Lost In You

by Alix Rickloff

  Jock broke the awkward silence. “The bay’s got a bruised heel, Capt’n. He’ll take a day or two before he’s sound. The chestnut’s tired, but she’ll do for travel.”

  “Then we’ll send at least word that they’re safe. Evan will have to accept that for now. Good enough?” he asked.

  Ellery nodded stiffly. “You make me sound like a missish, old do-gooder.”

  “I’d never accuse of you of being old.” He offered her a tired smile, and she remembered how ill he’d been only yesterday. Had it been so soon? Had he recovered so quickly?

  Jock entered the stall of a round, dappled gray. He snapped a lead to her halter and brought her out to the ties. “What brings ye out here, Capt’n?”

  Conor seemed to come back to his surroundings. “Looking for Mab. Have you seen her? Cook’s sent me with some scraps.”

  Jock chuckled. “More like you’ve swiped ’em from under her nose. If ye want that old, lazy hound, she’s where she always is. Layin’ in the sunshine by the tack room door.”

  Conor started down the aisle, his movements careful, his gait slow. Not quite recovered, then.

  “Follow him, miss.” Jock motioned her on, a knowing light in his eye. “I’m thinkin’ he doesn’t scare ye so easy, that’s what.”

  She wanted to stay and help Jock, but it was obvious the old man didn’t need her. He’d already turned to the horse, crooning to it as he picked its hooves. She put the tote down beside him and deliberately walked back up the aisle in the opposite direction, away from Conor. A few weeks and she’d be gone. In the meantime, avoid him. Easy enough to do. Right?

  Outside, she was greeted by two dogs, one short and terrier-like, its ears perked, its tail snapping like a whip. The other was huge with paws like dinner plates and a coat like sheep’s wool. She tried backing away, but they followed, circling her, barking and whining until the giant rug jumped up on her chest for a better look.

  “Down, Fang.” Conor’s order was obeyed instantly. He’d come around the corner of the stable, a third dog at his heels, and now stood watching the tumult, his face shuttered of emotion.

  The rug returned the look, growling low in its throat. The terrier’s yapping became frenzied, its back bristling in fear. Conor never blinked as he stared them down. Finally the two dogs scuttled away, yielding to the force of his gaze. Only the third dog remained. Still glued to Conor’s leg. Still looking up at him with something close to worship.

  “The dogs weren’t bothering me.”

  “No? Then I apologize. Not everyone appreciates Fang’s unbridled enthusiasm and warm welcomes.”

  “He doesn’t seem to welcome you.”

  “No. Dogs don’t take to me. All animals, really. They sense the Heller in me. Makes them nervous.”

  “And that one?” she asked, pointing to the dog, now seated patiently at his feet.

  “Old Mab? She’s the only one who forgives me what I am.” His pointed comment stung. But she couldn’t forgive him. Not even if it cost her. The sun chose that moment to dip behind a cloud, and she wrapped her arms around her, suddenly chilled.

  He squatted down, scratching the dog’s ears while it wiggled and whined its happiness. It pushed a whitened nose into his armpit. “Smell the bones, do you? Hold on.” He looked over his shoulder to Ellery. “She’s all but blind. But she’s still got the best nose in the county.”

  “Is she yours?”

  “Simon’s.”

  Her surprise must have shown.

  He stood, shoving the napkin back into his pocket. “We both trusted him once. We were both wrong.”

  “You saved Jock and the other soldiers.”

  They watched the messenger heading down the drive toward the gates, carrying a pouch with letters and payment intended for Evan. Conor wasn’t surprised at Ellery’s comment. He’d felt her curiosity since the stables, and she’d been studying him on the sly for at least an hour. Each time he’d tried catching her at it, her gaze slid away. He’d allowed her the freedom. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had stared. And she had more reason than most. She’d seen him at his best and most definitely at his worst. It was really only a wonder she was bothering with him at all.

  He knelt to fondle Mab’s ears. It gave him distance to think before he spoke. “He told you, did he? He loves that story, though it gets more exciting at every telling. Did I glow in this one? Or save an entire regiment?”

