Ignoring the grumble of passersby as they elbowed their way past him, he watched her ascend the steps. Stared at the closed front door for long minutes after as if willing her to come back and explain herself.
Damn it all to hell. What was she doing here? She was supposed to be in Glenlorgan. Closeted away behind a phalanx of High Danu bandraoi. Protected. Safe. Out of harm’s way.
Out of his way.
“Darling. You don’t know how glad I am to see you.”
Aunt Delia sailed down the wide marble stairs, enveloping Sabrina in a lavender-scented hug that left her gasping for breath, but steadied the uncertain whirl in her head she’d experienced climbing the front steps.
“We expected you days ago. I was certain you met with some terrible accident upon the road with no one but that odd little dwarf to act as your protector. Come along, and let’s sit for a nice chat. I’ve canceled all my calls this afternoon, so we have hours to catch up.”
She took her hand, dragging an overwhelmed Sabrina into a downstairs salon. Jane waving her ahead while she lagged behind.
“I don’t know what your brother was thinking in hiring such a county fair freak, but there you are. He doesn’t consult me. I’m only his aunt. Hardly family at all. And if it’s a choice between me and that woman . . .” She flitted a quick glance at Sabrina, who’d gone stiff at hearing her own unkind thoughts repeated by her aunt. “Ah, well”—she waved a heavily ringed hand—“if Kilronan wants to enter self-imposed exile by marrying a social pariah, who am I to stop him?”
The salon—like the woman—exuded over-the-top femininity. Cherubs erupted from every tabletop, side by side with statuary of nude, muscle-bound gods. Hothouse flowers scented the already perfumed air, and even the fire glowed with magically enhanced pink and purple flames.
Rendered speechless by the results of Aunt Delia’s idea of decor, Sabrina mumbled, “I’m sure Aidan doesn’t mean to slight you.”
Though now she was here, she could see why her brother might choose to consult with their aunt as infrequently as possible.
Again the droopy wave of a hand. “It’s not for me to complain. I merely do as I’m ordered. ‘Hire me a town house, Aunt Delia. Furnish and staff it, Aunt Delia.’ If it weren’t for Kilronan House being little more than a pile of rubble, I probably wouldn’t have heard from him at all.”
Sabrina cast another shocked glance at Aunt Delia’s nightmare idea of style. What on earth would Aidan say when he saw the results of his requests? “You’ve done . . . wonders,” she prevaricated. “The place is truly incredible.”
“Thank you, darling. You always were a sweet thing. Biddable. Not at all like your brothers. But that’s neither here nor there. Look how you’ve grown. The last time I saw you, you were sadly lacking in polish. But now”—she leaned back, taking Sabrina in with one long critical gaze—“you’re almost pretty.”
Sabrina had forgotten Aunt Delia’s fondness for hiding poison amid her praise. She smiled through gritted teeth.
“Yes, you’re quite improved in looks. I’m surprised. I would have thought the bandraoi would have dressed you in sackcloth and ashes with rope sandals on your feet.”
“Lady Kilronan was kind enough to send me these things.”
Her aunt raised a pair of painted-on brows. “Was she? I’ll give the woman credit. She’s got a certain subdued style some might call tasteful.”
Since Aunt Delia wore a patterned purple and yellow gown straining against her huge expanse of bosom and hip, Sabrina could only thank her lucky stars her sister-in-law had supplied her with a suitable wardrobe. Had she relied on her aunt for help, she’d end looking like a cross between a flower garden and a circus tent.
“Are my brother and his wife here?”
Please, say they’re here. She didn’t know how much longer she could endure this inquisition.
“No, darling. I received a letter this morning. They’ve been unavoidably detained, but will do everything in their power to arrive as soon as possible. I should hope so. I’ve already had to postpone my travel to Bray. I refuse to alter my plans again.”
Sabrina’s heart sank. She was to be trapped with only her aunt’s company for who knew how long? And here she’d worried she’d be stuck with the new Lady Kilronan. Bad enough in its own way. But this was shaping up to be far worse.
“Speaking of family, let me tell you the latest scandal.” Aunt Delia nestled in like a hen upon her nest. “Miss Rollins-Smith has vowed she’ll die a spinster rather than marry anyone but your cousin Jack.”
