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Sinking to his knees upon the floor, he threw back his head. Raised his fists. Roared his hate and his fear and his desperation to the empty room.
He remained bound to the hunt. Bound to Máelodor. Bound to a life where death could be meted out but never claimed.
The house stood off the main road. Down an overgrown lane shaded by rowan and snarling gorse. A far cry from the wide avenue and rolling park he remembered. Back then, there had been woods to roam and streams to wade. Tracks leading up into the scrubby, windswept highlands of the Slieve Aughty and down toward silty creek beds and swift rivers flowing south and west toward Lough Derg and the Shannon.
Daz had been a presence in Aidan’s life forever. A big, barrel chested, laughing giant with a scoundrel’s tongue and a childish sense of mischief that charmed the Douglas children. Even when the shadows began to form and the golden idyll of childhood faded to an edgy awareness of growing storms, Aidan relied on Daz to bring a bit of the sparkle back. To remind him of a time when he didn’t feel the press of unknown fears weighing him down. When guilty suspicions had yet to take him over.
After the murder of Aidan’s father, Daz had vanished into his mountain holding like a badger to his hole. Returning no letters. Welcoming no visitors.
Absorbed by other worries, Aidan had endured that silence. Until now. Now he wanted answers. Answers that, according to the diary, Daz could give.
Beside him, Cat swayed bleary-eyed and silent in the saddle. They’d been riding without a break since noon, pausing only to rest the horses. Stretch their legs. In the days since their unfortunate encounter with Danvers she’d said no more about the mysterious Jeremy. And Aidan had never again awoken to find her curled sleeping upon his floor.
But he’d watched her from beneath hooded lids as the miles and days passed. Her stubborn chin, her body’s sylphlike curves, her hands fisted with tension on the reins. And jealousy had tightened into a hard, angry knot in his chest. Envy for the man who’d held Cat’s heart. Fury for the man who’d broken it.
“Will Mr. Ahern be able to tell us why the Amhas-draoi believe Brendan sent Lazarus?” Cat asked.
“He’s the son of the notorious Earl of Kilronan. That would be proof enough for Scathach’s trained assassins.” Miss Roseingrave’s accusations still grated. Almost as much as Jack’s willingness to believe. Brendan had been a victim. Not a perpetrator.
“But didn’t he sit in on your father’s meetings? He must have known about the dangerous lines they were crossing. Their experiments with dark magic.”
He gave an angry shrug. “My brother was no participant in an insane Other conspiracy. Brendan was a damned pretty-boy bookworm. Cried like a baby at the slightest bruise. Hated fencing, cricket, boxing. Loathed cliff climbing. About the only activity we both had in common was riding. He rode hell-for-leather. Could manage any half-broke rogue mount my father brought home.”
“People aren’t always what they seem,” she said quietly.
He shot her a look, but her face remained veiled in shadow. Only the ghostly curve of her cheek suspended amid the folds of night.
A rabbit erupted from the
bushes, frightening her horse, loosening her tongue on a well-phrased oath. And the charged moment passed.
The overgrown avenue opened into a sweep of weed-choked gravel before the stately stone house, now swallowed by ivy so that only the upper windows remained completely free of the tangled jungle of green.
Cat pulled up. “Are you sure he still lives here?”
She was right to be skeptical. No light shone from the windows and shrubbery had overtaken the front door. Damn. He’d made no provision in case Daz was gone. Or worse—dead. The diary had so far yielded up no other clues.
Aidan slid to the ground. Looked up at the darkened façade with something akin to hopelessness. Banished it before it took root. “He has to.”
“Who is it, Maude?”
A raspy whine sounded from beyond the crack of the garden door, the churlish housekeeper planting herself on the threshold and refusing to open it wider.
Cat tucked her hands beneath her cloak. Cast a doubtful glance around her. This isolated house was Aidan’s sanctuary? Except for the beefy-knuckled brawler of a housekeeper, Cat had yet to see any defenses that might hold back an attack by the nightmarish Lazarus.
“A gentleman,” the housekeeper shouted over her shoulder. “Says his name’s Kilronan. Says he knows you.”
“Kilronan!” The whine rose to a shout. “It can’t be. Kilronan’s dead. They’re all dead. Get rid of him, Maude. He’s an imposter. One of them.”
The housekeeper started to shut the door, but Aidan jammed his foot in the crack. “Tell him it’s Aidan.”
Maude rolled her yellow eyes, sighing with enough force even Cat, standing a foot away, smelled the sour odor of gin on the housekeeper’s breath. “Says his name’s Aidan.”
A pregnant silence from the inside of the house. Someone heard. Someone considered. “Aidan Douglas?” came the same whiny voice. “Kilronan’s oldest boy? Let him in, Maude. Let him in, you horrible strumpet.”
The housekeeper cackled, smoothing a hand down her apron front as she curtseyed them in. “Have it your way, ya old grump-necked curmudgeon. Come in, milord. Milady.”
“In for a penny . . .” Aidan murmured as he ushered Cat ahead of him with an encouraging smile.