  “No. Did you?”

  His lips twitched. “No. There were only a few that wouldn’t survive. I gave them a chance, that’s all.” He risked a glance up at her.

  She stood awkward and unsure, her head cocked to the side as if considering. “Like you did me when you took my wounds?”

  “Aye. It was my fault you were hurt.” He looked out over the lawn. Afraid to meet her eyes.

  Mab rose and stretched. Conor did the same, though his head spun and spots burst in front of him until the dizziness passed. He healed, but it was damn slow for his liking.

  “Does Jock know?”

  Ellery’s question caught him off-guard. “Know what?” he asked. Harsher than he’d intended.

  Her lips thinned, her eyes darkening to slate. “Does Jock know you’re an Other?”

  He sensed the annoyance in her voice. If it kept her at arm’s length, he’d live with it. “He has to know by now, though it’s never come up. He’s been remarkably reluctant to speak to me of what went on that day.”

  “Is he an Other?”

  “I don’t know.” When she looked skeptical, he laughed.

  “He’s never said, though with his way with horseflesh, he could be. Being Other doesn’t always mean wizardry. It’s sometimes so subtle that you don’t even know yourself. Like Ruan’s weathersense or Jamys’s healing or…”

  He swallowed his words. He couldn’t say why, but he’d keep what he knew of Ellery to himself. For now. What was one more secret among so many?

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Ellery?” Morgan’s knock was as brisk as her manner. “I’ve come with some gowns.” She strode into Ellery’s chamber dressed in a skirt slit for riding, leather breeches, tall riding boots beneath. A short military-cut jacket fit snugly across shoulders wider than normal for her slender frame. Her fiery copper hair hung gorgeously roped and braided, an odd feminine vanity in someone that seemed immune to all other female conceits. She tossed the clothing across the bed. “Not many, mind you. I’m not a follower of Ackermann’s, but they should fit you well enough.”

  “It’s lovely.” Ellery held up a gown of soft forest green, trimmed in ermine with a wrap to match, noting the frosty look that passed across Morgan’s face like a shadow.

  “The others are more day to day. Except for the silk.” The frost turned diamond-hard, and her mouth thinned to an angry line.

  “They’re all perfect.” Ellery wondered at Morgan’s reaction, but didn’t ask. In her life, she’d learned not to bother others with her problems, and they wouldn’t bother her. There were too many tragedies around an army fire. It was best not to know.

  “I won’t be needing them anymore.” Grief smoldered in her sherry-gold eyes for a moment, and then it was gone, leaving Ellery doubting if she’d seen it at all.

  “Well, thank you. Again.” she stammered, unsure of where to go from here with this conversation.

  Instead of taking her leave, Morgan lingered. Not comfortably. She seemed ill at ease as if womanly chats weren’t high on her list of pleasantries. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Conor hasn’t rested since breakfast. Gram’s worried. He’s barely healed from the mage sickness.”

  Ellery’s earlier fury returned, burdened now with her guilt at the weakness that set her heart drumming every time the man so much as looked at her. “If he wants to make himself sick, let him. He’s a man grown.”

  Morgan stiffened, her stare intense. Now she was the one who sought answers. “Jamys said he was close to death. I’ve only seen him worse once. After his struggle with Asher in Sp
ain.”

  Ellery paused in the act of shaking the wrinkles out of the last of the gowns, tension curling through her. She fought to keep her voice even. “In the chapel of San Salas?”

  “Aye,” Morgan answered. “He’s told you of it?”

  “He told me. Enough to know how little he values human life.”

  Morgan gave her a baffled stare.

  Now that she’d begun, she couldn’t stop. All the angry confusion she’d held inside tumbled. Her hands fisted in the fabric, and her chest rose and fell with a deep, unsteady breath. “He killed those men. How does that make him any different than Asher?”

  “Now wait a moment, he was forced to kill the soldier who opened the reliquary to try to stop the Triad’s escape. But Asher murdered the others.”

  Had she been wrong? Disbelief tremored through her. “Conor’s not a man I’d ever want to cross, but a cold-blooded murderer he’s not,” Morgan added.

