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He sank onto the bed, ran his hand over the patterned quilt, tried to capture a hint of her scent. But there was nothing here. Her shade might linger, but Ysbel was gone. And not even Asher’s destruction would bring her back to him. He pulled the ring from his pocket, rolled it between his thumb and finger, watched the light flash over the gold. Fisting his hand over it, he dropped his head. His eyes burned as he shook with dry, wracking sobs. “I’m so sorry, Ysa. It’s my fault. All of it.”
The answering warmth that flowed over him and around him soothed the tightness in his chest. Across his shoulders. But it was the subtle aroma of hedge rose and lavender that eased the bruising in his heart. It wreathed him like a cloud, and he knew she was there. And she forgave him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ellery wandered the upper gallery, pausing now and then to glance up at a portrait of a long-dead Bligh. Rain drummed on the eaves overhead, streamed down the long windows along the north wall.
It was the eyes, she decided. In every instance, there was a quality about the eyes that marked them out as different, not quite human. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was. The shrewd, piercing stare, the almond, upturned slant, or the ethereal light of their gaze that burned from the canvases as if the subjects might step from their backgrounds and speak.
Feeling a chilly draft from an open doorway, she glanced over her shoulder. Conor strode toward her, purpose in his step, decision in the set of his jaw. He was perfection and then some. The powerful muscled body, the sculpted arrogance of his face, and the eyes that glowed burnished bronze. Like the eyes in the paintings. The eyes of the fey.
How could a man so vital just stop being? But she knew. She’d seen it too often in the hours and days after battle when men she’d spoken with, laughed with, ridden beside suddenly weren’t there. Erased.
She swallowed around the hard lump in her throat. Tried not to remember the horrible, spine-chilling dummy in the woods. The effigy of Conor. Asher’s warning to them all that he waited and watched. That safety was a thing of the past.
Thank God, Sinclair had been there. She’d been a gibbering idiot until he’d shaken her back to sanity. He’d demanded an explanation, but what could she say that didn’t make her sound as insane as she seemed? And so she fobbed him off with lame explanations until he’d given up and brought her home, handing her off to Lowenna with a grim face and a searching stare. Thank God it hadn’t been Morgan to meet them in the stable yard. That would have really fired up an already charged atmosphere.
Now as Conor approached, she took hold of herself. It wasn’t murder she saw in his flint-hard gaze. But something equally significant.
“I need to speak with you.” If he felt any lingering sense of guilt over his treachery, she couldn’t tell. He was as cocky as he’d ever been.
“And if I don’t want to speak with you?”
“Then you’ll listen.” He grabbed her by the arm, glaring down at her.
“Or what? You’ll fry me with a look? Cleave me in two?” Her rage and fear exploded through her with the power of a gun shot. She tore away from him. “Drag me to the quoit and slam a dagger through my heart?” She couldn’t stop the words now. They came fast and furious and without thought. “You had your chance to talk, Conor. You had days to tell me what was going on. And you chose to lie. Lie and…worse…you pretended you cared. That we…” She choked back a sob. Refused to give him the satisfaction. Crossing her arms, she centered all her loathing in one level stare. “I don’t care how much magic you can wield. Where it counts, you’re all man. You’ll say anything—do anything to get what you want.”
His jaw jumped. “I had an obligation. My mission was to stop Asher. It still is.”
“Then complete your mission, and leave me the hell alone.” She wrapped herself in cold dignity. It was all she had left.
“Not like this. You’re not running from this conversation—or from me.” The unbending will behind his words stopped her. “Do you know what I’ve been doing all day?” he asked.
“I’ve been with Father, his lawyer, and the local bishop.”
He paused, but she kept silent. Where was he going with this?
“Marriage, Ellery,” he continued. “I want to marry you.” He slid his wolf-head ring off his finger. Took up her left hand and slipped the gold ring over her knuckle. “It’s too big. But it’ll do for now.”
She should be trembling with joy. Giddy with a wild delight. And if it had happened days ago, she would have been. But not now. Not when the truth of Conor’s deception still battered her. She fingered the ring. Watched the flicker of light play over its snarling face. “Why?”
“What do you mean why?” He stiffened as if confused at such a reaction. “My family will make sure you’re protected. Taken care of.”
“And how do we get past the fact that I’m still damn mad at you? Not exactly the best way to begin a life together.”
“Let’s face facts, Ellery. There
won’t be a life together. Even if I manage to find a way to defeat Asher, I won’t be coming back.”
She clenched her teeth against the pain of those words, but that was all. Her throat ached with the effort of holding back. “You don’t know that.”
His voice and gaze were solemn. “Yes. I do. So what do you say? Can you ignore the fact you want to kill me long enough to become my wife?”
“It’s a generous offer.”
His mouth twisted in a grim smile. “Don’t show so much enthusiasm.”
A home. A family. She was pragmatic. And he was right.
