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“Creator. You can say it, Sabrina.”
She hugged the warmth of the coat to herself. The scent of him heightening the stupid need to throw herself into his arms. But she hardened her heart against the swamp of emotion. She’d not repeat her previous mushy sentimentality.
Besides, Daigh didn’t look in the mood for comfort. He’d gone stone-rigid, his eyes glowing stern with refracted moonlight. “St. John’s a member of the Amhas-draoi.”
It was her turn to go stiff, her stomach plummeting into her slippers.
“Máelodor is using him to find Brendan. He seeks to pay your brother back for a past betrayal. It’s all part of what I can’t remember. Whatever accident left me washed up on your beach took most of my memories of this life, but left those of my days with Hywel. I catch impressions. Hints of things. But most is gone, and I’m left to piece it together like a shredded quilt. That’s why I need St. John. Alive. He can lead me to the master-mage.”
She couldn’t swallow.
“Sabrina, if Gervase St. John finds Brendan, your brother’s death will not be quick. Máelodor has made suffering an art.”
Couldn’t breathe. “How do you know this?” she whispered.
He wouldn’t meet her gaze as his voice rasped out the words. “You’ve seen the proof, Sabrina.”
Of course. The scars. Thousands of them. Covering Daigh’s body. A canvas for another man’s inhuman cruelty. She wanted to be sick. Who was the monster? Daigh who strove to stop a killing, or Máelodor who sought more torture and death?
And why oh why had she asked? Not knowing was so much better. Manly protectiveness definitely had its place.
“Your brother won’t be free until Máelodor’s dead.” He stalked away.
Nor would Daigh, though she didn’t say it.
He prowled the garden. Moved silently in and out of the shrubbery, muttering soldier obscenities before coming to a halt in the middle of the garden, head thrown back. Eyes trained on the night sky.
She caught her breath as once more she felt herself falling into a world not her own. A strange shifting of light and shadow and air and earth. A ripping loose of her mind as reality and illusion mixed in a crash of jarring, overlapping images. But this time as quickly as it began, the rushing free fall into memory ended back on solid ground. High ghostly stars. And a cloud of air at every shivering breath she took.
Daigh’s fists uncurled. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. Returned to her, gratitude brightening his obsidian eyes. “You’re still here. I thought you’d take the first chance to run.”
She held out her arms, coat sleeves drooping over her hands. “I can hardly return to the house dressed like this. And I was”—afraid for you—“enjoying the air out here. It’s wonderfully refreshing.”
He rubbed his chin, a smile hovering. “You’re a horrible liar. I can hear your teeth chattering. Let me take you inside. I may not be of this time, but a man and a woman and a dark garden spurs the same scandal in any age.”
The idea struck with the force of a backhand. Of course. Aidan and Aunt Delia’s plans be damned, she refused to be harried into a marriage simply because her brother thought it in her best interest. And here in front of her stood her answer. After all, what husband would want her once she’d soiled herself out of wedlock? She’d be gloriously, perfectly ruined. Aidan would be shoving her back at the sisters with a hearty good riddance. Happy to dispose of a sister no longer marriageable and therefore no longer of use.
It was a dangerous plan. Dangerous and reckless and insane. But Ard-siúr had told her to find her future. To risk life before she made the ultimate decision about joining the sisters of High Danu. Daigh was the ultimate risk with his brutal good looks and a power in his soldier’s frame that sent delicious heat pulsing straight to her center.
Her resident butterflies swooped and plunged, a summer burn overtaking the tingling numbness in her chilled body. That was all this was. A way to return to Glenlorgan. It had nothing to do with the crazy surge of reckless feelings Daigh provoked in her. Nothing at all.
Now if she could just convince Daigh to go along.
With a tip of her chin, she made her decision. “I’m not going inside. I can’t stand one more moment of Aunt Delia’s sugar-coated insults, and if Mr. St. John is as determined as you say, he won’t allow me to escape as easily a second time.”
“You can’t stay out here.”
Hands on hips, she faced him down. “Has anyone ever remarked that you sound like the primmest of chaperones? I didn’t say I necessarily wanted to stay out here.”
A wary frown, but he hadn’t laughed in her face. So far. So good. In fact, he looked downright intrigued. “What do you propose?”
“Take me with you. I don’t want to go home. I don’t know where I want to go. I just want to be with you a bit longer.” Her jaw stiffened in a bulldog jut before she realized she was supposed to be looking seductive. Trouble was she didn’t know how to look seductive. Wouldn’t know flirtatious if it bit her. She pouted her lips. Batted her lashes. Immediately felt a complete fool.
“Sabrina—”
“I know I shouldn’t ask. I know you’re only here with me because you want to keep me safe from St. John.”
“You’ve no idea of what I want.” His voice cold and almost angry.
