Earl of Darkness

by Alix Rickloff

  The rain moved off, leaving a sky streaked with gray and purple and a few struggling stars. She tried sleeping, but couldn’t relax.

  When she began talking to herself, she knew she’d finally gone ’round the bend.

  “It’s your own fault, you know,” she accused the frowning young woman reflected in the mirror.

  “And how is that?” her reflection argued. Willful as always.

  Cat shook her head. “You fooled yourself into thinking all that passion meant something. Fell like a sack of bricks for his brooding, masculine intensity. Are you so surprised Aidan turned out to be Jeremy all over again?”

  “He’s nothing like Jeremy,” her reflection denied. “He’s the complete opposite of Jeremy. The anti-Jeremy.”

  “You slept with him.” Cat ticked off a point on her finger.

  “Yes.”

  “You trusted him.” Ticked off a second point.

  “Well . . . I suppose so,” her reflection wavered.

  “And he stomped all over that trust.” Third finger. “I’ll repeat, he’s Jeremy all over again.”

  Her reflection bit her lip, her gaze anxious and unsure, a line appearing between the curve of her brows. “You’re overreacting. Aidan was startled. He said so himself.”

  “Startled, my eye,” Cat shot back, weary of arguing with an obviously deluded female. “He was shocked. Appalled. Disgusted. You not only fucked a man you weren’t married to, but you bore his child.”

  The woman in the mirror winced. “Don’t use that word. It wasn’t like that, and you know it.”

  “I know exactly what it was like. Remember? I was there. You’re as fallen and shameless as they get.” Her voice rose. “A harlot. A slut. Your child naught but the bastard son of a whore.” By now she was shouting.

  Her reflection pressed her hands to her ears. Fell back from the mirror with an anguished moan. “Never refer to my son like that. Ever. Do you hear?”

  Cat fell back too. Sprawled across the bed. Dragging the pillow to her chest for comfort. Her eyes dry and hot, her skin clammy. “I only speak the truth,” she whispered.

  Her reflection had the last word. “Then from now on, keep your damned mouth shut.”

  Aidan stood at the southwest boundary of Belfoyle. Concentrated on the cool, mossy feel of the ward stone beneath his hand. The loamy smell of the earth. The warbling of a chaffinch flitting through the bushes. This focus on his surroundings helped to center him. Controlled the wild maelstrom of magic torching his blood. Even so, singeing heat smoldered along his veins. A boiling ache concentrated bone deep. Sweat streaked his brow. Only one more stone after this. One more possibility of instant incineration.

  Wards must be managed like any fence line. Checked for strength. Repairs made as the mage energy warped and waned over the passage of time. In the years after his father’s death, he’d let them falter. Why bother? Magic and the Fey world had been his father’s life. Not his.

  No longer.

  Slapping the hair out of his eyes, he tilted his face to the drizzle. The rain had moved on, leaving a milky, damp twilight. Within the shimmering mist, the band of mage energy shown rainbow pure. Extended outward from the ward stone—east toward the high fields, west toward the cliffs—before dissolving.

  Stretching stiffening muscles, he started toward the final stone, set just off the west cliff path. His strides lengthening as he crossed the park. Climbed a stile. Passed through the sunken road that would dump him out below the meadow where the ward stone stood permanent sentinel.

  The gloaming lingered, the sea flat and oily as the sun sank through sooty clouds edged in blood. A sailor’s delight. So why did he shiver with premonitions of looming tragedy?

  The ward stone erupted from the earth of the cliffs. Weathered. Gold veined. As ageless as the Fey themselves in their hidden kingdom. Did they know of Máelodor’s plans to bring a return of the Lost Days when the races of faery and mortal mingled? When magic blossomed unlooked for and unexpected from peasant hovels to castle solars? Did they care?

  Some Fey enjoyed mankind and spent more time than not among the mortal world. The warrior queen Scathach, head of the brotherhood of Amhas-draoi, was one such. Creating heroes from those Other with the talent and the will to follow her. But most Fey remained aloof and disdainful of their lesser relations. Looked upon them with thinly veiled contempt bordering at times on outright hostility.

  Unclaimed by either race. Neither fish nor fowl.

