Lord of Shadows

by Alix Rickloff

  She scoffed her annoyance. “Neither have men. Still bossy and overbearing.”

  “So now that we’ve established your obstinacy and my arrogance, stay away from—”

  “You’re doing it again.”

  He snapped his mouth shut until she swore she heard his teeth grinding.

  “Please, Daigh. I know in your own manly way you’re trying to protect me. At least I’m assuming that’s why, but I don’t know from what. Or why I even need protecting. What does St. John have to do with Brendan’s return and a stolen tapestry? Are you afraid I won’t be discreet? Or that I’ll be more shocked than—”

  “He’s Máelodor’s man,” he blurted.

  “Your crea . . .” she trailed off into a silence as brittle as the ice upon the trees.

  “Creator. You can say it, Sabrina.”

  She hugged the warmth of the coat to herself. The scent of him heightening the stupid need to throw herself into his arms. But she hardened her heart against the swamp of emotion. She’d not repeat her previous mushy sentimentality.

  Besides, Daigh didn’t look in the mood for comfort. He’d gone stone-rigid, his eyes glowing stern with refracted moonlight. “St. John’s a member of the Amhas-draoi.”

  It was her turn to go stiff, her stomach plummeting into her slippers.

  “Máelodor is using him to find Brendan. He seeks to pay your brother back for a past betrayal. It’s all part of what I can’t remember. Whatever accident left me washed up on your beach took most of my memories of this life, but left those of my days with Hywel. I catch impressions. Hints of things. But most is gone, and I’m left to piece it together like a shredded quilt. That’s why I need St. John. Alive. He can lead me to the master-mage.”

  She couldn’t swallow.

  “Sabrina, if Gervase St. John finds Brendan, your brother’s death will not be quick. Máelodor has made suffering an art.”

  Couldn’t breathe. “How do you know this?” she whispered.

  He wouldn’t meet her gaze as his voice rasped out the words. “You’ve seen the proof, Sabrina.”

  Of course. The scars. Thousands of them. Covering Daigh’s body. A canvas for another man’s inhuman cruelty. She wanted to be sick. Who was the monster? Daigh who strove to stop a killing, or Máelodor who sought more torture and death?

  And why oh why had she asked? Not knowing was so much better. Manly protectiveness definitely had its place.

  “Your brother won’t be free until Máelodor’s dead.” He stalked away.

  Nor would Daigh, though she didn’t say it.

  He prowled the garden. Moved silently in and out of the shrubbery, muttering soldier obscenities before coming to a halt in the middle of the garden, head thrown back. Eyes trained on the night sky.

  She caught her breath as once more she felt herself falling into a world not her own. A strange shifting of light and shadow and air and earth. A ripping loose of her mind as reality and illusion mixed in a crash of jarring, overlapping images. But this time as quickly as it began, the rushing free fall into memory ended back on solid ground. High ghostly stars. And a cloud of air at every shivering breath she took.

  Daigh’s fists uncurled. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. Returned to her, gratitude brightening his obsidian eyes. “You’re still here. I thought you’d take the first chance to run.”

  She held out her arms, coat sleeves drooping over her hands. “I can hardly return to the house dressed like this. And I was”—afraid for you—“enjoying the air out here. It’s wonderfully refreshing.”

  He rubbed his chin, a smile hovering. “You’re a horrible liar. I can hear your teeth chattering. Let me take you inside. I may not be of this time, but a man and a woman and a dark garden spurs the same scandal in any age.”

  The idea struck with the force of a backhand. Of course. Aidan and Aunt Delia’s plans be damned, she refused to be harried into a marriage simply because her brother thought it in her best interest. And here in front of her stood her answer. After all, what husband would want her once she’d soiled herself out of wedlock? She’d be gloriously, perfectly ruined. Aidan would be shoving her back at the sisters with a hearty good riddance. Happy to dispose of a sister no longer marriageable and therefore no longer of use.

  It was a dangerous plan. Dangerous and reckless and insane. But Ard-siúr had told her to find her future. To risk life before she made the ultimate decision about joining the sisters of High Danu. Daigh was the ultimate risk with his brutal good looks and a power in his soldier’s frame that sent delicious heat pulsing straight to her center.

