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She snatched it back. “I’m not bored in the least. It’s been highly informative. Did you know the Unseelie—those are Fey demons, by the way.”
Amusement danced in his eyes “Yes, I think I may have heard of them once or twice.”
She shot him a dirty look. “But did you know if one of the Dark Court possesses the body of a human host, they can gain permanent entry into our world?”
His expression hardened. “Yes, though I didn’t know you did.” He glanced at the pile of books beside her. “Have I created a monster?”
“Actually, all that searching intrigued me. I was hoping you might explain a few things. There’s a chapter in one of these”—she rummaged through her stack until she found the one she searched for, flipping pages as she spoke—“that sounds like it’s talking of Arthur and the curse, but then it doesn’t, and I can’t make heads or tails of it.”
He eyed her curiously. “Who are you, and what have you done with Elisabeth Fitzgerald?”
She slammed the book closed. “I knew you’d tease.”
“I’m sorry, Lissa. I’m just a little stunned. You’ve never liked nor wanted anything to do with the Other. You seemed almost fearful. Why the sudden interest?”
She dropped her gaze to the book as she grappled with the question he’d posed. Difficult to explain, if she even could. After all, there had been no defining revelation. It had been a slow creeping awareness that between dread and wonder was a margin almost indefinable. Perhaps that narrowest of gaps had finally closed. Or perhaps she merely grew tired of being kept in the dark about events that impacted her in an intimate and life-altering way.
“It seems only sensible to try and understand what I’m getting myself into by marrying you.”
He sank onto the seat beside her, and for the first time she noted the dust speckling his boots, the sour whiskey and smoky smell of him as well as the tired smudges beneath his eyes, the grim angle of his jaw. Her heart skipped annoyingly as he raked his hair out of his face. “Is that what this is about, Lissa? This marriage? You and I? I can say the words, I can put the ring on your finger, but it doesn’t make us any more than we were before.”
“Which is?”
“Which is two people trapped by circumstance. I may not even—” He broke off, massaging his damaged hand as if it pained him. “I just wouldn’t expend a lot of effort in making this into anything more than a face-saving marriage of last resort.”
He looked away, his hand lying upon his thigh, the fingers crooked, the joints swollen. She’d asked about it. Just as she’d sought to discover why he’d run, how he’d lived, what dark memories hugged the edges of his sun-bright eyes. Yet, now as always he pushed her away. Parried her questions like the ablest of fencers.
“I may be Duinedon but I’m not a fool, Brendan. And I’m tired of being treated like one.”
His hand flexed and curled in agitation. “Never a fool, Lissa.”
He’d said that to her once before, though she knew it was foolish of her to want more than he could give. To conjure a real marriage out of a few words spoken
by a priest.
“None of this is to cause you pain, but to keep you from harm. I do it to protect you,” he said.
“I’m not made of spun glass, Brendan. You should have noticed by now that I don’t shatter easily. In this case what I don’t know just might kill me.”
He flexed his hand, scars standing white on his skin, but remained stubbornly silent.
“Forget I spoke,” she said, annoyance and disappointment warring within her. “Forget this whole marriage. It was a stupid idea anyway. You go your way. I’ll go mine and—”
She stood to leave, but he grabbed her hand. “Now you’re angry.”
She wrestled to free herself. “I’m not.”
A smile twitched a corner of his mouth. “You’re lying.”
“And you’re maddening. If you didn’t want to marry me, why did you agree to it?”
“Your silver tongue and your winning ways?” he wheedled.
It was like boxing at shadows. She reasoned, argued, bullied, and yet he remained unfazed. She might as well be speaking to a wall for all the good that came of it. “Do you know how much I despise you right now?”
“I can guess, but I’ll ignore it. You’re overwrought.”
She marched back toward the house, but he kept pace with her, not allowing her to escape. “If I was overwrought—which I most certainly am not—I’d have every right to be.”
