by Alexa Egan
“That may be, but the laws were put in place for a reason—to keep us safe, to keep us strong,” Sir Dromon said. “Those who subvert them must pay a price for their presumption. Otherwise, they pollute with their lies those who remain loyal to the old teachings.”
Logical, reasonable; the voice of rational thought among the clamoring squabbles of petty clan leaders.
Sir Dromon ambled about the room, hands behind his back, a self-satisfied master of his dominion. Now and then he would take up a figurine or a carved box, a bit of china statuary or a painted miniature, stare at it for a loving moment and put it back precisely in its place. A man who appreciated order and exactness above all else. He controlled the bloodline scrolls with the same care and meticulousness. No wonder the idea of half-breeds and out-clan marriages disgusted him. They disrupted his clean, neat, tidy view of the world where there was a place for everything and everything in its place.
“But they’re not all lies, are they?” she asked, reminded of the Flannery baby. A muddle of magics that ran counter to everything Sir Dromon stood for.
“What do you mean by that?” He dropped his fob, the flash of the pearl bright in the candle’s light. His brows creased, and he smoothed a hand over his shirtfront in flustered agitation.
She must tread carefully here. To accuse the Arch Ossine of an outright falsehood would be dangerous, but a bit of clever manipulation might reveal the answers and leave him thinking her as useless a female as he already did.
She cast her gaze to the floor, offered him a slightly awed look through downcast lashes. “It’s just that for centuries we’ve been told the bloodline scrolls are the only way to maintain the purity and power inherent in the race. That out-clan marriages must be shunned and half-breeds refused clan recognition because they weaken us . . . dilute us. Yet, in London . . . amid Major de Coursy’s associates, the half-breeds I encountered possessed the same purity and strength as any true blood. Perhaps if that’s the case then they’re as worthy of the clans as any born of the scrolls.” She finished with an uncertain, doltish half smile.
His answering expression was one of pedagogical condescension. “It might seem so, my dear, but looks can be deceiving. Opening the way to half-breeds and out-clan marriages would be tantamount to surrendering all we are or ever hope to be. When Aneavala created the Palings to protect us, he set us apart and above. Who are we to turn our backs on what has served us well for so long?”
“But wasn’t that during the wars, when the clans fought for our very survival? It’s different now.” She worked to maintain the bland questioning expression that seemed to be working so effectively.
“Is it?” he answered sharply.
She thought about the Fey-blood who attacked Gray. He’d claimed this was the first time, but who could say if it would be the last? The Fey-bloods were known for their treachery and their hatred of the Imnada. The stories were full of such instances even before the Fealla Mhòr, when the clans were supposed to be at peace. If the afailth luinan was known to the Other, they would stop at nothing to possess such a prize, gift or not. Who was right? Dromon with his isolationist fears, or Gray with his desire for détente? She feared the answer would only be known after more violence.
“You defend de Coursy’s position even after he behaved so badly,” Sir Dromon continued. “He must be quite persuasive to win you over to his cause.”
A parry and return thrust, bringing the conversation full circle. Nicely played. She would have to concede and withdraw. “I’m not won over, but I’m willing to see his side and judge the truth for myself.”
“That’s good and as it should be for a seeker of peace. I, too, look forward to hearing his arguments. Perhaps he can convince me of his rightness and that his actions have not doomed us all. That these Fey-bloods can be trusted.” Sir Dromon sighed deeply, his fingers again running up and down the gold chain hanging from his waistcoat pocket. “I only hope he can be trusted as well.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Why do you suppose he agreed to come back so easily? I know you believe your childhood friendship swayed him or perhaps your more recent feminine charms, but he is no fool. He must understand the risks. What could have driven him to come?”
“I told him the duke was dying. That for the good of the clans and his own peace of mind, he should attempt a reconciliation.”
Once more appeared the look of patient disdain that made Meeryn want to scratch his eyes from his head with one good rake of her nails. “That would be a wonderful thing, were it true.”
