The Web (Fianna Trilogy Book 2)

by Megan Chance

  I grabbed his arm. “No. I’m going too. I need to hear for myself.”

  “You don’t even trust me to tell you what they say?”

  “This is my life we’re talking about. I think it matters more to me than to you.”

  He went quiet. Then, very softly, he said, “What if I told you it did matter to me? That I want nothing more than to save you?”

  The misery I saw in his eyes startled me more than his words—and then that misery changed to something else. I felt his desire as if he’d plunged me into it. His gaze fell to my mouth; I knew he wanted to kiss me. Touch him. Kiss him. My dream wrapped around me, ghosts of images and feelings. My own longing was so fierce it was all I could do to resist it.

  You don’t feel this way. Remember the geis. He has to kill you. I realized I was still holding his arm.

  The lovespell was so strong. To fight it took everything, but I did it. I released him and scooted back. My heart pounded. “Turn around,” I ordered. “I want to get undressed.”

  He paused, and then he rose, turning his back to me. My hands trembled as I fumbled with the buttons on my bodice, and then the lacings of my corset. It seemed to take forever, long enough that he said, “D’you need help?” in this voice that told me just how much he wished I would say yes.

  “No,” I said—too sharply. When I was down to my chemise, I grabbed the blanket to cover me and said, “All right. I’m done.”

  He bent to take off his boots, then unbuttoned his shirt, and I averted my gaze. I heard the fabric drop to the floor beside me, and then he grabbed it up, balling it to serve as a pillow. I heard the rustle of the blanket and his breathing. I turned onto my side, my back to him, closing my eyes to fall into my usual, uneasy sleep.

  But I wasn’t surprised when he said, “That story you told today . . .”

  “I’m sorry I chose that one. I didn’t know you were listening.”

  “Molly said everyone knew it.”

  “Everyone does. It’s a favorite.”

  “Why? Why is it a story anyone tells?”

  “Because it’s beautiful. The things you did for love—” I suddenly realized what I was saying. The things he’d done for love. For her. The beautiful Grainne had been alive, and though I’d known the story was about him, I hadn’t thought of her. No wonder he had been upset today. I’d been telling the story of a girl he’d loved, who was gone. Two thousand years or more gone.

  He had loved her.

  I was struck with a jealousy that robbed me of my voice. It took me a moment to remind myself that I had no business feeling it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you of her. It must be terrible, and very painful, and—”

  “It wasn’t like you said.” His voice was rough. “It’s a pretty story, but it’s just that. A story.”

  I was turning to face him before I knew it. He was just a deeper shadow within the darkness. He was very close—we were less than an inch apart, even with him shoved up against the wall. “What do you mean, it wasn’t like that? You mean . . . it’s not true?”

  “True enough, in parts. But not the best of it.”

  “The best of it?”

  “The love story. She was bespelled. She laid a geis on me so I was compelled as well.”

  “I know you didn’t love her at first, but surely you grew to?”

  “I don’t know what it was.” He seemed to be searching for a way to explain. “I felt . . . it wasn’t real. She would have married Finn if not for the ball seirce.”

  “But she was beautiful.”

  He sighed. I felt the warmth of his breath. “Aye, she was beautiful. What has that to do with it?”

  “Surely you felt—you must have wanted her. But you resisted her—”

  He laughed derisively.

  I went hot, but I could not stop now. I wanted to know. “You did resist her, didn’t you? Out of loyalty to Finn, and to protect her. That part of the tale was true?”

  “It seems strange that people know that. That it matters to anyone. Whose business is it?”

  “Not everyone’s heard that part of it. Patrick never had. But it was how my grandmother told it. And I always thought it was romantic, but if it didn’t happen that way—”

  “It did happen that way. Though ’twas nothing romantic about it. I felt responsible for her. I hoped the ball seirce would wear off quickly—sometimes it does—and then there was the chance that she would change her mind and lift the geis so I could take her back. To marry Finn . . . any other lass would have thought it an honor. I wanted to make it easy for him to forgive her.”

