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“The pendant. That’s what you came back for.”
And why did she feel a tiny sting of disappointment at that bald-stated fact? She was ill and out of her head. That must be it. There was no conceivable reason on this good earth why she should wish for even one blink of an instant for Brendan to look on her as a desirable grown woman rather than a pesky nuisance only a few years free of the schoolroom. No reason at all.
“Somehow Máelodor’s discovered where I hid the stone,” he continued. “He knows you have it, and he’s sent his men to Dun Eyre after it.”
“So take me home, and I’ll tell them they’re too late. You’ve already stolen it.” She arched a brow. “I assume you’ve stolen it.”
He shot her an offended look. “I prefer ‘collected’ to ‘stolen.’” Returned to pacing. “And that would be well and fine if Máelodor didn’t have a tendency to kill anyone who stands between himself and the things he wants. His men won’t accept you don’t have the stone, and they don’t handle failure well.”
His incessant marching back and forth added to her a headache. “You stole me away from my family, my friends, and the man I was about to marry to—save me?”
“Exactly.”
“Next time, let me take my chances with certain death.”
“That’s gratitude,” he grumbled. “Look here, Lissa. Do you think I’m any happier about this than you?”
She had to admit he appeared as foul-tempered and frustrated as she. Belligerent jut to his jaw. Brows drawn low over eyes burning hot. Not exactly the disposition of a lover. Could he be telling the truth? Could she really be in danger? Or was this just his way of keeping her close while he wooed her? Although if this was his idea of seduction, he was extremely lousy at it.
She fixed him with a scowl she hoped speared a hole right through him. Unfortunately, the pain in her head slid into her neck and down her shoulders until her whole body hurt, and she closed her eyes before her brain oozed out of them. “I’m going to be sick again.”
“It was a simple spell. How was I to know you’d have such a strong reaction?”
“Simple, he says,” she muttered, turning her face to the wall.
She heard him moving about the room. The crackle as he stirred the fire to life. A scrape of a dragged chair. The grumble as he strove to make himself comfortable.
Helplessness did not suit her. If Brendan thought she’d simply allow him to toss her aboard his horse like a sack of flour, he was very much mistaken. But what choice did she have? She was in no position to argue or fight back. She didn’t even have clothes, for heaven’s sake. She was completely at his mercy.
For now.
She pulled the greatcoat tighter around her while she sifted through his explanation. Magic. Spells. The Other. They didn’t belong to the well-ordered normalcy of her life. They were part of something strange and dark and forbidden. Whispers behind closed doors. Wondrous stories told by her grandmother, stirring Elisabeth’s imagination with tingly, delicious excitement.
A bit of what she’d once felt when she was with Brendan. As if once they were together she’d finally discover that colorful, exotic, elusive world. That, as his wife, she’d finally understand the powers that drove him, shaped him, and glittered off him like diamonds.
She’d been granted that childhood wish with a vengeance.
But instead of wonder, all she experienced was a sense of standing upon the edge of an abyss, frightening beyond her ken. A held breath. A tense expectancy. As if her world and his stood poised upon a brink.
A single flinch and there would be no turning back for either of them.
“What is that hideous rag?” Elisabeth asked.
Brendan held up a shapeless piece of drab-colored fabric splotched with stains of unknown origin. “Your dress. Its former owner charged me an entire shilling, so treat it with care.”
“Were the lice extra?” She gave a rude bark of laughter. “No, really. What is it?”
“It’s that or your nightclothes until we reach Dublin.” He dropped petticoats, an apron, stockings, and a sturdy pair of half boots upon the pallet. “There’s no time to have the local dressmaker create something for you.”
Wrinkling her nose, she studied the dingy gingham with disgust. That was a dress? Perhaps long ago in a previous life. Now it more closely resembled a burlap sack. An ugly burlap sack. She sighed. Things went from bad to worse. At least she’d recovered from the horrible, bed-spinning, stomach-whirling illness of yesterday. She’d celebrate the small victories. Besides, clothed—even in rags—she stood a better chance of regaining her freedom. She’d write to her aunts for help. Gordon would charge to her rescue. All would be well again.
“Fine. If I’ve no other choice.” She snatched the
garment from Brendan. “But once we reach the city . . .”
“I’ll shower you with silks, I promise. Now get dressed, we’ve wasted enough time dawdling here.”
Her gaze flicked pointedly between the dress and him and the dress again. She cleared her throat.