  Ellery swallowed, dropping the wrinkled gown from trembling fingers back onto the bed. “Thank you for the clothing.”

  The questions in Morgan’s gaze hammered against Ellery’s silence, but she couldn’t explain her reaction. Not to Morgan and not to herself. Her feelings were too jumbled. Too raw. If Conor wasn’t as black as he’d painted himself, that left her vulnerable to caring about him. Something she wouldn’t let herself do. Only disappointment lay in that direction. Men were men. Even the sword-wielding, spell-throwing Other kind.

  She descended the stairs to dinner, still slightly at sea, still unsure of where she belonged within this household. Not that the Blighs hadn’t been welcoming. In fact, she’d been taken aback at how quickly they’d accepted her less-than-proper arrival. In her experience, true kindness was a rarity. Most people expected something in return. She hoped she’d be proven wrong here.

  At the bottom of the staircase, she took a deep steadying breath, smoothing her hands down the skirts of her evening gown, one of Morgan’s cast-offs. Ellery had been afraid to put it on at first, the maid pouring her into it with much admiring oohs and ahhs and a few grunts as she yanked the stays with determined force. But the effect was worth it. Of smoky blue silk, it moved like water when she walked and its silverwork at the collar and cuff was delicate and intricate as spider webs.

  Would Conor notice her? Did she want him to? She hated herself for this see-sawing of emotions. He’d killed her father. She pushed that thought to the fore. Killed him. Killed him. Yes, but he’d saved her. So did the one cancel the other?

  “Do you always skulk in corners? Or have we chased you into hiding already?” Ruan stepped out of the shadows dressed elegantly for dinner, a rake’s smile giving an edge to his perfect features. “It usually takes a week before the houseguest realizes he’s fallen into complete chaos.”

  She relaxed. This kind of man she knew how to handle. “It looks as if you’re the one skulking in corners.”

  “Let me escort you.” He bent to whisper in her ear. “There’s safety in numbers.” And just like that, the worldly façade fell away and he was a teasing older brother. “Gram has warned me to be on my best behavior.”

  “And do you usually follow your grandmother’s instructions?”

  “Instructions? Threats is how I see them. But I’ll say no more. Part of my,” he smiled at her, “instructions was to not frighten you with lurid tales of Bligh perfidy. Though if you’ve spent any amount of time with Conor, you could probably relate a tale or two to me.”

  He scanned her with a very approving eye. “It’s Morgan’s,” she announced, suddenly self-conscious at the way her body filled every inch of the gown. Seeing it through Ruan’s eyes, she realized it was meant for seductions, not supper. She kicked herself for agreeing to wear it.

  His brows rose in surprise. “Morgan’s? I don’t see that at all. It’s like imagining a plow horse dressed for a ball.”

  “That’s horrid.”

  They walked arm in arm to the dining room. “You don’t know my sister. Morgan’s been barely tolerated among the women of the neighborhood since she was thirteen and announced men’s breeches better suited her.”

  “Perhaps she found a reason to dress like this. Perhaps someone changed her mind.”

  At the door, Ruan paused, seeming to consider this before shaking his head. “No, Morgan is ‘the club you over the head first, engage in niceties after’ sort of woman. No man likes to think his lady might challenge him to a duel as easily as she could embroider a seam.”

  Ellery had never pictured herself dining in such gentrified company. Her life in Carnebwen had been simple, not even the fleeting riches of Vittoria enough to buy her way into higher Society. But she found the dynamics not far from the hurly-burly life of an army encampment. People coming in and out. Good-humored ribbing. Food devoured as if diners were unsure whether another meal would be offered. Whether this was normal for all households or held true only at the Blighs didn’t matter. It wasn’t likely she’d be invited to another such dinner.

  Ruan sat opposite, offering a wink of encouragement as course followed course and conversation veered wildly from topic to topic. Only now and then did she find his gaze straying from her face to her cleavage. She’d have been offended if she hadn’t known a hundred just like him in the army. Men who treated every female with the same teasing gallantry. Be outrageous enough and they would never take you too seriously. Never get too close.

