Lord of Shadows (21 page)

“I can’t agree to that. What would happen if Scathach and the brotherhood discovered I let him escape?”

He bared his teeth in a rapier grimace. “That’s not my problem.”

Frustration strengthened the beast sharpening its fangs on his bones. The room pitched beneath his feet, his vision blurring, a stabbing blaze of pain to the base of his brain like an axe to the neck. He bit back a moan, only the firm chill of the wall holding him upright against the whirlpool opening at his feet. The presence swelling to a crackling roar as it sought to drag him in. Drag him back.

When he opened his eyes next, he stared up into the old woman’s shrewd, yellow gaze. She bent over him, a hand to his forehead. Another placed flat against his chest where his heart thundered.

Behind her, Roseingrave watched. Her contempt clear in her posture and her expression. “I told you it would be impossible to hold out for long. He controls you body and soul.”

“No!” he roared, fighting to rise. Restrained by the old woman. He must be weaker than he thought. He fell back with a curse.

Her mouth wrinkled into a white-lipped frown. “Your creator’s mage energy is potent. Dangerous. He tries to win you back to his cause using all the dark magics at his disposal. It would take a more powerful man than you to resist.”

He closed his eyes, suddenly battle-drained, limbs weighted, head spinning. “I feel him always. But today . . . something’s different. Almost as if he’s here beside me. In this room.”

A prickly silence followed as if each of them strained to catch a glimpse or hear the stir of breath that would reveal Máelodor’s presence.

Roseingrave’s grandmother broke the tension. “Fight him,” she commanded. “Show him you’re not afraid. He thrives on death? Choke him on life. Glut him until he’s crushed beneath a mountain of beauty and friendship and love and faith.”

He searched his mind for some glimpse of a moment. Anything to drag himself away from the maw at his feet where Máelodor waited.

Nothing.

A screeching metal-on-metal buzz filled his head. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t breathe. “I can’t . . .”

The old woman’s shriek reached him over the din. “Reach deeper.”

He folded his attention inward and inward again. Fed the presence on the few broken, shattered memories left to him.

Men’s faces ringing a table, cups raised in good cheer. An iron-gray stallion, neck arched, ears pricked as it nuzzled his hand.

The presence devoured these images, leaving jagged blackened holes where Daigh’s past had been. But in return the pain eased. He could breathe again.

But now he knew it for what it truly was—a temporary reprieve.

There would be no freedom until he killed Máelodor.

Or Máelodor killed him.

Sorry for the delay. Expected to be in Dublin before you. Hope Aunt Delia hasn’t drive you around the bend yet. Cat and I will be there as soon as possible. There are things we all need to discuss that can’t be decided in a letter no matter how long.

Aidan.

Her brother. The king of understatement.

Sabrina refolded the letter. Tucked it into her journal. Flopped back on her bed with a frustrated sigh.

By “things” did he mean her speedy return to Glenlorgan? His out-of-the-blue marriage to a scandal-ridden young woman of no fortune and dubious morals? Brendan’s
rumored return to Dublin? Máelodor? A tapestry? The list went on and on.

Could he be any more enigmatic?

She rolled over, her gaze landing on the volume of Welsh history she’d brought home with her from the library. It seemed to crouch on her desk. Waiting for her to pick it up. Turn to the bookmarked page. Read the sentences over and over as if somehow they might reshape themselves into a history that didn’t end with Daigh’s death centuries ago.

They never did.

If Daigh told the truth, the words she read and the moments he recalled were one and the same. Could it be? There was no reason for him to lie. And the few stolen memories of Daigh’s she’d fallen into certainly suggested it was so. The whole situation haunted her like a bad dream. And she’d been having a lot of those lately.

At least Aidan’s letter had diverted her from the whirl of her thoughts. Kept her from thinking about her impulsive and reckless behavior at the lending library. Daigh’s hand upon her chest. His touch zinging excitement through her from the top of her head to the tips her toes. Her heart threatening to beat right out of her chest. And yet he’d simply watched her with that same steady, soul-scouring stare she could drown in forever. Said nothing. Given no hint of his thoughts.

