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“I don’t know,” he snarled. “I can’t remember.”
He pushed back. Harder. Defied the questing sensation. Damped the fury to manageable levels, though it cost him in a burst of pain across his temples. Gut-gripping nausea.
A satisfied smile creased the wrinkles of her face, and she nodded as if making up her mind of something. “Very well. We can’t simply keep calling you the man in the still-room. Until you recall your own name, we’ll choose one for you. How about”—she tapped a thoughtful finger to her lips—“how about Daigh?”
He cocked a questioning brow, caught off balance by her sudden change of topic.
Again one of those wise, all-knowing smiles, this time with a hint of humor. “I had a younger brother named Daigh. He had a bit of your dark looks.” The seams of her face resettled into properly stern lines. “We can only hope you don’t end as he did. Anyhow, let’s see. Daigh”—the finger kept tapping—“Daigh . . . Daigh MacLir.”
It was his turn to favor her with a smile, though it felt feeble and unnatural on his face. “Son of the sea. How poetic of you, mistress.”
She straightened, shoulders back. Head up. “I am Ard-siúr and head of this community.”
“Where am I? What is this place?”
Her brows disappeared into her kerchief. “You’ve washed ashore in Glenlorgan among the Sisters of High Danu. An order of bandraoi priestesses devoted to a spiritual life. One where we may remain true to our Other heritage away from the mistrust of our Duinedon neighbors.”
He knew those terms. Other—Fey-tainted human half bloods. Duinedon—mortals without the powers that signified their mage-touched human neighbors. Why did he know this? What did Other and Duinedon mean to him? What part did they play in his life?
“You risk much to tell me this. Suppose I betray you all?”
“That is a possibility. But my bones tell me you will not do so.”
“Your bones?”
“I sense great pride in you. Some might see it as arrogance even. But there is also much honor.”
“If you know all that about me, why the questions?” That flash of anger sparked anew. His hand closed around an invisible weapon. Felt the lack with a strange twinge of regret.
The priestess had raised inscrutability to an art form. She leveled him with a quiet stare that seemed to penetrate blankets, flesh, bone, and a few layers of soul to his very core. But her gaze drew away, confusion disturbing a woman who, he suspected, was used to certainty.
“Because of what I do not sense, Mr. MacLir. That is what worries me.”
“Time to eat.” Juggling a tray while maneuvering open a door with her elbow, Sabrina backed her way into the still-room. Luncheon was late today. A product of too many bandraoi spoiling the broth. Household magic was well and good, but an excess of mage energy in an enclosed space could make for chaos—as those assigned to the kitchens found when the stove began belching black smoke and the scullery sinks sent rivers of dirty dishwater spilling over the floors. “I apologize for the delay, but—”
Turning, she gasped, jiggling her tray ominously. Her patient was abed no longer. Nor was he comfortingly obscured by mountains of blankets. Instead he loomed above her like some titan from myth, his head scraping the low ceiling, his body seeming to fill every spare inch of room. Even air was at a premium. She couldn’t get enough to catch her breath.
She blinked, her gaze traveling over a bare muscled torso chiseled as granite, the accumulation of scars like some strange warrior’s language written upon his body in blood. But instead of wielding a battle-notched blade or an infantryman’s musket, he held only a shirt.
“Up here,” came an amused growl.
Heat rushed to her face as she lifted her gaze to his, the view only staggering her anew. Not handsome in the classical sense. No, his visage held too much toughness to be considered good-looking. All rugged angles and strong lines, a clenched jaw hewn from stone. Straight, firm mouth. Hair cropped unfashionably short and close to the head. And always that devouring black stare stripping her down to an awkward girl.
“Oh, excuse me,” she stammered. “I didn’t know . . . no one told me . . .” With a few shuddery gulps, she fought to recover her lost aplomb. “That is, I’m surprised to see you up and dressed.”
“Dress-ing. As you see.” He spread his hands, the shirt clasped on one great fist.
“Yes, well . . .” She tried looking anywhere but at him. “At least you’re wearing breeches.”
Again came gruff amusement. “At least.”
Had she really said that? Had she really looked . . . Oh, if only the floor would open and swallow her whole. Her entire body flamed with humiliation. A bandraoi did not go about ogling men. Not even if the man in question was exquisite ogling material.
He eased the tray from her before she dropped it. Placed it on the bench. Drew the shirt over his head, snapping her out of her daze.
She wiped her damp hands down her apron. Shifted under his enigmatic stare. “I best be getting back. Sister Ainnir will—”
“Stay.” A request that sounded very much like a command.
