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He refused to let his mind wander to Elisabeth’s fate upstairs. Blind fury would only kill him quicker. He needed an icy clarity. And he had the icy part of things well in hand.
The knife moved again, this time slitting open one cheek.
Wonderful. He had to be caught by a man who saw himself as some kind of macabre body artist.
A door slammed open upstairs, a woman’s cry.
To hell with the plan. To hell with Roseingrave and the stone. Elisabeth wasn’t a part of this. He’d vowed to keep her safe. If it meant giving up a chance to save his sorry ass, so be it.
“Brendan?” A voice floated up from downstairs. “I know you said to wait outside, but”—Daz’s head poked above the banister, eyes growing round behind his spectacles—“oh, I say! That’s not playing fair.”
The distraction he needed. The moment he’d prayed for.
The man’s head snapped around, the power of the curse receding.
Brendan forced his body to obey, thrusting his arm up, clamping fingers around the man’s knife hand. A sharp twist, and the bones snapped.
The man screamed, the knife sliding free.
A shadow fell over Brendan, but his vision had narrowed to a scarlet pinprick. He saw only his opponent, knew only the surge of the struggle.
Instinct overruled all else.
He rolled out from under the man’s weight with a snarl of animal rage. Took up his knife, intent only on the space between the villain’s ribs.
“Douglas!” A man’s shout. “We’ve got the girl! Don’t do anything stupid or she’s dead.”
Oh gods. Elisabeth. They had her. Did they know what a weapon they held? He could do nothing. He was trapped.
Brendan fell back sick and shaking, his vision no longer scarlet but black with killings, old and new. Beyond the rush of wind in his ears, he heard only Daz’s surprised voice.
“I have to say, I didn’t see this coming at all.”
twenty-three
Elisabeth woke with a raging headache, one whole side of her face sore, her jaw throbbing. It didn’t help that the room rose and fell, sending her stomach into her throat.
Brendan. That dratted sleeping spell again.
She tried to sit up, nearly braining herself on a beam inches from her face.
No squalid cabin. No dog licking her nose. No sarcastic comment meeting her awakening. Not Brendan at all.
Worse. Much worse.
Memories flooded back, making the pounding of her temples triple in power until she had to put her head between her knees to keep down her dinner. She sat this way for a few minutes, wallowing in misery and muttering a few choice oaths before lifting her eyes to try and decide where she was and what in blazes she might do about it.
She sat beside a stack of lashed barrels. Darkness enveloped the space, but for weak spears of pale light from a grate above. Water slapped beneath her ear, booted feet tramped back and forth over her head. There was the squeak of rope and the snap of sail.
Máelodor’s men won’t accept you don’t have the stone. They don’t accept failure.
Fear splashed up her legs into her stomach, setting her bowels quivering. Pride and practicality coming a distant second to the primal animal terror sending her reeling to her feet.
Climbing the ladder, she pounded against the grate until her fists stung. Until the breath was driven from her lungs and she couldn’t swallow for the ache in her throat.
And no better off than before.
Giving up, she huffed the hair off her face. Wiped her scraped and bleeding palms upon her skirt. What would escape achieve anyway? Unless she planned on swimming for safety, she was caught well and good.
