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All but for a wild mane of red hair and a pair of bewitching brown eyes.
For some reason, he’d always thought she would be the one person he could count on. If all else collapsed around him, Lissa Fitzgerald’s childlike faith would never falter.
Tonight, he’d attempted to put that theory to the test.
He curled and flexed his fingers, the ache of his injury a dull throb. The fear in Lissa’s eyes had punched him hard. He’d not anticipated how hard. Elisabeth knew of the Other and still she shrank from them.
From him.
He gave a wry bark of laughter.
Smart girl.
eight
Thanks to Jack’s gold, Brendan had planned to hire a chaise. Make the rest of the journey in comfort if not style.
He drew back into the alley beside the coaching inn.
So much for plans.
How he knew the three men standing within the circle of lantern light belonged to Máelodor, he couldn’t say. Nothing marked them as such. No great “M” sewn upon their chests. No aura of death surrounding them. In fact, they looked rather ordinary. Unassuming expressions. Clothing neither filthy nor finicky. But Brendan had lived within Máelodor’s sinister shadow for too long to ignore the warning bells going off in his head or the prickle of magic crawling under his skin, lifting the hairs at the back of his neck.
He retreated, already reevaluating his options.
Was their appearance here sheer coincidence? Unfortunate, but nothing to fear as long as he stayed out of sight until they departed? Or had they followed his trail from Dun Eyre and any movement on his part would be seized as a chance to capture him and the stone he carried?
He couldn’t wait to find out. He was already behind schedule. Jack would be waiting for him in Dublin. The longer he delayed, the greater chance for something else to go wrong.
Ducking down the narrow passage between the posting inn and stables, he made his way back to Elisabeth. Prayed she’d stayed put as he’d ordered her and not gone wandering off. She seemed convinced the danger was real, but he couldn’t stake all on her common sense. As he remembered, she’d never been a paragon of obedience. And from what he’d seen
so far, time hadn’t improved her.
The tavern he’d picked catered to the Irish scraping a living in the cabins and cottages clustered on the outskirts of the lakeside market town. They smoked and drank and cursed and fought in the two rooms making up the tap. Slept it off before a roaring fire, their breathing loud, their smell overpowering.
He’d slipped the publican a few extra pennies for the privacy of a chamber off the kitchen. Not exactly the best of accommodations, but at least they could relax out from under the suspicious, hostile glances of the normal patrons.
That had been the plan.
Once more, his plans had failed him.
As he ducked beneath the low lintel into the murky, smoke-filled room, his watering eyes fell immediately on a tableau he wouldn’t have believed had he not seen it for himself. A crowd of men listening in attentive silence to a harper upon a stool in the chimney corner. Eyes closed in a gaunt, weather-beaten face, his fingers darted and slipped over the frets of the ash-wood harp in his lap. But the plaintive beauty of the music was nothing compared to the singer accompanying him, whose poignant longing was wrung from every note as she sang of love and loss and war.
“Siúil go sochair agus siúil go ciúin . . .”
What the hell was she about? Could he not leave her alone for two seconds without catastrophe following? He checked his impulse to drag her away by the hair. With Máelodor’s assassins close, the last thing he needed was to draw attention. Nor did he particularly need twenty drunken farmers denied of their entertainment venting their anger on him. He liked all his limbs just where they were, thank you very much.
Across the room, Elisabeth’s eyes lifted to his. Her face pale as moonlight compared to the ruddy, wind-chapped features of those watching her in rapt attention. Her red hair aflame in the low light from the fire.
“. . . Siúil go doras agus éalaigh liom . . .”
Had she always possessed a voice like this? He couldn’t remember. It made him wonder what else about the hoyden tagalong he’d forgotten. Or overlooked.
“. . . Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán.”
It took him a moment to realize her siren song had ended. Silence roared in his ears as he crossed the floor in two angry strides, grabbing her by the elbow, dragging her to a corner away from the others. “Am I wrong or did I order you to stay out of sight until I returned?”
She lifted her chin, face flushed, eyes shining and dark. “Killer escaped.”