  He grunted his disgust. No, he’d get no assistance from the Fey. They’d relish a war between Duinedon and Other like a spectator sport. Lay odds. Cast wagers. And care not who emerged the victor as long as they were left alone.

  At the first touch of flesh to stone, mage energy shot through his fingers and up his arm in a jerky shock that left him reeling. Damn. He shook off the twitchy muscles. Tried again. Taking his time. Bracing himself for the mule kick of magic that met his attempt.

  Inhaling, he dove beneath the surface panic. Caught and held fast to that part of him where magic lived. A source of great power, misshapen and blighted though it was. Drawing it forth was like harnessing the power of the stars. A vast spinning whirlpool of energy and light and fire. It dazzled the vision. Set his heart galloping. Trembled already fatigued limbs.

  “Dor. Ebrenn.”

  The gathered energy released in a lightning arc between stone and flesh.

  “Dowr. Tanyow.”

  The inferno ignited. A thousand fires set throughout his body. A human torch.

  “Menhir. Junya.”

  The charge swelled until it threatened to consume him with the force of a funeral pyre. He cried out. Yanked his hands from the ward stone, dropping to his knees with a shuddering moan.

  “Damn it all to hell,” he ground out through gritted teeth, his arms hanging numb at his sides. Head lowered.

  But safe. For now.

  Cliffs. Wind. The blind malevolence of a creature born of smoke and wind. The shine off Father’s knife. And the bone-splintering plummet to the rocks below.

  As always Aidan woke just before he hit. Sheets drenched. Heart racing. Every muscle taut as a pulled bow.

  Tonight he sought comfort in the play of the moon across the ceiling. The sorrowful call of an owl. A faraway answer. The muted roar of the ocean. But though hours passed, relief was denied him.

  As was sleep.

  “The tapestry’s hiding place is in there somewhere”—he tapped the cover of the diary—“I’m sure of it. Why else would Máelodor send that creature after it?”

  Jack looked to the door. At least the tenth time he’d done so in the past two hours.

  “Stop obsessing over Miss Roseingrave and pay attention. If she returns at all, it will probably be an ambush in the middle of the night. Amhas-draoi modus operandi.”

  Caught, Jack straightened in his chair. Cast a scathing look in Aidan’s direction. “You know, what you refer to as cold-blooded murder, others term justifiable homicide.”

  The jab slid beneath his guard with stomach-crunching power. He closed his eyes, letting the truth of the strike pass before he faced his cousin. “I deserved that.”

  “Yes, you did,” Jack grumbled. “About time you realized it.”

  Putting aside the diary, Aidan crossed his arms over his chest. Leaned against the desk. “Do you want to get it off your chest?”

  “Do you?” Jack parried.

  “I asked you first.”

  “Very well.” As if working up his courage, Jack threw himself from his seat. Paced the floor. Reached for then dismissed the sherry decanter. Swung around, head high and on the attack. “Helena Roseingrave is an amazing woman. Smart. Beautiful. Courageous. Strong. A highly developed sense of the ironic.”

  “And the problem is?”

  Jack deflated. Surrendered to the sherry. “She’s says I’m a sweet fellow, but not her type. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Aidan might have been amused had his own woman troubles been less d
ire. Instead, he felt a sense of fellowship with his wronged cousin. Joined him at the sherry. “It means she’s Amhas-draoi and your only talent is the devil’s own luck.” They toasted their shared frustration.

  Jack downed his sherry. Slumped against the table. “So I’m not some Herculean super-Other. I’m hardly negligible.”

  “Compared to what she’s used to, you are.”

  “Thanks for the kind words.” He rambled back to his seat. Fell into it with a defeatist glower. “Now it’s your turn to be cut down to size. Fire away.”

  Aidan placed his empty glass on the nearest table. Pulled a cheroot from his pocket, bending to light it. “Cat still refuses to speak with me. She sent my note back unopened. And I couldn’t get the poor maid to repeat her verbal message. Said her mother had taught her better than to use those sorts of words.”

