Lord of Shadows

by Alix Rickloff

  She hated to admit it, but she found her leisure a wonderful respite. It made her recall the relaxed boredom of her life as it had been before her withdrawal into the order. A freedom she hadn’t appreciated.

  “No, perhaps the lilac with that lovely gold overskirt and the lace up the sides.” Aunt Delia’s indecision floated between the walls. “When you’re done here, see to Lady Sabrina. I want to be sure she stands out. She’s such a mousy little thing.”

  Sabrina grimaced at the sobriquet. What was so wrong with mousy? And why stand out if she planned on returning to Glenlorgan by June? She knew why. And it all went back to Aidan’s letter. Things to discuss. Whom was she fooling? She knew what he wanted. Her sparkling debut into Society followed by an advantageous marriage to some proper peer with deep pockets and a respectable reputation. Both assets the Douglases of Kilronan had lacked for longer years than she could count.

  She was to be Aidan’s latest throw of the dice.

  Or so he thought.

  A knock brought her from that rebellious line of thinking.

  Oh no. Aunt Delia’s maid come to work miracles.

  “May I come in?” Jane poked her head around the door.

  Sabrina sat up, smoothing her face into a calm smile.

  “Nice try, but you’re picking your fingernails. And the mulish set to your chin is showing.” A shawl clutched to her shoulders, Jane took a chair by the fire. “What’s wrong?”

  Hiding her hands in the folds of her skirt, Sabrina let her expression relax back into a frown with a sigh of relief. “If I’m not careful Aidan and Aunt Delia will have me married off to Sir Moneybags Stiff-and-Boring before summer’s end. Farewell to my life with the bandraoi.”

  Jane stretched her feet to the hearth. “Surely Kilronan won’t stand in the way of your return to Glenlorgan. Not if you show him it’s what you really want.”

  Sabrina snorted her doubt, her gaze falling once more on the brooding Welsh history.

  Jane caught the track of her gaze. Lifted an eyebrow. “It is what you really want, isn’t it?”

  Sabrina bristled. “Of course. Haven’t I always said so?”

  “Yes, but you also used to fill the school dormitory with tales of princes and princesses. Stamping chargers. Wicked villains. Romance and derring-do and happily ever afters.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Perhaps—just perhaps, mind you—you’re thinking you may have stumbled on your own once upon a time.” Her face reddened, or were her cheeks flushed already?

  Sabrina threw herself out of bed. Crossed to the desk, grabbing up the book. Shoved it into a drawer where it couldn’t stare at her. Leaned against the desk confronting Jane with grim resolve. “It doesn’t matter. Daigh MacLir is not my happy ever after. He’s not mine to want.”

  “He followed you to Dublin.”

  “No. He fled Glenlorgan and happened on me in Dublin. That’s different.”

  “Remember once you said—”

  Sabrina wouldn’t let her finish. It was too humiliating. “Only too vividly. Don’t bring it up. It was silly and ludicrous. Fate, destiny, even love at first sight aren’t real.”

  It was Jane’s turn to look stubborn. “If you say so. We won’t speak of it again.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But has he kissed you?” Jane grinned, a naughty twinkle in her eyes.

  “Jane!”

  “Very well.” She sighed. “If you don’t want to discuss Daigh MacLir, we’ll speak of Kilronan’s intentions. If you’re so alarmed, what do you propose to do?”

  “I don’t know yet.” She caught herself gnawing the edge of her finger. Swiped it behind her back before Jane could reproof her. “But if Aidan wants a fight, Aidan shall have one. I’m not as docile as he remembers.”

  Jane giggled. “Ard-siúr was right. Setting you loose has done wonders for your confidence. And your stubbornness.”

  “Ard-siúr spoke to you about me?” She wasn’t sure whether she was pleased or annoyed.

  “Only to say if you came back to us, you’d be twice the priestess you would have been had you never left at all.”

  “Did she now?” Sabrina’s back went stiff as she pushed off from the desk. “I’ll show her then. Twice and thrice the best.”

  “And Daigh?”

