Earl of Darkness

by Alix Rickloff

With a clang, Daz tossed the poker on the hearth bricks. Tore his gaze from the fire with a shivering groan before stumbling toward the door. Dropping the stone where it rolled unheeded under a table.

  As if she’d been eavesdropping, the housekeeper stepped into Daz’s path. Took him roughly by the shoulder in a comforting embrace. Whispered soothing words too quiet to hear before stinging Aidan with a look of reproach. “You’ve upset him. You and your badgering questions.”

  “I need to know,” he persisted. “There’s someone out there hunting for this diary who—”

  She spat her disgust. “Can’t you see what your questions do? How the memories hurt him? Leave it be. What’s done is done. The Nine are gone. Let’s leave it that way.” With her arms firmly around Daz’s hunched shoulders, she began guiding him out of the room.

  “Are you so sure?” he shouted after her. “Or does one still live who seeks to begin the madness all over again?”

  And the gods help him, he didn’t want to even think it—was it Brendan?

  The man’s a blasted magpie.

  Cat stared around her bedchamber, hands on hips and jaw set against the curses knotting her throat.

  Crates and barrels. Trunks and bags. Piles of books and bundles of magazines and newspapers. Broken tables. Straight-backed chairs in need of recaning and armchairs with torn cushions. A suit of rusted armor complete with a deadly looking pike standing at attention in the corner.

  The bed rose up from this sea of refuse like a small island of tidiness. Fresh sheets. Clean coverlet. Pillows plumped. And a basin and ewer on the only unbroken table in the room.

  At least Maude had tried.

  Shedding her cloak on the nearest pile, Cat threaded her way through the jumble. Crawled up into bed, enjoying the idea of not having to rise before dawn for another day in the saddle. By now, every bone felt shaken out of place and she’d discovered muscles she never knew she had. All of them sore.

  She closed her eyes, but the disturbing image of William Danvers and Aidan in close conversation swam up to jolt her alert. What had that blasted tattle merchant said? Aidan had never again brought it up, his silence more unnerving than any confrontation. At least if he accused, she could defend. But how could one fight back against an attack that never came?

  Her shredded nerves had frayed to the point where she almost wanted Aidan to ask. Jeremy had shown himself to be unworthy of her loyalty and speaking of her son might shore up frayed memories—allay the fear she harbored that one day she’d wake and recall nothing of his face or his smell or his cry. And he’d truly be gone.

  But would Aidan look upon her child as gift or sin? Her loss of maidenhead as a sordid crime or the naiveté of a young woman in what she thought was love? And why did it matter to her what he thought? He was all but betrothed to Miss Osborne.

  Her mind too full for sleep, she rose. Pushed through the mess to rifle among the cast-off treasures. An Indian silk scarf from one trunk. A cache of gaudy necklaces from a chest with two missing drawers. A gold-framed miniature depicting a young boy with dark hair and sad eyes.

  The pile of books she left for last. Works by Swift and Richardson. A travelogue of India by John Henry Grose. Two books of sermons written by a pair of Erskines: Ralph and Ebenezer. Any relation?

  But here was something interesting. Midway through the pile. A slender volume in red leather. Loose papers stuffed willy-nilly among the pages. Cracking open the stiff binding, she thumbed through. Taking only moments to recognize the familiar diatribe of Other persecution and victimization at the hands of the Duinedon. The need for action on the part of the faithful before it was too late. She flipped to the flyleaf.

  Máelodor. The author of the book on Unseelie.

  A torn page slid free. Drifted toward the floor before she snatched it back. Scanned it, her fingers trembling the paper, a knot forming in her throat. The ever-shifting currents of language. The slow uncurling of each thought as she sought meaning among the swooping shift and eddy of each letter. Exactly like the diary.

  She focused, letting the amorphous words and images harden within her head. Every sentence making the next come easier. Faster: “The tapestry is safely hidden, and Brendan’s left with the stone.” She jumped lower on the page. “If my suspicions are correct, they’ll be here before the week is out . . . time to prepare if not time to escape. I write this to you as a warning and a farewell.”

  Down to the scrawled “K” of the signature.

  And back to the top.