  Jack gave a bark of laughter, quickly stifled by Aidan’s sharp look. “Can’t imagine why she’s not licking your slippers, old man. You kidnapped her. Brought her here against her will, locked her in a room until she surrenders. Any other crimes I’ve missed?”

  “You can lose the sarcasm. You’re supposed to be helping.”

  “Just pointing out the obvious conflict. But if you want advice, I say go up there and wrestle it out with her.”

  He inhaled on a relaxing drag. “Good thought, but I’m a bit bruised from the last time we wrestled.”

  “You’re going to have to come to some kind of understanding. You tried seduction. That used to have the women eating out of your hand. Must be out of practice.” He quickly changed tack at Aidan’s glower. “Anyway, that’s failed. Perhaps if you—”

  Aidan crushed out the stub. “That’s not how it happened.”

  “No?” Jack’s brows rose in a look of mock confusion that had Aidan itching to hit him. Hard. “You’re honestly going to tell me there was more than sweet talk and good sex between you? I just assumed, Miss O’Connell being who she is. You being who you are—”

  Aidan straightened, fists at the ready. “You can shove your damned assumptions right up your—”

  “Easy, coz,” Jack said. “Let me remind you of your plans to secure your financial future with a hearty helping of Miss Osborne’s dowry. What the hell would people say if you turned around and married a woman you found breaking into your home? A woman whose sordid past banishes her from polite society? One they could never receive. Never acknowledge. You’d be a laughingstock. More of an oddity than you already are.” He paused. “And that’s saying something.”

  “Is that all you can think about? Miss Osborne’s damned money? What people would say? I’ve wealth enough. And you said it yourself, polite society already associates the Earls of Kilronan with wild unpredictability bordering on eccentricity. If I want to make Cat a part of my life, what’s one more bizarre twist in this already insane story?”

  Jack sat back, satisfaction dancing in his eyes. “You tell me.”

  “Wipe that damned smile off your face. You’re a bloody pain in my ass.”

  “Likewise.”

  Sometime in the night, a key turned in her door. When she finally tried it, the latch clicked easily. The hinges silent. Peering up and down the corridor, she spied a kneeling maid polishing the floor who looked on Cat with a darting shift of her eyes. Beyond that, the way was clear.

  She descended the first staircase she found. A narrow stone spiral spitting her out at one end of a long, barrel vaulted gallery. Thick carpets covered the flagstone floor, yet did little to muffle the cavernous feel or relieve the chill in the air.

  On the opposite wall, an enormous tapestry hung in the place of honor behind a carved stone balustrade. An armored knight kneeling before a robed and diademed woman. The weaver rendering the Fey aura—for even without the recognizable dolmen behind her it was obvious the woman was one of the faery folk—worked in a mix of gold and silver threads.

  “It used to be a chapel before the Douglases of Belfoyle chose expediency over faith.” Jack stepped around the tapestry from what must have been a door tucked discreetly out of sight in the curve of the stonework. Hands clasped behind his back, face harlequined by the watery light from a set of narrow windows. “They’ve always known how to thread the vagaries of politics and stay on the right side of any issue. Back a solid winner and all that. At least until the last earl. His lapse was spectacularly un-Douglas-like.”

  “I suppose tossing in your lot with a bunch looking to resurrect King Arthur would be placing yourself out on a rather shaky limb.” Ignoring Jack’s penetrating gaze, she approached the tapestry. Motioned toward the kneeling knight. “Who is he?”

  “Sir Archibald Douglas?” Jack glanced up before resuming his steady scrutiny. “An illustrious forebearer. He’s said to have visited the faery kingdom of Ynys Avalenn. Remained there for three years as the lover of a Fey queen. Lucky man if half the rumors are true.”

  He flashed a smile, but his eyes remained fixed upon her as if trying to piece her thoughts. “When he finally returned to the mortal world, the queen offered him a gift to remember her by.”

  “What sort of gift?”

  His mouth twitched. “That part’s a bit vague. Some said it was a vial containing a potion for eternal youth. Other stories have it that it was a key to the kingdom of Ynys Avalenn, a way back to his love if he chose to return. And there’s a third story swearing it was a jewel that would protect its wearer against all Fey magic.”

  “Which theory do you subscribe to?”