Apparently her brother’s letter hadn’t diverted her enough. She was right back where she started.

She flopped back a second time, groaning. By the gods, could she have acted more outrageously? Had she taken complete leave of her senses? She should be grateful to Jane for taking that moment to drop an armload of books. A
mood breaker for certain. And one Daigh had used to vanish as completely as if he’d wrapped himself in the invisibility of the
feth-fiada
.

And really, she should be shocked. Appalled. Utterly and completely bowled over with disgust. He was walking dead. A man who until recently was naught but bones in a churchyard. An animated cadaver. One of the
Domnuathi
.

She should not have butterflies the size of vultures banging around her insides. Or be prickly with anticipation for their next meeting. She fisted a hand against her forehead. What was wrong with her?

Staring up into the bed curtains, the sounds of the household drifted up from below. Aunt Delia’s shrill commands to her dresser as she prepared for the Halliwells’ ball tonight. The soft shush of a maid in the corridor sweeping. The jangle of a bell pull. Steps on the stairs.

It had taken days to grow used to rising without the aid of the convent’s tolling bells. Longer to stop looking over her shoulder for Sister Brigh’s scowling face. Even now, dozing for an extra fifteen minutes seemed almost decadent. And time not spent in work, study, or reflection felt utterly frivolous.

She hated to admit it, but she found her leisure a wonderful respite. It made her recall the relaxed boredom of her life as it had been before her withdrawal into the order. A freedom she hadn’t appreciated.

“No, perhaps the lilac with that lovely gold overskirt and the lace up the sides.” Aunt Delia’s indecision floated between the walls. “When you’re done here, see to Lady Sabrina. I want to be sure she stands out. She’s such a mousy little thing.”

Sabrina grimaced at the sobriquet. What was so wrong with mousy? And why stand out if she planned on
returning to Glenlorgan by June? She knew why. And it all went back to Aidan’s letter. Things to discuss. Whom was she fooling? She knew what he wanted. Her sparkling debut into Society followed by an advantageous marriage to some proper peer with deep pockets and a respectable reputation. Both assets the Douglases of Kilronan had lacked for longer years than she could count.

She was to be Aidan’s latest throw of the dice.

Or so he thought.

A knock brought her from that rebellious line of thinking.

Oh no. Aunt Delia’s maid come to work miracles.

“May I come in?” Jane poked her head around the door.

Sabrina sat up, smoothing her face into a calm smile.

“Nice try, but you’re picking your fingernails. And the mulish set to your chin is showing.” A shawl clutched to her shoulders, Jane took a chair by the fire. “What’s wrong?”

Hiding her hands in the folds of her skirt, Sabrina let her expression relax back into a frown with a sigh of relief. “If I’m not careful Aidan and Aunt Delia will have me married off to Sir Moneybags Stiff-and-Boring before summer’s end. Farewell to my life with the
bandraoi
.”

Jane stretched her feet to the hearth. “Surely Kilronan won’t stand in the way of your return to Glenlorgan. Not if you show him it’s what you really want.”

Sabrina snorted her doubt, her gaze falling once more on the brooding Welsh history.

Jane caught the track of her gaze. Lifted an eyebrow. “It
is
what you really want, isn’t it?”

Sabrina bristled. “Of course. Haven’t I always said so?”

“Yes, but you also used to fill the school dormitory with tales of princes and princesses. Stamping chargers.
Wicked villains. Romance and derring-do and happily ever afters.”

“What’s your point?”

“Perhaps—just perhaps, mind you—you’re thinking you may have stumbled on your own once upon a time.” Her face reddened, or were her cheeks flushed already?

Sabrina threw herself out of bed. Crossed to the desk, grabbing up the book. Shoved it into a drawer where it couldn’t stare at her. Leaned against the desk confronting Jane with grim resolve. “It doesn’t matter. Daigh MacLir is not my happy ever after. He’s not mine to want.”