  Her resident butterflies swooped and plunged, a summer burn overtaking the tingling numbness in her chilled body. That was all this was. A way to return to Glenlorgan. It had nothing to do with the crazy surge of reckless feelings Daigh provoked in her. Nothing at all.

  Now if she could just convince Daigh to go along.

  With a tip of her chin, she made her decision. “I’m not going inside. I can’t stand one more moment of Aunt Delia’s sugar-coated insults, and if Mr. St. John is as determined as you say, he won’t allow me to escape as easily a second time.”

  “You can’t stay out here.”

  Hands on hips, she faced him down. “Has anyone ever remarked that you sound like the primmest of chaperones? I didn’t say I necessarily wanted to stay out here.”

  A wary frown, but he hadn’t laughed in her face. So far. So good. In fact, he looked downright intrigued. “What do you propose?”

  “Take me with you. I don’t want to go home. I don’t know where I want to go. I just want to be with you a bit longer.” Her jaw stiffened in a bulldog jut before she realized she was supposed to be looking seductive. Trouble was she didn’t know how to look seductive. Wouldn’t know flirtatious if it bit her. She pouted her lips. Batted her lashes. Immediately felt a complete fool.

  “Sabrina—”

  “I know I shouldn’t ask. I know you’re only here with me because you want to keep me safe from St. John.”

  “You’ve no idea of what I want.” His voice cold and almost angry.

  She plowed ahead before she could come to her senses. “I can’t face them. The curious stares. The pointed questions. Not now. Not yet.”

  Was it working? Was he regarding her with something more than exasperation? The heat spread to her face. Blood pounding in her ears.

  His gaze knifed through her. “Are you certain this is the path you would choose? There is no going back.”

  Was she certain? She focused on Aidan’s letter. All of Aidan’s letters actually. The ominous upcoming discussion. His desire to pull her back into the family fold. Her wish to get back to Glenlorgan. Gather up her old life where she’d left it. Taken all together, they gave her courage when common sense told her she played with fire.

  She squared her shoulders. “I am.”

  He opened his mouth as if to argue, but settled under the determined stare she leveled at him. Surrendered with a quick wry smile. His dark hair gleaming blue. His body bearing a blast of inferno heat she felt to her toes as he walked her through the garden to the gate and the mews beyond. His hand upon her back like a brand. The damped fire of his gaze as he beckoned to a waiting carriage shooting sparks into his eyes.

  “Where do you wish to go?”

  She shook her head, unable to form words. Unable to think beyond being here with this man who unsettled her just by being next to her. “I don’t care.”

  Settling her in her seat. Tucking heaping lap rugs around her, he rapped on the roof and with a bark of command, ordered, “Drive.”

  Ruined it by shooting her a look that was anything but commanding.

  He watched her from the carriage’s opposite seat, his arm lying casually across its back. If not for the battering crush of his mind against hers, she’d have believed his pose of nonchalance.

  But now that she’d committed herself, she wasn’t sure where to go from here. Would he envelop her in a passionate embrace? Did he
wait for her to make the first move? Was it her, or was it extremely warm in here?

  “At the Halliwells’ . . . I felt it again, Daigh. It was like all the other times.”

  “A dream?”

  “I wasn’t asleep.”

  His hand clenched to a fist but in no other way did he show his agitation. “Tell me.”

  “I was in a hall crowded with people. They were nervous. Upset. You were there in company with a group of men. I was . . .” Her hand fell to her stomach, and she caught back a gasp. Her eyes flew to his. She said nothing, but kept her hand resting lightly across her abdomen as if protecting it.

  With every word, his face hardened, his mouth thinning to a tight line, the shadows fighting for control. “When I saw you with St. John. I was this close . . . I fought it back the only way I could. There was a memory of . . . I don’t know. Hywel had already escaped to Ireland after his father’s death, but there was word he planned to return. I . . . damn it, I can’t remember any more. The darkness swallowed it as it has all the others.”

  “But some remained. Enough to see that your memories connect us. I’m seeing what you’re remembering. As you’re remembering it.”

