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“No. No. Now that I think on the matter, I believe I’ll kick my heels here and try not to get into trouble.”
Her smile this time was genuine and glittered with victory. “There’s a first time for everything.”
Elisabeth grabbed Brendan’s arm as they left the dining room. Hissed under her breath, “Ten minutes. The long gallery. Meet me.” Just in case he didn’t think she was serious, she added. “Or else.”
Apparently her words held enough menace to sway him. Coming up the east wing’s stairs, she found him. Still wearing the fith-fath’s pleasant but bland features, he waited, hands clasped loosely behind his back, staring up at a portrait of a stern-looking bewigged gentleman attired in gold brocade and lace, the woman seated beside him bearing a pale beauty like a January rose.
“As sour-faced an old prune as I ever saw,” he commented as she approached. “Don’t understand what your grandmother saw in him myself, though”—his gaze cut to her—“the attraction to bores seems to run in the family.”
Elisabeth refused to be goaded or turned from her purpose. “I didn’t ask you here to discuss my ancestors or my attractions.”
“But look at him, Lissa. What a pompous stick-in-the-mud.”
Was he insulting her grandfather or Gordon? “I don’t want to look at him,” she answered through gritted teeth.
“Suppose he couldn’t have been all bad,” Brendan conceded. “Could have locked her away once he knew her for what she was. Had her declared insane. Or worse.” He frowned at the portrait. “Wouldn’t have been the first to use witchcraft as an excuse.” He paused, his frown deepening. “Nor the last.”
Her temp
er snapped. “Enough. You can’t come sneaking back here like a criminal and not expect me to demand answers. This is my home and my wedding. You’re making a fool of me.”
A muscle in his jaw tightened. “A century or two earlier your grandmother would have been tied to a stake and set ablaze for her sorcery.” His last word spat from a mouth hard with anger.
She grabbed his arm. “Stop it. Do you hear me? Why did you come back? I want to know now.”
“Told you. I’m in hiding.”
“You could hide anywhere, Brendan. Why Dun Eyre?”
He finally turned his full attention upon her, his golden-yellow gaze alight and blinding, his expression severe. “It’s Martin. Remember that.”
She choked down a string of profanity. The foul words wouldn’t have insulted him anyway. Brendan had taught her most of them. “I don’t care if you call yourself bloody King George the bloody Third. Why are you here? And why now of all times?”
He regarded her for a moment as if considering how much to say. “I’m in a tight corner. I’ve angered a few people who’d like nothing better than to put a period to my existence. Very painfully, I might add.”
“There’s a surprise.”
Amusement glimmered in his eyes. “They tracked me as far as Limerick before I shook them. I’d go to Belfoyle if it wasn’t the first place they’d look. But who would imagine I’d dare hide out with the very woman I abandoned at the altar? No, I’m safer here than anywhere else. At least until I can contrive a way out of this mess. Now do you see?”
His explanation didn’t add up, though Elisabeth couldn’t put her finger on why. She stared at him long and hard as if the truth might reveal itself upon his face.
His gaze drifted to her throat. “Last evening and again today. Should I be flattered you’re wearing the stone I gave you?”
Her ghost of a thought vanished beneath a renewed sense of outrage. “You knew”—she poked him hard in the chest—“asking about my pendant would stir up trouble.”
“Ouch.” He stepped back, rubbing his torso. “It wasn’t me who blabbed the whole in front of Shaw. It was your aunt.”
“You probably bewitched her.” She tried emphasizing her point with a second good poke, but he caught her hand, his fingers linking with hers. They were warm and strong, his palm rough against her own.
“You flatter me.” He laughed, which only served to make her fury grow. “Mind control would be a useful power. Alas, it’s not one I can claim.”
Elisabeth yanked her hand free. “It’s still your fault for bringing up the pendant in the first place.”
“Shaw’s a dead bore, but I don’t see him cutting up stiff over the gift of a dead man, do you?”
“You’re not dead.”
“Not yet, at any rate. Although”—mischief sparkled in the depths of his eyes—“what do you think he would do if he discovered I was alive? Worse, that I’d returned to woo you away from him.”