  It was so different from my imaginings that I wasn’t certain I wanted to hear the rest. But there was a part of me that wanted it to be different, that thought he didn’t love her and was happy for it. You’re as bespelled as she was.

  I said, “That was . . . considerate.”

  “I have my moments. And I wanted forgiveness, too, don’t forget. But Grainne didn’t see it that way.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “Her love for me wasn’t real, but it felt real to her. She was a princess. She was used to having what she wanted—a little like Lucy.”

  I didn’t want to think of Lucy, of him kissing her, or of what we had in common. “And what Grainne wanted was you.”

  “She knew I meant to resist her and she spent every moment working against me. She wanted to make sure Finn wouldn’t forgive either of us. And she succeeded.”

  “Oh. So you’re saying . . . she seduced you.”

  “One day she was bathing her feet in the river, and she said, ‘Oh, look how the water splashes up my skirt. It’s braver than you, isn’t it, Diarmid? Who would’ve ever thought water would be braver than a Fianna warrior?’ Things like that. All the time. I won’t deny I wanted her. She was beautiful, as you say. And we were together. Bound. My fate was tied up with hers, wasn’t it?”

  I won’t deny I wanted her. “I see. It wasn’t as romantic as it sounded.”

  “Like your white knight, Patrick. Nothing’s ever as it seems. You can keep thinking of it as a romance if you like, if it makes you think better of me.”

  “Derry, I—”

  I heard his movement, and the next thing I knew, his hand was at my cheek. I felt his touch in the deepest part of me, a flare of light, as if something were breaking open, the same way I’d felt when he’d kissed me. He moved closer—the inch between us disappeared. And then he stopped as if he were waiting for me to push his hand away.

  I was supposed to resist him. There was Patrick. My family. My life.

  But I did nothing. The yearning for his touch paralyzed me. He traced my cheekbone, the line of my jaw, and with each touch a light seemed to grow and pulse inside of me. I had no breath and no will. It wasn’t until his thumb brushed my lips and lingered, pressing like a kiss, that I came to myself, that I remembered who he was and that I was letting him do these things. I grabbed his hand. “Don’t. Please don’t.”

  “Grace—”

  “I want to ask you something.”

  I could feel his surprise in the darkness. “All right.”

  “Aidan told me not to go with you. Once he knew your name, he told me not to go. He said it was like the legend, but—”

  “Like the legend?”

  “You and Grainne. Because that’s my name too.”

  He started. I was still holding onto his hand, and he drew it away. “What?”

  “My given name is Grainne. My father chose it, but my mother—everyone—has always called me Grace. She says it sounds more American.”

  He backed up so hard he thudded against the wall.

  I tried to laugh. “Funny, isn’t it? Aidan thought so. Well, not funny, exactly. But that’s when he told me not to run off with you. He was so afraid I would, but he’s the one who put me in your hands. He t
old me I would think he had betrayed me, but that he hadn’t, that he never would. So I don’t understand. What’s between you and my brother?”

  “I barely know him.” His voice was a whisper.

  “But you were the one who made him leave the gambling hell the night that Patrick learned the truth about who you were. You took him to Patrick’s stables to keep him safe. I thought it was Patrick, but Aidan said it was you. Why? Did you know he was a stormcaster then? Is that why you did it?”

  “No. I didn’t know. I should have seen it—all the signs were there—but I didn’t.”

  “Then I don’t understand. Why?”

  I was tense, waiting, wanting his answer and dreading it in the same moment.

  Finally, he said in a voice so low I had to strain to hear it, “Because you love him. I did it for you.”

  “But I’d slapped you. I’d told you I wanted you to leave me alone.”

  He let out his breath. “I knew I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.”

  “Because I might be the veleda,” I said.

  “Aye, that, and . . .”

  “And what?”

