BlackWind (29 page)

“Heavenly.”

Danny grinned. “Wouldn't call it that, but I think you'll not leave my table unsatisfied.”

The little washroom was as immaculate as the parlor with soft, with fleecy white towels draped over the shiny gold towel bars and the scent of gardenia potpourri in a lovely copper urn on the vanity. The wallpaper was a pretty ivy print border in mauve and the single window was draped with white eyelet curtains. In one corner stood a white claw-foot bathtub that looked as though it had never been used. Just for the heck of it, Bronwyn ran her hand along the rolled edge and was not surprised when no dust clung to her fingers.

“Either you are an exceptionable man, Mr. Hart, or you have a maid,” she mumbled. Looking into the oval mirror above the sink, she arched her brows. “Or you're married to a terrific housekeeper.”

Danny, ladling stew into a brown crockery bowl, looked up as she joined him. “Feel better?”

Bronwyn nodded as the storm chose that moment to wash over the cottage. She had to raise her voice. “Do you live here alone, Mr. Hart?”

“It's Danny, and, alas, that I do.” He brought the bowl to the table and placed it at the solitary setting.

“You aren't eating?”

“I've already eaten,” he said, holding her chair. “Please, sit down.”

Rain slashed at the windows and onto the roof. Lightning sent harsh white flashes through the windows.

Feeling awkward that she would be dining along, Bronwyn cleared her throat as he pushed her chair up to the table. “I'm sorry to have put you to this trouble. If I'd known you weren't going to—”

“I don't get much company way out here,” he said, taking a seat across from her. “I am thrilled to have you visit.”

“Don't you bring your women friends here to seduce?”

“I usually go to them,” he said, putting his hands on the table and threading his fingers together. “I sneak into their bedrooms in the dead of night, do my dastardly work, then vanish before first light.”

“Ah,” she said, unfolding her napkin. “I can see the wisdom in that.”

He grinned. “How so?”

“You go to them in the dead of night, when the moon is hidden behind thick clouds. They can't see your face to identify you to the authorities.” She looked at the table. “Then you leave before they can see your face when the sun comes up.”

“Just as all respectable incubi do,” he said with a nod.

A horrendous crack of lightning rent the heavens and the smell of ozone seemed to permeate the room. Bronwyn had been about to take up her spoon, but at his words, she froze, a chill going down her spine. She raised her head and stared at him.

He was devastatingly handsome, with thick black hair combed straight back from his high forehead. His tawny eyes were bright with a slight almond shape that gave them a mysterious cast. He had a ruddy complexion and firm physique that suggested he was accustomed to manual labor. Though his hands looked powerful, the nails were clean and well kept.

She looked away from his penetrating gaze. “Joking about such things is not amusing.”

“Who said I was joking?” he whispered.

The hair shifted on her arms. She heard the blood rushing through her ears.

“Bronwyn,” he said softly, “look at me.”

She shook her head.

“I won't hurt you.”

“No,” she said, ashamed of the squeak that came from her closing throat.

“You had to know I would come after you, Beloved.”

Light from the flickering candle on the table danced in his golden orbs. It threw his face into a study of shadows, darkness accentuating his cheeks and throat.

“W...what do you want?” she managed to ask.

“You.”

He reached across the table to take her hand. She jerked her hand away. He leaned over the table, arm outstretched, fingers bidding her to slip her hand into his. When she didn't move, he laid his palm flat on the tabletop, then slid it back toward him.

“I mean you no harm, Beloved.”

“Don't call me that!” she hissed.

“It is what you are to me. I am blood-signed with—”

“I belong to Sean Cullen!”

His face turned hard. “And I told you that you would never see him again.”

“He is the father of my child and—”

“Who says he is?”

“Go to hell!” she grated, standing. The chair fell over behind her.

“Been there.” He chuckled.

She ran to the door. Outside, the storm grew in intensity. Lightning speared the earth and the wind howled in cadence. As she yanked on the handle, she felt a slight shock from the metal and released it.

“Come back and sit down.” He was still sitting at the table, looking at the food he had served her.

Again, she tried to open the door and felt the unpleasant shock travel from her hand up her arm. This time she yelped, for the shock had been stronger, more intense.

