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Daz’s face crumpled, his fingers trembling but his eyes feverishly bright. “Brendan’s alive? Could it be true?”
Aidan scowled before fisting his hand around the stem of the wineglass as if throttling it. “Very alive and very dangerous.”
He approached as close as he dared, the presence of the estate’s wards a tangible ribbon of mage energy stretching north and south in front of him. He’d left Neirin tethered in the woods, pawing at the soft ground, the gleam of the horse’s bit flashing in the light of a low moon.
Now, crouched at the edge of the boundary, his senses picked through the gloom with little problem. Caught the panicked dart of a hare. The shush of an owl’s wings, talons extended like knives. A death scream as the hare was ripped from neck to belly. The hot, sweet scent of blood. He breathed deeply, letting the animal’s killing ooze through him like the high of a drug. Strengthen him. Bolster his flagging resolve.
Beyond a line of trees, lights glimmered. Cattle lowed. A dog barked.
Kilronan’s diary was in that house. He felt it tugging him forward like a lodestone upon a string. As if the black spells written within it whispered to him, abomination to abomination. He almost heard their dark voices on the wind.
He tested the strength of the wards. A crackling flame raced up his arms, but instead of heat, a numbing buzz jolted him backward like the kick of a horse. Rang in his bones long after.
Leaning back on his haunches, he considered his options. Raised his gaze to the sky, black as velvet and dusted with a pale wash of cold light.
A scene burst into his head. A similar night to this one. Chilly. The wind sighing like a lover. The moist tang of spring growth filling his nostrils.
He’d sat in patient silence just as now, the campfires of the English just beyond a ridge. Nudged Ivor, motioning to the picket line where a beautiful white stallion glowed scarlet in the light from the flames. “He’s mine,” he’d whispered, his eyes never straying from the elegant-boned destrier.
Ivor smiled, whispered back, “That one’s fit for no less than a prince. Not a simple soldier like you—”
He strained to catch the name on the man’s tongue. His name. But just like that the memory vanished as if he’d doused the light. As if witnessing the sword stroke that ended that long-ago existence, he shivered, his fingers slick and a cold sweat damping his shoulders.
And instead of charging through the faulty wards, he chose to wait. Watch the slow spinning of the heavens, searching the sky for that past life. Wishing he could fly up into the darkness and be back there among his friends. Feeling that if only he remembered that lost name, he could leave Lazarus and his slavery to Máelodor far behind.
Aidan trailed a lazy hand down Cat’s side. Cupped the perfect weight of her breast, thumbing the nipple before taking it into his mouth. Laving the sweetness of her skin. Drowning in the musky sex scent of her body. Reveling in the way her panting, gasping moans aroused him all over again.
With an enigm
atic smile, she curled her hand around his member. Guided him into her with a clever expression hinting at a wicked waywardness he’d never find in a proper marriage bed. But who said his marriage had to be proper? He’d never been a proper anything. Son. Other. Earl.
Why start now?
For Belfoyle, his conscience complained. For an estate long owed a master who cared enough to restore it to prosperity. For the scattered remains of a family who looked to him to reestablish honor to the name of Douglas and the title of Kilronan.
Honor. Duty. Loyalty. He thrust again and again, her velvety, wet heat sweeping him close to explosion. She ground her hips in response, letting him ride this wave of anger to its climactic end. As if she understood. As if she fought her own private battles within their shared bed.
In self-denial, he pulled free. Rock hard and coiled tight. One torturous undulation away from eruption.
She groaned her frustration. Arched into him, purring her demand. Instead, he let her writhe. Lowered his head to nibble and nip his way down her stomach, over the inside of her thighs. Knelt between her legs to lap at the slick center of her.
She bucked, threading her fingers through his hair. Urging him on with every shuddering tremor.
But he refused to give her what she wanted. To surrender, even though his cock throbbed with impatience. Instead he held back just enough to prolong the pleasure. To reel out the tension—hers and his—to orgiastic lengths. He vibrated with a body-wide need. Blood roaring in his ears, heart pounding in his chest.
A throaty, ragged gasp signaled her tip over the edge. And only then did he move over her. Spread her legs and bury himself inside her.
She laughed, and with one of those wanton siren moves, had him on his back. Straddling him. Ebony hair like a river of silk over his chest.
One hand splayed against his chest, she rocked forward. Bent to take his nipple in her mouth. Tongued until he moaned, spasms rippling through him. The rhythm of their joining intensified until he crumbled under the blast of white heat, his climax exploding through him like lightning. She followed him in the toppling ecstasy, her inner muscles closing around him, head thrown back, eyes closed, skin like pearl in the light from a waning moon as she rode him to her own release.
Spent, they snuggled in the bed, their limbs sweat slick but rapidly cooling, their breathing raspy from the race. He pushed a damp tendril of hair from her face. Caught the sliver of the ancient scar on her cheek. Dropped a kiss upon it. “How did it happen?”
She reached up to cover his hand where he touched her cheek, her eyes sleepy, her mind open to sharing confidence. “My stepfather’s riding crop.”
Aidan stiffened. “What kind of man raises a hand to a defenseless girl?”
A corner of her mouth twitched in a half smile. “You did once if you’ll remember.”
