Heir of Danger (9 page)

Her cheeks burned. “It doesn’t matter,” she mumbled. “It was ages ago.” In a desperate bid to change the subject, she grabbed up her book. Almost tossing it in her aunt’s lap. “Have you read this one yet? Not nearly as thrilling as her last, but you might like it. That’s the last volume, but the first two are in my rooms. I’ll leave them for you.”

Aunt Fitz regarded the novel as one might observe an ugly baby. A passive smile as she quietly handed it back. “That’s fine, dear. I look forward to it.” And without missing a beat, “If Brendan Douglas actually returns to Belfoyle, it’s as well you’re leaving. It would be awkward, as the families have always been so close.”

She must be lobster red by now. “It’s not Aidan’s fault his brother is the worst sort of rogue. Besides, as Aunt Charity pointed out, it’s a good thing I didn’t marry him. Better to have been a jilted lover than an abandoned bride.”

“A shame Kilronan traveled all the way to Dublin”—Aunt Fitz regarded her steadily—“when Brendan was here the whole time.”

Elisabeth’s stomach lurched. Her aunt’s keen gaze seeming to pick the very thoughts from Elisabeth’s head. At times like these, she wondered how much
Other
blood Aunt Fitz truly carried. “How did you find out? He tried so hard—”

“So he did. But at breakfast the other day, I recognized his watch. And he called you Lissa. Small slip-ups, but revealing.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s left again.” Elisabeth added, “and good riddance.”

“Has he? Then I suppose my worry was for naught. You worshipped him so when you were younger. In your eyes, he could do no wrong. I thought perhaps his return might spur you to . . . well, it doesn’t matter now.”

“Aunt Fitz! Really! I hope my judgment has improved.”

“As do I, Elisabeth,” she answered evenly. “Did he say why he came to Dun Eyre?”

Elisabeth flashed back to that first interview when he’d goaded her mercilessly, the twinkle in his eye, the tease of his smile. “He claimed, like young Lochinvar, he was here to steal me away for himself.”

Her aunt’s brows lifted. “Yet, he’s gone and you remain.”

“Does that surprise you? Brendan Douglas wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him.”

Aunt Fitz closed her eyes, cheeks gaunt, fine lines marring her brow. Her hands hooked around the arms of the chair, her breathing slow and even. Elisabeth could almost believe she’d nodded off mid-conversation. But then a frown touched her aunt’s pale lips. “Or perhaps it was a truth so subtle, the tooth marks have yet to show.”

As with so much else, the coffee room at The Goat’s Whiskers in Ennis remained unchanged in the years Brendan had been gone. Even the landlord, old Ned Crowdy, looked as moth-eaten and bristly as ever. Brendan could almost make himself believe he was twenty-one again. Cocksure, obsessed,
convinced of the justness of his cause. And equally baffled by those who could not see the rightness of what the Nine attempted for the good of the entire race of
Other
.

Freddie Atwood had been one of those unconvinced by his arguments.

Freddie’s family paid the price.

Brendan stood by and did nothing.

At least, not then. Though his later attempts at atonement meant little to Freddie. Or any of his victims. After all, the dead can give no absolution.

With grim disparagement, Brendan conceded his inaction had cost Freddie and his family their lives, while his action afterward had resulted in the death of his own father. A sure case of damned if you don’t and damned if you do. And if anyone could count on being damned, it was he.

His gaze rested on the row of decanters upon the sideboard, but he shoved the desire away almost as soon as it rose within him. Alcohol wouldn’t help. It only numbed the guilt. Never erased it. And he’d emptied enough bottles to know.

The door burst open on a bluster of lung-clearing wind and rain, sending men scurrying to secure their cards and their newspapers with much cursing and many shouts to close the bloody door already. The newcomer shook out his dripping greatcoat, removing his hat to run hands through his damp hair. Scanned the room from beneath half-lidded eyes.

Brendan motioned him over at the same time he ordered himself a second pot of coffee.

Even now, nine months after a near-fatal attack, Jack O’Gara walked stiffly as if he’d been sprinting overlong. But he was walking, which was amazing. Hell, he was breathing, which was a miracle.

Leave it to Jack to be skewered like a pig on a spit and come away with nothing worse than the hollowed features of a languishing tragedian stage player.

The
Fey
-born O’Gara luck at work.

He slid into the seat, waving the maidservant over. “Brandy.”

