He couldn’t deny it, couldn’t fight it, couldn’t pretend it didn’t exist. He was in love with Isolde.
Concern touched her brow. “What’s wrong?” she asked quietly.
Though he wanted nothing more than to bask in sated satisfaction, he slowly eased himself from the depths of her warmth and rolled on to his back. Staring through the swaying branches, he focused on the blue sky and the wispy clouds overhead. He loved Isolde.
And for the life of him, he didn’t know how they could ever forge a life together. For starters, they both believed in drastically different things for Thomas. Beyond that, there was the business with Hatherly and the very real terror of opening himself up to losing someone the way he’d lost Camille.
“Angus, talk to me.” Isolde’s palm smoothed down his chest.
Before sense could temper his tongue, he blurted out, “I’m in love with you, Isolde, and I don’t know what to do about it.”
Her laugh held a tremor of nervousness. “Don’t. I don’t need pretty words. I know I remind you of—”
Rolling onto his side, he placed two fingertips over her mouth. “At times you do remind me of Camille. But I’m in love with you and you’re nothing like her.”
Isolde’s eyes went wide. Her lips moved beneath his fingers and protests bubbled in her throat.
“It’s true, Isolde, but I don’t know if I can…do this.” He dropped his hand and plucked at a blade of grass. More quietly, he added, “I need some time to think. I don’t think I can make you the promises you deserve.”
Knowing he had quite possibly damned himself more than ever before, Angus eased upright and slid into his shirt. He avoided making eye-contact with Isolde. Only a fool would tell a woman he loved her and then take it all away in the next sentence. But his emotions were so topsy-turvy, his sense of logic so mixed up he didn’t know which way to turn—whether to run for safety or rush back into her arms.
He didn’t wait for her to dress. Instead, he tugged on his trousers and quietly left the grove, his path direct, his stride full of false confidence.
Chapter Fourteen
The horizon glowed red-orange as the sun sank into the distant hills. Isolde stared at the splash of color, dimly aware of the chill that came with twilight. She’d dressed, but she hadn’t moved since Angus dropped his shocking confession and then vanished like he’d said nothing of significance.
Like he hadn’t given her heart wings only to send her plummeting to the earth without so much as a parachute. For an instant, she’d believed they might have a chance together. That she could confide in him and somehow, someway, they could overcome the curse and the danger that awaited her.
Foolish.
With a sigh, she shook her head and rubbed at the goose bumps on her arms. It was better this way—no promises, no commitments. Though her dark blood didn’t affect her like it did her siblings, the chaos still roiled within her soul. Even if Drandar didn’t pose a physical threat, the more involved with Angus she became, the more difficult it would become to control the despicable half of her spirit. Unable to find freedom with mortality, she would eventually have to leave Angus. Until they managed to eradicate her sire, she was doomed to this torment.
The wind gusted, swaying the drapery of branches. With the rush of cool air came a malevolent presence that snapped Isolde out of her thoughts. She squinted at the blue-grey walls of Hatherly, instincts on high alert. Drandar. Here.
Why?
Better yet—why wouldn’t he show himself? Did he hope to catch her off guard? Surely he knew her attunement to nature and goodness wouldn’t allow that to occur. Centuries ago, he’d chosen Nyamah for those very strengths. Her might equaled his, in opposite, and he had known their offspring would carry immense power. He had killed eight of his own children to absorb those very powers. He had attained enough familiarity with the lightness that ran in Isolde and her siblings’ veins to know she would sense his presence long before he metamorphasized into physical existence.
Cowardly bastard.
Muttering beneath her breath, Isolde picked up the scroll case and picked her way across the shallow water. She didn’t dare risk falling into some trap where Drandar distracted her and someone he’d influenced confiscated the spell. While she couldn’t execute the ritual, allowing it to fall into his hands would only insure he’d never be destroyed.
It wouldn’t harm things either to strengthen her personal wards.