  Not meant for Ahern at all.

  This letter was addressed to Máelodor.

  Cat’s brisk knock echoed up and down the empty corridor.

  No answer.

  She lifted a hand to knock again just as the door was flung open by a rumpled Aidan in his stocking feet, shrugging into his waistcoat. Neckcloth askew. “What the devil—oh, it’s you.”

  “Good morning to you too.” She didn’t wait for an invitation. She’d been sitting on her news since last night. Passed sleepless hours as a consequence. It was Aidan’s turn to worry. “I’ve found something I think you should see.”

  “Do come in,” he offered, a smile hovering at the edges of his mouth. He bowed her into a bedchamber as cluttered as hers. Removed a tarnished silver set from a chair and motioned her to sit. “I apologize for the mess.”

  “Never mind that.”

  Picking her way through the piles, she averted her eyes from the unmade bed. Reprimanded herself for the images flashing through her lascivious little head. Shameless, that was what she was. Shameless and pathetic. She’d seen the kind of woman destined for the Earl of Kilronan—beautiful, elegant, virginal. If he looked at Cat it was only as a snack to hold him over until he could savor the main meal.

  Her stomach growled for breakfast.

  Angry with herself and—now that she thought about it—a tad annoyed with him, she shoved the letter at him. “I found this among the things in my room. I thought you ought to see it.”

  His curious gaze lingered on her face just long enough to make her uncomfortable before he dropped his eyes to the page. Back to her. “My father . . . what does it say? I can’t . . .”

  “I wrote it out for you.” Into his hands went the second piece of paper. “It’s addressed to Máelodor.”

  His gaze went diamond hard; a muscle jumped in his jaw. “Where did you find this?”

  “Among a box of papers and books. I spent most of last night reading through them. Most are simple correspondence. Deadly dull.” Anticipating his next question, she added, “This was the only one of its kind.”

  “Have you seen Daz yet this morning?”

  “Maude says he doesn’t usually rise until much later.” She bit her lip before deciding full disclosure was best. “And he’s not always coherent when he does wake. She says our coming might jolt him into lucidity or he may not even remember us.” She shifted from foot to foot before blurting, “Aidan, the man’s mad. Maude says he addressed a cow by his sister’s name. Spent three days asking why Alice had been given rooms in the barn. He passed a week once hiding in a wardrobe, claiming the Amhas-draoi were after him. Made Maude test all his food before he’d eat it. These are not the actions of a man in full control of his mind.”

  “He’s old.”

  “If by old you mean touched in the head, you’re exactly right.”

  “Leave Daz to me. Your job is translating the diary. The rest is my problem.”

  “You arrogant bastard.” If she needed solid evidence the spark between them had been classic male strutting, here it was. She’d one function in this twisted relationship— linguist. Fine. “Then if you’re done with me, my lord, I’ll just get back to my job.” Swung around to go, hating the lump trying to force its way into her throat. He wasn’t worth it. No man was.

  He grabbed her by the arm. “Wait, Cat.”

  She stopped but didn’t turn around.

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Didn’t
you?”

  “You shouldn’t even have to ask. If anything good has come from this insanity, it’s been you.”

  That did it. The lump choked off her breath. But not the hot tears blurring her vision. “No, let’s be clear. It’s my talent you admire. Once the translation is complete, I’ll be out on the street without a second thought.”

  Why was she having this silly argument? What admission was she trying to force from him? He’d kissed her. So what? She’d had plenty of randy gents try their luck once they knew her history. Geordie had sent them packing in quick order. But Geordie wasn’t here. She was on her own. And instead of sending Aidan packing, she was playing as if a kiss meant for keeps. She, of all people, knew that for the fallacy it was.

  “Cat?” He tipped her chin toward him. Searched her face. “What’s going on? Or should I say, che cosa sta accendendo?” His eyes crinkled with laughter, the burning intensity brightening to a sunshine brilliance.

  She wrenched away from him. “I knew it. I knew you were only biding your time. What did that wretched jaw-me-dead tell you? I have a right to know.”

