Lost In You

by Alix Rickloff

He must have shown his surprise as he fell into a chair across from her.

  “Call it a mother’s gift.” She smiled. “And your grandmother’s nosiness. She told me what you were trying to find. And why.” She leaned forward, put out a hand. “Is there really no other way?” Just before she touched him, she withdrew, clearing her throat. “I’m sorry.” She took off her glasses, wiped them with a corner of her skirt. “You’re a grown man now, aren’t you? Well past a mother’s worry.” She disguised her obvious discomfort with a dismissive laugh as she settled the spectacles back on her nose.

  But it only illustrated how deep their estrangement was. How much separated them. Even now.

  “I anticipated your coming—eventually,” she said, her tone clipped and business-like.

  “I’ve been looking through the Book of Cenn Cruaich. The writer delved extensively into the witch, Carman’s attempted overthrow of the fey world.”

  “Have you found anything to help me?”

  “No. But did you know the sorceress, Bechuille, who imprisoned the Triad originally spent the last years of her life on the Isle of Man?”

  “I’ll be sure to tell Asher when I see him,” he mumbled. She raised her head. “What’s that?”

  He straightened. “I said that’s fascinating information,” he said, speaking louder.

  She shook her head, laughing, “Liar,” as she pushed a pile of parchment toward him.

  “Here. Begin with these. They’re earlier translations of poems discovered in the library at Clonkellin. Dense reading, but you never know what you’ll find if you suffer through.”

  The pages were damp. Mildew furred the corners and darker blotches of who knew what stuck parts of them together like glue. And the smell was incredible. Decay mixed with old shoes and urine.

  Where had his mother dug these stories up? Or was this her way of getting him to leave? Give him the filthiest manuscripts in the archives. See how fast he runs.

  Determined to both find the key to Asher’s imprisonment as well as show his mother she wouldn’t scare him away so easily, he pulled off the top piece of vellum, smoothed it out in front of him. Bent his head to the task.

  He never looked up, though he felt her eyes on him from time to time. He knew what he’d see within them if he did.

  Always close, he’d felt the distance when he’d come home right after Ysbel’s death. The grief in his mother’s face and the chill in her gaze when it rested on him had been as painful as any wound. To avoid it, he’d simply stayed away. He didn’t have to face the guilt that chewed at him. The disillusionment in his parents’ faces.

  He’d let them down. Ysbel’s death was his fault. The clock ticked away the hours. He read page after page. Gaping holes in the shelves where volumes had been now littered the tabletops, the floor. Neither had spoken. But with every minute gone and every entry read, his body wound tighter. His muscles twitched with impatience. His head throbbed with tension.

  It was as if Ysbel’s ghost sat at the table between them. Giving him a not so gentle elbow in the ribs. Screaming in his ear. Forcing him to confront his mother.

  The words started in his chest, clawed their way up his throat. “To answer your question,” he blurted out, “no. Unless I find something here,” he gestured at the mess piled around them, “there is no other way. And of course it’s your business.” Once he’d begun, it came easier. “I’ve probably never needed a mother’s worry more than I do now.”

  “Conor,” she whispered, her voice shaky with emotion.

  “My son. We’ll find a way. We must.”

  She sounded so sure in his success he didn’t have the courage to contradict her. She’d lost one child to Asher. If she needed this belief to hold the fear at bay, so be it.

  He began reading where he’d left off. But the air in the room was different. The mood broken by their confidences. The silence between them now brought comfort. Reassurance.

  This time it was his mother who spoke. “I know everyone says I’m lost in a world of books. That I don’t know what goes on around me half the time.” She paused as if he might argue. When he didn’t, she cleared her throat. Started again. “But I know what you think. What you’ve thought since word came of your sister’s killing.” Her voice was hesitant. “None of it was your fault.”

  He wouldn’t look up. Wouldn’t search out the truth in her eyes to find nothing but empty platitudes. That would hurt worse than the chilly indifference. He kept his eyes on the page.