She cut a quick path toward Hatherly’s rear entrance and let herself inside. The kitchens bustled with serving staff all hurrying to lay out the evening meal. Prime opportunity for her to pass unnoticed.
Keeping out of their way, she ducked into the hall and hurried to her room, where she shut the door, and for the first time in all her years at Hatherly, locked it. As she murmured ancient prayers of shielding, she laid the scroll case on the bottom shelf inside her wardrobe, tucked behind her half-unpacked bag. Between the heavy leather casing and the solid mahogany doors, the emanating power from the written words would remain contained inside, limiting Drandar’s ability to locate what fragments of magic he might have recognized.
But as she pushed the door shut, the energy surrounding her shifted. Her skin prickled as particles energized. Memories of the ancient ancestors blended with the natural elements, building until they formed a solid mass that made her heart swell. Smiling, she turned around.
“Mother.”
Nyamah’s ethereal form gathered near the foot of Isolde’s bed, her presence stronger than ever before. Long platinum hair, so like Isolde’s, draped around her shoulders to her waist, stirring gently with the agitated energies. The simple white shift she’d worn the night she had sacrificed her life now bore only faint stains where crimson had once splashed across her chest. As she beckoned Isolde to sit, the halo of power surrounding her shimmered.
“You are out of sorts, Daughter.”
Isolde dropped onto the edge of the mattress and fitted her hand into her mother’s otherworldly fingers. “Yes.”
A tender hand reached out to brush Isolde’s hair from her face. Her mother’s voice rang quietly. “You are not trusting the gifts I have given you. Your heart is free to love as it desires. I have even given you the scroll. Why do you fight this?”
Isolde glanced behind her mother, looking beyond the closed door and envisioning Angus as he might be—pacing his spacious room, brandy in one hand, his hair a wild mess from where he’d raked his fingers through it. She sighed. “I’m powerless as a mortal.”
“Are you truly?” Knowing glinted in her mother’s silvery eyes. Sacred secrets that she had long ago learned to listen to and Isolde had yet to hear with clarity. “Or does death make you stronger?”
As a rule, the riddled cryptic responses Nyamah had given Isolde throughout the centuries led Isolde to answers she inherently knew. This time, however, she couldn’t answer. Every waking minute she could remember had been devoted to honing her gifts, sharpening her lighter powers, staying unobtrusive until the day her strength became required. She had been born for the purpose of defeating Drandar. And for the life of her, she couldn’t fathom how she could succeed in a battle if she were susceptible to death.
“I don’t know,” she confessed in a tight whisper.
“You do.” Nyamah squeezed Isolde’s fingers before releasing her hand. As she lifted her arm, light glinted off a golden charm bracelet dangling around her wrist. She waved her free hand in front of the trinket, and the clasp released. The bracelet tumbled into Isolde’s lap.
“I have brought you a gift, Isolde.”
Isolde picked up the circlet of gold and squinted at the tiny icons dangling from the links. A tiny ruby and pearl hung alongside a book, a unicorn, a musical note, and a cruise ship. Cute, pretty, but nothing she held close to her heart. She flicked the bangles with a fingernail, comforted by the metallic tinkle. “What’s this?”
“It is as it appears—a charm bracelet.”
She resisted the ur
ge to roll her eyes. Sometimes her mother could be impossible.
As if she sensed her daughter’s urge, Nyamah let out a light laugh. She rose to her feet and pushed her long hair behind her shoulders. “Wear it tomorrow. Listen to the truths it reveals and see the shadows Angus Shaw has always sensed but will not acknowledge.”
Angus? Isolde blinked. But as she lifted her gaze from the charm bracelet to ask her mother of her meaning, Nyamah was gone. Only the faint scent of the myrrh that had burned the night of her murder lingered in the quieting atmosphere.
Isolde held the bracelet to the light with a frown. What in the world could this little trinket have to do with Beltane, Thornborough…or Angus? It held no energy. No lingering memories of whatever soul had owned it before. No nothing that would help Isolde identify the significance. Whatever stories it knew, her mother had silenced.
