed her hair and kissed her forehead.

  “Since I was ten and knew boys were good for more than frog-catching and blind-man’s buff.”

  “I’m still very good at feeling my way,” he admitted and snuffed out the candle.

  * * *

  When she woke again, it was to daylight and an empty bed. She stretched, feeling only slightly dizzy and off-kilter. Her leg ached, but it was a healthy ache. She wiggled her toes. They were still attached. A good sign. She’d mend. Actually, it was her cheek that stung like the devil. She touched a finger to the raised pink flesh where the Ossine’s bullet had passed like an assassin’s kiss. An inch to the right and her brains would have ended all over Lady Estelle’s pristine lawn.

  The smell of coffee and the promise of the accompanying breakfast drew her from bed. Rising on shaky legs, she tottered across the room to grab up a robe. Splashed water on her face and pulled a comb through her tangles until she looked passable if not presentable. Watery, milky light hollowed her sallow face, and she stood with a distinct hunch to her shoulders and list to her starboard side. Not exactly the elegant stare of fashion. Not even a distant second.

  Did she care?

  After last night, she could resemble a hag with crooked nose, hairy moles, and a hunchback’s lump and she wouldn’t bat an eyelash.

  She pushed aside the curtain at the window to see a plume of smoke rising above the trees where it caught the wind and smeared thin across the gray cloudy sky. Closing her eyes, she offered up a prayer for the dead. Offered a second for the living. Looked inward, searching for the familiar knot in her stomach and weight in her chest. But there was only a dull sadness like a weather ache. Uncomfortable but survivable. Perhaps Gray had been right; without hesitation but always with remorse.

  “. . . was a bad idea. I should have known what would happen.”

  “Always thinking you’re stronger than you are. It will kill you in the end. I’ve told you . . .”

  Gray and Lady Delia in conversation. Meeryn’s stomach squirmed with more than hunger. How far would the woman go to win Gray back to her side was her first jealous thought. Her second was far darker and more dangerous; how far would Lady Delia go to gain the wealth she craved?

  Dismissing her eavesdropping as a wartime necessity, Meeryn placed her ear against the panel.

  “How is our Sleeping Beauty this morning?” Delia cooed. “Or perhaps she’s both Beauty and the Beast. Best be careful, Gray. Your precious N’thuil could rip your head off and shred you like a cabbage if she chose.”

  “She’s well,” came Gray’s cool reply. “Thank you for asking.”

  “A long and satisfying night will do that to a girl. And you always proved most satisfying.”

  Meeryn could just picture the lightskirt’s oozing sexuality as she turned on her charms. She was probably touching Gray’s arm, bending close to offer him a glimpse of her perfect powdered cleavage, looking up at him through those dark lashes with great cow eyes.

  Her hands curled to fists. Angry heat flushed her cheeks. Beast, was she? Dangerous, was she? A desire to pummel the bitch senseless almost had her ripping the door open to confront her with force enough to knock her teeth down her slender white throat.

  “I have a job for you, Delia. Give me a day’s head start and then . . .” Meeryn pulled up short, hand on the knob as she strained to hear. Blast it all. What job did Gray have for Lady Delia? What did he plan to do with two days’ head start? Whose bloody side was the woman on anyway?

  Good sense finally giving way to frustration, she yanked the door open on the quiet tête-à-tête. Scrambled at the last minute to drop into a pose of languorous pleasure, hoping her injured leg didn’t give out and send her sprawling at Lady Delia’s feet. “There you are, Gray. I’d wondered where you’d run off to.”

  It wasn’t dulcet cooing, but it was the best she could do without notice or practice.

  He lifted one skeptical eyebrow, though his eyes gave his amusement away. Lady Delia on the other hand made no bones about her pique, an expression she quickly turned into a catlike smile. But Meeryn noticed it, and her own smile was one of triumph as she slid a hand up Gray’s arm.

  What she’d overlooked within the dark room and soft bed was more than evident in the raw light of day. Bruises dulled his golden complexion; cuts and scrapes mottled his throat. But it was the uneasy tension coiling his body and the feverish chills she felt him fighting off that had her catching her lip between her teeth with concern. He dropped his arm to his side, offered her a slow unhappy stare, the rebuff like a slap to the face.

  Lady Delia shook off the interruption with a tight sniff of distaste before turning her attention to Gray once more and ignoring Meeryn completely. “I’ll do as you ask, but are you certain you’re not inviting worse? Especially if Sir Dromon knows what you have and why you have it? Are you willing to risk so much on such a hazardous throw of the dice?”

  “It’s the only way to end this once and for all.”

  She gave a dramatic sigh of resignation. “Very well. I’ll do as you ask, though I think love might have addled your brains.”

  “It’s naught to do with love,” he countered.

  “Don’t lie to yourself, Gray. It’s everything to do with it. After all, when you die, it will be the ones left who suffer the punishments meant for you. A traitorous N’thuil will not be treated with mercy. She would be a fine object lesson to the grumbling clans. Nothing like a good fiery staking of a rebel to sway people to your way of thinking. Perhaps this is your last attempt at a noble sacrifice.”

