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Through the walls, the soft chords of a harp broke through the babble of conversation and crude male laughter. A simple run of strings transforming into a sentimental melody.
She leaned her head against the wall, closing her eyes. Seeing once more the heroic figure of Brendan striding through the swirl of mist and drizzle to sweep her up into his arms. Muttering the entire time he’d carried her about the extreme silliness of females and his incomprehension of a sex possessing more fluff than brains. She’d laid her head upon his chest, listened to the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body against her cheek, and been in complete ecstasy.
The harper’s tune changed. His voice joining in. Lifting in the melancholy longing of a soldier’s song. The image of Brendan dissolving into bleaker, sadder scenes.
The fear and confusion following the bloody murder of Lord Kilronan. Aunt Fitz and Aunt Pheeney taking turns to stay with Her Ladyship in the weeks following when her widow’s grief held a wild and unpredictable ferocity. Aidan, wearing his new responsibilities like a heavy chain about his neck. Sabrina, every day growing thinner and grayer and quieter until she vanished completely into the peace of the convent. The charmed glamour of the Douglas family disintegrating before Elisabeth’s eyes.
And everyone asking the same question: Where’s Brendan?
Now she knew. He’d been hiding. Running. Surviving.
He’d grown hard, dangerous, careful, and cynical. He’d become a man who guarded his words and trusted few. His gaze, once clear and bright as a summer sun, held deep and violent shadows. His formerly whippet-thin body had toughened to a rugged leanness.
And yet, for a few moments as they’d laughed over a young girl’s folly, he’d been the boy whose smile broke hearts and laughter made her hurt for something she couldn’t define.
The harper’s tune changed again.
Killer sat up, ears pricked.
Whining, he jumped from her lap to scratch at the door, his whole body quivering. It had been quite a few hours. Perhaps nature called. Brendan had warned her to stay in the room and out of the way of the tavern’s patrons, but Killer’s whines grew in volume and intensity. He sniffed along the bottom of the door, pawing at the gap.
“Just for a moment and then come right back. Do you hear?” she ordered.
He barked once. Sat obediently as she cracked the door. And was out like a shot, bolting down the passage, disappearing around a corner.
A half hour passed. Then an hour. Had he abandoned her? Had Brendan? Neither had come back.
A dog barked. A ferocious yipping and snarling. Then a sharp cry as if the animal had been kicked or hurt.
Elisabeth threw open the door. “Killer?”
Onwen drowsed, head down, back foot cocked.
Brendan brushed her until she shone. It gave him a task when he most needed to keep his mind and hands busy. A way to stop the eternal roundabout of what-ifs and regrets.
What if he’d spoken out—even once—against the growing madness infecting his father and the Nine?
What if he’d walked away as soon as he’d realized where the plan would lead the Other?
What if he’d intervened when Freddie lay dying amid the flames of his house and the bodies of his family?
What if he’d warned the Amhas-draoi himself instead of sending Daz Ahern in his place?
Would events have turned out differently? Would Father have come to the same realization as his son, or would he have seen Brendan’s hesitation as weakness and his second thoughts as treachery? Would the Amhas-draoi have listened, or would they still have attacked blindly and savagely, seeing death as the only way to deal with such sinister evil as the Nine hoped to unleash? Had Father died cursing his youngest son’s name?
There were no answers, no matter how many times he went round and round in his head. Only more questions. More pain. More voices infecting his sleep. More faces crowding his dreams.
But tonight new questions buzzed in his brain like sand flies.
What if he’d succeeded seven years ago in handing the Sh’vad Tual over to the Amhas-draoi?
What if he’d not had to escape retribution? What if Máelodor had died with the rest of the Nine?
Would Brendan have married Elisabeth as he’d intended? Would he even now be a sedate father and husband? His days spent playing the responsible landowner? His nights entwined with a passionate wife?
In the years of his exile, he’d refused to ask those sorts of questions. The future had been the next hour, the next day, the next week. There was no energy to spare to look deeper.
Only recently had he begun to envision an existence beyond that of fugitive. Yet it had been too long since he’d sought to dream. He could see nothing beyond his interview with Scathach. Beyond crawling from under the weight of his past deeds. If he tried reaching further, all was vague, indistinct, unknowable.
