Lord of Shadows (17 page)

The group followed the proud oratory of the flustered curate whose booming voice seemed incompatible with his scarecrow gawkiness. “. . . built originally by the Danes . . .”

Glenlorgan’s simple chapel couldn’t compare to the grandiosity of the cathedral, but the smells were similar. Candle wax, incense, and wet wool. So too was the serenity that comes of great age and great faith. The mind-clearing clarity infusing the very air. They wrapped around Sabrina like a comforting blanket or a parent’s hug. Lifted her burdens of uncertainty, anxiety, and Aunt Delia’s incessant prickly chatter. Strengthened her determination to return to the order as soon as possible. Aidan would not win. Not on this. She was not the submissive child of his memory, and she refused to be pushed about like a pawn on a chess board.

“. . . oldest building in Dublin . . .”

Above her, choristers practiced their scales to a violin’s scratchy accompaniment.

“. . . the Welsh-Norman Strongbow . . .”

“I believe our enthusiastic tour guide plans a test at the end of his lecture.”

Sabrina flashed a startled look at the gentleman who’d stepped up silently beside her. Tall and lean with an icy crispness, from his wheat-gold hair to the diamond-encrusted fob hanging from his waistcoat pocket, Mr. St. John oozed elegance and wealth from every pore. How on earth had Aunt Delia managed to convince him to join their sightseeing party? And how had the Trimbles let him escape?

“I’m afraid he’ll be sorely disappointed in his pupils.” She cast her eyes over the bored-looking group. “They don’t seem terribly interested, do they?”

St. John motioned toward Jane. “Miss Fletcher seems riveted.”

He was right. Jane hung on Mr. Munsy’s every word. He blushed his appreciation and doubled his speech-making efforts. Now with arm gestures.

“Unfortunately for the curate, it’s sympathy rather than interest,” she explained ruefully. “The less the others attend to him, the more Jane will. She hates anyone to feel slighted.”

“An admirable quality in a young lady. But I’m sure you’re just as endowed with similar gifts.”

Did he give her a certain look when he spoke? His smile a bit brighter? His eyes a bit sharper? Was that last pause a beat too long? What did he mean by “gifts”? Did he seek to discover if she was
Other
? Was he merely being polite? Was she being overly suspicious?

She mumbled a response, praying it satisfied him and he’d return to the group, which had made it halfway up the nave and were now admiring the gothic architecture and learning which bits dated to when.

Unfortunately he took her arm, forcing her to accompany him as he strolled. Perfect—now she had to come up with chitchat. She detested chitchat. And his touch was cold even through the sleeve of her pelisse.

She scrambled for anything to fill the awful, awkward silence. “Have you lived in Dublin long, sir?”

“Since early spring. But I hear you’re newly arrived. How are you liking the city’s delights thus far?”

Nothing intrusive about that. Perhaps she imagined her misgivings.

“To be honest, I’m still gaining my sea legs as it were.” She tried catching Jane’s eye, giving the universal sign for
Help, reinforcements needed.
No luck.

“Your aunt mentioned your brother and his wife are due to arrive soon.” He leaned in, pressing her elbow. Another cool touch sending shivers up her arm. “Lord Kilronan’s unexpected marriage put quite a few pretty little noses out of joint.” His gaze passed over the giggling Trimbles.

She stiffened, withdrawing her hand. Flashing him a dangerous look. “Odd. They never cared overmuch for his attentions when he stood on the brink of financial ruin.”

He smiled a mouth full of shiny teeth. “I took you for a little sparrow, but you’ve the courage of an eagle. I wish my sisters were as quick to defend me against my enemies.”

Feeling a fool now for overreacting—and after all Aidan hardly needed her protection—she made overt gestures behind her back with her guidebook. “I apologize for losing my temper.” Cleared her throat dramatically. “I shouldn’t have implied . . . I mean . . .” Coughed loudly and repeatedly. “Kilronan hardly needs my assistance. He’s quite able to defend himself.”

Jane remained engrossed by Mr. Munsy.

St. John, on the other hand, was eying her with alarm. “Are you quite all right, Lady Sabrina? Perhaps a drink? Let me find you one.”

He set off in search of water, giving her the opportunity to dive into the nearest stall. Peeking around a column, she smiled when St. John became ensnared by the youngest and sauciest Trimble, who seemed in no hurry to release her prize. He glanced back once. Frowned at the empty spot where Sabrina had been before he was led off by a
determined Trimble. The whole group headed toward the stairs leading down to the crypt.