  “I mourned her, Con. I hated Asher for sending me such pain. Hated Simon for his greed. Hated Glynnis for her weakness.” Her voice calmed. Steadied. “But I never hated you. Never blamed you.”

  His eyes swept up to meet hers. A soft honey brown that belied the steel behind them. He read real sorrow. Old griefs. New strengths. But no reproach. Her words spoke the truth. “You’re all I have. The only child left to me. And I will protect you as fiercely as a she-wolf.” This time when she leaned forward, she touched him. Ran her hand down his face. Patted his shoulder. “I only wish you’d come home earlier to hear me say it. It might have spared you a year’s worth of regrets.”

  The urge he’d felt pushing him toward this showdown eased. Almost as if Ysbel were sitting back, arms crossed, congratulating herself on a job well done. His gaze flicked to the empty chair. He gave it a lopsided watery smile before turning back to his mother. “As you said yourself—better late than never.”

  Ellery rambled the orchards, Mab sniffing ahead of her, tail waving like a flag as she searched the brush for game.

  She’d used the dog as an excuse to wander out here. Poor thing needed a run, she’d told the skeptical grooms as she’d urged the dog away from its dinner. What she really wanted was to get away from the apologetic glances and sheepish, awkward conversations that had marked her days since Conor’s confession. They probably wished she’d disappear and let them get back to their normal well-ordered life. Or throw herself on Conor’s dagger and end Asher once and for all. Not bloody likely. She was no hero. She liked living, thank you very much.

  Wind lifted the ribbons on her bonnet and chased her skirts around her ankles. A questing, churlish breeze that seemed to be seeking. Probing. For information. For weakness.

  She clutched her pelisse tight as the gusts licked over her before moving on. The sun shone no less brightly, but a shadow darkened the sky, made real the ominous threat hanging over them all.

  The jingle of harness pulled her heart into her throat. Had this ill breeze brought Simon with it? Was this her fault? A result of this crazy power Conor swore she had?

  She backed off the path, hoping stealth would allow her to get far enough away before she made a dash for the house. But Mab ran ahead, the old dog barking with joyful abandon. So much for stealth.

  “Miss Reskeen, isn’t it?” A man stepped from the trees, leading a leggy, gray gelding. In a stylish coat of bottle-green and buff breeches tucked into mirror-clean boots, she almost hadn’t recognized the officer from Glynnis’s funeral. The man Morgan was trying desperately to forget.

  Mab trotted beside him, her tongue lolling in a big doggie grin, her tail drumming against his leg. Some guard dog she turned out to be.

  She called Mab to her side, donning her best lady-of-the-manor reserve. “How do you know me, sir? We’ve never been properly introduced.”

  His smile turned a handsome face into something dangerously appealing. A fact of which he seemed all too aware. “No, we haven’t. But Mr. Bligh mentioned you when I was here last. A close family friend, I believe?”

  Family friend, indeed. That was putting more than a touch of rouge on the pig. She offered him a chilly smile. “You’ve been mentioned as well. Though the terms were far less complimentary. Rogue. Scoundrel. Libertine. Need I go on?”

  His smile vanished, his gaze going stone-hard. “At least she’s mentioned me. That’s something, isn’t it?” The horse tossed its head, pawed impatiently at the ground as if sensing its rider’s flicker of a
nger, and Mab’s gaze moved between the colonel and Ellery as if unsure who to favor. Then, tail straight, ears pricked, she turned and, barking, ran up the track. Around a bend.

  “Go home to your wife, Colonel Sinclair. You’re not welcome at Daggerfell. Surely you see that.”

  “Can you take a message to Morgan for me?” Before she could refuse, he continued.

  “Tell her I’m sorry she found out the way she did. Tell her I can explain.”

  “I’ve listened to the explanations of men all my life. Excuses is more like it. If you were worth having, you’d tell her yourself, or better still, leave her alone. You’ve hurt her enough.”

  He stiffened, his back parade ground straight, his chin set. “Thank you, Miss Reskeen for your help.”

  “I’m not trying to help you, Colonel Sinclair. I’m thinking only of Morgan.” She crossed her arms. “Good day,” she said, hoping he’d take the hint.

