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The music eased the whiskey’s lingering temptation. Filling the empty parts of him with something other than alcohol. He’d forgotten the feeling of simple peace such moments brought. It had been long since he’d the leisure to listen. Longer since he’d enjoyed playing himself. It had once been his favorite amusement. A way to forget Father’s mounting expectations. Aidan’s guarded envy. Even Sabrina and Mother in their own quieter ways required something from him, whether it be love or duty.
He could always put that aside as he focused on the complicated twining melody and harmony of left hand and right. Lay aside the burdens of filial responsibility and the weight of fraternal confidence. No one counted on him. No one needed him. He could simply exist.
His final evening at Dun Eyre had been the first time he’d attempted the Mozart. Elisabeth’s arrival in the music room had surprised him. Her questions dragging his old desire for freedom from shadow into light. But with it came something else. A remembrance of the girl who’d been the only one not to see him as either prodigy or threat. She’d never wanted anything from him other than friendship. Never offered him anything but quick laughter and a sure smile. The only one to see him as he saw himself in those brief naked moments while playing.
He’d hidden his shock at such a revelation well. Hell, he’d buried that split second’s sentimentality beneath a ton of earth and sarcasm. She’d never guessed. Gone away assured of his patent bastardy. The earth remained turning upon an axis he understood.
Until tonight.
Tonight he’d looked on her and seen not the Lissa of his memories but a woman completely unknown to him and utterly fascinating. Composed. Self-assured. And attractive as hell.
He leaned his head back against the chair. Closed his eyes. “Elisabeth hates me, and I can’t say I blame her. I tore her away from said husband-to-be. Not sure how to put that one to rights, but I’ll think of something. I usually do.”
Rogan chuckled. “You care for her. It comes through in your voice. The way you drink her in whenever she’s near.”
“I’ve known her since she was dragging round a one-eyed doll and pestering me to let her play cricket with the boys. She’s like a little sister.”
Elisabeth’s face swam before his scratchy, tired eyes. A wreath of wild red hair. Eyes dark and sweet. His heart turned over in his chest with a sharp, stabbing pain, grief
finally pulling him under like one of the riptides off Belfoyle’s coast.
A vision of past or future?
Or merely one more misdeed for which punishment still waited?
Shrugging out of his jacket, Brendan hissed at the jawclenching stab to the bone accompanying the simple gesture. Damned shoulder. He couldn’t afford an injury now. Not with the hunters beating him toward the guns. It would take two good arms to escape the encircling net. A head clear of the fever fog. Perhaps let Roseingrave’s grandmother have a look at it after all.
He sank onto the bed, unknotting his cravat. Unbuttoning his waistcoat. Trying not to jar his shoulder more than he had to. Pulling his shirt over his head brought tears to his eyes. Bending to remove his boots left him woozy as the pain in his shoulder moved up into his brain. He barely heard the knock upon his door—the faintest tapping followed by a whisper.
He rose to answer, taking care to plaster himself in the easy, roguish confidence Elisabeth expected. Anything less and she’d begin to doubt. Or worry. If he was to keep her safe, he needed her trust in him to remain secure and unshakable.
He wouldn’t explore too closely why he desired her faith.
She stood in the doorway in a dressing gown of sheerest linen, collar and cuffs of lemon silk. Her plaited hair shining vivid red and burnished gold. Wisps and curls of deep mahogany and bright chestnut escaping to halo her head. A lock lying just behind her ear. Another across her forehead.
The dressing gown emphasized the rise and fall of her generous breasts, slid invitingly over her hips, the shadows in every fold following the long curves of her legs. “I’m up here,” she said tartly.
Brendan let his eyes drift reluctantly upward.
He desired her faith, not her body, though that was a claim harder to deny.
And if she chose to come to his bedchamber clothed for seduction, he’d have to be a eunuch not to imagine.
He caught her gaze wandering over his chest and his blasted tattoo. Clearly her curiosity was damn near killing her, but she said nothing, and he gritted his teeth and allowed her to look her fill.
“Should I be flattered or concerned?” he asked lazily, laying a casual hand upon a bedpost. To her, it would look like the practiced move of a rake. She’d never know it was the only thing holding him upright.
She blinked, gathering her lost aplomb. “Let’s try honest. What does Helena want, Brendan? She must have told you.”
“She did, but it’s naught to worry you.” He gripped the bedpost more tightly. The pain in his shoulder came and went, but the fever clung. Hot and then cold. A sheen of sweat spreading across his back as his teeth chattered. If she didn’t leave soon, she’d be treated to his spectacular collapse. Not a sight to inspire confidence.
“This is a prison for you, isn’t it?” she asked, a steel gleam in her dark eyes. “Pleasant enough, but you’re as trapped as if you were locked in a cell. Am I right?”
“I’ve known prisons, Elisabeth. I’ll take Miss Roseingrave’s hospitality, however grudgingly it’s given, any day.”
“That’s not answering my question. Madame Arana spoke of the Nine. She said your father led them and that the brotherhood seeks to destroy them.”
“Madame Arana needs to keep her mouth shut.”