  Aidan didn’t even flinch. “He told me your father was a naval man. Captain of a thirty-two-gun frigate stationed in the Mediterranean. ”

  She blinked back tears. Wiped them away with the back of her hand. Crying for a father she barely remembered. A lost future. Would things have been different had he lived?

  “His ship was lost during a storm. My mother remarried. A brewer. He lives in eternal hopes of a knighthood for exemplary service to the crown.”

  “Supplying them with the best ale in Ireland?”

  She laughed. “Something like that,” before sobering. “Did Mr. Danvers tell you the rest? I’m sure he couldn’t wait to fill you in on the sordid details. He was always an enthusiastic tattler of tales.”

  “He said there was a scandal involving a gentleman. You disappeared soon after.”

  Damn Danvers’s wagging tongue. May his journey be fraught with bad weather, poor roads, and rotten meals.

  “Was his name Jeremy?” Aidan asked quietly.

  “You’re like a dog worrying at a bone.” Hands on hips, she faced him down. “You want to know? Truly? Then, by all means, let me enlighten you once and for all. I was twenty-one. He was twenty-five. I met him at a dinner. He was charismatic and handsome, and he made me feel special. A sensation I experienced rarely in my stepfather’s household.” She squared her jaw in defiance. Met Aidan’s gaze dead on, daring him to speak. Or even flicker a shocked eyelid. “When he said he loved me, I believed him. And later when he said he could never marry me, I believed that too.” She paused, her heart fluttery as a bird’s beneath his hand. “He was never anything but truthful.”

  Aidan’s eyes were round with shock, a stricken look upon his face.

  “So there you have my tragic tale,” she challenged. “Are you satisfied? Relieved you have the virginal Miss Osborne waiting for your return with trousseau packed?”

  Loss stabbed beneath her breast, a gnawing hollow despair that had nothing to do with the dark-haired charmer she’d given her body to. All to do with his son.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he answered.

  “Don’t say anything,” she said, laying a hand upon the door. “I don’t want your pity nor do I care about your disapproval.”

  “One more time, Daz. And this time, slowly. Who is Máelodor?”

  Aidan clutched the letter while he paced the drawing room. Crates and boxes rose up on either side of him. Old furniture. A pianoforte draped in a pair of tasseled velvet curtains. A space directly in front of the hearth had been cleared, leaving room enough for two chairs and a table set with the remains of breakfast.

  The old man shifted in his seat, fingers nervously toying with his lap rug, eyes darting from the congealed egg on his plate to the smoking fire to Aidan. “Found the name in an old book, he did. Did I ever tell you that?” He gave Aidan an expectant look before continuing. “Found it and decided he’d take it as his own. Said his real name carried too much of the Duinedon. Who ever heard of a master mage named Henry Simpkins?” Daz’s nervous worrying intensified. “What he said, not me. Mind you, I’d no problem with his name.”

  Simpkins . . . Simpkins. He’d no recall of any Simpkins prowling Belfoyle. The name Máelodor didn’t strike any sparks either. But it was obvious by the letter Cat found that not only had this man been an intimate of his father, but he also understood the indecipherable language of the diary.

  Thoughts of the letter and Cat sent his mind spinning off course to this morning’s bungled questioning. He’d all but cornered her into confessing her disgrace. Should he be surprised she was angry? Or assumed he’d view her ruin as cause for either pity or scorn? No doubt she’d experienced large helpings of both. But it was impossible to pity someone who so obviously refused it. And though he dug deep, he unearthed neither disdain nor contempt in the welter of feelings Cat produced in him. Exasperation certainly. Irritation occasionally. Frustration definitely.

  He rubbed his face, forcing his mind back on Daz, the letter, and the topic at hand. Forget Cat. He had bigger worries. Her offended sensibilities would have to wait. “What happened to Máelodor after my father’s murder?” he asked. “How did you get this letter?”

  Daz’s gaze fell on the paper in Aidan’s hand. “Don’t know about a letter. Never saw it. Brendan brought me things. Warned me to keep them safe.”

  “Brendan’s been here?” Aidan almost shouted.

  Daz jumped. “Aye. Brendan Douglas.” He squinted. “Do you know him?”

  Aidan struggled to master a calm he didn’t feel. “A long time ago.”

