Syrena cleared her throat, leaning heavily against him. “Did Lan . . . you don’t think?”
Aidan knew what she asked. He’d asked himself the same question a hundred times before. “Nay, he was badly beaten.” In his heart, ’twas what Aidan believed, what he prayed to be true. But his brother never deigned to give him an answer, barely spoke to him since that day, and in all honesty, Aidan couldn’t say for certain.
Despite Aidan’s protective presence at her back, a cold north wind buffeted Syrena. She snuggled deeper within her woolen mantle, stumbling over the cobblestone walk. Aidan, who had been directing three of the lads to stay behind and see to the horses, took hold of her elbow. He guided her past the carriages lining the drive in front of the stately home on the Strand. The massive town house was cloaked in shadows as the sun slid behind the rooftops of London. After their long, arduous journey, they’d finally reached their destination.
Aidan released a frustrated sigh, and Syrena drew her gaze from the dark oak door of his uncle’s home. With a concerted effort, she forced her legs to move and mounted the stone steps. She didn’t think she’d ever been so tired. Aidan had been relentless on the last leg of the journey. He’d pushed them to the point of exhaustion. If she hadn’t been as concerned for Lachlan’s welfare as he was, she might have taken him to task for it.
But their meeting with the Lamonts had cast an ominous pall on the remainder of their trek. She’d tried to reach Lan in her mind. Her inability to contact him left both her and Aidan uneasy. He had insisted she discontinue her efforts, and she wasn’t entirely certain of the reason—whether it was because he had witnessed firsthand the pain the effort caused her, or because in his heart he still tried to pretend she wasn’t Fae.
Even though he attempted to hide it, she knew he had yet to put who she was behind him. Although neither of them had admitted their love for one another aloud, the long weeks spent together had forged a strong bond between them. She thought once Lan was safe, their differences would be something they could overcome. At least she hoped so.
She rolled her eyes when Aidan impatiently nudged her aside to rap his knuckles against the door. “You nearly knocked me off the step,” she muttered, shooting him a disgruntled look.
He glanced down at her. The weary tension hardened his stormy gaze, rolling off him in waves. She thought he might have murmured an apology, but couldn’t be certain. The door swung open, and once it had, nothing else mattered but the warm gush of air that rushed out to greet them. The welcome heat should have sent Syrena running over the threshold, but there was more in the air than warmth.
Like a thick blanket of fog, dark and suffocating, icy tentacles crawled over her body, freezing her to the step. Her gaze shot through the open door to the richly appointed entryway. Regardless of the beauty of the gilded tables and polished wood, she knew somewhere within these walls evil dwelt, and it chilled her to the bone.
“Bloody hell, Syrena, with yer insistent whining fer a bed and hot bath, I thought ye’d be pushin’ yer way through the doors, no’ keepin’ the rest of us standin’ out in the cold. Now get a move on.” With his hand at the small of her back, he gave her a gentle shove.
But distant memories swirled in her subconscious and she couldn’t move past them. She was back in the grand hall of the palace, watching her father’s triumphant unveiling of an arm reputed to be that of a dark lord killed in the battle with Tatianna. The discovery of the ravaged appendage had been made in the home of three Fae women who were being investigated for dabbling in the dark arts.
Encased in a block of ice, the limb had been preserved, the pentagram clearly visible, inked on the inside of the forearm. King Arwan and his men had laughed, throwing the arm among themselves. Its gnarled, blackened fingers pointed to the assemblage, who drew back in horror. Syrena and her mother, who stood trembling at her side, were just as affected by the dark magick that seeped from the ravaged appendage. Syrena had battled the urge to expel the contents of her belly, struggling to breathe as the icy fingers strangled her, just as they did now.
The look of frustration in Aidan’s eyes softened to concern. He waved Callum and Connor past with their belongings, nudging Syrena out of the way. “What is it, angel? Yer bonny eyes are about to swallow yer wee face.”
He folded her in his arms, and she greedily inhaled his familiar scent. The warmth of his embrace dispelled the bone-numbing terror that iced her limbs. Protected and strengthened by his powerful presence, she once more turned her mind to that day long ago. She’d forgotten until Aidan wrapped her in his arms that her uncle, King Rohan, had been with them.
