If only it were so simple.
This was Elisabeth. Freckles and curls. Hunting blennies in the shallows below Belfoyle and wild gallops across the high fields. He sought to cling to that vision he held in his head, but it was a memory fast fading beneath the glow of the woman standing in front of him. The long curves, the stubborn chin, the tangle of hair in a thousand shades of red.
Would she cringe from him if she knew the truth? Would she change her mind about marrying him if she understood who he was? What he was? What he’d done?
“This marriage, Lissa. Are you sure you want to go through with it?”
She stiffened. “Trying to wriggle off the hook? I’m not sure of anything, but you’ve left me no choice.”
He opened his mouth to argue, the words hovering unspoken on a breath. The moment spinning out to a gossamer thinness of expectation.
Run, Lissa. Run as fast and as far as you can away from me.
That’s what he meant to say. Instead, he lowered his mouth to hers, the warmth of her lips easing the ache beneath his ribs. The heat of her body soothing the steel grip of desperation.
She stiffened in his arms, her mew of protest becoming a whimper of surrender as his tongue skimmed her lower lip before dipping within. As he inhaled her gasped shock, arousal arced through him, the taste of her like the sweetest wine. The fragrance of her desire rising to mingle with the floral scent of her perfume.
She should be screaming bloody murder. Struggling. It was Elisabeth. He half expected a set of fives to the jaw. Not this enticing witches’ brew of innocence and eagerness as she looped her hands behind his neck, the long soft weight of her pressed the length of him.
Had he called Elisabeth unpredictable? She was bloody irrational.
He should stop. Step away. End this before it went any further.
Instead, he kissed her cheek, the tender spot behind her ear, down her neck. Her hands were in his hair as she pressed closer. As she answered his assault with her own attack.
Inhaling the heady mingled scents of skin and perfume, he cupped the fullness of her breasts, rubbing the dark aureoles through the thin lawn of her chemise, her breath coming shallow and fast. Ribbons loosed. Fabric parting. His tongue teased the slope of her collarbone before dropping lower.
She needed to stop him. He couldn’t stop himself. Instead, as had happened in her bedchamber back at Dun Eyre, her timidity lasted barely the space between two beats of his heart before the sensual hoyden took over. Keen to follow his lead wherever it might wander. A dangerous trust that would end in trouble.
He took a nipple in his mouth, tonguing it until she threw her head back, her fingers threaded in his hair, quick inhalations rising and falling beneath him.
Rucking the sheer fabric of her gown up against her legs, he followed the swell of her thighs to the ribbons of her garters, the wet heat of her center.
She gasped, her eyes flying open.
He withdrew, just enough to leave her wanting. Her eyes grew black with desire, her face passing through a thousand expressions and emotions in a half second. The tightening spiral of arousal feeding his own desire.
She pulled free his shirt, skimming her hands up the line of his ribs over his chest.
Blood seemed to leave his brain for his groin, making him dizzy. Not the head-spinning effect of too much drink, but a wild exhilaration akin to mastering a half-broke horse or finally grasping an impossible piece of sorcery. It was the joy of discovery. A sweet marveling in the infinite.
His cock throbbed like a second painful heartbeat. Gods, he’d explode in another second.
She fumbled at the waist of his breeches, her fingers unskilled, her mind too absorbed to focus on the simple mechanics of buttons.
“Please,” she whimpered as his thumb rubbed at her most sensitive flesh.
It would be so easy to have her now. To have her writhing beneath him as he took his pleasure. She would regret her easy compliance in the morning. She would hate him as she should. That would be the best thing he could do for her.
Instead, he tore himself free with a groan, his whole body crackling with unfulfilled desire. “Not like this, Lissa,” he whispered.
She gazed upon him, dazed and glassy-eyed, her hair falling free of its pins to curl wild about her face. Her lips bruised and full from his kisses.