  Tipping his hat, he swung into the saddle, pulled his horse’s head around to follow Mab back through the trees and onto the track that led toward the village.

  Ellery watched him leave. Good riddance. He looked like the worst sort of officer. Proud. Impatient. Full of his own self-worth.

  She called for Mab, but the dog wouldn’t come. Following the sound of frenzied barking, Ellery rounded the trees. As she got closer, the yips and yowls grew shriller. More frantic. A snaky feeling made Ellery swallow hard. She started to run. Oh God, if something happened…

  At the far side of the trees, she slid to a stop. Sinclair had dismounted and tied off his horse. Beyond him, Mab still growled and snarled, her back bristling with viciousness.

  Ellery risked a look over his shoulder. Wished she hadn’t. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her breaths came short and quick as fear ricocheted through her like bullets.

  A corpse dangled by its neck from a low bough across the path. Dressed in black, a dagger had been thrust hilt-deep into its chest.

  The colonel approached it, nudged it with one hand so that it twisted back and forth, its head lolling at a grotesque angle.

  “Is it…” Her words wouldn’t come.

  “A dummy.” He reached up. Yanked the body to the ground.

  “Dressed to look human.”

  She shoved it with the toe of her boot. Flipped it onto its back so that its eerie painted stare grinned up at her. “No,” she whispered through chattering teeth. “Dressed to look like Conor.”

  Conor stood at the door, a hand on the knob. Ysbel’s chambers lay just beyond. This time there was no hesitation. He slid the bolt back, flung the door open. Stepped inside as if he’d been gone only hours and she’d be here waiting for him.

  Golden afternoon light from the diamond-paned windows splashed across the coverlet, climbed the sage-green walls, caught and clung to the dust that hung on the air. Her things still littered the mantel, the tabletops. Her bookshelves. But they’d been straightened and tidied. A sure sign that Ysbel no longer occupied the room. She’d been a complete mess.

  He sank onto the bed, ran his hand over the patterned quilt, tried to capture a hint of her scent. But there was nothing here. Her shade might linger, but Ysbel was gone. And not even Asher’s destruction would bring her back to him. He pulled the ring from his pocket, rolled it between his thumb and finger, watched the light flash over the gold. Fisting his hand over it, he dropped his head. His eyes burned as he shook with dry, wracking sobs. “I’m so sorry, Ysa. It’s my fault. All of it.”

  The answering warmth that flowed over him and around him soothed the tightness in his chest. Across his shoulders. But it was the subtle aroma of hedge rose and lavender that eased the bruising in his heart. It wreathed him like a cloud, and he knew she was there. And she forgave him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ellery wandered the upper gallery, pausing now and then to glance up at a portrait of a long-dead Bligh. Rain drummed on the eaves overhead, streamed down the long windows along the north wall.

  It was the eyes, she decided. In every instance, there was a quality about the eyes that marked them out as different, not quite human. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was. The shrewd, piercing stare, the almond, upturned slant, or the ethereal light of their gaze that burned from the canvases as if the subjects might step from their backgrounds and speak.

  Feeling a chilly draft from an open doorway, she glanced over her shoulder. Conor strode toward her, purpose in his step, decision in the set of his jaw. He was perfection and then some. The powerful muscled body, the sculpted arrogance of his face, and the eyes that glowed burnished bronze. Like the eyes in the paintings. The eyes of the fey.

  How could a man so vital just stop being? But she knew. She’d seen it too often in the hours and days after battle when men she’d spoken with, laughed with, ridden beside suddenly weren’t there. Erased.

  She swallowed around the hard lump in her throat. Tried not to remember the horrible, spine-chilling dummy in the woods. The effigy of Conor. Asher’s warning to them all that he waited and watched. That safety was a thing of the past.

  Thank God, Sinclair had been there. She’d been a gibbering idiot until he’d shaken her back to sanity. He’d demanded an explanation, but what could she say that didn’t make her sound as insane as she seemed? And so she fobbed him off with lame explanations until he’d given up and brought her home, handing her off to Lowenna with a grim face and a searching stare. Thank God it hadn’t been Morgan to meet them in the stable yard. That would have really fired up an already charged atmosphere.