“Let me out of here!” she cried.

“Not until we've talked.”

She backed away from the door, looking around for another avenue of escape. Through an archway, she saw a bed and dresser. Save the door to the washroom, there were no other doors in the room. With a groan of frustration, she used her skirt to wrap around the handle. This time, with the insulation of material between her and the metal, there was no shock, but neither did the door open. It was locked, with no bolt or button to release.

“Open this door!” she shouted, pulling the handle.

“When we have talked, I will take you where you need to go,” he said gently. “Until then, you stay here.”

She spun around to face him, furious that he wasn't looking at her, that he expected her to do exactly as he ordered. She stormed over to him and pounded a fist on the table. “You don't own me!”

He looked up at her. “But that hardly matters, does it?”

“What do you want from me?”

“You.”

“Stop saying that!” she said, covering her ears.

“You called and I heard you.”

“I didn't call you.”

“But you did, Beloved. Your heart was breaking and I came to ease your pain.”

She slapped her palms on the table in front of him so hard, he blinked. “My heart was breaking for Sean. I was calling to him, not you!”

“Calling to a Reaper is of little use to any woman, save one wishing for her own death,” he said, gazing up at her with a calm she wanted to swat from his face.

Instead, she pounded the table again. “What the hell are you talking about? You're insane!”

“Do you know where your precious Sean is at this minute?”

The dishes in the cupboard rattled when a brutal boom of thunder shook the cottage. “Looking for me!”

“He is sitting in front of your parent's inn, waiting for a bomb he set to go off.” He locked stares with her. “A bomb that will take the lives of two of your kinsmen.”

She went after him, then, trying to drag her fingernails down his face, to rake and scar, to inflict as much pain as she could. But he stopped her arched hands with a speed and ease that astonished her. He stood, dragging her to him, bringing her to his body in a snap that knocked the breath from her.

“He is about to cause you untold sorrow, Bronwyn. He will inflict a pain you will find hard to overcome.”

She struggled against him, bucking in his grasp. His strength was overwhelming. His hands, though tight on her wrists, were not hurting her, but the frustration made her howl as though she were in agony.

“Listen to me, Beloved!” he shouted over her banshee-like trill. “What will be will be. Not even I can stop it, but I can help you! Let me help you, Bronwyn! Let me be your haven from the coming darkness.”

She arched her body, striving to break free. She tried to knee him in the groin, to kick him, but he easily swung her away, molding her to his hip as she fought.

“Bronwyn, accept me as yours and I will be at your side through the coming ordeal!”

“Let go of me!”

The sound from the storm grew intense. The rafters shrieked from the pressure, while the window glass bulged in the frame. The slate roof seemed to lift from its sheathing, while the plink of tiles hitting the ground as they were raked away sounded like rifle fire.

“Sean!” Bronwyn howled, her hair flying wildly about her head, her eyes wide.

“He is lost to you,” her captor decreed. “For all time, Sean Cullen is lost to you!”

She sagged in his arms, her crying so loud it rivaled the skirl of the wind. She slid to the floor, holding onto his leg, her face pressed against his calf. He sank down beside her, gathered her into his arms, and rocked her.

“Shush, now,” he said, cradling her. “I will take care of you.”

She clung to him, despair so rife in her heart, she could do nothing else.

Sean woke from a light doze when Alistair prodded him. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Looking at his watch, he saw it was ten minutes to eight. Nothing had changed outside the Flying Wench, although a dark red car was coming down the street toward them. He glanced at his partner.

“Rory Brell, himself,” Alistair said, nodding toward the car pulling in front of the McGregor sedan. “The gods are good to us today, lad. We'll get two for the price of one boom!”

Sean spared a look at the detonator Alistair held in his lap, then turned to watch the tall man climb out of the red car. He frowned as Brell opened the rear door, leaned inside, and seemed to take longer than necessary to retrieve whatever he was after.

“Going after that damned Russian-made piece he always carries like a football,” Alistair quipped. “Machine rifle, it is.”

Brell backed away from the car and came to his full height. In his left arm was a white bundle he indeed carried like a football.

“What'd I tell ye?” Alistair grunted. “And lookee who be coming out the front door right on time!”