While her father and his men, unaffected by the dark magick, disregarded those who were, her uncle had not. He’d held Syrena and her mother, quieting their fears, staying with them until their trembling ceased, as Aidan did now, with her.
He kneaded her shoulders. “Tell me.”
She lifted her gaze to his. “There’s something here, Aidan, something evil.”
He frowned, smoothing the tangled curls from her face. “Nay, angel, ye’re tired is all. Once ye—”
“I wish that was all it was, Aidan, but—”
“Ye havena’ changed a bit, my laird, always one fer the lassies, ye were. Come in, I canna be waitin’ all night fer ye. We’re heatin’ the out of doors as it is.” An older man, the light from the lanterns glinting off his shiny bald head, smiled warmly at Aidan.
“Samuel, ’tis good to see ye,” Aidan said, stepping away from Syrena. He took hold of her hand and tugged her along behind him as the small, wiry man ushered them inside. “’Tis been a long time. I didna ken ye came to England with my uncle. Did yer wife accompany ye?”
“Aye, after the Lady Elizabeth passed and he took up with his new wife, me and Bess didna want to leave himself to his own devices. We could no’ stand the idea of him bein’ served by a bunch of snooty Englishmen.” His light blue eyes filled. “Ye ken he passed, doona ye, my lord?”
“Aye, I received word from John Henry. I didna ken he’d been unwell.” Syrena had noted the hard slash Aidan’s mouth drew into every time he made mention of his cousin, but she had yet to discover the cause.
“Unwell?” Samuel scoffed. “’Twas fit as a fiddle. If ye ask me, his wife and her brother had somethin’ to do with it.”
A feminine peal of laughter floated down from the second floor. “Mayhap ye’d best be keepin’ those thoughts to yerself, Samuel,” Aidan warned.
“Aye, ’tis—” A delighted cry drew their attention to a heavyset woman, bright auburn curls escaping from beneath her snug, white lace cap as she bustled toward them.
She clutched Aidan’s hand. “Laird MacLeod, ’tis grand to see ye. Lord Hamilton mentioned we should be expectin’ a visit from ye.” She lowered her voice to a conspirator’s whisper. “Was none too happy about it, ye ken, on account of Lady Davina. Och, ye’re well rid of that one, let me tell ye, my laird.”
“Bess,” Samuel admonished his wife.
“What? Och, well, ’tis no secret how—”
A grim-faced Aidan cut her off. “Bess, Samuel, this is my wife, Lady Syrena.” Tugging on Syrena’s hand, he set her in front of the couple.
A warm smile wreathed the older woman’s round face. “Och, my laird, she’s a bonny wee thing. ’Tis glad we are to meet ye, my lady.”
Syrena managed a weak smile. “Thank you.”
“Bonny and tired, Bess, we’ve had a long journey. If ye doona mind, I think she could use a bath and her bed.”
“I’ll see to it straightaway. And what about ye?”
“Later. I’d like to speak with my cousin first.”
“Ye’ll be waitin’ until the morrow, then. He’s taken his father’s place as agent to King James and is rarely home. If he was, I doona think they’d be carryin’ on as they do,” Samuel said darkly, jerking his thumb to the raucous laughter coming from above.
Aidan followed the older man’s gaze. “I’ll question his widow. She would�
��ve been around when Lachlan was here.”
Samuel and his wife shared a pained look. “We were sorry to hear yer brother is missin’. John Henry questioned all the staff, but none kent anythin’ of Lachlan’s whereabouts. Mayhap ye’d best wait until his lordship returns. There’s strange goin’s on up there, my laird. And Lady Ursula and her brother”—Samuel shuddered—“trust me, ye doona want to have anythin’ to do with the likes of them.”
“Aye, listen to my Samuel, Laird MacLeod, and wait until the morrow.”
“I’ll have to take my chances, Bess. I doona have time to waste.”
“Och, well, doona say we didna warn ye. And doona imbibe of the mead, I’m fairly certain ’tis laced with laudanum.”
A flicker of disgust crossed Aidan’s face. “I won’t. Is Lady Davina up there as well?”
Bess cast Syrena a sidelong glance. “Aye, she is.”
Aidan lifted Syrena’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I won’t be long.”