The curate’s voice rose above the chorister’s growing rehearsal. “. . . dating from the twelfth century . . .”

The Trimble girls gave a chorus of frightened giggles—what else?—and the whole lot of them disappeared.

Finally.

Sliding into a pew, she sought to recover her lost peace. Push aside the embarrassing conversation with Mr. St. John. No doubt her entire stay in the city would be made up of similar humiliating inanities.

After so many years with the
bandraoi,
she’d forgotten the hustle and hazards of the outside world. The constant jostling and noise. The overt, curious stares and the din of raised voices. Already the unceasing barrage of unfiltered emotion battered her mind. Washed against her brain like a steady lapping tide. A few moments to herself was bliss.

The choir began low and uncertain before rising in strength and numbers. A soaring celebration that the stone of the cathedral gathered and spread until the rhythm swam up through the soles of her boots. Hummed along her bones. Filled her head with sound and light and melody and bass. One voice rose above the others. A clear vivid soprano.

She closed her eyes, letting the music and the voice wind its way through her.

A tenor joined the soprano. Dipping in and out of the melody. Picking up when the soprano flagged. Then taking over completely. The tune changed as well. No longer solemn and reverential, now the melody leapt and skipped like the measure of a dance. Latin giving way to a strange lilting
tongue she didn’t understand though somehow she knew the song spoke of love and heartbreak and loss.

Opening her eyes, she gasped her dismay. No. Not again. It wasn’t possible. This wasn’t supposed to happen now that Daigh was gone. She wasn’t supposed to be sitting beside a hissing fire. Its dim light should not be gilding his hair with a fiery glow as he sharpened his blade. She could not be hearing the rhythmic slide of his stone up and down the heavy sword or a harper’s agile fingers and clear bell-like singing.

But she was.

Daigh slid the sword back into its sheath. Stood, drawing her up beside him where she encountered not his usual empty black gaze, but eyes, clear and gray-green. As yet, unchased by shadows.

“I leave for Caernarvon at dawn. There’s trouble brewing, and Prince Hywel has asked I attend his father there.”

She frowned. “Then I go too. I’ve seen those women at court looking at you. Like a feast.”

He laughed. Planted a kiss on her cheek. His chest rose and fell beneath her palm. His heart a rapid drumbeat. His voice vibrating in a deep rumble she felt all the way up her arm. “Jealous? I’m flattered, but I can’t take you. Not this time.”

The harper ended his song, the last plucked strings quivering to silence.

She opened her mouth to argue just as a hand clamped her quiet. An arm held her close.

And she came terrifyingly awake.

Success.

Máelodor opened his eyes, though even that tiny action tired him. His heart crashed against his ribs. Pain squeezed
his chest, shooting down his arms. His breathing came in wheezy bursts. Every gulp of air cramping his straining lungs.

He’d crossed distances and dimensions. Tracked the murkiest paths. Followed the trail into the deepest abyss and back out. The
Unseelie
sensed him as he passed. They called to him. Beseeched their release. He ignored their pleas. They would need to wait for their reward. It was not yet time.

Instead he reached ever outward. Mind to mind. Pushing himself far past his normal breaking point. But his efforts had been rewarded. He’d succeeded. Felt an answering touch. Sensed the mage-bond between master and slave. Stretched taut. Barely functioning. But intact.

He would rest. Recover. And when next he attempted the crossing, he would repair the connection between the
Domnuathi
and himself. Reinforce his supremacy. Regain control.

“You nearly scared me to death.”

Daigh rested his arms on the back of her pew, his eyes burning in a stricken, haunted face. “I didn’t want a scene.”

“Grabbing and gagging me was supposed to keep me calm?” She frowned, trying to pull her mind back from the vision still haunting her of Daigh as he’d been in her dream. The teasing smile. The kiss. The warmth of his body beneath her hand. She massaged her temples. Why was this happening to her?

The Daigh in front of her now looked ready to go up in flames. He fumed with suppressed rage, his body radiating violence. “No, I meant only to keep you quiet.” He leaned toward her, running a thumb over her cheek. “You’re crying.”

Disconcerted, she put a gloved hand to her face. “Am I? A dream I had. It was nothing. And certainly not about you.”

