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you’ve the courage of an eagle. I wish my sisters were as quick to defend me against my enemies.”
Feeling a fool now for overreacting—and after all Aidan hardly needed her protection—she made overt gestures behind her back with her guidebook. “I apologize for losing my temper.” Cleared her throat dramatically. “I shouldn’t have implied . . . I mean . . .” Coughed loudly and repeatedly. “Kilronan hardly needs my assistance. He’s quite able to defend himself.”
Jane remained engrossed by Mr. Munsy.
St. John, on the other hand, was eying her with alarm. “Are you quite all right, Lady Sabrina? Perhaps a drink? Let me find you one.”
He set off in search of water, giving her the opportunity to dive into the nearest stall. Peeking around a column, she smiled when St. John became ensnared by the youngest and sauciest Trimble, who seemed in no hurry to release her prize. He glanced back once. Frowned at the empty spot where Sabrina had been before he was led off by a determined Trimble. The whole group headed toward the stairs leading down to the crypt.
The curate’s voice rose above the chorister’s growing rehearsal. “. . . dating from the twelfth century . . .”
The Trimble girls gave a chorus of frightened giggles—what else?—and the whole lot of them disappeared.
Finally.
Sliding into a pew, she sought to recover her lost peace. Push aside the embarrassing conversation with Mr. St. John. No doubt her entire stay in the city would be made up of similar humiliating inanities.
After so many years with the bandraoi, she’d forgotten the hustle and hazards of the outside world. The constant jostling and noise. The overt, curious stares and the din of raised voices. Already the unceasing barrage of unfiltered emotion battered her mind. Washed against her brain like a steady lapping tide. A few moments to herself was bliss.
The choir began low and uncertain before rising in strength and numbers. A soaring celebration that the stone of the cathedral gathered and spread until the rhythm swam up through the soles of her boots. Hummed along her bones. Filled her head with sound and light and melody and bass. One voice rose above the others. A clear vivid soprano.
She closed her eyes, letting the music and the voice wind its way through her.
A tenor joined the soprano. Dipping in and out of the melody. Picking up when the soprano flagged. Then taking over completely. The tune changed as well. No longer solemn and reverential, now the melody leapt and skipped like the measure of a dance. Latin giving way to a strange lilting tongue she didn’t understand though somehow she knew the song spoke of love and heartbreak and loss.
Opening her eyes, she gasped her dismay. No. Not again. It wasn’t possible. This wasn’t supposed to happen now that Daigh was gone. She wasn’t supposed to be sitting beside a hissing fire. Its dim light should not be gilding his hair with a fiery glow as he sharpened his blade. She could not be hearing the rhythmic slide of his stone up and down the heavy sword or a harper’s agile fingers and clear bell-like singing.
But she was.
Daigh slid the sword back into its sheath. Stood, drawing her up beside him where she encountered not his usual empty black gaze, but eyes, clear and gray-green. As yet, unchased by shadows.
“I leave for Caernarvon at dawn. There’s trouble brewing, and Prince Hywel has asked I attend his father there.”
She frowned. “Then I go too. I’ve seen those women at court looking at you. Like a feast.”
He laughed. Planted a kiss on her cheek. His chest rose and fell beneath her palm. His heart a rapid drumbeat. His voice vibrating in a deep rumble she felt all the way up her arm. “Jealous? I’m flattered, but I can’t take you. Not this time.”
The harper ended his song, the last plucked strings quivering to silence.
She opened her mouth to argue just as a hand clamped her quiet. An arm held her close.
And she came terrifyingly awake.
Success.
Máelodor opened his eyes, though even that tiny action tired him. His heart crashed against his ribs. Pain squeezed his chest, shooting down his arms. His breathing came in wheezy bursts. Every gulp of air cramping his straining lungs.
He’d crossed distances and dimensions. Tracked the murkiest paths. Followed the trail into the deepest abyss and back out. The Unseelie sensed him as he passed. They called to him. Beseeched their release. He ignored their pleas. They would need to wait for their reward. It was not yet time.
Instead he reached ever outward. Mind to mind. Pushing himself far past his normal breaking point. But his efforts had been rewarded. He’d succeeded. Felt an answering touch. Sensed the mage-bond between master and slave. Stretched taut. Barely functioning. But intact.
He would rest. Recover. And when next he attempted the crossing, he would repair the connection between the Domnuathi and himself. Reinforce his supremacy. Regain control.
“You nearly scared me to death.”
Daigh rested his arms on the back of her pew, his eyes burning in a stricken, haunted face. “I didn’t want a scene.”
“Grabbing and gagging me was supposed to keep me calm?” She frowned, trying to pull her mind back from the vision still haunting her of Daigh as he’d been in her dream. The teasing smile. The kiss. The warmth of his body beneath her hand. She massaged her temples. Why was this happening to her?
