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nineteen
“Madame Arana? Are you up here?” Elisabeth called. “I’ve calmed the butcher down enough so that he’s not quite foaming at the mouth, but you’ll need to pay him by next week or he says he’ll come back with his brother, which I believe is meant as a threat. It certainly sounded ominous, and it’s probably not wise to anger men who wield sharp knives for a living.”
Elisabeth topped the attic stairs. Once more struck by the clarity of the northern light, the rich jeweled vibrancy of the rugs upon the floor, the tiny shelves, the neat rows of bottles and jars, the clutter and crush of a woman’s life kept hidden away like a wonderful secret.
Her gaze rested on the mirror, but no clouds moved within its surface today. No lightning-flecked images burned their way up through the roiling darkness. Instead, it reflected not on Helena’s grandmother but Brendan, his golden gaze locked upon a stone she’d last seen hanging about her own neck.
The Sh’vad Tual.
In Brendan’s hand, it took on a new and almost frightening aspect. The blunt, rough-carved broken edges, the light captured deep within its heart, the way it seemed to flicker and burn with a thousand separate colors. His stare deepened as his body went rigid, shoulders braced, face iron-jawed, unmoving by even the twitch of a muscle.
The stone pulsed, the colors writhing as if a storm raged within it.
Brendan squeezed his eyes shut, a shudder running through him.
“Esh-bartsk Breán Duabn’thach. Mest Goslowea ortsk.”
The bloodcurdling rasp and slither of his words caught her breath in her throat.
“Ana N’thashyl bodsk nevresh boa dhil warot.”
A headache burst against her temples as she dug her nails into her palms and a tiny moan escaped her.
Brendan whirled around, the stone going dark and empty as his eyes.
“If I can’t stop Arthur’s resurrection, Lissa”—the pain in his voice fluttered against her heart—“he’ll die.”
She crossed to his side. Sweat gathered at his open collar, his pulse rapid at the base of his throat. “Who? Who’ll die? Arthur?”
She pried the Sh’vad Tual from Brendan’s fingers. As with the mirror, a numbing icy tingle raced up her arm. Shimmered for a moment at the base of her brain.
Brendan scrubbed his hands over his face, his eyes no longer foggy with confusion. “Aidan. I see his death in my head. He almost died once because of me. He still carries shards of the Unseelie within him. A temptation and a darkness that will haunt him forever.”
Like the man in the scrying glass. Bloodied and dying upon the turf. The creature possessing him in a gruesome agonizing assault. She closed her hand around the stone, the pain dragging her free of the memory. Had Aidan suffered this horror?
No. She’d seen the Earl of Kilronan a month ago. He’d been preoccupied. Distant. But quite recovered from last year’s horrible injuries from his fall at the cliffs. “You’re mistaken. Aidan is safe and well. There’s naught wrong with him. When this is behind us, you’ll see for yourself.”
“I told you already, I can’t go home to Belfoyle.”
“That’s ridiculous. Of course you can. You must. You have a life waiting for you there. Your family needs to know you’re alive.”
“You don’t understand, Lissa. I’m the one who destroyed my family.”
Brendan watched from the attic window as the coldhearted Helena Roseingrave hugged Killer to her chest, the terrier nuzzling her wet cheeks, though his thoughts remained focused on the still, pensive figure seated behind him.
“You sent the Amhas-draoi to Belfoyle. That’s what you meant when I asked you about your father,” Elisabeth said. “Brendan, you can’t hold yourself responsible. You tried to do what was right.”
Brendan’s gaze lifted to the tangle of rooftops, smoking chimneys, low clouds falling into dusk. “And only managed to wreak more devastation. You’re a prime case in point.”
He turned from the window. The setting sun sent bars of light over the floor. Shot sparks into the flame of her red hair. His gaze fell to her left hand, the simple gold band resting on her fourth finger.
Despite Elisabeth’s assertions, he’d not seduced his way through country after country, leaving behind a string of discarded beauties. He’d sought relief when he needed it and offered it on occasion. Unsullied by any emotion deeper than lust and a hunger for mutual comfort. At first appalled by the emotionless coupling and the solace he found in strangers’ arms, then inured to it. But never had he let his heart be touched. There was a risk in letting someone in. It opened one to weakness. To danger. And, worst of all, to loss.
He’d lost too much already.
So, why, then, did the sight of his ring upon Elisabeth’s finger shoot a zing of excitement rather than panic through him? Why did he want to cross the room, grab her in his arms, and kiss that damned sweet mouth of hers until she begged for it?
When had he been fool enough to let her touch his heart?