Frustrated by the entire afternoon, Isolde tossed it on her nightstand and ignored her rumbling stomach in favor of a hot relaxing bath. Once she cleared her head, she’d consider what guidance her mother offered.
Chapter Fifteen
Isolde awakened to the sound of her bedroom door creaking open. She wriggled upright in bed, confused by the dim grey light of early morning. The last thing she remembered was lying on her back, staring at the charm bracelet, waiting for divinity to strike. With the rustle of her covers, the door stopped moving.
“Hello?” As a splinter of anxiety pricked her spine, she squinted at the heavy wood.
“Isolde?” Thomas’s head peeked around the narrow opening. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I…” A bare foot poked out as he ground his toe into the thick rug. “I had a bad dream.”
“Come in.” Isolde adjusted the pillows behind her and propped herself up, making room for Thomas at the same time.
He traipsed inside in his pajamas. His hair poked out in different directions, and sleep weighed his features down. Yawning, he climbed onto the bed beside her and stuck his feet beneath the thick quilt. “Can I stay here for a little bit? I feel safe with you. Your room is safe.” He yawned again as he nestled against her side.
Fighting back the surge of emotion that rose with his affection, Isolde draped her arm around his slight shoulders. “Of course you can.” But why in the world was he here, as opposed to with his father? Because of their fight?
Unease crept through her veins. Instinct objected to the assumption Thomas was still angry with Angus. Something else upset him. A nightmare he believed her room protected him from.
She glanced around the chamber, her gaze pulling to the darker corners where she’d placed sage and basil just before she quit. Around her, she felt the protective shield of ancient Celt verse and incantation. Could he be sensing the same presence she recognized as Drandar?
“Thomas?” she asked quietly. “Tell me about your dream? Maybe I can help it not seem so scary.”
He gave a furious shake of his head and snuggled closer. Close enough that his sudden shudder vibrated into Isolde. She tightened the arm around his shoulders. “It’s okay, Thomas. It’s just a dream. Tell me what happens.”
“He’s chasing me.”
His words rang so soft Isolde had to strain to hear. When they connected with her brain, her stomach did a long slow roll. “Who?” she asked, afraid to hear the answer. “What’s he want?”
Every tiny muscle along the length of Thomas’s spine turned as rigid as brick. He said nothing for a heartbeat. Then, he rolled away, onto his opposite side, and curled into a fetal position, closing himself off from Isolde. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t.”
To her surprise, his vehement response carried undertones of irritation. He’d never been anything but polite to her, anything but warm and open. This attitude defied everything she knew about him, and she refused to let him wall himself off when he was clearly bothered by something.
Someone, an inner voice insisted.
Isolde laid her hand on his arm. “Thomas you know I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to, right?”
He nodded, but offered nothing else. Frustrated, she laid her head back on the headboard and repeated a silent prayer for patience. Pushing led nowhere. Yet there had to be a way to convince him to open up.
The mattress bounced as he sat up and withdrew his arm from beneath her spare pillow. In his fingers dangled the charm bracelet her mother had left behind.
“Where did you get this?”
His harsh tone made her draw back in surprise. She cleared her throat to mask her shock and forced a nonchalant chuckle. “That? It was given to me. I was looking at it when I fell asleep last night.” She eased the trinket from his hand and held it to the early morning light, admiring the way the golden trinkets shimmered. “It’s pretty, don’t you think?”
When Thomas failed to respond, Isolde’s gaze slid his way. He stared at the bracelet, eyes wide, his features unexplainably pale. “Thomas, what’s wrong?”
“My m—” His voice caught, and he visibly swallowed. “My mother…”
Concern gripped Isolde. She fisted the bracelet in her hand and reached across him to set it on the nightstand, then focused on his pasty expression. “Your mother, what?”
