“But, for now, we all go,” he whispered against her hand, “taking with us the Plague Warriors so that you may live.”
“Ada?”
I blinked once and then again. What was it I had seen? And what did it signify? The words he had spoken—I have foreseen that I shall know her—reminded me of the strange things the earl had said at Brú na Bóinne the evening before.
“Answer me, Ada,” the earl insisted, drawing closer.
Something reached out of him then. Something I couldn’t see and yet could feel deep in my throat. Words spilled like marbles from my lips: “Thee, my own love, whom I both know and know not.”
I clamped my hand over my mouth, astonished. I had not meant to speak, but had been unable to stop it. Somehow the earl had compelled me.
“What else was said?” he persisted, brow darkening.
I covered my left hand with my right, but unseen fingers prized apart my grip and I answered, again without meaning to, “Let me taste.”
“And then what?” His voice was taut with anger.
My fingers touched my lower lip of their own accord, and I gasped. He stared at me, eyes widening, as my fingertips continued moving independently of my will, tracing the outline of my mouth. I remembered the press of his lips in the chamber at Brú na Bóinne—how both the kiss and my reaction had confused me—and I closed my eyes.
“Stop, my lord!” I protested. “You are wrong to do this.”
“I …?” He took a step back from me, horrified, realizing what he had done. “God help me,” he choked out. He shook his head and sank down on the bench, gazing into the fire and repeating softly, “God help me.”
He reached for his flask, forgetting that his coat was lost to the sea. He dropped his head into his hands.
Dismayed and confused, I watched firelight play over his gleaming skin and dark curls. He appeared to be in the throes of a transformation. A kind of fairy enchantment, perhaps. Or was there a true connection between him and the Danaan? Even to Diarmuid himself?
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he murmured. “I was wrong to lure you as I have. I’ve risked your life, and I—I’ve taken terrible liberties. It’s driving me mad that I cannot remember what I’ve done, yet I have no right to force your disclosure. How is it possible that I can force you to anything?”
He looked up then, meeting my gaze. “Please believe that to my knowledge, I have never before done such a thing. I was not conscious of … of the trespass, until you demanded that I stop.”
His eyes had lost their fierceness. Now I saw only pain. The firelight danced along his cheekbones and jawline, and he very much resembled the man from my vision, with his ageless masculine beauty. I recalled that the mythical Diarmuid had been marked with a “love spot,” and any woman who saw him fell in love with him. Yet he himself had once fallen victim to a love spell that eventually destroyed him. Irish folktales were riddled with such contradictions.
“I do believe you, my lord,” I said quietly. “And I am sorry for your pain.”
He grimaced. “Do not apologize to me, madam. I have kept something from you that I should not have. I could not bring myself to tell you before—I believed that it might frighten you away from me. You should have been frightened away from me.”
I stepped closer to him and the fire and sat down on the bench, leaving a forearm’s distance between us. “What is it?” I asked in a clear and firm voice, bracing myself for what was to come.
“Do you recall that the night we met, I saw a banshee?”
“I do, yes.”
“Though I professed not to understand it, it was clear to me the banshee’s keen was for you. And though I’d only just met you, I could not bear the thought that harm might come to you. I feared that you would meet with some accident on the road, or worse. So I proposed that you accompany me to Brú na Bóinne.”
I sat a moment absorbing this confession, turning over the various ways in which it was troubling. “You did not intend to consult with me about the ruin.”
“Certainly, I did,” he countered. “Discovering you in the Green Faery was nothing short of serendipity. I mean to say it is not the only reason I made the offer. I had the idea that if I kept you close, I could protect you. But I was a fool.”
My overtaxed mind grappled feebly with this new information. Unless I misunderstood, he was telling me that a banshee had predicted my death. Not only that, he was confessing a protective impulse I could not understand in view of our brief acquaintance.
“How were you a fool, my lord?” I asked.
“Because surely I’m the reason your life is in danger. How many times have you almost died in my company?”
He had a point, and yet … “We cannot know that. We cannot even be sure that your interpretation of the warning is accurate.”
“But I should have told you,” he insisted. “It should have figured in your decision.”
“Yes, you should have,” I replied.
“I don’t know whether you can forgive me. I do know that if anything should happen to you, I—”
I held up my hand, and he fell silent. “You should have told me,” I continued, “but I doubt that it would have dissuaded me. I would have reasoned, as you did, that the danger lay in continuing on my intended course. And there was no way to be sure on which path danger lurked, except by setting out on one of them. Furthermore, the alternative you offered was very appealing. In short, my lord, I very much doubt that a more complete disclosure would have changed anything.”
Gratitude shone in the cool deep blue of his eyes. My words had had the intended effect of soothing his troubled mind. “As for our present perils,” I continued, “you have been as much at risk as I. And I have not died, sir. In fact, it is your quick thinking and action that have prevented my death up to now. I consider myself safer in your company than out of it.”