He bent to retrieve her shawl, wrapping her in its folds as he might a child. Kissing her brow. Smoothing her hair. His movements shaky and awkward as he fought back his desire.
“Brendan?” she asked softly, already a furious scarlet washing over her pale cheeks. “You left me once before at the altar. You won’t do it again, will you?”
“No, sweet Lissa. On my honor, I won’t.”
It was only long after she’d left him and the fire had burned to cold ash that he realized the voices remained silent. The ghosts had receded. Only one face burned in his mind’s eye—a tempestuous beauty with eyes dark and warm as oak. Only one voice called to him with touching uncertainty.
He closed his hand into a painful fist. Whispered, “On my honor,” to the empty room.
For whatever that was worth anymore.
thirteen
Brendan browsed the Roseingrave library shelves. Not exactly a cornucopia of research material, but it would have to do.
He’d stumbled to bed close to dawn. Immediately fallen into a confusion of bizarre dreams. Not unusual. To sleep without the constant nightmares was a rare occurrence. But these dreams had been different. They’d not been the usual ghostly visitations leaving him drenched in a cold sweat. Instead, he’d wandered a field of corpses, a red sun sinking through a smoke-shrouded sky. Scattered bonfires raged, fed with the bodies of Other, while thieves and camp followers picked among the dead and dying. Smoke and gunpowder and the stench of burning flesh lay upon his tongue and burned his nose. His body ached, blood dripping from a gash in his head, but he held to his feet with a will born of fear. Aidan was out here somewhere. His brother lay among the fallen. He wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t his fight.
Looked for or not, this will become his fight. He is Other. And you are his brother. He will come for you.
The king stood behind him, his usual flame of red hair plastered to his skull with sweat and blood. He pointed with the broken edge of his blade.
There. Among a pile of dead, their staring eyes and twisted limbs holding no hope. Brendan dropped to his knees, gathering his brother against his chest.
Did you think we could win? You should have known. The story of Arthur has only one end. It is my curse and my fate. The Fey have spoken. What can mere mortals do against that? What can you do?
Brendan woke shuddering and sick, the king’s sorrow like a stone in his own chest. Had this been a premonition? Foreknowledge? Bad dreams brought on by food poisoning?
The sun had risen on a mind heavy with questions and sluggish with exhaustion. If he’d had to dream, why couldn’t it have been about Elisabeth? The slide of her body against his. The glow in her eyes. The heat of her sex.
He scrubbed his face as if he could expunge the memory of her from his brain. He’d agreed to this marriage out of guilt. His name for her honor. But he refused to entertain notions of anything more. Not when his future remained uncertain. When just being in his company could destroy her.
He’d spelled disaster and death for everyone he’d ever loved. He’d not add Elisabeth to the list of those who’d gotten too close and been burned for their trouble. Alone worked for him. Alone meant no one got hurt. Alone meant safe.
Firm on that point, he pulled up a chair, opening the book, leafing the index for any Arthurian reference. What had he missed? Where had he gone wrong? And what more could he do to stop Máelodor?
“Something has happened.” Madame Arana stood at the door, eyes gleaming strangely in a solemn face. “I feel the change.”
He started up. “Lissa? Is she all right? What’s—”
The woman smiled. “Miss Fitzgeral
d is safe. Whether she remains so resides with you. But you know that already, don’t you? The safety of us all lies in your hands.”
He’d had his questions about Madame Arana. Here was his answer. “What do you know of it?”
“I know that you search to leave the path your father laid for you. That there is a war inside you always. A struggle against your past, your guilt, your very power. This battle colors all you do.”
“What the hell would you know of my struggles unless”—he arched a brow in question—“you scryed me. Clever old girl. Like what you saw?”
She drew herself up in indignation. “There is no need for scrying when all lies clear upon the surface for any to read. Your mask slips, son of Kilronan. The growing strain of these years is written in every line and every shadow upon your features.” She shivered, her bony hands pressed against her stomach. “But I woke this morning with a new vision shifting the patterns like fingers stirring the water. Ripples that cloud the surface of my sight, making all unclear. A man. A sword. I will know what it means, or”—she folded her arms over her chest, lifting her chin in a look of defiance, her eyes throwing a challenge—“no lunch for you.”