His licked his lips, as if finishing the thought required an immense amount of determination. “She was wearing it when—”
A sob strangled his words. He clambered out of the bed, across the room, and out the door, leaving Isolde to stare after him, stunned to the core of her being. It took only a fraction of a second for her mind to process what had just happened. In the next instant, Isolde leapt out of the bed and raced for the door. Her thoughts spun in rabid chaos. When she drowned? Angus had said Thomas witnessed her fall—nothing else could explain his irrational reaction.
Had her mother brought her Camille’s bracelet?
Isolde jogged down the quiet hallway to Thomas’s room. But when she tried the handle, she found it locked. Blowing out a hard breath, she rapped on the door. “Thomas, let me in. Talk to me. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Behind her, a door thumped shut. Startled, Isolde spun toward the sound. The sudden swivel, however, disrupted her balance, and she stumbled over her own feet. Her back hit Thomas’s closed door. But her gaze locked on Angus, freshly shaven and dressed for the day. Her heart fluttered.
He glanced at her, glanced at Thomas’s door, then furrowed his brow. “Is there a problem?”
“Ah…no.” She summoned a smile. Until she could convince Thomas to confide in her, she didn’t want to give Angus reason for concern. With his recent overbearing attitude toward his son, he was likely to ban her from speaking to Thomas entirely.
To her immense relief, Angus acquiesced with a short nod. “Then I trust you’ll be ready to leave for Thornborough within the hour? I thought we’d stop in Sheffield for breakfast. You must be hungry, since you missed dinner last night.”
Damn it. Were all their conversations going to be so stilted and awkward? They’d slept together. He’d told her how he felt. He’d explained he needed time. If he intended to treat her like a casual happenstance, she wanted nothing to do with Thornborough’s Beltane celebration. She’d rather stay here, alone, and perform a quiet, respectful ritual in the cellar. Unlike her sire, she didn’t require the heat of a bonfire or the raised power of a mass rite to feel like she had connected with the universe and honor the life the changing seasons would bring.
She brushed her hair away from her face and pushed past the morning’s events with the straightening of her spine. “I’ll be ready. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get dressed.”
Before Angus could draw the already uncomfortable conversation into a much longer, much more insubstantial encounter, she turned for her door.
“Isolde?”
Three steps down the hall, the uncertain echo of his voice drew her to a halt. She glanced over her shoulder to find him rooted in the same spot, a curious expression on his fa
ce. “Yes?” she asked warily.
****
Angus couldn’t speak. The words were clear enough. He knew what he wanted to say, and yet, the longer he looked at Isolde, the more his throat refused to cooperate. He had no explanation for why either. Countless times he’d seen Isolde at first light. Spoken to her nearly as many. But a moment ago, when she’d turned and walked away, all the answers he’d spent half the night searching for pummeled into him.
He could not live without Isolde at his side.
“Angus?” A touch of impatience fringed her voice.
Driven by sheer instinct, he strode to her side, clasped her by the wrist, and pulled her inside her bedroom. His heel connected with the door, sending it shut with a thud. At the same time, he caught her face between both palms and captured her mouth in a soulful kiss.
Surprise vibrated against his lips, but Isolde made no move to pull away. The tension drained from her rigid spine, and her body swayed into his. As it did each time he kissed her. That simple, genuine response brought immeasurable comfort to his tormented soul. In that instant, he knew he would do whatever it took to overcome their differences. So long as Isolde never left again.
He broke the kiss, pressed his forehead to her nose, and inhaled a shaky breath. “I was a fool yesterday. I don’t need to think. I need to feel.” He brushed his lips across her cheek. “I love you, Isolde. I can’t fight it. I don’t want to fight it.”
“Oh, Angus.” She looped her arms around his neck and melded her body against his. “I care for you so much, but there are so many obstacles between us.”
Nothing that they couldn’t resolve with compromise. He’d keep Hatherly if she would agree to send Thomas to Aysgarth. He could come home each weekend, each break, and he would still have the best schooling available. Hell, he could come home each evening, if it mattered that damn much.
Doomed to Torment Page 9