  “So am I causing your visions? Or are you triggering my memories?”

  “I wish I knew.” She fought to keep the waver from her voice.

  He swung across to her seat. Nestled her closely against him. His heart thundered in his chest. Slammed against her palm. Thrummed in the chilled air of the carriage.

  A man and a woman. A kiss. A promise. A tumbled bed where lovers wrestled. She suddenly realized she wanted these memories. Not just to recall them, but to relive them.

  “It doesn’t matter the how or why, Sabrina,” he said simply. “Only that it is. For without these memories, the presence would have long since devoured me from the inside out. They are all that stand between me and Máelodor.”

  He fell silent, only the sound of his breathing and the occasional creak of the coach to break the quivering tension. The pressure of his emotions built around them like ice upon a dam.

  She curled into the crook of his shoulder, using all her empathic gifts to settle the tangled roil of his thoughts, ease the angry questions straining against his heart. Slowly his body relaxed beneath her while his mind calmed from the storm-angry churn of confusion.

  “You’ve been given a gift, Daigh. A second chance. An opportunity to reclaim what was stolen from you six hundred years ago.”

  “Everyone I remember is dust, Sabrina.”

  Her heart turned over at the grief in his voice. She leaned in. Let her hand glide over the ripple of his chest. Delighted in the shiver of his muscles. Finally found the words she was looking for. “Not everyone you remember,”

  Miss Roseingrave’s carriage was well sprung and well cushioned, but every jostle still sent Sabrina’s body swaying against his, the wind-scent perfume of her hair making him want to bury his nose against her neck and inhale.

  A voice in his head urged him to take her up on her oh-so-obvious proposition. She wanted him. Who was he to deny her? Besides, it would make extracting the information Roseingrave wanted that much easier.

  He shifted uncomfortably as the carriage rounded a corner, almost tossing her into his lap.

  No, he should be chivalrous. Refuse the lecher that wanted her astride his lap and panting. To hell with Roseingrave.

  Another corner. Another press of her soft body to his ribs. A hand against his leg as she braced herself. A hand suspiciously fluttery and warm before it was withdrawn.

  He looked up to see the same blaze of hunger he knew existed in his own gaze.

  “Aunt Delia told me there’d be some simpleton newly come to town who’d be content with having me as a partner.” Her shy smile doing far more than her clumsy attempts at bold allure to goad him to action.

  “Your aunt was right.”

  She gave an uncertain laugh. “Probably the only time in her life.”

  Leaning in, eyes closed, her face turned to his with such pure innocent yearning that a twist in his gut rose to his heart. His finer instincts trampled under the crush of desire. He tipped her chin with one gentle finger. Pressed a kiss upon her. And surrendered.

  He flicked his tongue against her lips. Then within. Tasting. Teasing. Enticing her ever further forward in this sweet seduction.

  She answered by caressing his cheek. Smoothing the hair back from his forehead. Tracing the line of his jaw. Dropping to splay a hand over his chest. Her breasts crushed to him beneath the heavy wool of his coat. Her actions came tentative and unskilled, but flared through his body with raw force.

  He pulsed with arousal, alight with a dazzle of lush wild heat.

  “It’s like the memory of us,” she murmured. “And not.”

  “Mmm.” He could barely talk. Only feel. “Not real. Only a ghost. Like me.”

  She giggled. “An awfully solid ghost.”

  He pulled her into his lap. Dragged his coat off her, revealing the white of her shoulders, the sweep of her collarbone. The rounded mounds of her breasts. Taut. Sweet. Straining against the silky fabric of her gown. He cupped them. Thumbing the nipples taut. Easing the collar lower. Skimming the slope of her throat. Tonguing the creamy flesh inch by exposed inch. Slowly. Gently. Giving her every chance to change her mind.

  She trembled but didn’t pull away. Rather, she leaned into his touch. Followed his lead. Her own hands growing ever more adventurous. His cravat discarded. His shirt un-tucked. Then on the seat beside them.

  “Oh, Daigh,” she mourned, tracing the puckered silver tangle of scars.