“That bodes ominous, coz,” Brendan remarked after the woman went scurrying in search of Jack’s order.

“It is.” The brandy was brought. He downed it, eyes closed on a weary sigh of contentment, the deep lines carved either side of his mouth slowly easing. But when he looked again upon Brendan, fear sharpened his gaze. “You have to return to Dun Eyre.”

“You couldn’t pay me enough to go back there.”

“And Elisabeth Fitzgerald?”

He pulled free his watch, checking the time with a smile. “Is even now dreaming of her trip down the aisle. By this time tomorrow, she’ll be Mrs. Gordon Shaw.”

“If she lives that long,” was Jack’s grumbling response.

Brendan frowned his confusion.

“Máelodor knows,” Jack leaned forward, his words low and urgent. “Somehow he’s figured out you gave the stone to Elisabeth all those years ago. His men are on their way to Dun Eyre as we speak.”

“Where did you hear this?”

“From your contact in Limerick. After you and I separated, I headed there to see what I could learn about the
Amhas-draoi
’s intentions. No news on that front, but the story is that Máelodor has unraveled the stone’s hiding place.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Not long, I’d wager. If Máelodor knows where the
stone is, you can bet he’s making all haste to get hold of it. You have to go back, Brendan. If Máelodor’s men seize Elisabeth . . .”

He didn’t need Jack to finish his sentence. He well knew Elisabeth’s fate should Máelodor’s men get hold of her. His sister, Sabrina, had barely escaped a similar grisly end after becoming entangled in Brendan’s troubles.

Was he destined to bring disaster down upon anyone stupid enough to trust him? Was he a walking lightning rod? Get too close and suffer the consequences?

In an effort to safeguard their father’s diary, his brother Aidan had almost died in a one-on-one battle with a conjured killer. Jack—another victim of Máelodor’s obsession—saved only through his not-quite-of-this-world good fortune. The merest chance placing Brendan on that particular road that night. The craziest luck turning that blade from any vital organ. Could Jack be so insanely fortunate a second time?

Could any of them? Or would Brendan carry the burden of their deaths on top of his father’s? On top of Freddie’s? On top of the mountain of sins already weighting him down?

His eyes flicked once more to Jack’s drink. It had been years since he’d felt such unbearable need.

Pushing away from the table, he shrugged into his coat. Pulled on his gloves. Gods, he’d forgotten how damned uncomfortable Ireland was.

“I need you to head to Knockniry. Find Daz Ahern. He’s holding something for me. A ring. He’ll know why I need it. Meet me back in Dublin. At Macklins on Cutpurse Row.”

“So you still intend on going through with this mad
scheme? The
Amhas-draoi
seem the kill-first, ask-questions-later type. You show up among them, and they’re liable to separate your head from your shoulders without pausing for breath.”

“Which is why I’m going directly to Scathach with the Sh’vad Tual. With luck, she’ll at least listen before she decides my fate.” That was his hope anyway. The head of the
Amhas-draoi
was known to be just. She was also known to wrench out innards with a barbed sword but he conveniently put that aspect of her nature out of his mind.

“What will you do with Miss Fitzgerald?”

Brendan plowed a hand through his hair. “Hell if I know. She’s never been exactly biddable at the best of times.” He gave a resigned shrug. “No doubt something will occur to me.”

“I can think of a few things,” was Jack’s cheeky answer. His normal roguish tendencies never far from the surface, even in the most hopeless of situations. “Here. You might need this.” Jack pulled a pouch from his jacket pocket. “I won it off a lieutenant whose head for drink far exceeded his head for cards. Once he wakes from his stupor, he’ll be a poorer but wiser soul.”

Brendan scooped up the coins. He’d lived better in the past year than in the previous six thanks to Jack’s skills at the card table. “Has anyone ever told you you’re incurable?”

“My mother. Frequently. I’m sure she attributes my tragic killing to that very trait.”

“Which brings me to my second errand.”

“Aye,
mon capitaine
?”

He’d been trying to do this for weeks. Now was the time. “Once you’ve met me back in Dublin, I want you to go home.”

“As in
turn up alive
?” He spread his hands. “Ta-da! And claim the stories of my demise were a tad premature? We’ve had this conversation before.”

“Aye, we have. And until now I’ve allowed you to persuade me that your playing a corpse works to our advantage. But no longer. Let’s call it even. I saved your life last spring. You saved mine this winter. We’re square.”

