Lord of Shadows (22 page)

Men and women moved in rhythm and time. Closed and separated. Hands clasped then released with a smile.

She swallowed the last of her claret. Searched the room for a convenient servant with a refill. Stiffened at the familiar smiling sophistication of Mr. St. John. He and her aunt chatting and peering at her from across the room with twin looks of delight.

Their differences could not have stood out more. Mr. St. John’s stark black and white elegance in blazing contrast with her aunt’s ghastly lilac and gold gown.

“There you are, darling,” Aunt Delia cooed as she pushed her way into Sabrina’s grotto. “What on earth are you doing skulking in the bushes? I told you in the carriage not to worry. The powder does a fabulous job of concealing your spot.”

What was the punishment for auntricide? Any magistrate who knew Aunt Delia would probably let Sabrina off with a medal for exemplary conduct.

“If only your gown was as inconspicuous,” she muttered into her fan.

She glanced out at the crowds jockeying for the next set. Jane had already been claimed by a consumptive-looking gentleman who gazed upon her with melancholy eyes.

Where were those servants with the claret when she needed it?

Aunt Delia tugged Mr. St. John forward. “Look who I found loitering about in the card room. You remember Mr. St. John from our outing to the cathedral.”

“It’s a pleasure, Lady Sabrina.” He sketched a bow with ballerina grace. Took her hand, offering her an air kiss. His touch as cold as ever. A shame his gaze wasn’t. It rested on
her bosom with warmth enough to bring an unwelcome crawl to her skin. “I just told your aunt how I’d hoped to get a chance to see once more the most beautiful woman in Dublin.”

Daigh had warned her to beware of this man. To stay as far away from him as possible. Trying not to be too obvious, she slid her fingers away and adjusted the wisp of silk that passed for a shawl more firmly over her cleavage. “My aunt has always been considered a diamond of the first water. I’m sure she was flattered.”

Aunt Delia giggled into her handkerchief while a flicker of displeasure passed over St. John’s features before the placid smile returned. “But you’re family. And as such the resemblance is striking. Same luminous eyes.”

Aunt Delia’s seemed to have been tinted amethyst for this occasion.

“Same shimmering hair.”

Her aunt’s shocking pink and curled into girlish ringlets.

“Same lithesome body.”

Aunt Delia hadn’t been lithesome since the last century. If then.

“Two great beauties. And I have the pleasure of both of you to myself.”

The man was either a consummate liar or bat-blind.

“Oh, there’s Lady Townsend.” Her aunt interrupted by waving madly across the room to a skeletal female in a dark blue gown, saving Sabrina from trying to fill the sudden awkward silence with a sparkling witticism. Which was good because her mind had gone completely blank. “Has she lost weight? She looks positively sickly, poor dear. I better go deliver my sympathies.” Aunt Delia jiggled her
delight. “I’m sure I can trust you, Mr. St. John, not to take advantage of my niece’s naiveté while I’m gone.”

“Complete discretion, madam.” He sketched another gallant bow that had Aunt Delia batting him with her fan and tittering.

She bounced away with a sway to her backside that drew every man in the room’s eye. Only Mr. St. John seemed impervious. His attention rested solely and uncomfortably on Sabrina. “Has your anticipated reunion with your brother happened yet? At our last meeting you seemed quite keen on his arrival.”

Had she? She couldn’t recall, but she would hardly reveal to him how un-keen she was to see the brother who’d ordered her here against her will. “I’m afraid Kilronan’s been delayed.” She plucked a drink from a passing tray. Dutch courage when all her instincts—and Daigh—warned her to avoid St. John.

“A shame, but perhaps your other brother is taking your mind off His Lordship’s continued absence.” His eyes gleamed like pale glassy marbles.

She nearly choked as flames chewed their way down her esophagus. Good heavens. Had that been brandy? “My other brother?” she sputtered.

“The gentleman I saw you in company with at the cathedral?” He smiled with concern as if he’d caught her in an indiscretion. “I hope I’m not being intrusive. I didn’t get a good look at him, but you seemed very close.”

“Oh.” She held her breath. Took a second time-buying swallow of the hell-broth. It hit her stomach with a thud. “That wasn’t a brother. It was a . . . a cousin. My cousin Jack.”

“Would that be Jack O’Gara?” he asked, maneuvering
her deeper into the palms. Behind a column and farther from the eyes of the other guests. Every Lothario move down pat.