She curled her fingers into her palm and breathed deeply through her nose. “You don’t believe him?”
“I know the duke pines for his lost family and de Coursy’s exile was a bitter blow, but they were never close, were they? Perhaps it’s not love that brought de Coursy back but something darker like”—he leaned close, his voice a hissed whisper—“vengeance.”
Meeryn went rigid. “You believe he’s here to kill His Grace?”
Sir Dromon gave a noncommittal shrug and a quick fuss of his long white hands. “Don’t misunderstand. I don’t believe anything. I only present facts. The Duke of Morieux exiled his only grandson, watched silently as his signum was stripped and his clan mark was burned from his back. That might make the most honorable of men bitter against their tormentor.”
“Gray would never harm the duke.”
Sir Dromon scanned the ceiling as if searching for an answer. “And you saw him last . . . ten years ago, was it? Be careful, my dear. I know you and he were very close, but people change. Only hours ago he held a gun to your head and bartered his own life against yours. Does that sound like a man who would not lash out if cornered? Does that sound like a man you can trust?”
* * *
“My lord? Are you here?” The voice came distant and muffled through the piles of laundry, but it was loud enough to startle Gray from his reverie. He stepped free of the passage, sliding and locking the panel in place. Ducking out of the wardrobe, he pocketed the key to return to its hole once he’d dealt with this interruption.
It was the young enforcer Kelan. He stood in uncomfortable misery within the study, hands behind his back, legs spread and head high as if he faced a firing squad.
“No need to look so martyred. I haven’t murdered anyone in”—Gray tapped his chin in thought—“well . . . since yesterday.” He leaned against a rickety side table and prayed it didn’t collapse beneath him.
“I had no idea Mr. Thorsh meant to murder the coachman, my lord. It happened so fast. He had his gun out before I realized. I assumed he would scare the man, not kill him in cold blood. And then when you . . . when he pulled you from the coach . . . I know you didn’t want me to reveal myself by interfering, but . . .”
“But you were afraid you were about to stand as a helpless witness to my execution.”
“I’ve sworn you my sword, my lord. I couldn’t just watch as all we’ve fought for ended in a sword stroke.”
“I appreciate the loyalty, Kelan, but you’re far more use to me as one of Dromon’s enforcers than watching your back on the run with the rest of us.”
“But if you’d misjudged the moment, my lord . . .”
“I’d have ended as a headless corpse and you’d have been left to explain my sticky end to Captain Flannery.”
“Not a conversation I’d relish.”
“No, I don’t blame you. It’s that martial, knight-in-armor, intensity of his. I think the infantrymen in our company were more frightened of facing him than any of Boney’s soldiers.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gray wanted to laugh at Kelan’s deference, which bordered on puppyish adoration. A far cry from the brash insolence and outright contempt he’d received from the battle-hardened men in his former military command, Mac included. But then, he’d been as raw and green as this earnest young man when he’d arrived in Lisbon with a desire to prove himself. A high-born prig thinking rank alone would command respe
ct. He had been their commander from the beginning, but it had taken five hard years and three dangerous countries before he could call himself their leader.
“What of my groom? Is he safe?”
“Aye, my lord. I saw to it myself. Mr. Thorsh meant for him to die. I could see that clear enough. The boy could too, and he fell to gibbering for his mam. I took him up rough-like and told Thorsh I’d take care of it myself. He didn’t argue. His wound was paining him and he was happy to leave the killing to me. I took the youngling deep into the wood and told him to find his way back to the posting inn. The boy fled as if he’d a pack of hounds on his tail.”
“Good. Doule will see to it he reaches London safely.” Gray dragged up a chair, dropping into it before he collapsed, his legs suddenly weak, his stomach cramping with pent-up relief. He’d not known how worried he was for the boy until Kelan had reassured him.
David cursed Gray’s coldheartedness. Mac admired Gray’s resolve. But neither one knew how deep the wounds inflicted were with each life lost to his cause. The ghosts of those he’d killed rarely bothered his sleep. The ghosts of those who’d died fighting for him haunted his dreams until closing his eyes was a punishment to be endured.