“But he’s dead.”
“Well, of course he is. And didn’t the famed O’Gara luck fail on that sorry occasion? Always knew he’d come to a sticky end. Unstable, he was. Rackety.”
Her aunt’s face shone with gruesome delight. Not even an attempt at a few crocodile tears for her sister’s son. Sabrina could only imagine Aunt Delia’s reaction to Aidan’s recent brush with mortality. Probably took bets on his recovery.
“The silly girl is just being dramatic,” she simpered. “Always was one for the grand gesture. She’s been wearing black since spring. Makes her look horribly sallow. And it’s not even as if your cousin and she were ever properly betrothed. A wish of his parents, but hardly a fait accompli. Anyway, after word came that Jack had been killed the girl suddenly went high tragedy on us. Acted as if they’d loved passionately from the cradle.” She leaned in, dropping her voice to a stage whisper. “Personally, I don’t think Jack O’Gara was capable of loving anything more than he did the bottle and his cards.”
She spoke as if imparting a long-suppressed family secret, ignoring the fact she’d been skewering the dearly departed for the last five minutes.
Sabrina hadn’t known Jack well. He’d been of an age with Aidan and Brendan and on his occasional visits to Belfoyle had ignored his shy younger girl-cousin. Not hard to do. She’d always been a little afraid of the tall, handsome boy with the clever tongue and a devil’s penchant for trouble. In response, she’d retreated to pale silence. Disappeared as soon as he entered a room. It was probable Jack hadn’t even remembered Aidan and Brendan had a sister.
But Aidan and he had been close. And her brother had taken Jack’s death hard. His letters over the summer had been full of self-recrimination and guilt. Though why he should feel responsible for Jack’s coach being attacked by highwaymen, she couldn’t fathom.
“Are you heeding me, Sabrina?”
She jerked back to attention. “I’m sorry, Aunt Delia. I suppose the journey has taken its toll.” She tried to look suitably fatigued.
Aunt Delia clucked her disapproval. “You always did have your poor mother’s constitution. It’s no wonder she wasted away after your father died. No spirit.” She heaved a bosom-jiggling sigh. “Well, if you’re fagged, I’ll ring a maid to show you to your room. And your companion—she’s properly behaved, I hope.”
“Miss Fletcher is a perfectly respectable barrister’s daughter, Aunt Delia.”
“Oh well, I suppose that’s all right then. Not exactly suitable company for the daughter of an earl, but no doubt you’re used to consorting with all sorts of rabble in that order of yours.”
She couldn’t wait to tell Jane she was rabble.
“I should have traveled myself to retrieve you, but I did have the house to complete, staff to hire, supplies to lay in, and there was a political dinner at Dublin Castle I simply had to attend. I was sure you’d understand.”
“I was quite well taken care of by Mr. Dixon.”
“Hmph. That dwarf. Another whim laid at the foot of that woman. I don’t know what Kilronan could have been thinking. The stories I’ve heard . . .” And on the same complaint that had begun this conversation, Sabrina departed in search of Jane.
“Bloom has just ridden in, sir. He says he brings good news.”
“Bring him to me immediately.” Hiding his heart’s leap of excitement behind a heavy-lidded gaze, Máelodor closed the crumbling vellum pages illustrating Arthur
’s last battle. The final moments of a king brought down by treachery and betrayal depicted in medieval monkish artistry. The Other’s golden age destroyed through one traitorous son’s fiendish plotting.
A story repeated in gory detail seven years ago. Brendan Douglas’s deceit ending in the murder of his father by the Amhas-draoi, the destruction of the Nine, and all they’d striven for with one diabolical action.
But soon all Douglas’s treachery would be for naught.
Lazarus had obtained the Kilronan diary. Its secrets revealed to one who could break the warding spells and translate the mysterious language.
And now Bloom arrived with the Rywlkoth Tapestry; the map to Arthur’s secret tomb.
Only the stone known as the Sh’vad Tual remained unaccounted for. The key to opening the tomb. Recovering the bones of the Other’s sacred king.
Secreted away by Brendan Douglas in the final weeks before the Amhas-draoi assault, the stone would only be found with his assistance—willing or unwilling.