“You know him?”

Again that toothy Cheshire grin. “Only by reputation.”

She resorted to her fan. Snapping it up and open. A curtain wall between herself and this daring scoundrel’s practiced seduction.

“Yes, well, he was very sorry he couldn’t stay and be properly introduced.”

He swirled the wine in his glass round and round. Watched her over the rim. “I’m sure he was.”

She went from stiff to paralyzed. Oh lord, why had she used Jack’s name? He probably knew of Jack’s death. She’d be caught in a lie and have to explain herself. Humiliating, and, if Daigh was right, dangerous.

Flapping her fan nervously while reaching out with her mind, she sought to catch any hint of his thoughts. Like hitting a wall, she came up against a consciousness shut and barred to any intrusion. She pushed deeper, but met only a frozen, slick emptiness. A burn like ice. Breaking contact, she fell back into herself with a dizzy lurch and a flush of heat staining her cheeks. This man was expertly trained. No cracks through which she might steal a thought.

“The refreshments are quite potent tonight,” he said, taking the empty brandy tumbler from her hand to place it on a low table nearby. “You might like to switch to lemonade instead.”

His eyes sparkled, a keenness to his sweet face. Had he felt her mental touch? Was he now laughing at her failure?

Her mouth went dry, the room suddenly stuffy and over warm. Her gown seemed to cling, her stays to bite into
her ribs. She tried inhaling, but the hot, sour odors of warring perfumes and sweat and alcohol all combined to turn her stomach and thicken her brain. She squinted, trying to focus at the now-wavering face of St. John. Was she drunk? She hadn’t had that many glasses, had she?

“Perhaps lemonade would be best. I don’t feel quite right somehow.” She glanced about her for a bench or a chair. Somewhere to sit and collect herself, but no one had thought to place seats in this out-of-the-way corner. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to find a quiet place to catch my breath.”

But he wouldn’t let her escape. He took her hand. Led her toward an even more secluded alcove. “I’m sure your aunt wouldn’t want you left alone if you’re unwell.”

“She won’t be alone.”

She and St. John went rigid in unison. His hand closing around hers until she winced. His ring cutting into her fingers.

The room wavered and spun, the floor dropping from under her, the walls bleeding into a smoke-filled hall full of low, confused voices. Men and women moved like wraiths, their eyes weary, their bodies crouched and distressed. He stood just beyond the firelight. She knew his stance, the cock of his head, the quiet intensity behind every gesture no matter how slight. He stood amid a crowd of rough-looking men dressed as if they’d only arrived. Mud-spattered. Breathing hard. For a moment he looked her way, the flames’ flicker dancing across his eyes. His gaze sharpened on her face.

With a crack like thunder, the world settled back into its usual shape, leaving her sick and dizzy but clearheaded enough to recognize the colossus blocking their path.

Daigh: dark, gorgeous, and absolutely ablaze. His gaze threatened to torch her to cinders, the glare he settled on Mr. St. John even more deadly.

St. John never even flinched. His smile was if anything more brilliant. His eyes gleaming with almost fiendish excitement as his hand slipped from Sabrina’s. And he stepped back with a flourish of surrender. “I see, sir, that you missed your ship.”

“Did he hurt you? Tell me, Sabrina, I’ll rip his head off and stuff it down his neck.”

Daigh’s gaze and hands ran over her as if seeking reassurance she was in one piece and breathing.

An unsettling heat flooded her, and she stepped out of reach. Tipped her chin to meet him eye to eye. She must put the proper distance between them, especially after her outrageous impetuosity of their last meeting. “What are you doing here?”

“I came looking for you.” He darted a glance across the room to the back of a tall, slender woman in wine-red silk and gold-lined pelisse. Went stone-still and narrow-eyed. Turned his attention back to Sabrina. “We need to speak.”

Without waiting for an answer, he took her elbow, the heat of him warming every place St. John’s arctic touch had chilled. Steered her deeper into the foliage. Out the back of the alcove. Down a corridor. Up a small flight of stairs. And through a pair of French doors to a terrace that opened onto a tiny pleasure garden. Or what would be a pleasure garden in spring and summer. In December, it was more like an icehouse. Rain had frozen onto every surface to create a crystal-encased landscape. Lights from the windows sparkled against the bushes and trees and paths.
Golden pools shimmered across the lawn. Music and the rumble of conversation floated on a cool breeze.

