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“He was Other. Did you know? His whole family possessed Fey blood, but in Freddie it flowered to a strength that brought him to our attention.”
She hadn’t known, but then, why would she have? Freddie Atwood had simply been one of the neighborhood boys: a bruising rider, a good-natured partner at dances, a laughing, jolly fellow with a twinkle in his blue eyes. Never a hint there was more to him than that.
“I recruited him into the network. And for a time, he and I worked well together, but he soured on the group. Decided to get out.” Brendan paused, his body rigid, his breathing coming faster, his gaze focused on his linked hands.
Elisabeth felt her own tension increase, a throbbing at her temples.
“There was too much at stake by then. We couldn’t allow deserters. They gave me the task of persuading him to remain.”
Her mouth had gone bone-dry. She wished Brendan hadn’t used all the water. She could really use a drink right now. “The fire was blamed on the peasants as retaliation for an increase in rents. You were there, you never said—”
He eyed her as if she were daft. “That the deaths of Freddie and his family were my fault? Of course not. But after that, it was never the same between my father and me. I saw the truth of what we were doing. How it couldn’t possibly succeed without the deaths of thousands like Freddie—innocents caught up in our madness.” He gave a grim quirk of his mouth. “Here’s where you tell me I’m a heartless murdering bastard. That I deserve the death Máelodor wants to mete out, and that you hate me and wish you’d never married me.”
She flinched. “I don’t wish that.”
His laugh was rough and cruel and like a nail through her heart. “Though you don’t deny the rest.”
Brendan’s stomach remained fragile, his nerves raw and jumping, but the worst had passed. The hell of gape-mouthed, eyeless dead had faded. Their grasping hands receded into the twisted strangulation of soaked sheets. The hiss and snarl of their curses no more than rain against the window.
In the early days of his withdrawal from the opium, he’d spent weeks pacing the floor as images crashed through a brain afire with insatiable need. Pausing only to take a few drops of water or a foul piece of bread before heaving it up, his stomach unable to handle nourishment.
That had been years ago. His body no longer craved the poison. His mind had been freed from the constant hunger. Or so he thought until he woke from sleep with violent cramps, sweat bathing him, the bittersweet aftertaste of opium upon his tongue.
Had the ministering been purposeful?
None knew of his affliction. None but Jack and those who’d dragged him free of the drug the first time in a grimy set of rooms over a Turkish souk.
A mistake then. But it only underscored how little it would take to bring him to his knees. How easily he could be pulled from his current path. How close to the surface the demons drifted.
Yet something had changed. It had happened so gradually he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, but the certainty of the difference was tangible. He’d not spoken Freddie’s name aloud in years. Had done all he could to push the events of that day as far down within him as possible. Yet never was he able to eradicate completely the shame and the guilt of his crimes.
Until today. And Elisabeth.
Always a surprise. Always unpredictable. Never doing what he expected. Or what any rational female might do when confronted with her husband’s infamy.
Brendan had awakened to that light, citrusy floral perfume of hers, her scent tearing through the fog of his fever. Not truly believing until he’d opened his eyes to see her watching him, her gaze a troubled mix of worry, fear, and affection.
For an instant, he’d known pure happiness. A stab of hope and pride and desire and love so fierce his chest ached with it. He’d almost told her. Almost taken her hand in his and dragged her down beside him where he might show her; the need to wrap himself in these feelings had been almost undeniable. But cooler heads prevailed. Practicality had trumped sentimental dreams.
There was no future for him there. He knew that now. He had given her the dubious protection of his name and the benefits of his ragged honor. To offer anything more would only make the end that much harder. Best to sever this tie now before he changed his mind. Before he drowned in those deep brown eyes or tasted the ripe sweetness of those lips.
So Freddie became the weapon.
A lethal blade he’d mercilessly turned upon himself.
Only somehow it hadn’t been the killing stroke he anticipated. Instead, it had felt as if something had broken loose inside him. He closed his eyes and saw—nothing. No jagged pieces of anguished memory etched upon his brain. As if slicing open the old wound had finally cleansed it of its power.
“Like a cat with nine lives.” Helena Roseingrave stood within the doorway. No knock. No hesitation. She gave him her usual glacial stare, her gaze lingering upon his tattoo, a flicker of some lost emotion in her eyes. “I’ve seen that before.”
He pulled his shirt over his head. “The mark of a lost cause,” he growled.
She entered the room, closing the door behind her. “Your bride sent word you wanted to speak with me.”
The contempt in her tone sent an impossible fury lancing through him. “You can say what you want about me, but I don’t ever want to hear you say one goddamn word about Elisabeth. Do you hear me?”
The flicker became a flame. “Playing at the besotted bridegroom? How noble of you.” She stiffened. “What do you want, Douglas? I’m busy mopping up your mistakes, so excuse me if I don’t swoon like the rest of the female race at your feet. You’ll be relieved to know the fellow you knifed is recovering nicely.”
“Should I send him flowers and an apology?” Helena Roseingrave might be a coldhearted bitch, but she was exactly what he needed to drive Elisabeth from his head. Hard to mope while trading barbs with a woman who’d be more than happy to see him drawn and quartered. “That was the second time one of the Amhas-draoi tried murdering me.”
