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“Damn it, this wasn’t supposed to happen, Elisabeth. I came back to Ireland for one simple reason. To reclaim the Sh’vad Tual before Máelodor got his hands on it. You didn’t figure into it other than as a faded memory.”
Her face stiffened, eyes darkening. “And now?”
“I let my guard down and you walked in like some ocean wind, reminding me of a past I’d done my best to obliterate. You’re home, Lissa. You’re wide, cloud-filled skies and green fields and cool mists and the sound of pounding surf.”
She brightened. “Then, that’s a good thing.”
“No, it’s the worst possible thing.”
“All right, now you’re just confusing me.”
“When I’m with you I’m forced to see how much I’ve lost and what I can never have. Not if I want to finally end the threa
t I initiated.”
“It won’t get to that point. Helena will be there. She and Rogan—”
“I can’t count on them. Máelodor’s not survived so long without knowing the odds and working them in his favor.”
“You forget. You survived too.”
“An answer for everything.”
“You weren’t going to tell me any of this, were you? What were you going to do, Brendan? Leave today and never look back?”
That’s exactly what he’d planned on doing. “It seemed best.”
“For who? You? Why not? You’ve been running for so long, why not keep going? Leave me behind to pick up your pieces. You did it once before. I imagine it gets easier every time.” Her words grew sharper. “But mark this: From what you’re fleeing, no amount of distance can save you. So go ahead, try and forget. I dare you.”
“Bloody hell. This is just what I didn’t want. An argument with a hysterical female.”
“I am not hysterical.”
“How about delusional?”
The fist came out of nowhere.
“Damn it, woman,” he grumbled, clutching his upper arm. “Can you refrain from beating me senseless until after we’ve stopped arguing?”
She put a hand on her hip. “I don’t know. Can you refrain from being a horse’s ass?”
He smiled in spite of himself. Typical Elisabeth. No feminine tears or blubbering all over his waistcoat. She went straight for the jugular. A stupid sense of pride grabbed him. This one-of-a-kind, intoxicating, infuriating, radiant, bullheaded woman belonged to him.
He took her gently by the shoulders. Her gaze still shot fire, but the fight seemed to have ebbed from her body. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I’m finally going to face the devils I’ve loosed. I’m not running anymore. And I won’t forget. I couldn’t if I wanted to.”
Again she didn’t react as he expected. She didn’t fill the deafening silence with false hope or denials. She didn’t curse fate. Didn’t throw herself into his arms with pleas for him to stay that would embarrass them both.
Instead, she regarded him steadily, tiny creases between her brows, her mouth pursed in the slightest of frowns. Long seconds ticked away, the weight of her stare an increasing burden.
What the hell. He’d risk it. He reached for her hand, nerves jumping. Tension banding his shoulders. Terrified of how easy it was to tell her things he’d never revealed to anyone else. Of how much he’d come to rely on her for that.
Of losing her so soon.
And just like that, her fingers slid against his, her palm cool and soft upon his own. She took a step closer, lifting her face to his. Her kiss as gentle as her words had been harsh. Her scent filling his head.
He returned her kiss, probing delicately until she opened to him, the flick of his tongue deep within her heat igniting a reckless hunger. A need to mark her as his own. To brand her with his touch. To set his stamp upon her soul.
Máelodor’s men closed in. He sensed their coming as a weight deep in his bones, a sizzle along his nerves, a questing whisper in his head.
