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“What’s that? I didn’t quite hear you.”
“Do you know what you’re asking? I mean on the face of it, it sounds reasonable enough, but do you have any idea what marrying me would do to you?”
“Rescue me from a life riddled with humiliation and shame? Lessen the disgrace my disappearance with you has caused me and my family? Allow me to hold my head up in polite society? Make right your unconscionable behavior? Have I left anything out?”
“Align the planets and hold back the tides? As I said, iron into gold—ow!” He rubbed his left arm.
“And I’ll give you a knuckler to your bad shoulder if you don’t shape up.”
“Why must you always resort to violence to win your arguments?”
“Why must you always joke? It’s not funny, Brendan. Not in the least little bit. Even if I turned up today, Gordon Shaw wouldn’t marry me. He’s a good man, but he’s no saint. He’ll not jeopardize his future for me, and I wouldn’t ask it of him. That leaves you, young Lochinvar.”
He grimaced. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
If you’re half the man I think you are, you’ll do the right thing and marry me.”
“Dash it all, Lissa, I’m not even a quarter of that man. And marrying me . . . it’s . . . well . . . it’s more than likely you’ll end up a widow within a week.”
“A respectable widow.”
He came to a sudden halt in the middle of the floor, wearing an odd expression that might have been contemplation or might have been sheer and complete panic. Hard to distinguish.
Shaking his head, he grumbled, “I’m an ass . . . be worse . . . dead and it won’t matter anyway . . .” His attention snapped back to her, eyes bright as lamps. “You win. Miss Elisabeth Fitzgerald, will you do me the honor?” A twinkle gleamed in his eyes. Laughter in his voice as he added, “Again?”
“I still can’t believe you managed to keep such a sacred relic hidden for so long.” Helena Roseingrave leaned back in her chair, her stare like a razor as she sipped at her wine.
Brendan nervously tapped his thigh with one hand, guts in knots. He’d surrendered possession of the stone, but he didn’t have to like it.
Roseingrave continued to study the Sh’vad Tual, though she made no move to pick it up. Perhaps sensing how close to grabbing up the stone and fleeing for the door he really was.
“Why did you do it, Douglas?” she asked calmly. “Why start such madness? Greed? Ambition? The Earl of Kilronan already had wealth and influence. Was it pride? Arrogance?”
A smile twisted the corner of his mouth. “It was power—pure and simple.”
Her eyes widened, body tightening as she straightened in her chair to place her wineglass upon a table.
“It began as a noble lost cause,” he continued. “Other and Duinedon coexistence, but it wasn’t long before all those high-minded principles were stripped away, leaving the ugly truth. What could we do? How far could we go? Where would it lead us?”
“And?” she asked.
His nerves jumped beneath his skin, the stone’s fire burning before his eyes. The battlefield. The corpses. His brother lying dead upon a mound of bodies.
“It’s led me here,” he said finally.
He stalked the room, feeling her steel gaze always on him. The mental push against his mind as she sought to see beneath the surface of his mind. He pushed back, no unschooled novice open to anyone who sought to read him. He might not be Amhas-draoi, but his powers were no less formidable.
She laughed. “You’re as strong as they say.”
“‘They’?”
“Your brother. Your sister. They didn’t exaggerate your skills.” She sounded almost impressed.
Pain slid like a knife into his heart. Aidan. Sabrina. It had been easier when half a world lay between them. When return had been impossible. Now? Hope only deepened the agony of his exile.
“A shame you chose to use such gifts for an evil purpose,” she added.
“At the time”—he shrugged, refusing to allow her to see his weakness—“it seemed the only purpose.”