And if all went as planned, soon he—like the diary and the tapestry—would be in Máelodor’s possession.
His body simmered with violent arousal as he pictured the breaking of Brendan Douglas. He hoped the man begged. Wept. Pleaded for mercy then death.
Despair fed Máelodor’s appetites as no woman ever had.
And it had been too long since he’d partaken of either pleasure.
He couldn’t wait.
A peremptory knock and his man entered. “Mr. Bloom, sir.” He motioned in a travel-spattered gentleman muffled in greatcoat and hat, and still muddy from days on the road. Closed the door silently on his way out.
Máelodor lifted a stern face and ceremonial hand to the newcomer. “I assume your return means you’ve been successful.”
“I have, Great One.” He dipped a hand into the lining of his coat. Withdrew a rolled piece of cloth. Handed it over, barely concealing the smug conceit of his success.
Máelodor took it. Untied the ribbon. Spread the tapestry out upon the table.
“It was just where you said it would be,” Bloom explained. “With the bandraoi at Glenlorgan.”
The fibers that had once been white now held the stains of centuries. Rust-brown in spots. Other places faded to dull yellow and gray splotches. One corner was damaged, the threads torn and frayed. But the images depicted remained vibrant and alive.
A scene rendered in beautiful shades of crimson, gold, royal blue, and emerald green. A litter borne by six attendants in heavy armor, their helmets raised, their heads bowed in grief. A line of veiled followers trailing behind, also bent with weeping. One had fallen to his knees. Another paused to give comfort. Ahead a tomb’s maw within a rock face. One of the same gray-veiled figures stood beside the open cave. Arms lifted high to where a star rendered in a deep blue shone down upon the litter.
Exquisite detail. Artistically brought to life by the ancient hands that had embroidered it. A priceless artifact of Other antiquity.
He closed his hand on the coarse linen. Threw the whole into the fire. And turned his full wrath on the man standing frozen and horrified. “You fool! You wormy son of a bastard’s whore. You’ve brought me the wrong tapestry!”
The cathedral brooded against the overcast sky, or perhaps it was merely sulking, surrounded as it was by the helter-skelter of dirty alleys and squalid tenements. A breeze tugged at Sabrina’s bonnet and twitched at her skirts as she crossed the muddy grounds to the entrance in company with the rest of Aunt Delia’s sightseeing party.
Up ahead, the Misses Trimble walked arm in arm with the gentlemen invited to make up the rest of the group. The trio of giggly sisters batted, sashayed, and simpered like seasoned campaigners. Generals knew less of strategy and tactics than these young women. The men didn’t stand a chance.
Aunt Delia shepherded her charges inside, a harried young man in moth-nibbled coat and much-darned stockings rushing to meet them.
“Mr. Munsy has kindly agreed to show us around,” Aunt Delia chirped. “Wasn’t that nice of him?”
The young curate bowed and smiled.
The sisters giggled.
Sabrina rolled her eyes and tried to pretend she didn’t know any of them.
The group followed the proud oratory of the flustered curate whose booming voice seemed incompatible with his scarecrow gawkiness. “. . . built originally by the Danes . . .”
Glenlorgan’s simple chapel couldn’t compare to the grandiosity of the cathedral, but the smells were similar. Candle wax, incense, and wet wool. So too was the serenity that comes of great age and great faith. The mind-clearing clarity infusing the very air. They wrapped around Sabrina like a comforting blanket or a parent’s hug. Lifted her burdens of uncertainty, anxiety, and Aunt Delia’s incessant prickly chatter. Strengthened her determination to return to the order as soon as possible. Aidan would not win. Not on this. She was not the submissive child of his memory, and she refused to be pushed about like a pawn on a chess board.
“. . . oldest building in Dublin . . .”
Above her, choristers practiced their scales to a violin’s scratchy accompaniment.
“. . . the Welsh-Norman Strongbow . . .”
“I believe our enthusiastic tour guide plans a test at the end of his lecture.”
Sabrina flashed a startled look at the gentleman who’d stepped up silently beside her. Tall and lean with an icy crispness, from his wheat-gold hair to the diamond-encrusted fob hanging from his waistcoat pocket, Mr. St. John oozed elegance and wealth from every pore. How on earth had Aunt Delia managed to convince him to join their sightseeing party? And how had the Trimbles let him escape?