She shook her head and tightened her grip on his hand. Maybe Aidan was right, and she was simply tired. Her certainty that evil dwelled in Lord Hamilton’s residence had wavered as the suffocating darkness dissipated. But Bess and Samuel’s silent communication had prickled a warning. Something was going on, and she wouldn’t leave Aidan to face it on his own. “No, I’ll go with you.”
“Nay,” Aidan and Samuel said as one. As though sensing Syrena meant to insist, Bess used a potent argument, appealing to her vanity. “Now, my lady, ye canna wish to attend the soiree as ye are.”
Aidan shot the older woman a look of thanks, and before Syrena could argue the point, he was already halfway up the stairs.
Bess directed Callum and Connor to Syrena’s assigned chambers then led her up the long, wooden staircase. A wall of darkness slammed into her as she reached the top step, and she stumbled. She struggled to breathe, fighting past the suffocating sense of doom, the tightness in her chest.
Bess took one look at her and took hold of her arm, dragging her along behind her. “Och, sorry, my lady, I should have helped ye, ye’re exhausted from yer journey.” With every step they took away from the dark-paneled gallery, Syrena’s breathing eased. They slowed their pace once they reached the far end of the corridor. Connor and Callum had just deposited her possessions when Syrena and Bess entered the chambers.
“Samuel will show ye to yer accommodations, lads, but I think it might be best if one of ye stand guard over yer lady.”
“Aye, Laird MacLeod suggested as much,” Connor piped in. “I’ll be outside yer chambers if ye need me, Lady Syrena.”
Noting the stubborn set of his jaw, Syrena sighed. “Thank you, Connor,” she said as he and Callum took their leave.
“I ken ye doona think the precaution is warranted, my lady, but ye may be glad of his protection. There are unnatural goin’s-on when this lot gathers. What I’ve seen would have Lord Hamilton turnin’ in his grave if he were to ken. God rest his soul.” Her kind brown eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“His wife didn’t hold the gatherings when he was alive.”
Bess looked horrified. “Nay, Lady Ursula’s brother was banned from the house. He’s a defrocked priest and takes his anger out against the Kirk. Lord Hamilton would have none of it and, John Henry, well, he doesna’ have the sense to see what’s goin’ on right beneath his nose. Mayhap he doesna’ want to deal with it, run off his feet with the king’s incessant demands as he is. And his wife, well, that’s another story altogether.” She sighed. “I’ve told my Samuel I’ll no longer remain amongst these people. ’Twas why I was so glad to hear Laird MacLeod was comin’. I’m hopin’ we can travel home with ye.”
“I’m certain Aidan wouldn’t mind, but I’m surprised you wish to leave Lord Hamilton. It sounds as though you’ve been with the family a very long time.”
“Aye, verra long, and I canna say it will be easy to leave, but ye havena’ seen what I’ve seen. Mark my words, my lady, there’s evil afoot in this house.”
Syrena shuddered. Bess had confirmed her worst fear. King Gabriel had alluded to the use of dark magick in London, and she now knew it roamed the halls of this elegant town house on the Strand. Her brother’s last known residence.
Chapter 21
Syrena lay on top of the cream-colored coverlet. Her hand slipped from Nuie’s hilt, and she jolted, forcing her eyes open. Determined to make Aidan believe that someone in this house was responsible for Lachlan’s disappearance, she couldn’t allow herself to fall asleep.
“Syrena,” a man whispered.
She blinked and sat up. With only the dying embers of the fire to light the room, she strained to see who had entered her chambers. Tightening her grip on Nuie, she asked, “Who’s there?”
“Syrena.” The thin voice wavered, even weaker than the first time.
Lan. “Lachlan, is that you?” Her heart hammered in her chest. Pressing her palms to her temples, she searched for him in her mind.
“Aye.”
She swallowed her fear. He sounded so weak, but at least he was alive. “We’re here, Lan. Aidan and I are in London. Tell me, tell me where you are.”
“Nay . . . nay. Danger. Leave . . . too late.”
“No! We’re not going anywhere without you. Be strong, we’ll find you. Lachlan, stay with me,” she cried, sensing the connection fading. Pressure built inside her head with the effort to reach him. She gritted her teeth and pushed past the pain, sending him her strength, her love, but he was gone.
