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Throwing himself up against the wall, he let the sheet slither to his waist. His gaze sliced over the room as if searching for something, landing on Elisabeth, confusion slowly replacing his wild-eyed trapped look. He settled back, wary but calmer. “Where am I?” His voice came cool and brittle as glass.
“In rooms above a tavern off Bridgefoot Street.”
Understanding dawned as his gaze cleared. “How long?”
“Three days.”
“Shit,” he muttered, kicking free of his blankets as he tried to rise. “A damned sitting duck.” His glance slanted toward her, the cautious light still blazing in his eyes as he swayed dizzily. “I’m surprised to see you here. Come to finally make good on your threat? Poison in my soup, I believe it was.”
She flinched, remembering that long-ago confrontation. It seemed like another Elisabeth Fitzgerald who’d sparred with him over his shocking return to Dun Eyre. She’d changed. Become a different person since then. Or perhaps she’d simply reverted to the woman she’d been before he vanished, taking her dreams with him.
“If murder’s your goal, you’ll have to take a number,” he grumbled. “The line of people who want my head on a pike is growing longer by the bloody hour.”
Could any man drive her more insane? Elisabeth returned his glare, the urge to throw her arms around him warring with an equally strong urge to beat him over the head. “That’s gratitude for you. If you must know, I’ve spent the last days making sure you didn’t turn up your toes. Fat lot of thanks I get.”
His eyes widened as he staggered against a wall, throwing out a hand to steady himself. Shook his head as if trying to clear it. “We didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.”
“I had a right to know, Brendan.”
He grimaced. “And now you do. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” she shot back. Men!
He dragged a hand through his shaggy hair as he padded over to the table and the pitcher set there. He lifted an eyebrow in question. She answered with a nod.
With a weary sigh, he upended the pitcher over his head, gasping as the water spilled out over him. He heaved a sigh, slapping the hair off his face. “Much better. I feel almost human,” he said with a wry twist of his lips
She swallowed around her caught breath, trying not to stare at his muscled chest or the way the water tracked over the sculpted elegance of his face, slid down over the ridges of his stomach into the waistband of his breeches. He certainly didn’t look like any convalescent she’d ever seen.
His eyes flicked toward her, a strange glimmer in their depths as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “You were here throughout?”
She blushed an uncomfortable scarlet, hating herself for doing so. What on earth did she have to blush about? They were married. They’d seen every embarrassing inch of each other. So why, then, did she feel as if a new and impenetrable wall had risen between them? “Since Rogan came to Duke Street with word of the attack.”
Sagging onto the pallet, he dropped his head in his hands. “Gods, that must have been pleasant.”
“I can think of more suitable adjectives.”
He lifted his eyes, his expression unyielding. “As can I. Let’s try ‘foolhardy’ for starters. ‘Cork-brained.’ ‘Utterly and completely out of your
pretty little head.’ If they’d found me here—” His jaw jumped, his mouth set in a grim line. “How could Helena let you stay, knowing the danger?”
Elisabeth folded her arms across her chest. “Helena doesn’t let me do anything, and I don’t have to ask her permission. I stayed with you because I wanted to and because you’re my husband.”
He gave a disgusted snort. “You know, I almost thought we could—” He shook his head. “Too late now for that.”
Too late for what? She wanted to shake him by the shoulders and force him to explain himself. But the space between them seemed strewn with obstacles. Until Brendan stepped out from the shadow of his past, there could be no future for them. Not for all her wishing.
He opened his eyes, casting a rueful look up at her. “Have you ever wished you could turn back time? Wake up one morning and know you’ve your whole life ahead of you, clear of any mistakes?”
Was she one of his mistakes? She didn’t ask. The answer would be too demoralizing. Instead she said, “You were barely more than a boy, Brendan. Your father never should have brought you into his schemes.”
“Don’t make excuses for me, Elisabeth. They were my schemes. The Nine never would have grown so powerful without my wholehearted involvement.”
“So what changed?”
“Freddie Atwood.”
She sucked in a quick, sharp breath. Of course, the nagging question tickling the back of her mind. “What has Freddie to do with any of this?” She asked the question, yet a spreading ill feeling told her she already knew the answer.