  “I don’t need Gray to sacrifice himself for me. I can handle Pryor,” Meeryn argued.

  Lady Delia’s expression was hard as stone. “We saw how you handled his enforcers, Miss Munro. You’re fortunate Gray was there to kill the bastard before he blew your brains out.”

  “Enough, Delia,” Gray said. “Just do as I ask. Payment will be directed to the same account as always.”

  “Consider it taken care of. My lips are, as always, at your service, my darling.” She leaned forward and kissed Gray on the mouth, her hand running up his shirtfront, her stare focused on his reaction.

  Meeryn stiffened with rigid fury as Lady Delia stepped back, a smile playing over her porcelain features. “Never let it be said I don’t conc
ede gracefully, Miss Munro. I am, after all, an earl’s daughter. Poise and refinement were beaten into us at a young and tender age. The field is clear. Enjoy it while it lasts. If Gray’s gambled wrong, there might be less time than you think.”

  “It’s no gamble. Dromon will come,” he said.

  “That’s what terrifies me most of all, my darling.” This time there was nothing but sorrow in her expression.

  * * *

  “You understand what I’m asking?”

  “I am able to comprehend words of more than one syllable, Professor Gray.”

  He grimaced but carried on. If Meeryn was skeptical, she hid it well. There was only quiet confidence in her stern face, the hints of strength he’d glimpsed over these past weeks evident in the determined line of her mouth, the glint in her dark eyes. How had he ever thought he could return to Deepings without returning to her, without sliding back into the well-worn groove of familiarity? Meeryn not only knew his ghosts, she was one; a shade made flesh. A dark, painful memory resurrected and then exorcized. He had tried to make his peace with his grandfather, he had sought redemption for his family’s tragedy. He would spend whatever time he had left rediscovering the girl he’d left behind and learning anew the woman he’d come home to.

  “Do you think it will work?”

  “It’s unlikely with only the three of us, but I have to make the attempt. I have to know for certain I’ve done all I could. And I have to force an end to this war with Dromon once and for all. He would use his hatred of me to exact vengeance on anyone I care about, and his desire to keep the clans isolated from the world as an excuse to make war on his own people.”

  “But you said you were afraid he would discover you possessed the disks. Now you want him to know?”

  “I want to draw him out into the open. At Deepings, he held the advantage. But London is my city. I choose the ground I fight on. You once said we hid behind our armies and let others do our killing and our dying for us. I would make this a one-on-one battle, to the death, winner take all.”

  “And you think Lady Delia can convince him of the need to go to London after you?”

  “She can be very persuasive when the money’s right and the cause amuses her.”

  “But trusting her with such a task? She’s a provocateur. Willing to feed information to the highest bidder. She said so herself. Who’s to say she won’t sell you out?”

  “I don’t pretend to believe Delia’s not playing both sides, but that will only mean he’ll accept what she says without questioning too closely why she says it.”

  “So you do trust her?”

  “I trust she won’t betray me, yes.”

  Her brow furrowed, her lips drawing tight with anger. “You think lingering affection will stop her from turning you over to Sir Dromon if the price is right? Were you two so in love she would hold back from the wealth he could offer for betraying you?”

  “We were never in love.”

  “But she was your lover.” Said simply and without emotion, though he knew what it cost her to do so. He’d felt the same visceral twisting of the knife when he’d imagined Meeryn in the arms of Conal McIlroy.

  “Does that shock you?” he asked.

  “No. Of course not.”

  He lifted his brows in skeptical amusement.

  “It doesn’t shock me, but I don’t have to like it,” she huffed.

  “Would you be unhappy if I admitted a part of me revels in your jealousy?”

  “As long as you don’t mind me admitting I think your prior taste in women was absolutely rotten.”

  “Delia and I . . . that is she . . . it’s complicated.” He plowed a hand through his hair in agitation. A move she noticed with a quirk of her lips.

  “It must be, if it’s flustered the unflusterable Major de Coursy.” She folded her arms over her chest, offering him a go-ahead-and-try-me look.

  He inhaled through his nose, exhaled a defeated sigh. He’d told no one, not even Mac or David what he’d known for the last five years. But, should the unthinkable happen in London, it was best the information didn’t die with him.

  “Lady Delia has a son.”

  The blood drained from Meeryn’s face, eyes wide, lips parted. She swallowed once, twice, her throat working convulsively.

  “He’s not mine,” he hastened to clarify. “The boy is Ollie’s get.”

  “No,” she murmured. “That can’t be. Your brother’s dead.”

  “Yes, but eighteen years ago, Ollie was in London. Just down from university and ready to take on the town.”

  “He didn’t . . . he wouldn’t . . .” She shook her head, gaze glassy with confusion as she tried to grasp what he told her.

