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The flea-bitten black-and-white mongrel cocked his head to the side, ears pricked, dark beady eyes filled with reproach. He’d slipped in as the owner had left, sniffing every corner, inspecting every stick of furniture. A process that took about five minutes in the shabby little cabin.
“I had to do it. That, or let Máelodor’s goons have a go at her.”
The odd little dog turned away, trotting across to the pallet. Climbed up, settling beside Elisabeth with a grunt of satisfaction.
“Get off there. You’re probably full of fleas.” He reached for the dog, which grimaced its teeth in a snarl.
Brendan backed off. “Fine. Let her itch. One more reason for her to despise me. As if she needed any more reasons.”
He sat down, tipping his chair back against the wall. Crossed his arms over his chest and hunched his shoulders in an attempt to keep warm. The rain had begun again. A draft blew through what passed for walls, and the turf fire sizzled and spit with every drop from a leaky chimney.
The proud homeowner had vacated to a neighbor’s for the night. Coins in his pocket and a knowing leer on his weathered face. As if dirty one-room hovels conveyed the perfect romantic ambience for a seduction.
Brendan wished it were that easy. But somehow he didn’t think Elisabeth would quite see her abduction with a rosy, starry-eyed glow. And he’d already experienced her wicked left hook. He rubbed his bruised chin. The last thing he needed was to transport a struggling, hostile female cross-country. They’d have Máelodor’s men, Amhas-draoi, and an angry bridegroom breathing down their necks within miles.
He toyed with the idea of casting the sleep of the anfarath over her every time she looked as if she might wake. But toting an unconscious woman to Dublin held its own disadvantages. Normally it took the victim a few hours to overcome the nausea and dizziness. He’d never tried to keep someone asleep for up to a week. He couldn’t be sure what the effect would be. Not a risk he wanted to take, especially as rusty as his powers had become. Hell, she might not wake at all at the end of it.
“Damn Jack and his altruistic tendencies. This is his fault. ‘You have to go back, Brendan. You can’t leave her. Máelodor’s men are on their way,’” he mimicked. “If Jack was so bloody worried about Elisabeth, why didn’t he go back and get her?”
The dog never even lifted its head, though its eyes remained steady on Brendan.
“Fine. Elisabeth’s my responsibility, but let me nurse my grudge, will you? It’s keeping me warm.” It also gave him something to do besides wonder how the hell he planned to explain to Elisabeth what would seem like the most heinous of crimes.
“How can I make her understand it’s for her own good? That the last thing I want or need is an unwilling companion? That I’d be more than happy to return her to Dun Eyre if it didn’t spell her grisly death? That I’m not really the right bastard she thinks I am?”
The dog blinked and sneezed. Twice.
“Perfect. Now I’m asking advice from a mop with legs.” Brendan leaned his head back to stare up into the tangle of cobwebs and shadows. Tossed a grim smile to the dusty rafters. He’d never make Elisabeth understand. He was a right bastard, among a host of other less charitable qualities.
Elisabeth rolled over, murmuring in her sleep, the greatcoat he’d spread over her sliding off onto the floor. Her night plait had loosened, wild red curls escaping to feather her cheeks. But her face remained white as her chemise, a frown wrinkling her brow as she groped for the lost warmth.
He dropped the tipped chair back to the floor. Stood to retrieve the greatcoat. This time, the dog allowed Brendan to approach. Even reached out a cold nose to nuzzle Brendan’s fingers as he draped the coat back across Elisabeth.
Immediately, she snuggled into its warmth, a smile playing over her lips, a whispered thank-you barely audible.
A little late. And she probably wouldn’t remember thanking him when she woke. She’d be as waspish and furious as ever.
Rubbing a hand over his face, he tried to focus, but concentration was impossible. He was cold. Damp. Uncomfortable. And saddled with a woman who would wake in hysterics. Enraged, upset, and sick as a dog—no offense. Not a good combination at the best of times. And this was far from the best of times.
He tried clinging to the one thing that mattered. The Sh’vad Tual was safe.
He pulled it free of his shirt, where it dangled from the gold chain. Such an unassuming gem. Crudely hacked edges. Neither brilliant nor beautiful. Yet, as he stared, gold and bronze and rose flickered and grew within the deepest corners of the gemstone’s heart to become amber and citrine and brassy yellow. Dusky claret, light shell pink, and gold-red like good brandy.
Some colors surfaced and sank. Others flashed and twinkled only when he didn’t look directly at them. And then there were the colors difficult to describe with any palette he’d learned. A brown possessing shades of smoky silver and carrot orange at the same time. A blue that in one shaft of light sparkled in a purply lilac and in the next instant sharpened to a jungle ferny green before darkening to sooty dull black.
He stared until his eyes stung and watered, the facets of the stone unfolding within his palm like a map. He saw caverns and caves. Sweeping oceans and skies alive with stars and streaming pennants of starshot gas. There were trees scraping clouds electric with lightning and a single drop of water sliding off one perfect veined leaf.
The clouds parted on a shaft of light. A man stood among the ruins of a battlefield. His golden head slick with sweat and blood. His sword broken. Death descending.
Pain lanced Brendan’s skull as if someone had taken an ax-blade to the back of his head. The stone flamed against his palm, the colors pouring forth through his fingers in a ribbon of ebony and lavender and emerald and azure.
“Damn!” Shaking out
his burnt hand, he dropped the stone. Once more cool to the touch. Dull and lifeless.
Shudders chattered his teeth, and he wrapped himself tighter in his coat. Waited for Elisabeth to wake.
And the true misery to begin.
