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“Scant more if you do,” she said firmly.
She left him, walked with long, purpose-filled strides away up the beach until Conor thought she might just keep going. The past few minutes, a guilt-ridden hallucination. But then she whipped around, headed back. Gone was the hesitant vulnerability. In its place was the Ellery of past battles. Determined. Focused. Scary as hell when she got that certain light in her eye.
“Is that the only reason you face him? Or is it something more? Something personal.” Her eyes flicked down to his pocket. Back to his face. She didn’t wait for his answer. “Is there really no other way?”
“I’ve searched the records—the teachings—for any scrap. I even questioned the fey themselves.”
Her doubt was slight, but he caught it in the widening of her eyes. The way she stood. Since meeting him, she’d seen things she would have scoffed away as fantasy only weeks earlier. But a part of her obviously still found it impossible. Fought her new reality. “They won’t help?” she said, finally.
“They reminded me I already had the one thing that could send Asher back.”
“Me.”
“Exactly.”
She let out her breath in a whoosh of air. “In sparing my life, you risk your own.”
“It’s the only way.”
She fisted her hands, brought them up as if she wanted to strike out, a savage helplessness glazing her features. “Why?” she shouted. But her words weren’t meant for him. She hurled them at the sky. The sea. The ones he knew were listening unseen. “Why does it have to be this way? Why can’t you fight your own battles? Leave us out of it.”
No answer. He didn’t expect one. But this time he ignored his better judgment and took her into his arms. Stroked her hair. Let her cry for the injustice.
And not once did she pull away. Not once was she afraid of him.
Chapter Thirty
Ellery had gone looking for Conor three times today. And been turned away again and again. He was riding the boundaries with Jamys. Conferring with Ruan and Morgan. With his mother and not to be disturbed.
Now another day was gone. That left two until Beltane. And she’d seen him for a total of half an hour over breakfast with the entire clan in attendance. Not exactly a place for sharing confidences—or kisses—and she wanted both. Dinner wouldn’t be any better. The whole family would be there. Laughing, chatting, pretending everything was all right.
It was going to be hell.
She climbed the stairs on her way to dress for dinner. Her chamber was bathed in a somber evening light, the drapes not yet drawn, the fire not yet lit. Her window stood open to a cool, mellow breeze. A small victory after hours of argument with maids who refused to believe an open window wouldn’t lead straight to lung rot. She’d told Conor once she appreciated walls, but parts of her still needed a rush of wind and open space. A wing chair was drawn up close to the casement, its back to her. A crawly feeling snaked up her spine, and she shivered, pulling her shawl close around her.
Someone was there.
She froze, ready to turn and run. Then the figure stirred, grunted, and let out a growly half-snore. Ellery’s shoulders relaxed, her stomach unknotted. She approached the chair, bending over a napping Conor, his elbow on the chair’s arm, his head resting on his hand.
She touched his shoulder. Whispered his name. His reaction was instant and dramatic. “Andraste magla. Gwydion kompella. Bligh fetha!” His eyes flew open, sleep still clouding their depths. Grabbing her wrist, he pulled her roughly against him. One arm shot up and around her neck, choking her. Her shawl slid to the floor.
She had a moment’s flash of terror before he came fully awake.
He gasped, cursed, his movements now just as violent. He released her, flinging himself out of the chair. Putting the space of the room between them. His chest heaved. His hands shook. Horror filled his face.
“Gods forgive me.” He dragged in a deep, ragged breath. Let it out. “I haven’t slept in days. You startled me.” He rubbed his hands down the sides of his breeches. “Damn it. I swear, Ellery. On my life, I didn’t know it was you.”
Her initial shock had ended before it blossomed into full-bore panic. But Conor’s apologies continued. “If I…I didn’t hurt you. Tell me I didn’t hurt you.”
“You didn’t hurt me. Really.” She stepped toward him, but he stiffened. Backed up.
This was ridiculous. They could circle each other all night. She crossed the room, grabbing him before he could dodge away again. “For pity’s sake, Conor. I’m fine.”
He shuddered, his shoulders slumped, his head lowered in defeat. “Do you see now why I need to face him?”
She frowned. Where was this going?
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