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The Daigh in front of her now looked ready to go up in flames. He fumed with suppressed rage, his body radiating violence. “No, I meant only to keep you quiet.” He leaned toward her, running a thumb over her cheek. “You’re crying.”
Disconcerted, she put a gloved hand to her face. “Am I? A dream I had. It was nothing. And certainly not about you.”
Amusement lit for a moment the scouring intensity of his gaze. “Tell me about this dream that had nothing to do with me.”
She would not let him drag her back under his spell. He’d lied to her. Made her feel a yearning she didn’t want to feel. Made her picture a life that wasn’t hers, yet one she began to long for with every new encounter. Then made a fool of her for even imagining.
She tipped a stubborn chin in his direction. “Very well. We were talking. You . . .” She paused, embarrassed. “You kissed me.”
Grief dimmed his smile. “Then what?”
“You told me you were being called back to Caernarvon. That Prince Hywel needed you.”
His gaze fled inward. His voice coming low and certain. “There was to be a meeting with the English. I was summoned to translate. To spy.”
At once, his shoulders hunched as if he’d been struck. Sweat sprang out upon his forehead, and he slumped heavy against the pew.
“Daigh!” She reached for him, but he shook his head. “It happens when I remember. It passes soon enough.”
He closed his eyes. Breathed deeply through his nose. Teeth chattering. Body shaking.
Her eyes burned, a tear sliding down her cheek. “Spy on who? The English? Are you French? A soldier for Napoléon? That’s it, isn’t it? Oh gods, I’m harboring a war fugitive.”
“Nay, Sabrina,” he coaxed her back from the brink of hysteria. “You needn’t add that fear to your others.”
“But what I dreamt. It was a memory. Your memory. Just like the last time.”
“Aye.”
“Then you can tell me who Hywel is? Prince of what? Why am I dreaming your memories? As if I was there and a part of them?”
He turned away, his jaw clamping. Eyes distant. Voice cagey. “I can’t explain. I don’t know.”
She didn’t believe him for an instant. Even if she hadn’t felt his tension thicken like a cold fog, there was a tone in his voice telling her he lied. “What are you doing here, Daigh? Are you following me?”
“Not you. The man you were with. What did he want? What did he ask you?”
“Mr. St. John . . .” She paused, her brows drawn into a frown. “You know him?”
“We’ve met before.” He flinched, spinning away. “And if I didn’t need him alive, I’d put a bullet in him right now.”
She grabbed his hand. “Daigh, what’s going on? Why did you run away that night? And why are you acting as if Mr. St. John were the devil’s henchman?”
“As if? The man could show Satan a trick or two.”
“That’s not answering my question.”
“How did the sisters explain my disappearance?”
“They called you a thief. Said you broke into Ard-siúr’s office. Stole things.”
“And the blood?” So casual, as if his life hadn’t been spattered from wall to wall. And yet here he stood. Whole and infuriatingly uninformative.
“A quarrel among thieves,” she answered.
The corner of his mouth twisted, his expression hardening. “Right enough as far as it went.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