Sean turned his attention from Brell to the familiar figure walking down the steps of the Flying Wench. Dermot McGregor, his arrogant face and haughty stance sending prickles of hate through Sean, lifted a hand to greet Brell.

“Got a surprise for you,” Brell called, shutting the back door of his car.

“Get ready, lad,” Alistair warned. “I'll flip the switch as soon as the two of them are by the car.”

Sean sat forward, reaching behind to touch the .38 he had tucked in the waistband of his faded jeans. Satisfied his weapon was at hand should he need it, he then withdrew a set of earplugs from the pocket of his flannel shirt.

Alistair plugged his own ears and gripped the switch of the detonator.

As Sean was about to screw the second earplug into his ear, he heard McGregor ask, “Is that the baby?”

Sean paused, the earplug still between his fingers.

“Aye, it is.”

A haze of red flowed over Sean's vision. He was sitting a hundred yards away, but hearing Brell's words as clearly as the man was in the car with him. He looked at Alistair. “Brell has his child with him!”

Alistair squinted. “What?” he asked, pulling one of the earplugs halfway out of his ear.

“That's a child Brell's carrying!”

Alistair looked across the street and shrugged. “So what?” He twisted the earplug back in place. “Don't make no difference whatsomever to me.”

“I'll not be responsible for killing a child!” Sean flung open the car door.

“Get your ass back here!” Alistair hissed, reaching for Sean as he scrambled out of the car.

Sean ran across the street. Brell and McGregor stood on the sidewalk beside the car under which Sean had attached the bomb. Both stared at the bundle cradled in Brell's left arm. The inn's front door opened and Bronwyn's mother appeared. She lifted her arm, pointing at Sean. The two men turned in unison. Brell thrust the bundle into McGregor's arms, while his right hand dove under his coat, bringing out a weapon.

“Get away from the car!” Sean shouted, waving his hands, motioning the trio back. “There's a bomb. Get a way from the car!”

Brell's first bullet hit Sean in the shoulder, slammed the left side of his body, but he kept coming, barely feeling the pain, more intent on saving the child. The second bullet went through his chest, exiting through his back. Sean stumbled against the impact, but managed to stay on his feet. He was almost to the car when Brell fired again.

The bullet punched a hole in the center of Sean's forehead.

From the inn's doorway, Deirdre McGregor saw Sean Cullen crash into the side of their car. Her hand flew to her mouth as the young man's eyes met hers before he slid down the side of the vehicle. Even as her shocked gaze slid to her husband, she knew what was about to happen.

When the explosion came, knocking her backward through the doorway, the long scream of denial from her constricted throat hung on the air like a siren's wail.

“Damn you, lad!” Alistair threw the detonator into the back seat, started his engine, and sped away from the carnage, from the bomb crater in front of the Flying Wench, and from the burning body of Sean Cullen, lying sixty feet away.

Deirdre looked up as Bronwyn entered the hospital room. When her mother opened her arms, Bronwyn flew to her, wailing her sorrow.

“Oh, Mama,” she sobbed, trembling.

“It was quick. I'm sure they felt nothing.”

Bronwyn moved back, searching her mother's eyes. “He said it was Sean, Mama. He said—”

“Don't say that bastard's name in my hearing!” Deirdre snapped, jerking her hand from Bronwyn's hold. “He killed your father and your son!”

Bronwyn staggered back from the fury in her mother's face. “My—my son?”

“Rory Brell was bringing the baby to us. We'd heard you'd managed to get out of Galrath. We knew you'd go to Belfast, so wanted to have the boy to use as leverage to get you to go back.” Tears formed in Deirdre's eyes. “How were we to know Cullen would come after us? That he'd kill his own child?”

Bronwyn stood in the center of the hospital room, her teeth chattering, her limbs trembling. She felt the blood drain from her face, and as she sank to her knees, the terrible scream tearing from her throat brought doctors and nurses running.

Deirdre watched as the medical personal hovered over her daughter. She sat on the gurney, unfazed as the doctors administered injections to Bronwyn to stop the hideous shrieks of grief. As her child was wheeled away, limp and unconscious, Deirdre could not rouse herself to follow. Instead, she lay down, curled into a fetal position, and stared at the wall.