  “You weren’t going to discuss him.” Disappointment lodged deep within her chest. A hard, cold rock that seemed to expand until all of her felt weighted and achy. “He’s not my future.” She thought of his certainty. His intense near anger as he swore he knew her. She was his dream. But it couldn’t be. No matter how much her heart began wishing it were so. “And no matter what he says, I’m not his past.”

  The musicians struck up a jaunty Scotch reel. Couples forming while Sabrina watched from her place hidden behind an entire grove of potted palms.

  Aunt Delia had wandered away shortly after their arrival at the ball. A welcome respite. She’d spewed her poison praise during the entire carriage ride and only subsided upon stepping into the marbled entry hall of Sir Lionel Halliwell’s home at which time she became all that was charming and urbane. Her final parting shot as the powdered footman handed them down to the pavement outside the town house, “Never fret. You’ll be fine, darlings. There’s always a few simpletons just arrived in town in need of partners for the dancing.”

  Sabrina answered with a proper smile and thereafter began her subtle drift toward the nearest stand of greenery. Pausing to down restorative clarets at every tray-bearing servant’s pass.

  The music began. Ravishing in a gown of cream silk with her beautiful red hair piled expertly atop her head, Jane stood opposite a paragon of masculinity in full scarlet regimentals who’d begged a dance within moments of their arrival.

  Sabrina had received no such invitation much to her aunt’s chagrin and her own relief. She couldn’t imagine trying to conduct small talk while keeping to the steps of the dance. It had been too many years since dancing lessons at Belfoyle. And she hadn’t been all that proficient then.

  Ahh well. At least here she needed all her energy to keep from making a fool of herself, while if she were at home, she would not be reading her history of Wales, not imagining Daigh as a six-hundred-year-old armored warrior—despite the pleasing picture a battle-armored Daigh made—not thinking of his heated, black gaze locked on hers, and definitely not reliving their one and only kiss that still sizzled her insides like a torch.

  Dancers moved in precise pairs. Locked eyes. Spun. Joined hands.

  What would it be like to have him kiss her again? Or to have his arms around her? His hands upon her . . .

  She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. What was happening to her? What was it about Daigh that turned her inside out?

  She’d always been drawn to the wounded even as a child. The bird with a broken wing, the cat teased by the gardener’s sons, the dog with the bony ribs and imploring eyes that followed her home. All of them had found a place in her heart. And was Daigh so different? The haunted desperation at the edges of his gaze? The grim intensity in his muscled frame? The misery etched into the sharp angles of his face?

  Was he simply her latest stray?

  Men and women moved in rhythm and time. Closed and separated. Hands clasped then released with a smile.

  She swallowed the last of her claret. Searched the room for a convenient servant with a refill. Stiffened at the familiar smiling sophistication of Mr. St. John. He and her aunt chatting and peering at her from across the room with twin looks of delight.

  Their differences could not have stood out more. Mr. St. John’s stark black and white elegance in blazing contrast with her aunt’s ghastly lilac and gold gown.

  “There you are, darling,” Aunt Delia cooed as she pushed her way into Sabrina’s grotto. “What on earth are you doing skulking in the bushes? I told you in the carriage not to worry. The powder does a fabulous job of concealing your spot.”

  What was the punishment for auntricide? Any
magistrate who knew Aunt Delia would probably let Sabrina off with a medal for exemplary conduct.

  “If only your gown was as inconspicuous,” she muttered into her fan.

  She glanced out at the crowds jockeying for the next set. Jane had already been claimed by a consumptive-looking gentleman who gazed upon her with melancholy eyes.

  Where were those servants with the claret when she needed it?

  Aunt Delia tugged Mr. St. John forward. “Look who I found loitering about in the card room. You remember Mr. St. John from our outing to the cathedral.”

  “It’s a pleasure, Lady Sabrina.” He sketched a bow with ballerina grace. Took her hand, offering her an air kiss. His touch as cold as ever. A shame his gaze wasn’t. It rested on her bosom with warmth enough to bring an unwelcome crawl to her skin. “I just told your aunt how I’d hoped to get a chance to see once more the most beautiful woman in Dublin.”