He gave me a pained smile. “It is kind of you to say so, and yet difficult for me to believe, considering my behavior in the past quarter hour.” He dropped his gaze, studying his hands now. “And also my reprehensible behavior at Brú na Bóinne.”
“I do not believe you are to blame for that,” I said. “Something unusual is happening to you, Lord Meath. Something transformational, perhaps. We have not yet understood it, but I believe that it has to do with Diarmuid and the Danaan, and that it is the reason your cousin is so anxious to speak to you. I fervently hope she will have some of the answers we seek. Until then, I hope you will cease to shoulder the burden for your … uncharacteristic behavior.”
He angled his body away from the fire to face me fully. The golden light washing over his practically bare torso loosened something in my belly. I half expected him to take me in his arms, and I confess I more-than-half wanted him to. Instead, he said, “I can cease to blame myself only if you will reassure me that I did not force myself on you, as I forced you to answer my questions just now.”
I broke eye contact, my heart racing. I could not truthfully reassure him on this point, and with him watching me so closely, I was unequal to lying to him. Not knowing what answer to give, I said nothing.
“Ah,” he said bleakly.
For a time, only our breathing and the crackle of burning turf were audible, but at last he said, “And may I know how much I have to answer for? May I assume that I stopped short of … of compromising you? And that if I had not, you would have called me out when I was myself again? Or at least fled me when you had the chance in Mullingar?”
“Yes, my lord, you were stopped short.” I realized too late that my overly precise wording was sure to raise even more questions.
“Were stopped … by you, Miss Q?”
I nodded. “Using Diarmuid’s sword.”
He made a choked sound, and I looked at him and decided that it was the result of unhappy laughter. The color had drained from his fac
e. “Well, I am grateful for your self-sufficiency. Can you now explain to me why you did not quit me at Mullingar, as you certainly should have?”
In his shocked expression, I read all his thoughts. He was considering the fact that he had taken me into his protection and then subjected me to insult. He was a gentleman, after all, and I knew I would not easily talk him out of his self-recrimination. So, I didn’t choose the easy path.
“I will tell you why, my lord.”
He pressed his lips together and waited while I stoked my courage.
“First, because I know that you were not in your right mind, and second, because of the distress that you now feel upon hearing of it.” I dropped my gaze. “You are a gentleman, sir—in truth, one of the best I have known. Your pain and confusion trouble me, and I agreed to travel with you partly in the hope … in the hope I might find some way of easing your suffering. I have no wish to abandon you to your fate, whatever that may be.”
As I said these words, I knew that I’d made my decision. For better or worse, I would not flee back to London. Not yet, anyway.
My fingers had knotted themselves together in my lap, and a bead of perspiration collected above my lip. The earl’s hand moved toward my fingers, covering them and gently squeezing.
“And so we each have acted precipitously in the hope of helping the other,” he said. “I think that cannot be such a bad basis for a friendship.”
I raised my eyes to his face, hopeful. “I quite agree.”
A smile touched his lips. “And now, though we both have confessed that we’d rather not part, I fear that we must.”
I have no doubt that a stricken look crossed my face as I repeated, “We must?”
“You should rest. I, on the other hand, must not sleep without fortification against nightwalking.”
“You must be exhausted,” I argued, but of course, he was right.
“You have recently demonstrated your ability to look after yourself,” he replied, “yet I am unwilling to take the risk. And our sword, I fear, is lost. I insist that you try to sleep.”
One glance about the cottage was enough to convince me that my prospects for sleeping were grim. The chairs were of bare wood, and the bench was too narrow to lie on. The floor was earthen and no doubt damp and cold.
“Perhaps you might think of me as your brother for the night.”
My eyes darted back to his face. “My lord?”
“In that way, perhaps you won’t find it awkward or distasteful to rest against me and find both warmth and some measure of comfort.”
My heart throbbed, warm and eager, as he scooted to the end of the bench, resting his back against the wall. Shifting one leg to the other side, he made space for me.
My breath caught in my throat, and I began to tremble. There was simply no way I could think of this man as my brother. But neither could I find voice to reject his offer.
I moved closer, sinking down beside him on the bench. I hesitated, unable to meet his gaze, and he held open his arms. I wanted nothing so much as to feel whether the flesh of his chest was as warm as it looked.
“You may trust me, Miss Q,” he said softly. “I will watch over you. I will not sleep.”
Scooting closer, I tucked myself into him. One of his hands came to rest on the back of my head while the other fell at his side. I longed to feel his arms around me, but I also appreciated this demonstration of his pure intention.
Breathing deeply, I inhaled his salty warmth, still mingling with licorice sweetness despite the recent wash. I knew that I would never feel safer.
But in this quiet moment, I considered a thought that had been looming since his confession: Mightn’t the banshee’s keening mean that my death was imminent whatever path I set upon?
THE MAD QUEEN
Edward
I had much to think on: my companion’s theories and her disclosures, and the fresh evidence of her regard for my welfare. But I could not turn my mind to any of it at present. Her womanly softness—the light sweetness of her scent, her weight on my chest—had subdued every faculty. It took all my strength of will not to fold my arms around her.