  “Well, since Sir Archibald’s tomb at last check was full of Sir Archibald, I’d say eternal youth is out. And the jewel idea is nice, but hardly very loverlike.”

  “So you think it was a key to return to Ynys Avalenn?”

  Jack’s earlier lightheartedness turned serious. “They say Sir Archibald died a desolate and broken man. Regretted leaving his Fey lover and spent the whole rest of his life trying to find the way back to the summer kingdom and the woman he’d left behind.”

  “Then all your assumptions are wrong.”

  A frown settled over his usual open features. “Perhaps yours are too, Cat.”

  She stiffened. She’d walked right into that little ambush. “Thank you for the genealogy lesson, Mr. O’Gara. But while you’re looking to puncture assumptions, it might be best to start with your cousin’s.”

  Jack stared past her into the shadows of the stairwell. “I’m one step ahead of you, Miss O’Connell.”

  Rolling her eyes, she turned to retrace her steps. Reached the stairs just as Aidan stepped off the bottom riser. How long had he been standing there? How much had he heard? She struggled to look anywhere but into those penetrating, bronze brown eyes. Feel nothing but the churning maelstrom of her own anger and ill usage.

  Lines of exhaustion shadowed his drawn, pale face. His arms hung stiffly at his sides as if it took all his will to keep from reaching for her.

  “Catriona?” Her name rose soft as a sigh between them.

  She closed her eyes on his appeal. If only she could close her heart as easily. “What I did was wrong, but not what came of it. My son was a gift. Not a penance.”

  He said nothing.

  When she looked on him again, she sensed the fettered restraint. It vibrated through him. Shivered the air between them. “I’m frightened,” she said quietly.

  This time he did reach for her. No more than a skim of her arm with his fingers but it was enough to send need licking like a wildfire through her. “So am I.”

  “Of what will happen if you love me?”

  “No, a chuisle, of what will happen if I don’t.”

  They were alone together. Jack finding a feeble excuse to disappear shortly after dinner. And still they remained as clumsy and shy with one another as if surrounded by inhibiting company. Too much said on both sides to overcome easily. Still they tried. Fumbled through a half dozen attempts to bridge the tortured, miserable silence.

  Aidan paused in his nervous pacing. “I never had a chance to
tell you. I’ve had an update from Dublin. Still no sign of your friend Geordie, I’m afraid.”

  Her partner’s fate lay buried beneath a mountain of more recent calamities, yet never completely obscured. Cat’s hands tightened on her skirts. “He’ll turn up. I’m sure of it.”

  Aidan toyed with a bowl upon a shelf. Straightened an already straight picture. “He means a lot to you.”

  How did she quantify Geordie’s influence on her? His selfless generosity, his healing patience, his good-humored affection. He’d been her family. His loss was like a bruise upon her heart.

  “He showed me how to stitch a life together from the merest scraps. For that, I can never repay him.”

  Aidan met this statement with a look of grim determination. “We’ll discover what happened, Cat. If he lives, we’ll find him.”

  She lifted her gaze to his. The shadows lurking in his gold-flecked eyes. The remnants of illness in the sharp bones and sunken hollows of his face, the thick auburn hair brushing his collar, the set of his shoulders, the boundless energy barely contained within the rangy, muscled frame.

  So much had become so precious in such a short time.

  Her throat constricted. “Scraps can always be rewoven, Aidan. Geordie’s taught me that much.”

  The same charged silence fell between them. But a silence fraught with monumental shifts and decisions made. He crossed the room in angry strides. Shocked her by dropping to his knees at her feet.

  “And if I ask you to remain with me? Here at Belfoyle? What would you answer?” His words came hasty and stumbling. His face bearing a fevered flush of color.

  She tensed, looking to humor to turn aside a question she dared not ponder too long. “I would say you’ve suffered a relapse. Are out of your mind?”

  His gaze fell to her stomach. “And if you carry my child? Have you thought of that?”

  She sat poker straight, shoulders back. Chin up. “I have.”

  “And if that’s so? If you’ve conceived? Will you stay then?” His voice softened though retaining a hint of tempered steel. He’d not take “no” for an answer. And it would be so easy to say yes.