  “He would and he did. Lady Delia was barely fifteen, but old enough to succumb to Ollie’s charms. The pregnancy was hushed up and the child sent away to be raised. Ollie died soon after and the matter was swept under the rug. None knew of the bastard he’d sired, not even my grandfather, but I found out. Lady Delia won’t tell me where the boy is or even offer me a name, though I’ve asked.”

  “Another son of Idrin. The line won’t die when . . .” She dropped her gaze to her slippers but not before he saw tears sparkling on her lashes.

  Now that she’d ripped open his half-healed scars, emotions battered him from all sides. Fury. Frustration. Anguish. Anger. He fought them back as best he could. He could not return to the empty deadness of the past, but he could not fall to pieces now, with so much riding on his next move.

  “No, my heart, the line won’t die when I do. But does he know who he is? What he is? He’s almost a man grown. He must have some idea he’s different, but does he understand the gift that came with his father’s blood? Or does he believe he’s a monster, a warped creature of nightmare? And what if the Ossine discover his existence first?”

  “That’s what Lady Delia meant when she said you don’t pay her in coin.”

  “I pay into a trust set up for his use. That is what her trade in secrets has bought; a future for a son she can’t even acknowledge.”

  “And so she offers the hope of him as a lure to keep you coming back; a way to leash you to her side.”

  “Perhaps, but I believe she fears more that I’ll take him away, and she’ll lose the only person on this earth who truly loves her for herself.”

  14

  DEEPINGS, CORNWALL

  “Beautiful rooms, though not quite what I would have imagined your tastes to be.”

  Slanting a gaze over his sumptuous chambers, Sir Dromon bared his teeth in what passed for a smile at Lady Delia Swann’s compliment. The woman had arrived at the wayside inn just beyond the Palings, offered the proper words to the proper man, and been delivered to Dromon’s doorstep with an eye for everything and a smile that boded secrets in his future.

  “I selected the furnishings and artwork myself when I moved my household to Deepings upon the late duke’s illness. These chambers were quite plain and shabby before. Barely livable.”

  She ran a manicured hand along a chair back. Picked up a priceless Meissen urn from a nearby table, admired it, then placed it on a cabinet behind her. “I’m surprised you haven’t taken over the late duke’s apartments now that he’s”—she paused as she offered him a significant look—“died.”

  He hurried to put the object back in its proper place. “Murdered, you mean?”

  “Is that the story you offered your clans? How very Machiavellian of you. I suppose they’re up in arms chanting for de Coursy’s head.”

  Not as many as he’d hoped, but he’d hardly reveal that to a Fey-blood bitch who traded in the well-worn cave between her legs. She was a tool to be used until the job was complete and then discarded. He had enjoyed using her. He would enjoy discarding her even more. Thorsh was deserving of a treat to keep him loyal. Perhaps the brutish enforcer would find the courtesan to his taste.

  “I’m not the Duke of Morieux, nor do I aspire to be. His heir holds the title now. It is his by right.”
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  “The title, yes . . . but not the power. That belongs, as it should, to you—for now. But suppose that were to change? Suppose the new young duke was able to return untainted by the curse that exiled him? Your precious chambers would be for naught. Your precious plans in ruins.”

  “What is it that you want, Lady Delia? I’m a busy man. You told my secretary you had important information.”

  “And so I do, Sir Dromon. I would almost say it’s priceless.”

  He winced, settling his pince-nez farther up his nose. “It always is.”

  She crossed behind where he sat, draping an arm over his shoulder, her lips against his ear as she whispered, “We’re old friends, you and I. You understand the game that’s played. I tell you what you want to know and you pay me for the pleasure . . . both pleasures if you like.” Her tongue flicked out to slide invitingly along his earlobe, her other hand reaching around to rest upon his already stiff cock. He shuddered, his groin tightening as she slowly caressed him through the fabric of his trousers.

  Clearing his throat, he leaned forward, opening a bottom drawer and removing a wooden box. With a key from his waistcoat, he unlocked the lid and drew out a leather pouch.

  “That should be more than enough for whatever you have to offer.”

  She took her hand away, leaving him hard and quivering. Hefted the pouch with a satisfied smile. “That will do nicely . . . for a start. But a woman on her own in the world, she has needs that must be met if she’s to continue to betray her lover to his enemies.”

  He pictured that whoreson de Coursy riding the bitch, her golden hair spilling loose of its elegant chignon, her eyes flushed with arousal as she screamed.

  Did de Coursy truly believe Lady Delia Swann was loyal to him alone? Did he truly believe the woman loved him? She was like all females; untrustworthy secretive temptations that should be kept to their place, a man’s bed, where a good stropping would keep them timid and respectful of their masculine betters.

  But de Coursy had always been a romantical milksop, with his head in the clouds. He probably saw her as his maiden; fair, golden, and virginal. He couldn’t see the deceit behind those guileless gold-flecked eyes. It’s what made the boy such a weak leader, a fool to be swayed by these treacherous Fey-bloods who wanted to lull the clans into complacency so they might destroy them once and for all. The Imnada needed strength and cunning if they were going to survive. They needed someone unafraid to make the hard unpopular choices.