She sprang from the bed. She had to find Aidan and tell him Lachlan had made contact with her. Rubbing her eyes to clear her misted vision, she grabbed her mantle from the end of the bed. More certain than ever that evil dwelt within the town house, she would go nowhere without her sword. She strapped the sheath to her back and tucked Nuie inside, fastening the dark woolen cloak at her neck.
Wrapping the protective weight of the material around her hand, she lifted the iron latch.
She cursed the creak of the wood and peeked around the door. Connor, leaning against the stone wall, turned.
Oh for Fae-sakes.
He straightened when he saw her. “Is somethin’ amiss, my lady?” His brow furrowed as he took in her mantle.
“I must speak with Lord MacLeod? Have you seen him?”
“Nay.” He tipped his chin in the direction of the grand hall. “He’s no’ come this way. Ye’ll have to wait fer his return, my lady.”
She couldn’t wait. Lachlan’s life depended on them. She took a step over the threshold and Connor moved in front of her. “Connor, you don’t understand. It’s very important I speak with him,” she said, frustrated by the determined look in his eyes.
“Ye must remain here, Lady Syrena. I canna allow ye to go to the hall. The laird would have my head. And if ye’d seen what I have stumblin’ along these corridors, ye would no’ want to.”
Desperate to reach Aidan, but certain Connor would not let her go without a fight, she had no choice but to get Connor into her room and immobilize him for at least an hour. She wrapped her mantle around her as though she was chilled. “I’m sure you are right,” she said, forcing her teeth to chatter, adding a shiver for effect.
A frown furrowed his youthful brow. “Ye’re cold, my lady.” He craned his neck, looking past her to the interior of her chambers. “Ah, I can see the reason from here—yer fire is out. I’ll take care of it fer ye, my lady.”
“Thank you, Connor,” she murmured, wishing there was another option available to her, but there wasn’t, and she didn’t have time to waste developing one. He crouched beside the grate, chatting to her as he nudged the flame to life with a poker. While he was distracted, she slipped her cold hand to his neck.
“What—” The rest of his startled question died on his lips as her fingers found the pressure point that rendered him unconscious.
She caught him just before he hit the floor and dragged him to the bed. She quickly secured his hands and feet. Tucking him bene
ath the covers, she brushed a lock of hair from his face. “I’m sorry, Connor.” She assuaged her guilt with the knowledge he would suffer no ill effects. He’d simply sleep for an hour or so, and truly, what choice did she have when her brother’s life was at stake?
She closed the door behind her and stepped into the narrow corridor. The cacophony of voices grew louder as she hurried along the East Wing. As she approached the curved staircase, a man and a woman, both dressed in black and wearing half-masks, staggered from the wood-paneled gallery. Oblivious to her presence, they groped one another with unrestrained lust. A cloud of sweet, intoxicating fumes rolled off the pair. Syrena stepped out of their way, reminding herself to refuse refreshments if they were offered. Lengthening her stride, she hastened toward the gallery that ran the width of the house. A heavy thud sounded behind her, then several more. She winced. The couple had fallen down the stairs. Samuel’s genial voice, with his thick brogue, offered his commiseration.
Before he spotted her, Syrena slipped around the corner of the paneled wall into the gallery. On the opposite side of the room, the chatter of men’s and women’s voices wafted from beneath the double doors that led into the grand hall.
Within inches of the doors, a dark terror choked off her breath. Not again. Staggering under the oppressive weight, she stumbled and lost her balance. She reached out, stretching her fingers toward the wall to break her fall. Gasping for air, she dragged herself into a dark corner. Syrena covered her mouth to contain her silent retching, the pain in her head bringing her to her knees. She pressed her heated cheek to the wall, absorbing the coolness of the wood.
Nuie.
Groping beneath her mantle, her fingers were lifeless and she barely managed to wrap her hand around her sword’s hilt. She clamped her mouth shut, swallowing convulsively to keep the bile down, and used both her hands to remove him. Nuie’s life force, his strength, took hold of her, filling her with his power, a shield against the dark magick. The band constricting her chest snapped, and she dragged in muchneeded air. The loud buzzing in her head faded to silence, the pain subsiding as the black cloud lifted from her mind.
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