The amusement faded from Jack’s eyes. “Máelodor has the diary and the tapestry, Brendan. If he captures you while you carry the stone . . .”

“I’ll worry about that if and when it happens.”

He’d grown adept at locking his fear away. He’d been on the run for seven years. The race to survive driving him deeper into the shadows as he fought to stay one step ahead of vengeance from both justice-seeking
Amhas-draoi
and Máelodor’s bounty-driven assassins. If he was successful, that ever-present hand on his shoulder would lift. That nightmare would finally be over. If he failed . . . He forced his mind from that thought. He would not fail.

“My showing up alive will only fuel questions about you,” Jack said. “They’ll want to know where I’ve been all this time and, most importantly, who I was with.”

“Tell them you fled to the Continent to escape your gaming debts.”

“I don’t have any gaming debts. Or at least none I’d be so silly as to fly to the continent to avoid.”

“So pretend.”

“And how am I supposed to have survived my unfortunate run-in with Máelodor’s executioner? I imagine the question will come up.”

“Do I have to think of everything? Use that famed O’Gara ingenuity.”

“You can’t do this on your own, Brendan. Admit it.”

“I managed for seven years.”

“No, you buried yourself away amid a bunch of foreigners and drowned your sorrows in alcohol and opium.”

Brendan felt as if he’d been struck. His gut rising into his throat, a horrible sick churning as if he might be ill all over Mr. Crowdy’s floor. “How?”

Jack’s gaze dulled, jaw tightening as if he knew he’d crossed an invisible line. Still, he didn’t back down. A sign of his dogged courage. “No one avoids alcohol the way you do unless they’re blind scared of it. The opium I surmised by things you’ve said. Other things you took pains to avoid saying.” He faced him straight-on. “Are you still . . .”

“No.” It was all Brendan would allow himself to admit. It wasn’t anyone’s business how low he’d fallen during his years away. He repeated his avowal as if Jack needed convincing. “Not for a long time.”

“Good. That settles things. I’ll find Ahern. We’ll talk about my resurrection once you arrive in Dublin safely.”

“You’re not listening.”

“I’m older than you, Brendan. Think of it as your big brother speaking.”

“Aidan wouldn’t be so hen-brained.”

Jack laughed. “It’s surprising how hen-brained your brother can be.”

“I won’t let you—”

“You can’t force me.”

“It’s better this way—”

“For whom?”

They spoke over one another until, exasperated, Brendan snapped, “Damn it, Jack. I don’t want you.”

His cousin gave a slow nod before downing the rest of
his drink. Slamming the glass upon the table. “Now we come to the crux of it. Typical Brendan Douglas arrogance. He doesn’t need anyone. He can do it all on his own.”

“It’s not that,” Brendan argued, stung by the accusation. “I can move faster and easier without worrying about you.”

“Self-sufficiency’s become a habit.”

“It’s safer.”

Ice hardened Jack’s blue eyes, a reminder his cousin’s easygoing nature had its limits. “Aye, Brendan. But it’s also lonelier.”

Elisabeth woke with a vague unease she couldn’t pinpoint.

No sound but the normal creaks and shifts of the house. A shutter caught in the wind. A fox’s bark echoing lonely and distant. A thin gap in the closed curtains sent an arrow shaft of moonlight over the carpet and up the bed. A chill in the air drove her deeper under the covers for a warm spot. Twisting, turning, and sighing in an effort to get comfortable.

Was this restlessness the effect of too much gingerbread before bedtime? Last-minute wedding nerves? Or her troubling conversation with Aunt Fitz? Did it matter? She needed her sleep. She’d not managed more than a few snatched winks during the last few days, envisioning every Brendan-initiated, disastrous scenario her creative mind could conjure. If she didn’t manage at least a few hours tonight, she’d risk falling asleep at her own wedding breakfast. Not exactly an auspicious start to marital bliss.

Rolling over, she punched the lumps from her pillow. Flopped back with a groan. Stared up into her bedhangings. Counted enough sheep to fill a small meadow. Her
limbs grew lax, eyelids heavy. And just as she dozed, a light touch upon her shoulder jerked her awake.

She had a moment’s horrified impression of hard-jawed, angular features, sun-bright eyes, and a finger pressed against full, sensual lips for silence.

She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Couldn’t feel her arms or legs.