“He followed you to Dublin.”

“No. He fled Glenlorgan and happened on me in Dublin. That’s different.”

“Remember once you said—”

Sabrina wouldn’t let her finish. It was too humiliating. “Only too vividly. Don’t bring it up. It was silly and ludicrous. Fate, destiny, even love at first sight aren’t real.”

It was Jane’s turn to look stubborn. “If you say so. We won’t speak of it again.”

“Thank you.”

“But has he kissed you?” Jane grinned, a naughty twinkle in her eyes.

“Jane!”

“Very well.” She sighed. “If you don’t want to discuss Daigh MacLir, we’ll speak of Kilronan’s intentions. If you’re so alarmed, what do you propose to do?”

“I don’t know yet.” She caught herself gnawing the edge of her finger. Swiped it behind her back before Jane could reproof her. “But if Aidan wants a fight, Aidan shall have one. I’m not as docile as he remembers.”

Jane giggled. “Ard-siúr was right. Setting you loose has
done wonders for your confidence. And your stubbornness.”

“Ard-siúr spoke to you about me?” She wasn’t sure whether she was pleased or annoyed.

“Only to say if you came back to us, you’d be twice the priestess you would have been had you never left at all.”

“Did she now?” Sabrina’s back went stiff as she pushed off from the desk. “I’ll show her then. Twice and thrice the best.”

“And Daigh?”

“You weren’t going to discuss him.” Disappointment lodged deep within her chest. A hard, cold rock that seemed to expand until all of her felt weighted and achy. “He’s not my future.” She thought of his certainty. His intense near anger as he swore he knew her. She was his dream. But it couldn’t be. No matter how much her heart began wishing it were so. “And no matter what he says, I’m not his past.”

The musicians struck up a jaunty Scotch reel. Couples forming while Sabrina watched from her place hidden behind an entire grove of potted palms.

Aunt Delia had wandered away shortly after their arrival at the ball. A welcome respite. She’d spewed her poison praise during the entire carriage ride and only subsided upon stepping into the marbled entry hall of Sir Lionel Halliwell’s home at which time she became all that was charming and urbane. Her final parting shot as the powdered footman handed them down to the pavement outside the town house, “Never fret. You’ll be fine, darlings. There’s always a few simpletons just arrived in town in need of partners for the dancing.”

Sabrina answered with a proper smile and thereafter began her subtle drift toward the nearest stand of greenery. Pausing to down restorative clarets at every tray-bearing servant’s pass.

The music began. Ravishing in a gown of cream silk
with her beautiful red hair piled expertly atop her head, Jane stood opposite a paragon of masculinity in full scarlet regimentals who’d begged a dance within moments of their arrival.

Sabrina had received no such invitation much to her aunt’s chagrin and her own relief. She couldn’t imagine trying to conduct small talk while keeping to the steps of the dance. It had been too many years since dancing lessons at Belfoyle. And she hadn’t been all that proficient then.

Ahh well. At least here she needed all her energy to keep from making a fool of herself, while if she were at home, she would not be reading her history of Wales, not imagining Daigh as a six-hundred-year-old armored warrior—despite the pleasing picture a battle-armored Daigh made—not thinking of his heated, black gaze locked on hers, and definitely not reliving their one and only kiss that still sizzled her insides like a torch.

Dancers moved in precise pairs. Locked eyes. Spun. Joined hands.

What would it be like to have him kiss her again? Or to have his arms around her? His hands upon her . . .

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. What was happening to her? What was it about Daigh that turned her inside out?

She’d always been drawn to the wounded even as a child. The bird with a broken wing, the cat teased by the gardener’s sons, the dog with the bony ribs and imploring eyes that followed her home. All of them had found a place in her heart. And was Daigh so different? The haunted desperation at the edges of his gaze? The grim intensity in his muscled frame? The misery etched into the sharp angles of his face?

Was he simply her latest stray?