Earl of Darkness

by Alix Rickloff

  Just as she felt herself peak in a spiraling crescendo, he abandoned his sweet assault. And as her knees gave way, he caught her. Carried her to the bed where he tossed her in a laughing, tumbled heap.

  She watched in languorous pleasure as he shucked off his clothes in eager haste. And then he stood over her. Gloriously, beautifully naked. She feasted on the sight of him. Wanted to imprint the memory on her brain. The stern bones of his face. The sculpted breadth of his shoulders, the sleek line of his torso, and the hard-packed ridges of his stomach tapering into—oh, my.

  Her brows raised in admiration, she laughed. “Are you trying to scandalize me?”

  His mouth quirked in a wicked little boy smile. “No, simply pacing myself.”

  “Leave that to me.”

  She leaned up, taking his hand. Pulled him down to join her on the bed. Swung a leg over him, straddling his hips. Let the curtain of her hair spill over them, shutting out the world. If she could only shut out the accusing voices as easily. They warned her of the evils awaiting any woman foolish enough to get caught in the same trap twice. Chided her for a monumental stupidity she’d regret forever. And all in variations of Maude’s broad brogue.

  But though she heard the voices, she’d long ago mastered the art of ignoring them. She’d had to. Only madness lay in wallowing through the “what-ifs” of regret. She’d already been tried and condemned. May as well enjoy her fall from grace.

  Firmly beating back the last hesitation, she closed her eyes. Impaled herself on his thick shaft. Stretched to take him inch by excruciating inch. He shuddered and was still. And with a smile every bit as wicked as his, she withdrew. Sank back onto him, the tempo as she rode him slow, steady, and designed to drive him as far over the edge as she’d been only moments before.

  Her success was obvious. He groaned, his hands kneading her breasts before sliding down to curve around her ribs. The callused rub of his palms sparking new tremulous spasms. Intensifying the already orgasmic sensations pulling her toward climax.

  She was deliciously and horribly lost. A harlot of the worst kind. And she didn’t care. Aidan Douglas was worth damnation.

  He lay with one arm behind his head, one snuggling Cat close, as yet unwilling to release her. She curved into the crook of his arm, her silky flesh still a dangerous temptation as he quickly and painfully found.

  Had this scoundrel Jeremy claimed her body with the same savagery? Had Cat lost herself to his lovemaking with the same sinful delight? And why the hell did it matter, so many years later? It didn’t, he told himself firmly and repeatedly.

  “Describe Belfoyle to me,” she whispered, breaking him from the pointless speculation that could only complicate matters further.

  “Why would you want to hear about that? It’s not exactly pillow talk.” She raised her eyes to his in such a beseeching way that he laughed. “Very well, if you insist on hearing about the ancestral pile, I’m happy to oblige.”

  She snuggled into him like a child awaiting a story.

  “It’s in County Clare. About twenty-five miles northwest of Ennis, if you know where that is. It’s a bit over eighteen thousand acres, devoted mostly to sheep and cattle. Some acreage set aside for corn and other grains. We have a mill and a—”

  She shifted onto an elbow, her brows wrinkled in amusement. “I don’t want to purchase it.”

  He laughed. “Very well. Let’s see.” He smiled with inspiration. “All right, once upon a time there was a house that stood in a green park surrounded by beautiful views, the sea a shining dazzle through the trees, breathtaking cliffs where puffins nested and seals basked in the sun.”

  “Sounds delightful.”

  “This house had stood for hundreds of years. Never changing. Always there,” he continued, warming to his theme. “A sanctuary for the family that sheltered within its protective heart. A heaven for mischievous little boys.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  As he spoke, his heart ached for Belfoyle. For the comforting solace of its aged strength. For the sharp sea salt air and the endless cloud-raced sky that made up his earliest memories. He’d been away from it since autumn—an eternity. Since he’d discovered the diary among an overlooked box of his father’s papers. Since his determination to find the truth had driven him to Dublin. Straight into the waiting arms of catastrophe.

