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He threw the library door open, pulling up short at the sight of his mother seated at a desk, parchments spread out before her.
She pulled a pair of spectacles from her pocket. A recent need he didn’t remember. Settled them on her nose. “Conor? Are you quite all right? You look flushed—out of sorts. You’re not still sick, are you?”
“No.” He thought about his grandmother’s advice. Dismissed it. To let anyone else know Ellery’s true purpose was to court disaster. Any hint of it reaching her ears would send her flying from here. Straight into Asher’s waiting arms. He was sure of it. “I…” so how to explain his presence here? “I came to see if you wanted to go for a walk. We could take the beach path. Head toward the shore.”
She pursed her lips. “I haven’t been that way since Ysbel’s death. That was always her favorite ramble.”
Shit, he’d forgotten. “Well, another way. Toward the dovecote and the orchards.”
“It’s kind of you to ask, but I’m in the middle of something. Tracing a passage in the Llanfarnan writings back to its source. I’m hoping I can find something in these entries by Ogham.”
“Sounds fascinating.”
She gave him an indulgent laugh. “Liar. You never were one for the past. But it’s here. All around us.” Her eyes glowed with enthusiasm. “And so much of it being lost amid the confusion of the Mortal world. Forgotten. Or discounted as legend. Myth.”
How many times had he heard this speech growing up? His mother’s passion for her studies at the expense of anything else was a family joke. And yet, her knowledge of the past was as much a power as any he possessed. “You won’t lose much by taking an afternoon off. A legend here. A prophecy there.”
She glanced at the open door behind him. “Where’s that young woman of yours? Wouldn’t you rather walk with her?”
“Ellery’s with Gram.” He offered his arm. “Mother?” Her gaze dropped to her book, then up to the clock. “Thank you, Conor. But no. I have so much to do before I lose my light. And the weather’s a bit unpredictable. I’d hate to get caught in a downpour.”
“The weather’s perfect.”
She took off her spectacles, wiped them with her handkerchief. “Is it? Oh, well, you go on. Take Miss Reskeen. She seems very pleasant. Rough around the edges, but that should suit this family.” She threw him a fleeting smile. “It takes some spunk to put up with all of you.”
Why was he surprised by her refusal? It made sense. “Perhaps another time,” he said.
He sketched her a bow, trying to exit with as much grace as he could muster. He couldn’t stay. She’d question it. Or worse, she’d not say anything, Her silence, confirmation of her disappointment in him.
Asher stalked his chambers, his slender hands clasped behind him. He’d been so close. Bligh had been on his knees before him and the girl.. Those sweet curves, that lovely unmarked face. Yes, the girl would have pleasured him for many days before she died. And then it had all come crashing down around him.
The dagger had been unexpected, but not in itself alarming. What gave him pause was that the taint of cold iron had penetrated his spells of protection. Disrupted his magic.
And what made him blind with fury was that it had allowed Bligh the time to escape—to cower within the secure walls of his family’s estate. Go to ground like the Other vermin, he was.
Once his brothers were free and the Triad held dominion, the race of Other would be the first to suffer. The abomination of fey and Mortal could not be allowed to continue. He would wipe them clean from the earth.
Only Conor Bligh and his woman stood between him and this new age.
But all was not lost. If his spies were right—and he rarely let them live long if they weren’t—Daggerfell was compromised.
Safe, no more.
Chapter Nineteen
Conor’s eyes snapped open, his mind instantly aware of the breeze through the open window, the cool sheets against his skin, the moonlight throwing shadows across the floor. Everything familiar. Everything that was home.
But his chest pounded, his muscles tensed. Warnings went off in his head. Something was wrong. The land was silent. No scream from the hunting owl or call of the nightjar. No sighing of the trees as the earth cooled.
Instead, the mournful sound of crying met his ears and the rush of running feet beneath his window. He threw himself out of bed. Snatched up his breeches. Instinctively slung his sword across his back.
He’d wondered how long it would take Asher to test Daggerfell’s wards once again.
He had his answer.
He reached out, using his powers to search for echoes of the demon’s magic, but there was nothing. He’d not come himself, then. He’d sent an assassin to try his luck.
The Keun Marow back for another try? No.
