AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“It does make sense.” She rose to join him at the hearth.
He stared down into her upturned face. Full lips curved in a hesitant smile. Dark brown hair crackling and wild around her head. Smelling wind-sweet. A shock wave of raw arousal burst through him.
He couldn’t help himself. He traced the line of her jaw. The long swanlike column of her throat.
She didn’t move away, but he caught her broken breathing. The pulse leaping at the base of her throat. Saw his desire mirrored in her eyes.
What would it be like to come over her skin on skin? To stroke her sleek body until she cried out for release? To bury himself in her welcoming heat and feel his own nerve-sizzling climax between her legs? And why did he feel he should already know?
He dropped his hand to his side where it curled into an angry fist. “I must leave you.”
She gave him a curious look. “Daigh, you could have stayed with the bandraoi. Explained to Ard-siúr. She would have understood and helped.”
“There were reasons it was best to leave.”
A regretful quirk of her lips. “Which you’re not going to explain.”
“I can’t, Sabrina. You’ll have to trust me.”
“Was the man you surprised in Ard-siúr’s office Mr. St. John?”
“No. But St. John is part of it.”
“Part of what?”
“I don’t know. Yet. Just stay clear of him, and if you hear from your brother, warn him. Tell him he’s being hunted. Máelodor is after him. Maybe he’ll understand better than I do.”
He took a deep breath in an effort to shake himself free of this woman, this room, this fantasy where Sabrina remained within his heart’s reach.
Bloom had called him a demon. Lancelot had labeled him monster. And were they far wrong? Sabrina, alone, had looked on him without worry. Without fear. Without loathing. A heat in those deep blue eyes that warmed even the parts of him that held the taint of the grave.
A heat that would vanish if she ever learned the truth. That Daigh MacLir was a myth.
Lazarus the reality.
Daigh wasted no time tracking down St. John.
He’d entered the building across the street last night. Had yet to leave. In the interim carriages deposited their rain-soaked passengers at the steps leading up to a fan-lighted bright green door. Other cabs clattered to a halt to pick up the umbrellaed gentlemen emerging into the autumn downpour.
When Daigh had taxed a passerby on the building’s purpose, he was given a quick fearful once-over and a stuttering confession that it house
d a gentleman’s club.
So that begged the question: Why did a fashionably dressed young woman descend the steps?
High-class whore? Perhaps. She’d not the usual look of a light heel in her well-appointed outfit and the proud set of her head, but then he didn’t expect the type of gentlemen he’d seen over the last day to settle for a greasy-haired slattern in a gin-stained smock.
As he watched, she checked the street with a frown of displeasure before making a hasty retreat toward a nearby hackney stand.
He drew in behind her. A whore might be the easiest way to gather the information he needed. Pillow talk spilled for a discreet bribe. Hardly an inspired plan, but he’d already suffered St. John’s brand of pain. Had no wish for a repeat of his repulsive appetites.
She slowed as they neared the corner, and he quickly drew into an alley. If she knew she were being followed, she might duck into one of the many shops lining the street, and he’d be back to playing the waiting game.
After a few moments, she resumed her pace. Hailed the cab with a businesslike shout.
The driver bowed her in. Shut the door, taking his seat on the box behind a dagger-hipped nag with a weary air.
At the slap of the reins, Daigh made his move. Threaded the few rain-muffled pedestrians. Jumped for the hackney, unlatching the door with a menacing glare for the driver, who chose cowardice over duty and ignored the trespass. He slid inside, shaking the rain from his coat.