  But could he call it so? His search had brought him Cat. A glimmer of precious light in a world suddenly topsy-turvy with every memory called into question.

  “What happened then?” Cat’s sleepy murmur drew him back to the story.

  He tightened his arm around her. “And then a great storm came. A tempest that threatened to destroy the house and the family. It pounded at the foundations. Scattered the family. All seemed lost until . . .” His voice faded.

  “Until what? How does the story end?” Barely audible. Naught more than a whispered breath.

  He glanced over. Eyes closed, her lips parted in a wistful smile. She slept.

  Sighing, he looked for the answer in the ceiling’s tangle of shadows. His duty remained with Miss Osborne. But his heart lay nestled beside him. Squeezing his eyes shut against an ache tearing at his insides, he brushed a kiss upon her damp brow.

  “I wish to the gods I knew, Cat.”

  “I think I’ve found something!”

  Cat’s excited shout broke through the thunderous silence. Jerked Aidan upright in his chair. Hours spent staring at the ceiling last night had made today one long sleepy, nap craving. Coffee had brought temporary relief, but the effects wore thin. And he didn’t think he could stomach another gut-griping cup of Maude’s vile brew.

  “Listen. It’s an entry from seven years ago: Those chosen to guard these sacred objects held them in trust for all generations of Other. Not as dry artifacts to be kept in dusty vaults or locked away in dazzling treasure houses. But to be cared for until such a time as there were those to use the knowledge locked within them. Now is that time. And we are those people. And someday those who revile us as murderers will laud us as heroes.” Cat massaged her temples, wincing as she did so. “The tapestry. The stone. Those must be the sacred objects he’s talking about.”

  “But what are they? What do they do? We still don’t know.”

  “There’s a snippet of an entry a few pages earlier talking about the High King’s resting place. He refers to it as the hidden tomb.” She licked her thumb. Leafed back through. “What does Daz say?”

  “I tried asking, only to have him tell me a story about my mother’s cousin and a man by the name of Lawrence with a thing for feathers. I interrupted before he got too descriptive.”

  “Now how on earth would he know—”

  Aidan held up a hand. “I didn’t ask and I don’t want to find out.”

  “So it’s up to the diary to tell us.”

  Aidan pinched the bridge of his nose. His whole body was one strained muscle, and he hadn’t had a restful night since . . . since the night before he walked in on Cat in his library. The more they sought to tease meaning from his father’s words, the deeper the swamp shifting beneath him. His father’s life had been a sham. His brother, a mirage disappearing with every revelation. What else would he find out if he kept digging? What new horror waited to spring out at him?

  “Maybe it’s best to leave this for now,” he suggested. “After all, we’re just assuming that’s why Brendan wants the diary. We don’t know for certain. There might be a whole chapter of death spells or a thousand and one ways to kill your enemies and destroy your friends.”

  “You’ve changed your mind about Brendan?”

  “It makes sense, doesn’t it? The Amhas-draoi certainly seemed assured of his guilt. Who am I to argue with the logic of Scathach’s brotherhood?”

  “You’re his brother,” she answered flatly. “You knew him better than anyone. Could Daz be mistaken? Could he be lying to you for some purpose of his own or simply not remembering correctly? We’ve already established his less-than-firm gr
asp on reality.”

  “Not when it’s counted. Then he’s been sharp as a damned knife through the heart.”

  “I’ve found it!” Daz entered the dining room, triumphantly waving a thick leather-bound book, the corners of which looked gnawed, the binding broken and split. “And the last place I expected. Under ‘authors who died under mysterious circumstances.’ ”

  Maude looked up from her third cup of gin-laced tea. “What are you prattling on about, you chatty old scalawag?”

  “The book. It’s in the book,” he shouted, shuffling about the table in a rickety dance.

  Aidan mouthed the word “feathers,” leaving Cat snorting into her napkin.

  “Sit down before you break a hip, you musty old fool,” Maude scolded.

