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“It is.” The brandy was brought. He downed it, eyes closed on a weary sigh of contentment, the deep lines carved either side of his mouth slowly easing. But when he looked again upon Brendan, fear sharpened his gaze. “You have to return to Dun Eyre.”
“You couldn’t pay me eno
ugh to go back there.”
“And Elisabeth Fitzgerald?”
He pulled free his watch, checking the time with a smile. “Is even now dreaming of her trip down the aisle. By this time tomorrow, she’ll be Mrs. Gordon Shaw.”
“If she lives that long,” was Jack’s grumbling response.
Brendan frowned his confusion.
“Máelodor knows,” Jack leaned forward, his words low and urgent. “Somehow he’s figured out you gave the stone to Elisabeth all those years ago. His men are on their way to Dun Eyre as we speak.”
“Where did you hear this?”
“From your contact in Limerick. After you and I separated, I headed there to see what I could learn about the Amhas-draoi’s intentions. No news on that front, but the story is that Máelodor has unraveled the stone’s hiding place.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Not long, I’d wager. If Máelodor knows where the stone is, you can bet he’s making all haste to get hold of it. You have to go back, Brendan. If Máelodor’s men seize Elisabeth . . .”
He didn’t need Jack to finish his sentence. He well knew Elisabeth’s fate should Máelodor’s men get hold of her. His sister, Sabrina, had barely escaped a similar grisly end after becoming entangled in Brendan’s troubles.
Was he destined to bring disaster down upon anyone stupid enough to trust him? Was he a walking lightning rod? Get too close and suffer the consequences?
In an effort to safeguard their father’s diary, his brother Aidan had almost died in a one-on-one battle with a conjured killer. Jack—another victim of Máelodor’s obsession—saved only through his not-quite-of-this-world good fortune. The merest chance placing Brendan on that particular road that night. The craziest luck turning that blade from any vital organ. Could Jack be so insanely fortunate a second time?
Could any of them? Or would Brendan carry the burden of their deaths on top of his father’s? On top of Freddie’s? On top of the mountain of sins already weighting him down?
His eyes flicked once more to Jack’s drink. It had been years since he’d felt such unbearable need.
Pushing away from the table, he shrugged into his coat. Pulled on his gloves. Gods, he’d forgotten how damned uncomfortable Ireland was.
“I need you to head to Knockniry. Find Daz Ahern. He’s holding something for me. A ring. He’ll know why I need it. Meet me back in Dublin. At Macklins on Cutpurse Row.”
“So you still intend on going through with this mad scheme? The Amhas-draoi seem the kill-first, ask-questions-later type. You show up among them, and they’re liable to separate your head from your shoulders without pausing for breath.”
“Which is why I’m going directly to Scathach with the Sh’vad Tual. With luck, she’ll at least listen before she decides my fate.” That was his hope anyway. The head of the Amhas-draoi was known to be just. She was also known to wrench out innards with a barbed sword but he conveniently put that aspect of her nature out of his mind.
“What will you do with Miss Fitzgerald?”
Brendan plowed a hand through his hair. “Hell if I know. She’s never been exactly biddable at the best of times.” He gave a resigned shrug. “No doubt something will occur to me.”
“I can think of a few things,” was Jack’s cheeky answer. His normal roguish tendencies never far from the surface, even in the most hopeless of situations. “Here. You might need this.” Jack pulled a pouch from his jacket pocket. “I won it off a lieutenant whose head for drink far exceeded his head for cards. Once he wakes from his stupor, he’ll be a poorer but wiser soul.”
Brendan scooped up the coins. He’d lived better in the past year than in the previous six thanks to Jack’s skills at the card table. “Has anyone ever told you you’re incurable?”
“My mother. Frequently. I’m sure she attributes my tragic killing to that very trait.”
“Which brings me to my second errand.”
“Aye, mon capitaine?”
He’d been trying to do this for weeks. Now was the time. “Once you’ve met me back in Dublin, I want you to go home.”
“As in turn up alive?” He spread his hands. “Ta-da! And claim the stories of my demise were a tad premature? We’ve had this conversation before.”