  He shivered, gooseflesh following the path of her fingers. Slanting his mouth over hers. Gliding a hand up her calf. Her thigh. To the junction of her legs.

  She squeaked, her eyes flying open. He moved no farther, letting her adjust to this new sensation. Taking his time, though it cost him to do so.

  Slowly she relaxed under his steady, sultry kisses. Her body melting into his. Her hands coming round his neck, pulling him close. Threading through his hair.

  She was wet for him. It would take little more on his part to have her aching. Just as he ached.

  She lifted her head to stare deep into his eyes, a siren’s smile playing about her bruised lips. “Don’t stop, my love,” she whispered.

  He didn’t breathe. Didn’t dare move. Afraid to break the spell of that whispered endearment. It wasn’t true. But it felt so good.

  He was reminded of their conversation at the cove. The way she stared at the sea with a wistful longing. The slender poignancy of her movements as she lifted her face to the wind. The nascent courage in her bluest-of-blue eyes. Like a jessed hawk. Tethered to her perch, yet yearning to try her wings.

  Then she kissed him, and the spell dissolved in a blinding flash of reality. What he was. What he could never be.

  Did he care? He could satisfy the greedy hunger he’d harbored since that first long-ago kiss. Could drive himself deep within her velvety heat. Bruise those coral lips with his kisses. She was willing. It would take naught but a few skilled moves on his part to have her beneath him. And since when had his conscience carried the day?

  He couldn’t remember. And there lay the heart of his dilemma.

  He couldn’t. Sabrina could. She remembered him. And trusted him. Could he really break that trust for a quick bedding?

  He caught her hands. Drew them from around his neck.

  She frowned with confusion. “Daigh?”

  Sliding from underneath her, he shrugged himself back in his shirt. Tucked her skirts round her in demure virginity. Rapped once more on the carriage roof to signal the driver. “Return to the Halliwells’.”

  She grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?”

  “Not making love to you,” he answered through clenched teeth. “You can thank me some other time.”

  For reasons of his own, Daigh refused to let her slink away with at least the tattered shreds of her dignity intact. No, he decided t
o play the gallant to the hilt. Handing her down from the carriage. Escorting her through the icy garden, still blessedly empty and silent. None to witness their illicit arrival. None to see the burn of embarrassment scorching her cheeks. If only he’d leave so she could find Jane, plead a splitting headache—not a fib—and go home to be mortified in the privacy of her own bedchamber.

  Back through the French doors. Down the stairs. Up the corridor. Into the alcove. And smack into Jane and Aunt Delia who stood heads together, trading worried glances.

  “There you are, darling.” Aunt Delia sighed with audible relief. “We wondered where you’d scampered off to.” Her gaze traveled up Daigh, brows drawing into a scowl. Sabrina could almost hear the wheels spinning. Perhaps her chance hadn’t been lost. She didn’t have to say anything. Aunt Delia’s filthy little mind would fill in all the blanks.

  But before she opened her mouth to ask the obvious, Jane threaded her arm through Daigh’s. Grabbed him by the ear, drawing him down to buss him on the cheek. “Daigh, you beast. You did come. And you’ve found Sabrina already.” Swung around to Aunt Delia. “Mrs. Norris, may I present my brother to you. Mr. Fletcher is newly arrived in Dublin.”

  That twinkle of amusement was back in Daigh’s eyes. And he actually smiled as he bowed over her aunt’s hand. An expression to turn any woman’s head. “I found Lady Sabrina at the punch bowl, complaining of a headache. Perhaps it would be best if she were taken home.”

  Aunt Delia was no exception. She fluttered like a schoolgirl. “She always did have her poor mother’s constitution. The merest breath of wind would send her to her bed with a cold.”

  “If you would allow it, I’m happy to escort the young women home.”

  Sabrina’s head snapped around. Please no. She couldn’t take another moment of Daigh’s company right now.

  “That would be perfect. Thank you, young man.”

  Sabrina shot Jane a glare. Perfect was just what it wasn’t.

  “Brother?” Sabrina complained. “Brother? What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking of your reputation. Something you obviously weren’t.”