  Ignoring Maude’s unusual way with endearments, Daz fell into a chair. Opened the book to a dog-eared page. Pushed it across to Aidan with a dazzling smile. “I knew I’d a seen a mention of it somewhere.” He pointed to a paragraph halfway down that had been heavily underlined. “See? The Rywlkoth Tapestry. That’s the one.”

  Aidan scanned the entry, his face hardening into grim lines. He looked up. “And you say this”—he flipped to the flyleaf then back to the proffered page—“Dudley Squires met a sticky end?”

  Ahern nodded, his smile dimming. “Found dead in his bath.”

  “What’s so mysterious about that?” Cat asked.

  “He was fully dressed and missing his head.”

  Cat grimaced. “Sorry I asked.” She turned her attention to Aidan, who remained stone silent, his gaze dark with some inner demon. “May I?” She slid the book from under his fingers. Read the underlined passage. And then a second time—more slowly—trying to take in the implications of Squires’s hypothesis. “The High King’s hidden tomb.” She glanced up. “That same term was mentioned in your father’s diary.”

  “Apparently not so hidden if one has the tapestry,” Aidan said, coming out of his trance to top off his claret. Tossing it down as if it were water.

  “A sort of a treasure map?” she asked, frowning her distaste. “Follow to where ‘X’ marks the spot and voila—Arthur?”

  “It’s not as simple as that, Miss O’Connell. It’s a riddle. Instructions woven into the fabric only those with the knowledge might decipher.”

  “Cat’s an expert at deciphering.” Aidan glanced her way with a possessive can’t-wait-to-get-you-in-bed stare that had Maude’s lips pursing to a white line of disapproval.

  Cat felt the woman’s warning like a mental slap to the back of the head. A slap she chose to ignore.

  “So if the tapestry finds you Arthur’s resting place, what’s the stone for?” Cat asked, firmly dismissing Maude’s intrusion.

  Ahern snatched the book back from her. Flipped pages to get to the second bookmark. “Here.” Shoved it back into her hands.

  Cat scanned the page, her turn to grind her teeth in growing fury. “The stone’s the key that releases the protective wards. Why such safeguards?”

  Ahern cast her a look like she’d taken leave of her senses. Not so far off. Here she sat discussing the reincarnation of a king as nonchalantly as if she were conversing about a visit from some family friend.

  “It was Arthur,” he said in a tone clearly implying she was daft to even ask such a question. “Those who attended his death and saw to his burial knew the importance of the last Other king and his legacy to our race. To protect his eternal sleep, they hid the tomb. Warded it against any trespass.”

  “Then why keep a map and a stone as if tempting someone to use them? Doesn’t seem an intelligent idea on the part of those so-called protectors.”

  “According to the legends, an attendant kept eternal vigil within the tomb,” Daz explained as if she were a rather slow-witted convalescent. “Every year the guard changed in a ritual handover. The map and the stone would be the only way to gain access.”

  “But if the map and stone are lost—”

  “Somewhere there’s an attendant left unrelieved,” Aidan ended her sentence on a solemn intonation.

  Ahern fluttered. “It’s a hypothesis only. No one knows if the tapestry and stone are anything more than grand hoaxes or if they lead to anything.”

  “My father believed it. So did Brendan. And they managed to convince plenty of others.”

  “But they’re dead. All of them. The Amhas-draoi ended it. The Nine are gone.”

  “Not all of them. You said it yourself, Daz. One of them survived. And he’s set his killer on our trail. He wants the diary, and he’s prepared to kill to gain it. Now we know why.”

  “But Brendan has the stone already,” Cat reasoned. “It said so in the letter your father wrote. Brendan took the stone and your father took the tapestry.”

  “So Brendan’s back to find out the tapestry’s hiding place. He must think Father wrote where he hid it in the diary.”

  “Brendan?” Ahern asked.

  “It seems as if my brother’s not so disappeared after all.”

  Daz’s face crumpled, his fingers trembling but his eyes feverishly bright. “Brendan’s alive? Could it be true?”

  Aidan scowled before fisting his hand around the stem of the wineglass as if throttling it. “Very alive and very dangerous.”