* * *
The duke’s hand was dry and fragile as onion skin. Meeryn clasped it, trying not to notice the way he clung to her as if afraid to let go. In his growing senility, did he fear the darkness as a child might? Or did he truly sense the encroaching shadows of rebellion, unrest, and fear spreading across Deepings’ battlements into the heart of the Imnada clans?
Perhaps she imagined the way he held her fingers tightly in his own and the confusion in his eyes. Perhaps it was her own doubts and worries making her uneasy as she kept her vigil.
“I missed you, Meeryn. Pym hovers, and that valet of mine eyes me as if I’m a corpse already.”
“I missed you too, Your Grace. But I’ve a surprise; Gray is here with me. He’s back at Deepings.”
“Pym told me.” He withdrew his hand, eyes narrowed. “Is the boy much changed since his exile?”
How could he not be after what you did to him? she thought. Probably not the most tactful of answers. She settled on, “He’s grim. Formidable. But I see why men follow him. He carries himself like a . . . a . . .”
“Like a duke,” the old man snapped. “But that’s not his right. Only a mistake of ill fortune.”
“You’re wrong. It’s been Gray’s right since he was fourteen. You’d be proud of the man he’s become. Of the Duke of Morieux he would make if given the chance.”
His Grace’s snort of derision turned to a spate of coughing. Spittle leaked from the corner of his mouth, which he didn’t wipe away. His eyes watered with tears as his hands clenched the covers.
Meeryn felt a twisted mix of sympathy, love, and anger. The duke and Gray had been two souls torn apart by one tragic act. If only they’d clung to each other, how much different would both lives have turned out? Would Sir Dromon have been able to squeeze his way into the duke’s confidence? Would Gray have departed Deepings for the army as a last drastic attempt to prove himself worthy? So many futures altered, so many choices unmade, if only . . .
“Sir Dromon says the boy’s here to kill me.” His Grace leaned in with much wheezing and grunting as Meeryn tried not to notice the odor of stale sweat and urine, the broken veins on his nose, or his crusty chapped lips. “Do you believe that’s true?”
“Gray loves you. He’d cut off his right hand before he caused you harm.”
“Love? He’d do better to despise me for the trouble I’ve caused him. I’d respect him more for his hatred than his affection.” His Grace cackled. “But mayhap you’re right and Pryor worries overmuch. Gray was meant for you, you know. Or rather, you were meant for the heir to the five clans. The bloodlines were correct, the pedigree satisfactory. Idrin’s line would have been strengthened by the joining. Our house would have been proud to accept you.”
“I know.”
“That boy of yours knew it, too. The one who stole your maidenhead and your heart. Knew who and what you were. He thought he could outsmart the Ossine’s scrolls and wangle his way into my confidence. The wolves of the Viyachne have always been overly cunning.”
Old anger flared hot in Meeryn’s face, and she turned away until she could master her expression, but she could not steady the wobble in her voice when she answered him. “You outsmarted yourself, Your Grace. You sent Conal McIlroy away and then you exiled Gray. Now there’s no heir and no joining and Idrin’s line will end. And I’m left alone.”
“You’re N’thuil.”
She wanted to scream at him how worthless such an honor was these days, when the crystal remained cold and silent and the power of her position was as moldy and worm-riddled as Gray’s old books. Instead she plumped His Grace’s pillows, straightened his blankets. Poured him a fresh glass of water.
His Grace closed his eyes. He sagged deeper into the bed, his face going lax and dull, his hands uncurled to lie knobby and liver-spotted on the coverlet, the gold of the great ring of his house bright against the pasty white of his flaccid skin. “I stayed until the end,” he muttered. “That much I felt I owed him. He can’t have expected more than that.”
“He’s your grandson,” she countered. “He expected you, of all people, to help him.”