If she weren’t freezing, she’d have been enchanted.

“You’re shivering.” Daigh shrugged out of his coat. Draped it over her shoulders. Buttoned her into it like one would a small child. Though she couldn’t recall a single instance of either of her parents ever performing such a simple yet caring gesture.

It draped almost to her knees, and she burrowed into the warmth, inhaling wool and claret and soap and man until she grew dizzy on it. Fresh air mixed with Daigh working to muddle her already tipsy brain rather than clear it.

Shaking off her befuddlement, she drew herself up. “What are you thinking? Accosting me in a ballroom? Dragging me out here alone?”

“It was that or allow St. John to finagle his way into your confidence. I warned you. Stay away—”

“What did you intend for me to do? Give him the cut direct? I don’t even know why I’m avoiding him.”

“Because I told you to isn’t enough?”

She gave him a
what-do-you-think?
stare. Was relieved to see the tamped rage diminish and even a spark of amusement flash in his dark eyes. “Women haven’t changed much in six hundred years. Still pig-stubborn.”

She scoffed her annoyance. “Neither have men. Still bossy and overbearing.”

“So now that we’ve established your obstinacy and my arrogance, stay away from—”

“You’re doing it again.”

He snapped his mouth shut until she swore she heard his teeth grinding.

“Please, Daigh. I know in your own manly way you’re trying to protect me. At least I’m assuming that’s why, but I don’t know from what. Or why I even need protecting. What does St. John have to do with Brendan’s return and a stolen tapestry? Are you afraid I won’t be discreet? Or that I’ll be more shocked than—”

“He’s Máelodor’s man,” he blurted.

“Your crea . . .” she trailed off into a silence as brittle as the ice upon the trees.

“Creator. You can say it, Sabrina.”

She hugged the warmth of the coat to herself. The scent of him heightening the stupid need to throw herself into his arms. But she hardened her heart against the swamp of emotion. She’d not repeat her previous mushy sentimentality.

Besides, Daigh didn’t look in the mood for comfort. He’d gone stone-rigid, his eyes glowing stern with refracted moonlight. “St. John’s a member of the
Amhas-draoi
.”

It was her turn to go stiff, her stomach plummeting into her slippers.

“Máelodor is using him to find Brendan. He seeks to pay your brother back for a past betrayal. It’s all part of what I can’t remember. Whatever accident left me washed up on your beach took most of my memories of this life, but left those of my days with Hywel. I catch impressions. Hints of things. But most is gone, and I’m left to piece it together like a shredded quilt. That’s why I need St. John. Alive. He can lead me to the master-mage.”

She couldn’t swallow.

“Sabrina, if Gervase St. John finds Brendan, your brother’s death will not be quick. Máelodor has made suffering an art.”

Couldn’t breathe. “How do you know this?” she whispered.

He wouldn’t meet her gaze as his voice rasped out the words. “You’ve seen the proof, Sabrina.”

Of course. The scars. Thousands of them. Covering Daigh’s body. A canvas for another man’s inhuman cruelty. She wanted to be sick. Who was the monster? Daigh who strove to stop a killing, or Máelodor who sought more torture and death?

And why oh why had she asked? Not knowing was so much better. Manly protectiveness definitely had its place.

“Your brother won’t be free until Máelodor’s dead.” He stalked away.

Nor would Daigh, though she didn’t say it.

He prowled the garden. Moved silently in and out of the shrubbery, muttering soldier obscenities before coming to a halt in the middle of the garden, head thrown back. Eyes trained on the night sky.

She caught her breath as once more she felt herself falling into a world not her own. A strange shifting of light and shadow and air and earth. A ripping loose of her mind as reality and illusion mixed in a crash of jarring, overlapping images. But this time as quickly as it began, the rushing free fall into memory ended back on solid ground. High ghostly stars. And a cloud of air at every shivering breath she took.

Daigh’s fists uncurled. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. Returned to her, gratitude brightening his obsidian eyes. “You’re still here. I thought you’d take the first chance to run.”

She held out her arms, coat sleeves drooping over her hands. “I can hardly return to the house dressed like this.
And I was”—
afraid for you
—“enjoying the air out here. It’s wonderfully refreshing.”