  He approached as close as he dared, the presence of the estate’s wards a tangible ribbon of mage energy stretching north and south in front of him. He’d left Neirin tethered in the woods, pawing at the soft ground, the gleam of the horse’s bit flashing in the light of a low moon.

  Now, crouched at the edge of the boundary, his senses picked through the gloom with little problem. Caught the panicked dart of a hare. The shush of an owl’s wings, talons extended like knives. A death scream as the hare was ripped from neck to belly. The hot, sweet scent of blood. He breathed deeply, letting the animal’s killing ooze through him like the high of a drug. Strengthen him. Bolster his flagging resolve.

  Beyond a line of trees, lights glimmered. Cattle lowed. A dog barked.

  Kilronan’s diary was in that house. He felt it tugging him forward like a lodestone upon a string. As if the black spells written within it whispered to him, abomination to abomination. He almost heard their dark voices on the wind.

  He tested the strength of the wards. A crackling flame raced up his arms, but instead of heat, a numbing buzz jolted him backward like the kick of a horse. Rang in his bones long after.

  Leaning back on his haunches, he considered his options. Raised his gaze to the sky, black as velvet and dusted with a pale wash of cold light.

  A scene burst into his head. A similar night to this one. Chilly. The wind sighing like a lover. The moist tang of spring growth filling his nostrils.

  He’d sat in patient silence just as now, the campfires of the English just beyond a ridge. Nudged Ivor, motioning to the picket line where a beautiful white stallion glowed scarlet in the light from the flames. “He’s mine,” he’d whispered, his eyes never straying from the elegant-boned destrier.

  Ivor smiled, whispered back, “That one’s fit for no less than a prince. Not a simple soldier like you—”

  He strained to catch the name on the man’s tongue. His name. But just like that the memory vanished as if he’d doused the light. As if witnessing the sword stroke that ended that long-ago existence, he shivered, his fingers slick and a cold sweat damping his shoulders.

  And instead of charging through the faulty wards, he chose to wait. Watch the slow spinning of the heavens, searching the sky for that past life. Wishing he could fly up into the darkness and be back there among his friends. Feeling that if only he remembered that lost name, he could leave Lazarus and his slavery to Máelodor far behind.

  Aidan trailed a lazy hand down Cat’s side. Cupped the perfect weight of her breast, thumbing the nipple before taking it into his mouth. Laving the sweetness of her skin. Drowning in the musky sex scent of her body. Reveling in the way her panting, gasping moans aroused him all over again.

  With an enigm
atic smile, she curled her hand around his member. Guided him into her with a clever expression hinting at a wicked waywardness he’d never find in a proper marriage bed. But who said his marriage had to be proper? He’d never been a proper anything. Son. Other. Earl.

  Why start now?

  For Belfoyle, his conscience complained. For an estate long owed a master who cared enough to restore it to prosperity. For the scattered remains of a family who looked to him to reestablish honor to the name of Douglas and the title of Kilronan.

  Honor. Duty. Loyalty. He thrust again and again, her velvety, wet heat sweeping him close to explosion. She ground her hips in response, letting him ride this wave of anger to its climactic end. As if she understood. As if she fought her own private battles within their shared bed.

  In self-denial, he pulled free. Rock hard and coiled tight. One torturous undulation away from eruption.

  She groaned her frustration. Arched into him, purring her demand. Instead, he let her writhe. Lowered his head to nibble and nip his way down her stomach, over the inside of her thighs. Knelt between her legs to lap at the slick center of her.

  She bucked, threading her fingers through his hair. Urging him on with every shuddering tremor.

  But he refused to give her what she wanted. To surrender, even though his cock throbbed with impatience. Instead he held back just enough to prolong the pleasure. To reel out the tension—hers and his—to orgiastic lengths. He vibrated with a body-wide need. Blood roaring in his ears, heart pounding in his chest.

  A throaty, ragged gasp signaled her tip over the edge. And only then did he move over her. Spread her legs and bury himself inside her.

  She laughed, and with one of those wanton siren moves, had him on his back. Straddling him. Ebony hair like a river of silk over his chest.