  Daigh had warned her to beware of this man. To stay as far away from him as possible. Trying not to be too obvious, she slid her fingers away and adjusted the wisp of silk that passed for a shawl more firmly over her cleavage. “My aunt has always been considered a diamond of the first water. I’m sure she was flattered.”

  Aunt Delia giggled into her handkerchief while a flicker of displeasure passed over St. John’s features before the placid smile returned. “But you’re family. And as such the resemblance is striking. Same luminous eyes.”

  Aunt Delia’s seemed to have been tinted amethyst for this occasion.

  “Same shimmering hair.”

  Her aunt’s shocking pink and curled into girlish ringlets.

  “Same lithesome body.”

  Aunt Delia hadn’t been lithesome since the last century. If then.

  “Two great beauties. And I have the pleasure of both of you to myself.”

  The man was either a consummate liar or bat-blind.

  “Oh, there’s Lady Townsend.” Her aunt interrupted by waving madly across the room to a skeletal female in a dark blue gown, saving Sabrina from trying to fill the sudden awkward silence with a sparkling witticism. Which was good because her mind had gone completely blank. “Has she lost weight? She looks positively sickly, poor dear. I better go deliver my sympathies.” Aunt Delia jiggled her delight. “I’m sure I can trust you, Mr. St. John, not to take advantage of my niece’s naiveté while I’m gone.”

  “Complete discretion, madam.” He sketched another gallant bow that had Aunt Delia batting him with her fan and tittering.

  She bounced away with a sway to her backside that drew every man in the room’s eye. Only Mr. St. John seemed impervious. His attention rested solely and uncomfortably on Sabrina. “Has your anticipated reunion with your brother happened yet? At our last meeting you seemed quite keen on his arrival.”

  Had she? She couldn’t recall, but she would hardly reveal to him how un-keen she was to see the brother who’d ordered her here against her will. “I’m afraid Kilronan’s been delayed.” She plucked a drink from a passing tray. Dutch courage when all her instincts—and Daigh—warned her to avoid St. John.

  “A shame, but perhaps your other brother is taking your mind off His Lordship’s continued absence.” His eyes gleamed like pale glassy marbles.

  She nearly choked as flames chewed their way down her esophagus. Good heavens. Had that been brandy? “My other brother?” she sputtered.

  “The gentleman I saw you in company with at the cathedral?” He smiled with concern as if he’d caught her in an indiscretion. “I hope I’m not being intrusive. I didn’t get a good look at him, but you seemed very close.”

  “Oh.” She held her breath. Took a second time-buying swallow of the hell-broth. It hit her stomach with a thud. “That wasn’t a brother. It was a . . . a cousin. My cousin Jack.”

  “Would that be Jack O’Gara?” he asked, maneuvering her deeper into the palms. Behind a column and farther from the eyes of the other guests. Every Lothario move down pat.

  “You know him?”

  Again that toothy Cheshire grin. “Only by reputation.”

  She resorted to her fan. Snapping it up and open. A curtain wall between herself and this daring scoundrel’s practiced seduction.

  “Yes, well, he was very sorry he couldn’t stay and be properly introduced.”

  He swirled the wine in his glass round and round. Watched her over the rim. “I’m sure he was.”

  She went from stiff to paralyzed. Oh lord, why had she used Jack’s name? He probably knew of Jack’s death. She’d be caught in a lie and have to explain herself. Humiliating, and, if Daigh was right, dangerous.

  Flapping her fan nervously while reaching out with her mind, she sought to catch any hint of his thoughts. Like hitting a wall, she came up against a consciousness shut and barred to any intrusion. She pushed deeper, but met only a frozen, slick emptiness. A burn like ice. Breaking contact, she fell back into herself with a dizzy lurch and a flush of heat staining her cheeks. This man was expertly trained. No cracks through which she might steal a thought.

  “The refreshments are quite potent tonight,” he said, taking the empty brandy tumbler from her hand to place it on a low table nearby. “You might like to switch to lemonade instead.”

  His eyes sparkled, a keenness to his sweet face. Had he felt her mental touch? Was he now laughing at her failure?