Even when my mind could approach the topic of the night before, the images that bloomed before me cast my composure to the winds. What, exactly, had been my trespasses, that she had been compelled to raise a sword against me? How frightened she must have been! And I had thought it was the not knowing that would drive me mad.
My actions weighed far more heavily than the lady on my chest. Whatever demon might have possessed me, it was my own body that committed the offense, and I therefore bore the responsibility, never mind the excuses she was kind enough to make for me.
Let me taste. I shivered at the thought that I had spoken these words to her—and it wasn’t solely shame I felt. Just now I had spoken the words “friend” and “brother” to reassure her that she was safe in my care, but there was nothing brotherly about the fire coursing through my veins in response to the soft, sweet curves of her body pressing into mine.
She murmured in her sleep, stirring against my chest. I lowered my hand lightly to her back, not wanting to take liberties after the intimacies I had forced on her in my altered state. The light touch was enough to quiet her.
You are a gentleman, sir. In truth, one of the best I have known. I marveled that she had spoken these words. The women of my acquaintance—especially those Irish and English beauties introduced to me as potential Lady Meaths—were skilled at the sort of teasing compliments whose purpose was to keep a man guessing. I was touched by her openness and honesty, by her warm regard.
But it had come time to ask myself—what, exactly, was I about? What did I intend by keeping her with me and by naming myself her protector? By cultivating an intimacy with her, be it circumstantial or otherwise?
I no longer had mother or father to disapprove of me or remind me of my duty as a peer of the kingdom of Ireland. While she might not have the bloodline, she had all that I considered more important: sense, wit, a kind heart, and an open and curious mind. I had met no other woman with whom I could imagine sharing my ancestral seat.
But in offering her myself, what would I be offering her, really? Something was happening to me that neither of us understood. I was determined to overcome it, but what if I could not?
I passed a dreadful night, owing in part to these swirling thoughts but also, I think, to addiction to my elixir. Even had I wanted to sleep, the tremors would have kept me from it. I had waking dreams as well—not the absinthe visions, but lucid nightmares of battle. I saw roiling hoards, fields soaked in blood, and skies teeming with battleships and airborne monsters. The battle crow—the Morrigan—circled above it all, and her ragged cry seemed to mock the tortured souls below.
By dawn, I was feverish and exhausted and had begun to drop off to sleep despite my resolve, when there came a sharp rapping on the cottage door.
The party outside did not wait for an answer but pushed open the door and stepped inside. “This time, cousin, I’ve come to fetch you myself.”
Ada
I was woken by the sound of a banging door. Lord Meath sat up suddenly, arms clutching around me. But I pushed myself free of the protective embrace so I could see what was happening.
Backlit by the sunshine streaming through the open doorway, a figure moved into the room. I jumped up, blinking at the brightness.
The earl rose more slowly beside me. “It appears that you’ve not lost your love for dramatic entrances, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing low despite his disapproving tone.
I stared wide-eyed and then dropped into a drunkard’s curtsy, blushing like a lovesick maiden. “Your Majesty,” I murmured. I closed my eyes, pressing my lips together, feeling the mortification wash over me. I’d just been discovered by the queen of Ireland, half-dressed, with torn undergarments and in the arms of a bare-chested earl who just
happened to be her cousin.
“How delicious!” cried the queen, clapping her hands together. “Please tell me I’ve interrupted something clandestine and wicked, Edward.”
She angled my direction, and the light fell across her features. Despite my chagrin, her beauty quite literally stole my breath. She was statuesque, with ivory skin and luxuriant dark hair. Her dress was crimson brocade, her jacket trimmed with white fox fur. Her lady’s top hat, also crimson, was decorated with coral-pink Christmas stars—poinsettias from the Americas. For all these elegant accoutrements, in her face was the mirth of a child.
“You have not,” replied the earl in a sober tone. “We’ve been shipwrecked by your agent, who claimed to be our ancestress and nearly killed us no fewer than three times. In fact, I believe it was four, Miss Q, was it not? I had not included the raven. So what you have interrupted, Your Majesty, is us taking shelter from the night to which your transportation arrangements abandoned us.”
“Well, happy Christmas to you, too, cousin,” grumbled the queen. “I had thought you might thank me for abbreviating your journey. Was it not considerate of me?”
The earl’s eyes widened, and he offered a satirical smile. “And yet here we are at the same time we would have been had we stuck to the train—by the grace of God alone, I’m certain. Except that now we are cold and hungry, and I have a pounding headache.” At the end of this minor rant, the earl bowed and added, “Your Majesty.”
The queen rolled her eyes. “Well, I can help with the latter, at any rate.” She snapped her fingers, and a servant appeared in the doorway. “Earl Edward has need of my tonic, Gordon.”
The man bowed and crossed to the earl, offering him an emerald-studded flask. Lord Meath hesitated a moment, frowning, before he took the flask, sniffed it, and drank. The scent of anise rose bright and sweet against the brittle sea air. Was the queen subject to nightwalking as well?
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