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“I never said I didn’t care. I said I couldn’t care. There’s a difference.”
And so she told him. Curled with him in the night, she spoke of the house upon the cliffs, the way the mists came down to curl silver gray and damp against the walls. She described the winds that never ceased, the way they held the bite of the ocean as they swept across the wide cloud-chased sky, the way the sun threw light and shadow over the moors.
She talked about Aidan—the wild young man who’d become a brooding recluse as he faced the possibility of financial ruin. Of the late nights and long days as the new Earl of Kilronan had struggled to hold the estate together. Of the grief he held tight within him for the family he’d lost. Of the shock among the neighbors that followed his impetuous marriage to a woman of unknown pedigree and scandalous rumored past.
“He’s not the Aidan you remember, but he’s happy again. He loves her. It’s clear the way he follows her with his eyes whenever they’re together. Almost as if they’re connected by some invisible cord.”
She spoke of Sabrina, gone away shortly after her parents’ deaths. Gone to Glenlorgan and a life as a bandraoi priestess. “Aunt Fitz said she’s home now, though none have seen her and none know why she’s come back. Some say there was a man involved.”
“Was? But he should—” Brendan shook his head. “Oh, Sabrina.”
“When you go home, you’ll see it for yourself. You’ll see all of them. The prodigal son returns. They’ll welcome you with open arms.”
“More likely with daggers drawn, if I know Aidan. No, your words will have to do. I can’t go home, Lissa.” His words bit sharp and deep like a knife. “Not after—” He closed his eyes. “Not ever.”
Elisabeth slept, a tangle of red-gold hair above the covers, a soft whisper of even breathing.
Brendan leaned over, brushing a kiss upon her forehead, inhaling the enticing lemony floral scent of her creamy skin. He closed his eyes, imagining a life with her. Waking by her side. Finding her at day’s end when they could sit together and laugh and talk and enjoy each other’s company. Taking her in his arms at night with no fear clouding her gaze.
He opened his eyes on a sigh. A beautiful dream, but daylight would bring reality. He ran a hand over the broken arrow and crescent needled into his chest. A permanent reminder that his past made that life impossible.
Rising from the bed, Brendan padded across the room to the fire, his naked body chilled by the cool night air.
Lissa had given him a great gift tonight. Not just her body, which had been perfection in his arms, but her reminiscences. He’d not been able to help himself. He’d needed to know. Suffered with a homesickness that left him dry mouthed and shaking. And in those brief moments when she had spoken, Belfoyle had come alive for him. He’d seen once more the barren rocky cliffs, walked through the waist-high grass down to the thin stretch of beach, galloped along the orchard road chased by the salty wind, and talked and laughed late into the night with Aidan, trading stories and boasts and secrets like brothers who’ve nothing to hide.
Shoulders hunched in defeat, he braced himself against the mantel. Closed his eyes, seeing once more the vision of Aidan lying dead among the scores of battlefield corpses. The copper sheen of his hair. The blue-white pallor of his face. The splash of crimson across his chest.
He will come for you.
Arthur’s denunciation to the man bowed and broken as he crushed his brother’s mutilated body to his chest.
A vibrant single image burning through the gray, mist-shrouded wraiths he’d lived with for the past seven years. The heartrending cry to the heavens drowning out the poisonous whispers echoing in his ears since Freddie Atwood’s failed last stand.
fifteen
Mr. McKelway didn’t look old enough to shave, much less perform a wedding ceremony, though by the leering glances he kept stealing at Elisabeth’s breasts throughout, he was plenty old enough to have his ears boxed.
It was one thing to marry in such a helter-skelter way. Another to have the p
riest ogling her as if she were a side of beef at Fleet market. She speared the cleric with a ferocious stare that had him tugging at his collar as if he were in sudden need of air and hastening through the rest of the service in double time.
Not the wedding of her dreams. Madame Arana and Miss Roseingrave were the only witnesses to her honor’s restoration, Rogan pleading an aversion to churches in general and marriage in particular. And in place of Miss Havisham’s expensive confection of cream-colored silk and yards of silver lace, Elisabeth wore a modest gown of white muslin. One of the few outfits in Helena’s wardrobe that needn’t be let out or taken in.
Brendan stood beside her, pressed and polished and looking as mouthwatering as she’d ever seen him.
The Douglases possessed looks to draw every eye. Aidan bore an austere elegance and a confident swagger that left no one in doubt of his noble bloodlines. Sabrina’s winsome flashing smile and sparkling blue eyes more than made up for her inherent shyness. But Brendan outshone both of them with his sun-bronzed, square-jawed face, the dagger gleam of his gold eyes, and the taut balance of his swordsman’s body.
Until now he’d been a million miles away, his expression unreadable in the dim interior of the church, but when the priest asked, “Do you take this woman?” he finally looked at her, his eyes a darkened bronze like ancient coins, face uncharacteristically solemn.
“I do,” he said, his fingers tightening on hers in a gesture she chose to interpret as encouragement rather than dread.
It didn’t take nearly as long as she’d expected to change the course of her life forever. A few words spoken over them. An exchange of chaste kisses for the spectators, and a marriage seven years in the making was finally accomplished.
There should have been bells. A parade. Perhaps a few fireworks. Instead, Madame Arana blew a great honk into her handkerchief and Helena’s bark of brittle laughter echoed along the rows of empty pews. “Hunted by armies only to be caught in a wee parson’s mousetrap.”
Elisabeth heaved a sigh. So much for celebration.
Brendan must have taken her sigh as one of sad regret. He whispered in her ear, his soft breath against her neck shooting butterflies through her. “It’s not the wedding you deserve, nor am I the man you wanted. For that I am sorry, Lissa.”
