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“Aye, we have. And until now I’ve allowed you to persuade me that your playing a corpse works to our advantage. But no longer. Let’s call it even. I saved your life last spring. You saved mine this winter. We’re square.”
The amusement faded from Jack’s eyes. “Máelodor has the diary and the tapestry, Brendan. If he captures you while you carry the stone . . .”
“I’ll worry about that if and when it happens.”
He’d grown adept at locking his fear away. He’d been on the run for seven years. The race to survive driving him deeper into the shadows as he fought to stay one step ahead of vengeance from both justice-seeking Amhas-draoi and Máelodor’s bounty-driven assassins. If he was successful, that ever-present hand on his shoulder would lift. That nightmare would finally be over. If he failed . . . He forced his mind from that thought. He would not fail.
“My showing up alive will only fuel questions about you,” Jack said. “They’ll want to know where I’ve been all this time and, most importantly, who I was with.”
“Tell them you fled to the Continent to escape your gaming debts.”
“I don’t have any gaming debts. Or at least none I’d be so silly as to fly to the continent to avoid.”
“So pretend.”
“And how am I supposed to have survived my unfortunate run-in with Máelodor’s executioner? I imagine the question will come up.”
“Do I have to think of everything? Use that famed O’Gara ingenuity.”
“You can’t do this on your own, Brendan. Admit it.”
“I managed for seven years.”
“No, you buried yourself away amid a bunch of foreigners and drowned your sorrows in alcohol and opium.”
Brendan felt as if he’d been struck. His gut rising into his throat, a horrible sick churning as if he might be ill all over Mr. Crowdy’s floor. “How?”
Jack’s gaze dulled, jaw tightening as if he knew he’d crossed an invisible line. Still, he didn’t back down. A sign of his dogged courage. “No one avoids alcohol the way you do unless they’re blind scared of it. The opium I surmised by things you’ve said. Other things you took pains to avoid saying.” He faced him straight-on. “Are you still . . .”
“No.” It was all Brendan would allow himself to admit. It wasn’t anyone’s business how low he’d fallen during his years away. He repeated his avowal as if Jack needed convincing. “Not for a long time.”
“Good. That settles things. I’ll find Ahern. We’ll talk about my resurrection once you arrive in Dublin safely.”
“You’re not listening.”
“I’m older than you, Brendan. Think of it as your big brother speaking.”
“Aidan wouldn’t be so hen-brained.”
Jack laughed. “It’s surprising how hen-brained your brother can be.”
“I won’t let you—”
“You can’t force me.”
“It’s better this way—”
“For whom?”
They spoke over one another until, exasperated, Brendan snapped, “Damn it, Jack. I don’t want you.”
His cousin gave a slow nod before downing the rest of his drink. Slamming the glass upon the table. “Now we come to the crux of it. Typical Brendan Douglas arrogance. He doesn’t need anyone. He can do it all on his own.”
“It’s not that,” Brendan argued, stung by the accusation. “I can move faster and easier without worrying about you.”
“Self-sufficiency’s become a habit.”
“It’s safer.”