  “There’s been another death. A soldier encamped near Portsmouth,” Morgan announced. “It’s the second one in as many months.” This was the first time she’d spoken all night.

  “Keun Marow?” Conor asked.

  He sat as far from Ellery as possible, but every now and then she caught his eyes on her. A questing look in them as if he sought to pierce her thoughts. She wished him luck. Her brain was such a knotted jumble right now, she doubted even a confessed mind-reader like himself could make heads or tails of it. She glanced down the table at him. At least she hoped that was the case. How embarrassing would that be?

  Morgan shrugged. “Not that I’ve heard. Gram, have you heard anything?”

  Conor’s grandmother looked up. “The Keun Marow have gone to ground for now. The true fey sense nothing of their presence. And for that, we can take solace. If Asher watches and waits, he does so from a distance. And these soldiers’ deaths lie at another’s door.”

  Ruan broke in, turned to Morgan. “Ellery tells me I have you to thank for her stunning display tonight.”

  The change in conversation was jarring, and Morgan frowned, obviously knowing her brother too well to believe a compliment could be so easy. “What are you getting at, Ruan?”

  “Just that you should give in to these lapses of sanity more often. You have exquisite taste when you choose to use it.” He sipped his wine. “I hope he was worth it.”

  If looks could kill, Ruan would have been dead a hundred times over. Morgan’s face hardened with rage, unspoken curses boiling in her eyes. She put down her fork and knife with slow precision. Pushed back from the table and stood.

  It was obvious Ruan knew he’d stepped in it and had done so completely by accident. His mocking smile had been wiped clean as he sought to backtrack. “Gods, Morgan. I’m sorry.” And then his eyes caught hers and held them. And the concern and the love were evident. “He didn’t know what he had.” And this time the sting of sarcasm was gone. He meant what he said.

  Morgan saw it too. She trembled, the emotions flying across her face. But she mastered them, sucking in great lungfuls of air to calm herself. Returning to her seat, she cleared her throat, her tone back to normal. “Unfortunately he did know. He just forgot to mention her to me.”

  Ellery flopped back onto her bed with a groan of disgust. She was hopeless. Dinner had been tense. The rest of the evening worse with everyone on edge or buried deep in their own problems. Only Lowenna had seemed immune to the charged emotions of the people around her, quietly sewing, her composure almost an insult where Ellery was concerned.
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br />   She’d felt Conor’s gaze upon her, that dark unfathomable stare that knotted her insides and left her alternately hot and cold. Not an admiring look, despite the dress. This was more the reaction of a man with a problem he’d rather do without. So when he’d slid out as the case clock struck nine, she’d been almost relieved.

  Why did he make it so hard? And worse, why did she care? He certainly hadn’t tried to capture her interest, but somehow it had happened. The quiet confidence. The bullish determination. The reckless courage that pitted him against Asher, even sick and weak as he was, and the selfless compassion that allowed him to sneak bones to old dogs or come to the aid of wounded soldiers at the cost of his own health. She amended that. It hadn’t been just wounded soldiers. He’d healed her when he could just as easily have let her die. He’d found the reliquary. Why bother with her?

  Only one answer; he wasn’t the natural born killer he seemed.

  His brutality. Her loathing. His heroism. Her gratitude. So intertwined there was no way to untangle them that didn’t leave her more confused. She lurched from the bed. Paced the room in frustration. This see-sawing was driving her mad.

  Her eye fell to Mr. Porter’s pearl, now resting safely in a porcelain dish upon her dressing table, and an idea formed. Foolhardy. As reckless as anything Conor had done. But she needed to at least thank him for keeping her alive this far. She needed to say good night.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Conor slipped from shadow to shadow through the trees, not even the crack of a twig to mark his passing.

  He’d sensed the tremor across the wards hours earlier. Scanned the salon to see if anyone else felt the disturbance in the defensive field. Only Gram met his gaze, her sewing put aside, her chin up as if she listened for a sound that no one else could hear. She nodded once, and he rose. Slid away unnoticed. The hunt was on.