“I’m afraid he’ll be sorely disappointed in his pupils.” She cast her eyes over the bored-looking group. “They don’t seem terribly interested, do they?”
St. John motioned toward Jane. “Miss Fletcher seems riveted.”
He was right. Jane hung on Mr. Munsy’s every word. He blushed his appreciation and doubled his speech-making efforts. Now with arm gestures.
“Unfortunately for the curate, it’s sympathy rather than interest,” she explained ruefully. “The less the others attend to him, the more Jane will. She hates anyone to feel slighted.”
“An admirable quality in a young lady. But I’m sure you’re just as endowed with similar gifts.”
Did he give her a certain look when he spoke? His smile a bit brighter? His eyes a bit sharper? Was that last pause a beat too long? What did he mean by “gifts”? Did he seek to discover if she was Other? Was he merely being polite? Was she being overly suspicious?
She mumbled a response, praying it satisfied him and he’d return to the group, which had made it halfway up the nave and were now admiring the gothic architecture and learning which bits dated to when.
Unfortunately he took her arm, forcing her to accompany him as he strolled. Perfect—now she had to come up with chitchat. She detested chitchat. And his touch was cold even through the sleeve of her pelisse.
She scrambled for anything to fill the awful, awkward silence. “Have you lived in Dublin long, sir?”
“Since early spring. But I hear you’re newly arrived. How are you liking the city’s delights thus far?”
Nothing intrusive about that. Perhaps she imagined her misgivings.
“To be honest, I’m still gaining my sea legs as it were.” She tried catching Jane’s eye, giving the universal sign for Help, reinforcements needed. No luck.
“Your aunt mentioned your brother and his wife are due to arrive soon.” He leaned in, pressing her elbow. Another cool touch sending shivers up her arm. “Lord Kilronan’s unexpected marriage put quite a few pretty little noses out of joint.” His gaze passed over the giggling Trimbles.
She stiffened, withdrawing her hand. Flashing him a dangerous look. “Odd. They never cared overmuch for his attentions when he stood on the brink of financial ruin.”
He smiled a mouth full of shiny teeth. “I took you for a little sparrow, but
you’ve the courage of an eagle. I wish my sisters were as quick to defend me against my enemies.”
Feeling a fool now for overreacting—and after all Aidan hardly needed her protection—she made overt gestures behind her back with her guidebook. “I apologize for losing my temper.” Cleared her throat dramatically. “I shouldn’t have implied . . . I mean . . .” Coughed loudly and repeatedly. “Kilronan hardly needs my assistance. He’s quite able to defend himself.”
Jane remained engrossed by Mr. Munsy.
St. John, on the other hand, was eying her with alarm. “Are you quite all right, Lady Sabrina? Perhaps a drink? Let me find you one.”
He set off in search of water, giving her the opportunity to dive into the nearest stall. Peeking around a column, she smiled when St. John became ensnared by the youngest and sauciest Trimble, who seemed in no hurry to release her prize. He glanced back once. Frowned at the empty spot where Sabrina had been before he was led off by a determined Trimble. The whole group headed toward the stairs leading down to the crypt.
The curate’s voice rose above the chorister’s growing rehearsal. “. . . dating from the twelfth century . . .”
The Trimble girls gave a chorus of frightened giggles—what else?—and the whole lot of them disappeared.
Finally.
Sliding into a pew, she sought to recover her lost peace. Push aside the embarrassing conversation with Mr. St. John. No doubt her entire stay in the city would be made up of similar humiliating inanities.
After so many years with the bandraoi, she’d forgotten the hustle and hazards of the outside world. The constant jostling and noise. The overt, curious stares and the din of raised voices. Already the unceasing barrage of unfiltered emotion battered her mind. Washed against her brain like a steady lapping tide. A few moments to herself was bliss.
The choir began low and uncertain before rising in strength and numbers. A soaring celebration that the stone of the cathedral gathered and spread until the rhythm swam up through the soles of her boots. Hummed along her bones. Filled her head with sound and light and melody and bass. One voice rose above the others. A clear vivid soprano.
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