  Her mouth went dry, the room suddenly stuffy and over warm. Her gown seemed to cling, her stays to bite into her ribs. She tried inhaling, but the hot, sour odors of warring perfumes and sweat and alcohol all combined to turn her stomach and thicken her brain. She squinted, trying to focus at the now-wavering face of St. John. Was she drunk? She hadn’t had that many glasses, had she?

  “Perhaps lemonade would be best. I don’t feel quite right somehow.” She glanced about her for a bench or a chair. Somewhere to sit and collect herself, but no one had thought to place seats in this out-of-the-way corner. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to find a quiet place to catch my breath.”

  But he wouldn’t let her escape. He took her hand. Led her toward an even more secluded alcove. “I’m sure your aunt wouldn’t want you left alone if you’re unwell.”

  “She won’t be alone.”

  She and St. John went rigid in unison. His hand closing around hers until she winced. His ring cutting into her fingers.

  The room wavered and spun, the floor dropping from under her, the walls bleeding into a smoke-filled hall full of low, confused voices. Men and women moved like wraiths, their eyes weary, their bodies crouched and distressed. He stood just beyond the firelight. She knew his stance, the cock of his head, the quiet intensity behind every gesture no matter how slight. He stood amid a crowd of rough-looking men dressed as if they’d only arrived. Mud-spattered. Breathing hard. For a moment he looked her way, the flames’ flicker dancing across his eyes. His gaze sharpened on her face.

  With a crack like thunder, the world settled back into its usual shape, leaving her sick and dizzy but clearheaded enough to recognize the colossus blocking their path.

  Daigh: dark, gorgeous, and absolutely ablaze. His gaze threatened to torch her to cinders, the glare he settled on Mr. St. John even more deadly.

  St. John never even flinched. His smile was if anything more brilliant. His eyes gleaming with almost fiendish excitement as his hand slipped from Sabrina’s. And he stepped back with a flourish of surrender. “I see, sir, that you missed your ship.”

  “Did he hurt you? Tell me, Sabrina, I’ll rip his head off and stuff it down his neck.”

  Daigh’s gaze and hands ran over her as if seeking reassurance she was in one piece and breathing.

  An unsettling heat flooded her, and she stepped out of reach. Tipped her chin to meet him eye to eye. She must put the proper distance between them, especially after her outrageous impetuosity of their last meeting. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came looking for you.” He darted a glance across the room to the back of a tall, slender woman in wine-red
silk and gold-lined pelisse. Went stone-still and narrow-eyed. Turned his attention back to Sabrina. “We need to speak.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he took her elbow, the heat of him warming every place St. John’s arctic touch had chilled. Steered her deeper into the foliage. Out the back of the alcove. Down a corridor. Up a small flight of stairs. And through a pair of French doors to a terrace that opened onto a tiny pleasure garden. Or what would be a pleasure garden in spring and summer. In December, it was more like an icehouse. Rain had frozen onto every surface to create a crystal-encased landscape. Lights from the windows sparkled against the bushes and trees and paths. Golden pools shimmered across the lawn. Music and the rumble of conversation floated on a cool breeze.

  If she weren’t freezing, she’d have been enchanted.

  “You’re shivering.” Daigh shrugged out of his coat. Draped it over her shoulders. Buttoned her into it like one would a small child. Though she couldn’t recall a single instance of either of her parents ever performing such a simple yet caring gesture.

  It draped almost to her knees, and she burrowed into the warmth, inhaling wool and claret and soap and man until she grew dizzy on it. Fresh air mixed with Daigh working to muddle her already tipsy brain rather than clear it.

  Shaking off her befuddlement, she drew herself up. “What are you thinking? Accosting me in a ballroom? Dragging me out here alone?”

  “It was that or allow St. John to finagle his way into your confidence. I warned you. Stay away—”

  “What did you intend for me to do? Give him the cut direct? I don’t even know why I’m avoiding him.”

  “Because I told you to isn’t enough?”

  She gave him a what-do-you-think? stare. Was relieved to see the tamped rage diminish and even a spark of amusement flash in his dark eyes. “Women haven’t changed much in six hundred years. Still pig-stubborn.”