  Now as Conor approached, she took hold of herself. It wasn’t murder she saw in his flint-hard gaze. But something equally significant.

  “I need to speak with you.” If he felt any lingering sense of guilt over his treachery, she couldn’t tell. He was as cocky as he’d ever been.

  “And if I don’t want to speak with you?”

  “Then you’ll listen.” He grabbed her by the arm, glaring down at her.

  “Or what? You’ll fry me with a look? Cleave me in two?” Her rage and fear exploded through her with the power of a gun shot. She tore away from him. “Drag me to the quoit and slam a dagger through my heart?” She couldn’t stop the words now. They came fast and furious and without thought. “You had your chance to talk, Conor. You had days to tell me what was going on. And you chose to lie. Lie and…worse…you pretended you cared. That we…” She choked back a sob. Refused to give him the satisfaction. Crossing her arms, she centered all her loathing in one level stare. “I don’t care how much magic you can wield. Where it counts, you’re all man. You’ll say anything—do anything to get what you want.”

  His jaw jumped. “I had an obligation. My mission was to stop Asher. It still is.”

  “Then complete your mission, and leave me the hell alone.” She wrapped herself in cold dignity. It was all she had left.

  “Not like this. You’re not running from this conversation—or from me.” The unbending will behind his words stopped her. “Do you know what I’ve been doing all day?” he asked.

  “I’ve been with Father, his lawyer, and the local bishop.”

  He paused, but she kept silent. Where was he going with this?

  “Marriage, Ellery,” he continued. “I want to marry you.” He slid his wolf-head ring off his finger. Took up her left hand and slipped the gold ring over her knuckle. “It’s too big. But it’ll do for now.”

  She should be trembling with joy. Giddy with a wild delight. And if it had happened days ago, she would have been. But not now. Not when the truth of Conor’s deception still battered her. She fingered the ring. Watched the flicker of light play over its snarling face. “Why?”

  “What do you mean why?” He stiffened as if confused at such a reaction. “My family will make sure you’re protected. Taken care of.”

  “And how do we get past the fact that I’m still damn mad at you? Not exactly the best way to begin a life together.”

  “Let’s face facts, Ellery. There
won’t be a life together. Even if I manage to find a way to defeat Asher, I won’t be coming back.”

  She clenched her teeth against the pain of those words, but that was all. Her throat ached with the effort of holding back. “You don’t know that.”

  His voice and gaze were solemn. “Yes. I do. So what do you say? Can you ignore the fact you want to kill me long enough to become my wife?”

  “It’s a generous offer.”

  His mouth twisted in a grim smile. “Don’t show so much enthusiasm.”

  A home. A family. She was pragmatic. And he was right.

  She had nowhere to go. Her house was in Mr. Porter’s hands. And no doubt he’d sold off anything of value that she’d abandoned. The funds left to her were meager, and she had few skills and no references that would allow her to get a job of any respectability.

  As things stood now, marriage to Conor was her best—and mayhap her only—option.

  “Very well, Conor,” she said finally, “I’ll marry you.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  Conor burst into the room, worry and fear sharpening his words.

  Ellery’s heart kicked into her throat at the thunderous boom of his voice, but Jamys and Gram remained unmoved as they bent over Morgan. Stitched up the ugly gash on her upper arm.

  “It’s all right, Conor,” Jamys explained without looking up.

  “She’s not got your gift for healing, but she’ll recover. We’re lucky it was a dagger strike and not a clawing or we’d have the worry of mage sickness on top of everything else.”

  “How did it happen?”

  Lowenna stretched and stood, wiping her hands on a towel.

  “She and I were returning from the village. The Keun Marow attacked at the bridge. Just at the western edge of the park.”

  Conor slammed his fist into his hand. “I’ve told you to stay within Daggerfell’s boundaries. It’s not safe. Especially at night. And after Ellery found that…well it’s not safe.”