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Leaving his rooms, he crept down the nearby servant stairs, taking the long way through the gallery.
“As you were,” he quipped, tossing a salute to the rows of long-dead Fitzgeralds as he passed.
Elisabeth’s chambers stood at the far end of this floor. Sliding inside, he took up his seat once more at her dressing table. Opened her jewelry case, hunting for the stone that would set him free of the noose closing around his neck.
He needed to retrieve the Sh’vad Tual and leave. Everywhere he turned, the past reached out to him with clawing, bony fingers. Naught would change for all his wishing. Those dead would remain dead. Their faces forever etched upon his brain like acid upon metal.
Lifting out an inner tray, he smiled his success.
There it was. The Sh’vad Tual.
As he palmed it, mage energy crackled up his arm. Buried itself deep in his brain. Words pounded against his skull in a tongue he, who had studied ancient languages with an academic’s obsession, barely understood. A warning? A threat? Light flashed through the stone’s milky iridescence like lightning against the flat of storm clouds. A scene surfaced as if rising up through black water. A man. A sword. Then the stone went dark. Silent.
“You,” a voice hissed from behind him.
Shoving the stone deep into his pocket, he spun to face Elisabeth, frozen in a look of panic he knew mirrored his own.
He recovered instantly, his face breaking into a wicked smile.
“Is stealing into my bedchamber your idea of a joke, Brendan? Because I’m not laughing.”
“Is it so difficult to understand why I’m here? Or have your aunts not had that talk with you yet?”
Her mouth snapped shut, her eyes murderous. She stomped to face him toe-to-toe, wrenching the sash to her dressing gown tight around her middle. Unfortunately that did nothing but emphasize the ample curves of breast and hip and buttock she tried to hide beneath the silken robe. She lifted her chin to him, the scent in her hair and upon her skin faint and lemony.
“Never mind what my aunts have told me,” she snapped. “You must think me ten times a fool if you’re using seduction as your excuse.”
He tucked a curl behind her ear, ignoring her flinch at his feather-light touch. “Never a fool, Lissa.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
Mere inches separated them. The heat and anger rising from her body stirred his blood. He had but to lower his head to touch his lips to hers. To kiss the full, soft mouth. Pull free the rippling tangle of her hair until it hung loose and wild about her head.
“If you leave now, we can forget any of this happened,” she said.
“There hasn’t been any of this yet.”
The tip of her tongue flicked across her lips, her eyes so dark a brown as to be obsidian in the moonlight. Her breathing quickened, arousing a dangerous need. His blood pounded in his veins, and what had begun as mere improvisation deepened to something more carnal and exhilarating.
“This isn’t heathen Istanbul where women swooned at your feet.” Her words came harsh with recrimination. Or was it jealousy he detected?
“I wouldn’t say they swooned.”
“This is Ireland,” she asserted. “Safe, normal Ireland where women do not entertain men in their bedchambers. Especially men who’ve proven they’re not to be trusted.”
“You talk too much.” Assessing the situation, he chose to risk it. He couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to. She was too close, his heart racing too fast. Cupping her cheek, he brushed his thumb over her lips. Lowered his head and kissed her. Her mouth as petal-soft and sweet as he imagined.
She didn’t slap him. Or scream. Instead, she answered his advances. Her lips moved on his with virginal timidity. Though not for long. Elisabeth might be innocent, but she wasn’t naive. She caught on quickly. Her unschooled eagerness heady as any wine.
Her heat became his, a slow building pool. He pulled her closer, a fire fast rising through him. The kiss deepened, his tongue slipping within to taste, her breath mingling with his. Pulling loose her robe, he traced the curve of one beautiful breast, her nipple pebble-hard beneath the filmy fabric of her chemise. A whimper escaped her, her hand pressed over his heart.
That simple act of faith slid between the cracks in his armor. He shouldn’t be doing this. Not with her. Better to spend his lust on an experienced woman who understood the game.
He’d no time to act on his gentlemanly impulse when Elisabeth wrenched free, a heady flush to her cheeks and a sparkle in her luminous, dark eyes. “No!”
He schooled his features into bland amusement, a corner of his mouth twitching. “Why not? Technically we’re still engaged.”
She shoved him away. Knotted her dressing gown with ferocity. “Now I know you’re mad. And what of the last seven years when I thought you were dead?”