  I felt him weighing what he might say, and suddenly I didn’t want to hear it. I was terrified to know. I rolled so my back was to him again. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

  I closed my eyes, willing him away. The memory of his touch lingered on my skin. Fight it! You’re no better than Lucy. But the spell he’d cast wound more tightly than ever.

  I had to find a way to escape him, whatever it took. I could not wait another day. “I want to find the sidhe. Tomorrow.”

  I expected him to argue, but instead, he agreed. “Tomorrow.”

  It was a long time until I slept.

  The same day

  Patrick

  She’s disappeared,” Patrick told Jules LaPlante, the reporter from the New York Times. “We fear gangs are involved.”

  “A kidnapping, you mean?” LaPlante’s pencil paused.

  “Mr. Devlin’s success makes him a target,” put in Daire Donn, who stood at the window of Patrick’s study. “These ruffians scarcely think of what Mr. Devlin and the Fenian Brotherhood have done for the Irish. Finn’s Warriors are the worst of them.”

  LaPlante said, “Yes, well, there are too many hungry. Too many without work. The Warriors have become heroes to them.”

  Patrick turned on him angrily. “And so it’s all right to kidnap innocent young girls to make their point? My fiancée, for God’s sake. Am I just to sit here and excuse them?”

  “Absolutely not, Mr. Devlin,” LaPlante said.

  “I’m offering a reward for any information.”

  “How much?”

  Daire Donn looked over his shoulder and said mildly, “Perhaps we should wait for a ransom note, my friend. You don’t want to pay more than necessary. And these gangs think so small. Why offer five hundred when they’ll ask for only two?”

  Patrick jerked his hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t care. I’ll pay anything. Anything at all.”

  LaPlante asked, “Could the girl have just run off? A new fiancé, a wedding . . . Perhaps it’s merely a spate of nerves.”

  “No,” Patrick said firmly.

  Daire Donn smiled, though his brown eyes were hard. “Just put in the paper what we tell you, eh? She’s missing, Finn’s Warriors are involved, and there’s a reward for any information.”

  LaPlante nodded. The Times was a friend of the Brotherhood; Patrick knew he would write whatever they told him to. He hoped it would help. Grace had seemingly disappeared into thin air. He had the entire police force at his disposal, and they’d discovered nothing. The guards here that day had seen and heard nothing. The maid had not returned from her day off and no one could find her.

  Daire Donn showed LaPlante to the door, and Patrick sank into a chair. He was sleeping badly, dreaming of smoky rooms and danger whenever he did, and the words Find Aidan had taken up residence in his head.

  “Patrick.”

  Grace’s mother. She and Grace’s grandmother had moved into his house only that morning. “What did you tell the reporter?” she asked.

  “I’ve put out a reward. It’s the most I can do until we know more.” She looked so worried that he added, “I’m certain she’s all right.” He did believe that was true. If the Fianna had Grace, they would keep her physically safe until Samhain. It was Diarmid and the lovespot he was worried about.

  “Are you comfortable?” he asked Mrs. Knox. “Is everything to your liking?”

  She smiled at him wanly. “Yes, very much so. And I’m grateful for your protection, though I’m still not certain we have need of it.”

  “If Finn’s Warriors are involved, you do. They were the ones in your yard that night. If they’re fearless enough to come to that part of town . . . I feel better that you’re here.” He’d also set a constant guard at the Knox house, in case Grace showed up there.

  He’d done what he could, but he felt helpless, and he hated it. Come back, Grace, he found himself praying every other moment. Come back to me.

  Mrs. Knox said, “Patrick, there’s something I must ask you—”

  A flurry of footsteps interrupted her question.

  Bres was at the study door, a harried butler bustling behind him, along with Daire Donn.

  “Sir,” the butler said, red-faced, “I’m so sorry, but—”

  “It’s all right, John,” Patrick said, seeing Bres’s urgency. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Knox. Could we talk later?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Yes, of course.”

