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Her mouth went dry, the room suddenly stuffy and over warm. Her gown seemed to cling, her stays to bite into her ribs. She tried inhaling, but the hot, sour odors of warring perfumes and sweat and alcohol all combined to turn her stomach and thicken her brain. She squinted, trying to focus at the now-wavering face of St. John. Was she drunk? She hadn’t had that many glasses, had she?
“Perhaps lemonade would be best. I don’t feel quite right somehow.” She glanced about her for a bench or a chair. Somewhere to sit and collect herself, but no one had thought to place seats in this out-of-the-way corner. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to find a quiet place to catch my breath.”
But he wouldn’t let her escape. He took her hand. Led her toward an even more secluded alcove. “I’m sure your aunt wouldn’t want you left alone if you’re unwell.”
“She won’t be alone.”
She and St. John went rigid in unison. His hand closing around hers until she winced. His ring cutting into her fingers.
The room wavered and spun, the floor dropping from under her, the walls bleeding into a smoke-filled hall full of low, confused voices. Men and women moved like wraiths, their eyes weary, their bodies crouched and distressed. He stood just beyond the firelight. She knew his stance, the cock of his head, the quiet intensity behind every gesture no matter how slight. He stood amid a crowd of rough-looking men dressed as if they’d only arrived. Mud-spattered. Breathing hard. For a moment he looked her way, the flames’ flicker dancing across his eyes. His gaze sharpened on her face.
With a crack like thunder, the world settled back into its usual shape, leaving her sick and dizzy but clearheaded enough to recognize the colossus blocking their path.
Daigh: dark, gorgeous, and absolutely ablaze. His gaze threatened to torch her to cinders, the glare he settled on Mr. St. John even more deadly.
St. John never even flinched. His smile was if anything more brilliant. His eyes gleaming with almost fiendish excitement as his hand slipped from Sabrina’s. And he stepped back with a flourish of surrender. “I see, sir, that you missed your ship.”
“Did he hurt you? Tell me, Sabrina, I’ll rip his head off and stuff it down his neck.”
Daigh’s gaze and hands ran over her as if seeking reassurance she was in one piece and breathing.
An unsettling heat flooded her, and she stepped out of reach. Tipped her chin to meet him eye to eye. She must put the proper distance between them, especially after her outrageous impetuosity of their last meeting. “What are you doing here?”
“I came looking for you.” He darted a glance across the room to the back of a tall, slender woman in wine-red
silk and gold-lined pelisse. Went stone-still and narrow-eyed. Turned his attention back to Sabrina. “We need to speak.”
Without waiting for an answer, he took her elbow, the heat of him warming every place St. John’s arctic touch had chilled. Steered her deeper into the foliage. Out the back of the alcove. Down a corridor. Up a small flight of stairs. And through a pair of French doors to a terrace that opened onto a tiny pleasure garden. Or what would be a pleasure garden in spring and summer. In December, it was more like an icehouse. Rain had frozen onto every surface to create a crystal-encased landscape. Lights from the windows sparkled against the bushes and trees and paths. Golden pools shimmered across the lawn. Music and the rumble of conversation floated on a cool breeze.
If she weren’t freezing, she’d have been enchanted.
“You’re shivering.” Daigh shrugged out of his coat. Draped it over her shoulders. Buttoned her into it like one would a small child. Though she couldn’t recall a single instance of either of her parents ever performing such a simple yet caring gesture.
It draped almost to her knees, and she burrowed into the warmth, inhaling wool and claret and soap and man until she grew dizzy on it. Fresh air mixed with Daigh working to muddle her already tipsy brain rather than clear it.
Shaking off her befuddlement, she drew herself up. “What are you thinking? Accosting me in a ballroom? Dragging me out here alone?”
“It was that or allow St. John to finagle his way into your confidence. I warned you. Stay away—”
“What did you intend for me to do? Give him the cut direct? I don’t even know why I’m avoiding him.”
“Because I told you to isn’t enough?”
She gave him a what-do-you-think? stare. Was relieved to see the tamped rage diminish and even a spark of amusement flash in his dark eyes. “Women haven’t changed much in six hundred years. Still pig-stubborn.”
She scoffed her annoyance. “Neither have men. Still bossy and overbearing.”
“So now that we’ve established your obstinacy and my arrogance, stay away from—”
“You’re doing it again.”
He snapped his mouth shut until she swore she heard his teeth grinding.
“Please, Daigh. I know in your own manly way you’re trying to protect me. At least I’m assuming that’s why, but I don’t know from what. Or why I even need protecting. What does St. John have to do with Brendan’s return and a stolen tapestry? Are you afraid I won’t be discreet? Or that I’ll be more shocked than—”
“He’s Máelodor’s man,” he blurted.
“Your crea . . .” she trailed off into a silence as brittle as the ice upon the trees.
