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l had given way to an encouraging lucidity. But would it hold? Or was it as ephemeral and changing as the flickering light from the hearth? With no way to tell and no other place to turn, Aidan ventured to brave the subject he’d avoided so far this evening.
“Earlier tonight, you recognized the Kilronan diary.”
Daz stabbed the grate, sending up a new shower of sparks.
“Someone’s after it, Daz—a Domnuathi.”
The man’s hand tightened around the poker handle, his face twisting into a grimace of pain or fear or both.
“The Amhas-draoi are after it too. They want to use it as a lure to capture whoever is manipulating this creature.”
“Not over. Not over,” the man mumbled, one hand on the poker, the other diving into his pocket. “I knew it wouldn’t be over. Not until all of us were dead and gone. Not until he was dead and gone.” Daz pulled out a stone. Tumbled it in his hand. “Not over. Not over.”
“Who?” Aidan asked, barely breathing for fear of breaking the spell. “Who still lives who knows about the diary? Who has the power to raise a soldier of Domnu? What’s so special about this diary?”
“We ran. We hid. Escaping like rats from a sinking ship. They found us. They hunted us. One by one.”
“Who?” Aidan interrupted. “Who ran?”
“He survived by cunning. By stealth. They pitied me. Spared me. I wasn’t worth much. Never worth much.” Daz’s breathing came shallow, his chest heaving as if he was being chased by evil memories. His eyes fixed and glowing like coals upon the writhing fire. “And young Brendan?” he hissed. “Where is he? Did he survive? Or did he meet the end they planned for him?”
Aidan leaned forward, heart thundering. “What end? What did they plan?”
“The Nine agreed. The Nine are no more. The High King remains lost so long as the diary remains lost.”
With a clang, Daz tossed the poker on the hearth bricks. Tore his gaze from the fire with a shivering groan before stumbling toward the door. Dropping the stone where it rolled unheeded under a table.
As if she’d been eavesdropping, the housekeeper stepped into Daz’s path. Took him roughly by the shoulder in a comforting embrace. Whispered soothing words too quiet to hear before stinging Aidan with a look of reproach. “You’ve upset him. You and your badgering questions.”
“I need to know,” he persisted. “There’s someone out there hunting for this diary who—”
She spat her disgust. “Can’t you see what your questions do? How the memories hurt him? Leave it be. What’s done is done. The Nine are gone. Let’s leave it that way.” With her arms firmly around Daz’s hunched shoulders, she began guiding him out of the room.
“Are you so sure?” he shouted after her. “Or does one still live who seeks to begin the madness all over again?”
And the gods help him, he didn’t want to even think it—was it Brendan?
The man’s a blasted magpie.
Cat stared around her bedchamber, hands on hips and jaw set against the curses knotting her throat.
Crates and barrels. Trunks and bags. Piles of books and bundles of magazines and newspapers. Broken tables. Straight-backed chairs in need of recaning and armchairs with torn cushions. A suit of rusted armor complete with a deadly looking pike standing at attention in the corner.
The bed rose up from this sea of refuse like a small island of tidiness. Fresh sheets. Clean coverlet. Pillows plumped. And a basin and ewer on the only unbroken table in the room.
At least Maude had tried.
Shedding her cloak on the nearest pile, Cat threaded her way through the jumble. Crawled up into bed, enjoying the idea of not having to rise before dawn for another day in the saddle. By now, every bone felt shaken out of place and she’d discovered muscles she never knew she had. All of them sore.
She closed her eyes, but the disturbing image of William Danvers and Aidan in close conversation swam up to jolt her alert. What had that blasted tattle merchant said? Aidan had never again brought it up, his silence more unnerving than any confrontation. At least if he accused, she could defend. But how could one fight back against an attack that never came?
Her shredded nerves had frayed to the point where she almost wanted Aidan to ask. Jeremy had shown himself to be unworthy of her loyalty and speaking of her son might shore up frayed memories—allay the fear she harbored that one day she’d wake and recall nothing of his face or his smell or his cry. And he’d truly be gone.
But would Aidan look upon her child as gift or sin? Her loss of maidenhead as a sordid crime or the naiveté of a young woman in what she thought was love? And why did it matter to her what he thought? He was all but betrothed to Miss Osborne.
Her mind too full for sleep, she rose. Pushed through the mess to rifle among the cast-off treasures. An Indian silk scarf from one trunk. A cache of gaudy necklaces from a chest with two missing drawers. A gold-framed miniature depicting a young boy with dark hair and sad eyes.
The pile of books she left for last. Works by Swift and Richardson. A travelogue of India by John Henry Grose. Two books of sermons written by a pair of Erskines: Ralph and Ebenezer. Any relation?