As if on cue, his empty stomach growled in protest. “That’s hitting below the belt.”
“I did not want to resort to such diabolical means, but you leave me no choice.”
He pondered bodily lifting her out of the doorway and locking it behind her. Doubted Roseingrave would countenance manhandling her grandmother. Withholding meals would be the least of what she might do to him. And now Madame Arana . . . Fine. She wanted to poke her nose into his business? Why not? Serve her bloody well right.
“What do you know of the history of Arthur the king?”
“He is dead and must stay that way if our people are not to be drawn into a war we cannot win.”
“But what of the man himself?”
A smile creased her eyes. “I may be old, but I’m not quite that ancient.”
“Very funny. You asked what changed. I’m trying to tell you. I discovered something about Arthur I need to verify. Something about a Fey curse. A fate that cannot be changed.”
“I know nothing of Arthur, but the Fey are known to play deep games with us. They do not define good and evil as we do. Nor does the race of man—Other or Duinedon—figure largely in their lives. Only when they see a threat to themselves will they notice us, and more often than not it is to our detriment. Tread carefully if you seek to tamper with a curse laid by the Fey. You may stir up more than you bargained for.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m expert at bringing trouble down upon myself and anyone else standing too near me.”
“Yes, but Máelodor, for all his malevolence, still holds a human soul. We can understand the forces pushing him, even if they are repugnant to us. The Fey exist beyond our comprehension. We can no more know what moves them than we can know what moves the universe to spin. That is trouble of an unimaginable scale.”
“I can imagine a lot more than you think.”
“Search if you must.” The far-seeing diviner shrank back into the wizened little old lady, but there was no stuffing that genie back in the bottle. He knew her for what she was now. He’d not underestimate her again. She patted him on the shoulder, chuckling as she left him. “I will keep your lunch warm.”
Elisabeth lifted her face to the sun, warmth seeping through her chilled body, though the limpid breeze fluttering at her skirts was more redolent of coal smoke and cisterns than green fields and shaded glades.
Killer pawed at the flower beds lining the trimmed garden path, his little nose twitching with excitement. At least someone was happy with the odors.
“Stop that, you naughty dog,” she scolded. “Miss Roseingrave and her grandmother won’t let us out here if you insist on destroying their narcissus.”
Was it her imagination, or did Killer pause in his digging just long enough to spear her with the same sneering contempt she’d seen on Brendan’s face last night?
The poor narcissus didn’t stand a chance.
She couldn’t blame Killer. In another moment, she’d get on her hands and knees to join him. What else was there to do? Inertia was driving Elisabeth mad. Unable to leave the house without an escort. No occupation for her hands but needlework, which she’d always detested. Helena Roseingrave didn’t even have a library to speak of. At least not the kind with books one would read for entertainment.
Boredom gave her far too much time to think. Never a good thing. Especially now, when thinking invariably led to Brendan. Then thinking about Brendan and last night. Then thinking about last night and her humiliating surrender. Thinking about the seductive kisses, caressing hands, a torrent of dizzying emotion and feeling that left her barely able to . . . think.
A circular roundaboutation bringing her right back where she started. The April sun wasn’t the only reason her cheeks burned and her gown clung uncomfortably to her back like a damp second skin.
All this not thinking was driving her mad.
Throwing herself to her feet, she stalked back into the house. “Killer, come along.”
The now-muddy terrier barely registered her command. He sneezed and lay down, squashing a bed of tulips in the process. Rolled over, exposing his muddy tummy. Eyed her in a way that said, Try and make me.
“Oh, fine, then. No one else pays me any mind. Why should you?” she complained before stomping into the house, her steps leading her toward the study. Even a dull book was better than this infernal aimless boredom and the questions that invariably filled the emptiness.