  “A good lad, Brendan. Gifted with the kind of powers I’ve only ever read about. Never came back. Did he survive? Do you know?”

  “I don’t know, Daz. I haven’t heard from him in years.”

  “Tempted, he was. We all were, weren’t we? Tempted to do things we shouldn’t. Lured by the darkness. By the power it gave us. Kilronan made it seem so right. Made it seem so . . . bloodless.” He paused, his knobbed fingers pulling out thread after thread. “It wasn’t, though. Blood flowed. Deaths. More than I could count. Funny, how callous we grew. We didn’t start out that way.”

  Aidan sought to redirect the conversation back to the letter. “What does my father mean when he talks about a tapestry? A stone? They must have been important if he sent both away ahead of the attack.”

  Which meant he’d known the Amhas-draoi were coming. He’d known he had little time left and had the presence of mind to prepare. Prepare. Not run. Had he thought he stood a chance against Scathach’s brotherhood of warrior mages? Had it been pure hubris, or had his father been stronger than Aidan had ever imagined? Yet in the end, not quite strong enough.

  “Years and years, he hunted. And in the end the tapestry and the stone both came to his possession. Worth a king’s ransom for those who understood what they were,” Daz answered.

  “What are they? What do they do?”

  “I would have kneeled before him. Had he returned as they promised, I’d have followed the High King’s standard. He’d that kind of power.”

  “Who, Daz?”

  “The kind of natural charismatic radiance that made men follow him.”

  “Who did they promise was returning?”

  “I always imagined him like Brendan. Young. Golden. Alive.”

  “Damn it, Daz. Who reminds you of Brendan? Tell me.”

  Daz’s vacant stare sharpened to almost-sanity. “Arthur, of course.”

  The gardens stretched in a wild riot of green, though the bones of a once well-ordered series of parterres and pathways, avenues and orchards, existed still. One just had to look for them. Inhaling the pungent smells of loam and the damp woodsy smoke from some gardener’s fire, Cat felt years of city living slough off her in the space of minutes. Felt the tension thrumming her body ease.

  Slightly.

  After all, she remained caught in
an insane limbo between lives. Hunted by a killer whose cold-blooded viciousness was matched only by his apparent invincibility. Trapped with a man who snuck beneath her guard at every turn. Who caused her not only to remember her past but to dream of a future.

  She’d not breathe truly easy until she was rid of them both.

  Coming to an impenetrable bramble fence, Cat doubled back to where she’d last caught sight of a path. Struck out toward the sloping green roof of a folly or summerhouse or pavilion. Sensed the surge of charged air and the inside-out feeling of mage energy like a brush of silk across her skin, a lurching of her stomach.

  Someone else walked these paths. Someone else rambled this verdant jungle. She froze, aware the house lay east, though hidden from view. Too far to scream. Too far to run.

  She was on her own.

  “Damn it to hell.” Words followed another prickling rush of mage energy. “Thrice-cursed damn magic. Bloody pain in the bloody ass.”

  She let out a terrified breath on a half giggle of hysteria.

  Aidan.

  She followed the chain of blasphemy to a small clearing amid a profusion of wild-growing rose elder.

  He stood, shoulders squared, back straight, a hand up as if he attempted to ward off the tree in front of him. The flash of his emerald caught the sun. “Treusfurvyesh goea dhil dowsk. Nerthyoest dhil gwanndesk.” This time the mage energy released by his words sank beneath her skin. Sent a flush of heat through her body. Flip-flopped her stomach before evaporating.

  “A lest tarenesh dhil—ugh.” He doubled over, knees buckling, head bowed as if he’d been struck a knife blow.

  She ran to kneel beside him, trembling with fresh memories of the horrible, vicious-eyed creature unleashed by his last stab at spell casting. “Are you all right?”

  Lines bit deep into either side of his mouth, his hair damped against his skull, face ashen. Straightening, he drew a deep, ragged breath. Cocked an embarrassed and disgusted look in her direction. “Do I look all right to you?”

  The aggrieved-little-boy tone drew the sting from his words. Cat rocked back on her heels. Smothered a smile. “No, actually you look completely awful.”