His eyes flashed open, and for a moment, they burned as clear and focused as the eagle he was born to be, and he was once more the feared and respected Duke of Morieux. “He’s a murderer. You say he’s not come to kill me, but he’s already killed the rest of my family. I’m all that’s left. He’s destroyed everyone who touches him. Everyone who loves him.” He grabbed her wrist, his grip crushing her bones with a warrior’s strength. “Be careful, Meeryn. Be careful lest he destroy you.”
6
She sliced through the water, down deeper and deeper where the moonlight never penetrated. The current moved like silk over her seal skin and she spun and curled as she dove, letting it caress her like a lover, letting it ease the weight from her shoulders and calm her frazzled nerves. She’d come into her powers amid the frigid northern ocean surrounding the rocky Orkney outpost, but it had been the warmer Cornish seas where she’d learned to love every surge and swell of the ocean. Endowed with the rare gift of flux and unbound by the aspect of her birth clan, she could shift to any creature, big or small; fly with the eagles of the Seriyajj or hunt the mountains as one of the Welsh Viyachne. But when her thoughts and her form grew tangled and tight, it was the seal of her birth clan, the Nornala, she sought; an aspect of sleek strength and unshrinking confidence.
Ahead, a school of pilchard darted and flashed against the green-black water. She carved into their midst with killer precision, feeding until her stomach no longer ached. She could not say the same about her heart.
Lungs empty, she rose to the surface, scanning the distant shore. Lightning shimmered now and again and the rumble of thunder bounced and echoed against the high cliffs. The lights of Deepings glittered like diamonds beckoning her home, and tired enough for sleep to come, she let them guide her in.
The cliffs rose high above her as she beached herself below the house, the grit of the coarse sand rough against her hide while she let the fire and magic of the shift engulf her. The seal’s smooth brown fur became a tumbled mane of honey hair. Flippers and tail changed to long limbs and a woman’s curves. She blinked and stretched, her human skin always feeling odd and awkward for a few moments as mind and body adjusted to this new form.
The brush of another’s shifter magic against her nakedness brought her head up sharply. The clatter of falling pebbles against the rocks froze her silent as she searched the night for the intruder into her solitude. A quick startled breath caught in her throat. No lurking Ossine enforcer sent to do murder. Instead Gray stood motionless on the cliff path above her, his gaze locked on the horizon, body wired with tension. He’d discarded his coat on a nearby rock and loosened his neckcloth. Sweat glistened
in the hollow of his throat and damped his hair to his head.
What on earth brought him to the beach? He hated and feared the water. Had for years.
Lightning lit the skies, illuminating his face, revealing the determination etched in every grim line. The crack of thunder seemed to underscore the anger radiating off him, the effort he took to keep his temper in check. Then he swung around, and, in another bright, blinding flash, the pain in his eyes shone starkly clear. It was an expression gone in an instant. Locked away so thoroughly, he might as well have been carved in stone, but the tremble in his hands betrayed him as did the taut working of his jaw.
“A poor night for a swim,” he said, breaking the standoff between them.
“I prefer the sea when it’s rough and the currents are wild. Normally, I enjoy it for the challenge. Tonight it mirrored my mood.”
His gaze traveled over her naked body with slow deliberation, a long sensual stare that started at her toes, skimming up her bare legs to pause just long enough for her insides to flutter, before trailing over the flat of her stomach, lingering upon her tingling breasts and the long strands of her hair dripping over her shoulders.
At last, he settled upon her face. The dark intensity in his eyes reminded her of the ocean’s caress sliding against her body, leaving pleasure and excitement in its wake. She felt no embarrassment in her nudity. The Imnada cared nothing for the social prudishness of the day. The shame came from the sweet ache between her legs and the thrill of anticipation coursing like lava through her veins.
Neither feeling was welcome. Either one could cost her in position and reputation, not to mention the risk to actual life and limb. Now was not the time to go pudding-kneed and jelly-headed over a pair of icy blue eyes and a Grecian god’s body. Now was the time to remain pragmatic and focused. Hold to her earlier fury. Hold very tight.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped.
“Looking for you.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
