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“You can’t fight what you don’t understand.”
“I’m not fighting anyone. I’m going back to Dun Eyre as soon as I can.”
Madame Arana shuffled toward the door, glancing back over her shoulder with an ominous glint in her bright eyes. “Are you so certain of that?”
eleven
The whiskey appeared unsolicited at Brendan’s elbow.
“You look as if you could use a drink.” Rogan poured one for himself before plopping into the chair opposite.
Brendan roused himself from his contemplation of the fire long enough to stretch. “That bad?”
“Actually, you look as if you could use three or four, but we’ll start slowly and work our way up to complete inebriation.”
“You sound a lot like a cousin of mine. You don’t know Jack O’Gara by any chance?”
Rogan paused, giving Brendan an odd look over the top of his glass. “Why?”
“No reason.”
He ignored the whiskey with great difficulty. To sleep without dreams was always hardest. His usual remedy was exhaustion. Any activity that would deaden his mind and body to a collapsing point. That outlet had been denied him. So he sat. Brooded. Avoided his bed as long as he could. The steady throb in his shoulder helped. Gave him something on which to concentrate besides the gritty, sandy burn of tired eyes or the intermittent flushes of heat followed by a wash of icy cold that left him wrung like a sponge.
At least he had Rogan for company. The harper had done much to break the glacial tension between him and Miss Roseingrave. As well as being easy company. Knew when to talk and when to keep silent.
“You and Miss Roseingrave are close.” As sterling repartee it lacked, but Brendan wasn’t up to maintaining appearances.
“You could say that.” Rogan sipped at his whiskey, his long shanks stretched toward the fire. He scratched his knuckles over the salt-and-pepper stubble of his narrow face. “I’ve known Helena since she wasn’t two hands higher than a duck. Second cousins on her mother’s side.” Leaned in closer. “I’m from the disreputable branch of the family.”
“I knew there was a reason you and I got on so well. So, has she always been such an amiable creature?”
Rogan laughed. “She does come off all teeth and claws, doesn’t she? Suppose it comes from being Amhas-draoi. Not exactly known for their soft, nurturing side, are they? Guess you’d know that better than anyone.” He flushed an uncomfortable shade of red. “Sorry, lad. Didn’t mean it to sound so callous.”
“Can’t quibble with the truth.”
Rogan toyed with his glass, still looking sheepish. “An ugly episode, from all I’ve heard. How did you . . . that is . . . they’re not known for leaving loose ends.”
“It’s amazing how fast a man can run when his life’s on the line.” Had he said easy company? This line of inquiry was definitely not helping his mood. He leaned his head back, shutting his eyes.
“Forgot you said you don’t drink.”
He opened his eyes to see Rogan reaching across to retrieve the whiskey. Brendan’s gaze locked on the glass. Mellow gold as a late summer sun. The scent stinging his nose, burning his lungs. Inhaling, he tasted its essence soft and smooth on his tongue. One glass. Surely he could have one glass. Just to sleep. To hold the dreams away. To stop remembering. To stop thinking.
He turned away. “Easier to run sober.”
Silence fell over the room, but for the snap of the fire, a breeze beyond the window.
Rogan stood to retrieve his harp. Settled back into his chair, the instrument resting in his lap. He strummed a run of scales, breaking the spring ice tension growing between them. “Since we’re exchanging confidences, that Miss Fitzgerald of yours is a spirited lass. Facing you and Helena down as she did tonight”—he gave a low whistle—“the looks on your faces were priceless.”
Brendan gave a soft, smiling shake of his head. “Couldn’t fault her logic. A body would be a deuced hard thing to keep from the staff.” He smothered a laugh. “She may look soft and sweet, but rile her and she’s a force of nature. Have to say it was a relief to see her sinking her claws into someone else for a change.”
“She spoke once of her betrothed. . . .”
Brendan grimaced. “Mr. Gordon Shaw. A young man of impeccable character and mediocre disposition. Bloody sod.”
The harper chuckled, the tune arranging itself into a haunting lament. “Is that how it is?”
“Is what how it is? Lissa? And me? Not likely.”