Amusement lit for a moment the scouring intensity of his gaze. “Tell me about this dream that had nothing to do with me.”

She would not let him drag her back under his spell. He’d lied to her. Made her feel a yearning she didn’t want to feel. Made her picture a life that wasn’t hers, yet one she began to long for with every new encounter. Then made a fool of her for even imagining.

She tipped a stubborn chin in his direction. “Very well. We were talking. You . . .” She paused, embarrassed. “You kissed me.”

Grief dimmed his smile. “Then what?”

“You told me you were being called back to Caernarvon. That Prince Hywel needed you.”

His gaze fled inward. His voice coming low and certain. “There was to be a meeting with the English. I was summoned to translate. To spy.”

At once, his shoulders hunched as if he’d been struck. Sweat sprang out upon his forehead, and he slumped heavy against the pew.

“Daigh!” She reached for him, but he shook his head. “It happens when I remember. It passes soon enough.”

He closed his eyes. Breathed deeply through his nose. Teeth chattering. Body shaking.

Her eyes burned, a tear sliding down her cheek. “Spy on who? The English? Are you French? A soldier for Napoléon? That’s it, isn’t it? Oh gods, I’m harboring a war fugitive.”

“Nay, Sabrina,” he coaxed her back from the brink of hysteria. “You needn’t add that fear to your others.”

“But what I dreamt. It was a memory. Your memory. Just like the last time.”

“Aye.”

“Then you can tell me who Hywel is? Prince of what? Why am I dreaming
your
memories? As if I was there and a part of them?”

He turned away, his jaw clamping. Eyes distant. Voice cagey. “I can’t explain. I don’t know.”

She didn’t believe him for an instant. Even if she hadn’t felt his tension thicken like a cold fog, there was a tone in his voice telling her he lied. “What are you doing here, Daigh? Are you following me?”

“Not you. The man you were with. What did he want? What did he ask you?”

“Mr. St. John . . .” She paused, her brows drawn into a frown. “You know him?”

“We’ve met before.” He flinched, spinning away. “And if I didn’t need him alive, I’d put a bullet in him right now.”

She grabbed his hand. “Daigh, what’s going on? Why did you run away that night? And why are you acting as if Mr. St. John were the devil’s henchman?”

“As if? The man could show Satan a trick or two.”

“That’s not answering my question.”

“How did the sisters explain my disappearance?”

“They called you a thief. Said you broke into Ard-siúr’s office. Stole things.”

“And the blood?” So casual, as if his life hadn’t been spattered from wall to wall. And yet here he stood. Whole and infuriatingly uninformative.

“A quarrel among thieves,” she answered.

The corner of his mouth twisted, his expression hardening. “Right enough as far as it went.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His features rearranged themselves into cool impenetrability as he answered questions with questions. “My turn. What are you doing in Dublin? Damn it, Sabrina. You’re supposed to be safe at Glenlorgan. Not here. And certainly not with that villain.”

“My brother sent for me.”

He went rigid, every inch of steel reasserting itself. Now he towered over her like an erupting thundercloud. Menacing. Powerful. Dangerous. “The Earl of Kilronan? Sabrina, did he say why? Or ask you about a tapestry? It was kept with the
bandraoi
.”

The blank wall. The frayed threads. “You stole it. Sister Ainnir was right.”

He spoke over her. “Listen to me, Sabrina. Did Kilronan mention a tapestry? Someone named Máelodor? Or your brother Brendan?”

“How could you take from—” She drew up short. “What did you say?”

“Did Kilronan mention Brendan Douglas? That he’d seen him? Been in touch with him?”

How did it all come back to Brendan? It was as if in writing about that horrible long-ago day she’d summoned some dark, threatening evil from the past. She stared at him blankly. “What have you heard? What do you know of Brendan?”

Footsteps and voices growing louder. Aunt Delia’s voice hallooing as if she were on the hunting field. “Sabrina! Darling! Where’ve you taken yourself off to?”

She turned to leave. “I’ve got to go.”

He grasped her hand. Pulled her close, his face inches away from hers. “Stay away from St. John. Don’t talk to him. Don’t trust him.”

She nodded dumbly. The black of his eyes drawing her in until the heat of a fire, the song of a harpist, and the rasp of stone on steel filled her head. She need only let herself be swept into that gaze to be back in that place.