AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Elisabeth stiffened, feeling the heat creeping up her throat.
“It would be an amazing thing to have Brendan Douglas back home after we all thought him long dead.” She paused, clearly waiting for Elisabeth to comment.
Her cheeks burned. “It doesn’t matter,” she mumbled. “It was ages ago.” In a desperate bid to change the subject, she grabbed up her book. Almost tossing it in her aunt’s lap. “Have you read this one yet? Not nearly as thrilling as her last, but you might like it. That’s the last volume, but the first two are in my rooms. I’ll leave them for you.”
Aunt Fitz regarded the novel as one might observe an ugly baby. A passive smile as she quietly handed it back. “That’s fine, dear. I look forward to it.” And without missing a beat, “If Brendan Douglas actually returns to Belfoyle, it’s as well you’re leaving. It would be awkward, as the families have always been so close.”
She must be lobster red by now. “It’s not Aidan’s fault his brother is the worst sort of rogue. Besides, as Aunt Charity pointed out, it’s a good thing I didn’t marry him. Better to have been a jilted lover than an abandoned bride.”
“A shame Kilronan traveled all the way to Dublin”—Aunt Fitz regarded her steadily—“when Brendan was here the whole time.”
Elisabeth’s stomach lurched. Her aunt’s keen gaze seeming to pick the very thoughts from Elisabeth’s head. At times like these, she wondered how much Other blood Aunt Fitz truly carried. “How did you find out? He tried so hard—”
“So he did. But at breakfast the other day, I recognized his watch. And he called you Lissa. Small slip-ups, but revealing.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s left again.” Elisabeth added, “and good riddance.”
“Has he? Then I suppose my worry was for naught. You worshipped him so when you were younger. In your eyes, he could do no wrong. I thought perhaps his return might spur you to . . . well, it doesn’t matter now.”
“Aunt Fitz! Really! I hope my judgment has improved.”
“As do I, Elisabeth,” she answered evenly. “Did he say why he came to Dun Eyre?”
Elisabeth flashed back to that first interview when he’d goaded her mercilessly, the twinkle in his eye, the tease of his smile. “He claimed, like young Lochinvar, he was here to steal me away for himself.”
Her aunt’s brows lifted. “Yet, he’s gone and you remain.”
“Does that surprise you? Brendan Douglas wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him.”
Aunt Fitz closed her eyes, cheeks gaunt, fine lines marring her brow. Her hands hooked around the arms of the chair, her breathing slow and even. Elisabeth could almost believe she’d nodded off mid-conversation. But then a frown touched her aunt’s pale lips. “Or perhaps it was a truth so subtle, the tooth marks have yet to show.”
As with so much else, the coffee room at The Goat’s Whiskers in Ennis remained unchanged in the years Brendan had been gone. Even the landlord, old Ned Crowdy, looked as moth-eaten and bristly as ever. Brendan could almost make himself believe he was twenty-one again. Cocksure, obsessed, convinced of the justness of his cause. And equally baffled by those who could not see the rightness of what the Nine attempted for the good of the entire race of Other.
Freddie Atwood had been one of those unconvinced by his arguments.
Freddie’s family paid the price.
Brendan stood by and did nothing.
At least, not then. Though his later attempts at atonement meant little to Freddie. Or any of his victims. After all, the dead can give no absolution.
With grim disparagement, Brendan conceded his inaction had cost Freddie and his family their lives, while his action afterward had resulted in the death of his own father. A sure case of damned if you don’t and damned if you do. And if anyone could count on being damned, it was he.
His gaze rested on the row of decanters upon the sideboard, but he shoved the desire away almost as soon as it rose within him. Alcohol wouldn’t help. It only numbed the guilt. Never erased it. And he’d emptied enough bottles to know.
The door burst open on a bluster of lung-clearing wind and rain, sending men scurrying to secure their cards and their newspapers with much cursing and many shouts to close the bloody door already. The newcomer shook out his dripping greatcoat, removing his hat to run hands through his damp hair. Scanned the room from beneath half-lidded eyes.
Brendan motioned him over at the same time he ordered himself a second pot of coffee.
Even now, nine months after a near-fatal attack, Jack O’Gara walked stiffly as if he’d been sprinting overlong. But he was walking, which was amazing. Hell, he was breathing, which was a miracle.
Leave it to Jack to be skewered like a pig on a spit and come away with nothing worse than the hollowed features of a languishing tragedian stage player.
The Fey-born O’Gara luck at work.
He slid into the seat, waving the maidservant over. “Brandy.”
“That bodes ominous, coz,” Brendan remarked after the woman went scurrying in search of Jack’s order.
