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All this not thinking was driving her mad.
Throwing herself to her feet, she stalked back into the house. “Killer, come along.”
The now-muddy terrier barely registered her command. He sneezed and lay down, squashing a bed of tulips in the process. Rolled over, exposing his muddy tummy. Eyed her in a way that said, Try and make me.
“Oh, fine, then. No one else pays me any mind. Why should you?” she complained before stomping into the house, her steps leading her toward the study. Even a dull book was better than this infernal aimless boredom and the questions that invariably filled the emptiness.
Brendan’s actions last night could be interpreted in two ways: a noble withdrawal or a coward’s escape. She certainly had offered little resistance. Had practically thrown herself at his feet like some cheap strumpet. And what had he done? He’d walked away.
Had she done something wrong? Had he decided she wasn’t worth the effort?
No doubt in his years abroad he’d had women fawning all over him; dark, exotic, lithesome creatures with kohl-darkened eyes and dusky skin. She’d never been lithesome in her life, and her coloring was far more strawberries and cream than café au lait. She swallowed the annoying lump forming at the back of her throat. Brendan wasn’t worth it.
She stutter-stepped to a halt just inside the library door. “Oh, excuse me. I didn’t know the room was occupied.”
As if conjured from her self-pity, Brendan looked up from his book, his stare seeming to cut right through her like a damascene blade before the light shifted and there was no more in his expression than mild surprise. “Come along in. I don’t bite.”
All as if last night had never occurred. As if he’d not shot her to the moon with a mere touch. As if she’d not made an ass of herself by letting him.
Butterflies big as vultures whirled through her stomach, warmth stinging her cheeks. If she wasn’t careful, she’d make a fool of herself over Brendan—again.
“I came for something to read.” Could she sound any more inane? As if he couldn’t figure that one out by himself.
He cast a swift pessimistic glance at the few shelves of books. “Unless you’re a devotee of Ogham’s more inscrutable writings or the art of killing a man in ten easy steps, I’d say you’re out of luck.”
“You’re busy. I’ll leave you alone.” She started to back out the door, happy to escape an awkward situation.
“Wait. You can help me. That is, if you’re not doing anything else.”
She didn’t move. This was a trick. He would lure her in here, shut the door, and have his wicked way with her. Though he didn’t look in a wicked mood. Not even in a very interested mood. More in a preoccupied, frustrated mood. And that irritated her as nothing else could.
“It won’t take long, I promise and you can get back to whatever you were doing.”
Which was nothing, though she wouldn’t tell him that. “You want me to help you?”
“I asked you, didn’t I? Her
e. Search the index in this one. I’m looking for anything to do with Arthur.”
Fine. If he wasn’t going to bring last night up, she certainly wasn’t. Wrapping her shredded dignity round her, she crossed to where he sat, taking the book from him. Thumbing the pages.
Every time she’d sought to assist Gordon with his work, he’d patted her on the head—in much the same way she patted Killer—and told her too much reading would give her pretty face wrinkles and dull the sparkle in her eyes. As if the strain would simply be too great for her little pea brain to assimilate without exploding. All right, that might have been unduly harsh, but the sentiment had certainly been there, if couched in sweetness and consideration.
One thing she never had to worry about with Brendan was consideration.
“Are you certain you—” she began.
“If you don’t want to, fine. I simply thought two heads might be better than one. Go back to checking your face for unwanted freckles or practicing fan semaphore or whatever it is women do when left to their own devices, and I’ll look for it myself.” He grabbed for the book, which she pulled out of his reach.
“I’ll help. No need to be snippy about it.”
She sat across from him, opening the book to the index. Running a finger down the page until she spotted a reference. Turned to the chapter in question.
“What, exactly, are we searching for?”
“References to Arthur’s encounters with the true Fey. A curse, specifically. A Fey molleth placed on the king.”
“Why would the Fey curse—”