Brendan’s actions last night could be interpreted in two ways: a noble withdrawal or a coward’s escape. She certainly had offered little resistance. Had practically thrown herself at his feet like some cheap strumpet. And what had he done? He’d walked away.
Had she done something wrong? Had he decided she wasn’t worth the effort?
No doubt in his years abroad he’d had women fawning all over him; dark, exotic, lithesome creatures with kohl-darkened eyes and dusky skin. She’d never been lithesome in her life, and her coloring was far more strawberries and cream than café au lait. She swallowed the annoying lump forming at the back of her throat. Brendan wasn’t worth it.
She stutter-stepped to a halt just inside the library door. “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t know the room was occupied.”
As if conjured from her self-pity, Brendan looked up from his book, his stare seeming to cut right through her like a damascene blade before the light shifted and there was no more in his expression than mild surprise. “Come along in. I don’t bite.”
All as if last night had never occurred. As if he’d not shot her to the moon with a mere touch. As if she’d not made an ass of herself by letting him.
Butterflies big as vultures whirled through her stomach, warmth stinging her cheeks. If she wasn’t careful, she’d make a fool of herself over Brendan—again.
“I came for something to read.” Could she sound any more inane? As if he couldn’t figure that one out by himself.
He cast a swift pessimistic glance at the few shelves of books. “Unless you’re a devotee of Ogham’s more inscrutable writings or the art of killing a man in ten easy steps, I’d say you’re out of luck.”
“You’re busy. I’ll leave you alone.” She started to back out the door, happy to escape an awkward situation.
“Wait. You can help me. That is, if you’re not doing anything else.”
She didn’t move. This was a trick. He would lure her in here, shut the door, and have his wicked way with her. Though he didn’t look in a wicked mood. Not even in a very interested mood. More in a preoccupied, frustrated mood. And that irritated her as nothing else could.
“It won’t take long, I promise and you can get back to whatever you were doing.”
Which was nothing, though she wouldn’t tell him that. “You want me to help you?”
“I asked you, didn’t I? Her
e. Search the index in this one. I’m looking for anything to do with Arthur.”
Fine. If he wasn’t going to bring last night up, she certainly wasn’t. Wrapping her shredded dignity round her, she crossed to where he sat, taking the book from him. Thumbing the pages.
Every time she’d sought to assist Gordon with his work, he’d patted her on the head—in much the same way she patted Killer—and told her too much reading would give her pretty face wrinkles and dull the sparkle in her eyes. As if the strain would simply be too great for her little pea brain to assimilate without exploding. All right, that might have been unduly harsh, but the sentiment had certainly been there, if couched in sweetness and consideration.
One thing she never had to worry about with Brendan was consideration.
“Are you certain you—” she began.
“If you don’t want to, fine. I simply thought two heads might be better than one. Go back to checking your face for unwanted freckles or practicing fan semaphore or whatever it is women do when left to their own devices, and I’ll look for it myself.” He grabbed for the book, which she pulled out of his reach.
“I’ll help. No need to be snippy about it.”
She sat across from him, opening the book to the index. Running a finger down the page until she spotted a reference. Turned to the chapter in question.
“What, exactly, are we searching for?”
“References to Arthur’s encounters with the true Fey. A curse, specifically. A Fey molleth placed on the king.”
“Why would the Fey curse—”
He leaned over to tap on her open page. “Fewer questions. More reading.”
If her book had been thicker, she might have been tempted to bring it down on his hard head. Instead, she gritted her teeth and allowed herself to be silenced. Simpler while she came to grips with her embarrassment over last night. Though Brendan’s apparent unconcern made it easier.
They sat together in silence, flipping pages and taking notes, the clock’s hands circling its face, sunlight from the open window moving over the floor. The noise of a fine spring afternoon an upbeat tempo to the companionable quiet within the study.
Heir of Danger Page 15