  Bres waited until she left before he said, “The maid’s been found. Apparently, she disliked the guards. She had a run-in with one of them and decided ’twas better not to return.”

  Servants left without notice all the time; it was one of his mother’s most frequent complaints. They’d lost three maids in the last year, all of them over the most trivial things. The demand for a good maid in the city was high; it was easy for them to find a job more to their liking. It had never mattered to Patrick before now. “What did she say about Grace?”

  “There was a visitor that day. A Miss Rose Fitzgerald.”

  “Rose.” Patrick let out a sigh of relief.

  “This girl is—?”

  “Grace’s best friend. I should have thought of her, but I haven’t seen her in weeks. I’d thought she was out of town.” Patrick was striding to the study door as he spoke, Bres and Daire Donn following.

  He didn’t bother with the carriage. Rose’s house was only blocks away. When they reached it, Patrick showed his card to the maid who answered the door. “Might we call upon Miss Fitzgerald?”

  The maid took them to the parlor, which was large and crowded both with furniture and with knickknacks from the Fitzgeralds’ travels: strange shells and feathers, a coconut and two exotic stuffed birds, fans and maps, magnifying glasses and on one table a stereoscope next to a box of cards. Daire Donn studied the stereoscope curiously before he turned to rifle through the cards.

  Only a few moments passed, but it seemed like forever before Rose arrived. She came into the room with such a cheerful, welcoming smile that Patrick realized she didn’t know anything.

  “Why, hello, Patrick,” she said. She glanced at the others.

  Patrick introduced them. “We’ve come to ask you about Grace. You know she’s disappeared.”

  Rose’s smile died. She looked suddenly uncertain. “Disappeared? No, I had no idea.”

  “Two days ago. We thought you might know where she is.”

  Rose looked at him wide-eyed. “Why would I know that?”

  Now Patrick realized with a sinking heart that she was lying. Which meant Rose thought she was protecting Grace. Which meant . . . he didn’t want to think about what it meant.

  “The maid said you’d paid a visit
to Miss Knox the day she disappeared,” said Bres in such a friendly, confiding tone that Patrick saw Rose struggle with the urge to tell. It explained better than words how the king had entranced an entire country.

  But Rose was also fiercely loyal to Grace. Patrick might have appreciated it another time; now he only felt desperate when she said, “Oh. Yes, I did. We had a very nice chat.”

  “And then?” Bres asked.

  “Then I went home.”

  “You don’t seem worried, lass,” Daire Donn noted. “Your best friend has disappeared, and you ask not a single question?”

  Patrick said, “She’s in danger, Rose. Whatever you saw, whatever you know, you must tell us. Please.”

  “I don’t know anything,” she insisted.

  “Come, lass,” Daire Donn urged. “As you can see, her fiancé is imagining the worst. Why make him worry?”

  She wavered. “But Aidan said—”

  “Aidan?” Patrick echoed.

  “He made me promise not to tell. He promised she would be fine.”

  “Where is she? What happened?” Patrick demanded.

  Rose took a deep breath. “I didn’t know she hadn’t come back. Aidan said she would be all right, and he’s her brother, so I believe him. But I’ll admit, that he’s involved worries me.”

  “Aidan?”

  She shook her head. “Derry.”

  Patrick’s heart sank deeper.

  Daire Donn gave Patrick an understanding look before he said to Rose, “Tell us what happened, lass.”

  “I . . . I brought her a note that day. From Aidan. He asked us to meet him at Fulton Market. She’d been so worried about him, you know. She wanted to go and so I . . . I went with her.”

  “How did you get past the guards?”

  “Oh, that was easy. The one at the front door was very sweet.”

  And a liar too. The guard had said nothing about Rose when they’d questioned him. Patrick glanced at Bres, whose expression had hardened. A king, yes, but not a friendly one now. One who looked fearsome, and Patrick was glad not to be on his bad side.

  “I see,” Bres said.

  “It wasn’t his fault,” Rose said. “Really. You shouldn’t blame him.”