Uncertain Magic (52 page)

"Leave it, Roddy." He stood up, his plate only half touched. "Just leave it alone."

"I won't leave it alone."

"Dammit, you
will
." He took a large swallow of wine and turned to stare into the fire.

She sat back in her chair. "I need to know—did you meet anyone on the road after you spoke to Earnest?"

"I said leave it, curse you!"

She was focusing her gift, testing the blank wall. "Did you meet someone?"

The wineglass hit the table with force enough to crack it. He twisted Roddy's chin up. "Did you hear me? Don't press your luck, little girl."

She refused to flinch before his black glare, though his fingers bit painfully into her skin. When he let go of her, she forced herself not to reach up and soothe the lingering ache. "Now," she said, "you see that intimidation hasn't worked." She gave him a small smile. "I believe that seduction is usually the next stage."

He looked down at her, frowning savagely.

"Go on," she said after a moment. "I'm quite prepared to enjoy your efforts."

He took a deep breath. One corner of his mouth curved—more a grimace than a smile. He reached out and touched her face again, this time a caress. The backs of his fingers skimmed her temple and cheek. "Are you?" he said softly. He bent and drew her mouth up for a long kiss, light at first, lingering and sweet, and then his palms spread to cup her face and his tongue drove deep into her mouth.

Her loins melted, hot liquid fire that leaped with unexpected strength. She had meant to let him kiss her and then ask again. Senach had told her—he had said she could read Faelan if she tried. She clung to her focus, letting the feel of his hands on her flow into it and add power and connection. For an instant, it seemed…"Did you meet anyone?" she gasped.

The image flashed and was gone, incomprehensible. She made a small sound of frustration and reached up to put her arms around his shoulders, arching toward him, searching for that touch that had escaped her.

He groaned, his hand sliding downward, molding her breasts, slipping beneath her back and knees. The room tilted and spun as he lifted her, and then she was on the bed in the connecting chamber, and Faelan was slamming the door behind him and working at his neckcloth.

Roddy moistened her lips, watching him undress in the evening light that filtered through the lace curtains. Shadows slid and flowed over his skin, dark against pale gold. Naked, he leaned over her, his arms braced on either side of her head.

"Did you meet anyone, Faelan?" Her voice sounded thin and unreal. Breathless.

He buried his face in her throat, his hands pulling at the shoulders of her dress. "No," he growled, and drew his tongue down her skin, following the neckline of her gown. "That satisfy you?"

He was lying. She was certain of it. Before she could answer, his fingers dragged the gown down off her breast and his lips found her exposed nipple. Her body jerked and writhed as he teased at the swelling bud. She slid her hands across his back and underneath, spread her palms across his belly, circling the hot, smooth thrust of his manhood. The sound he made in response sent passion arcing down her spine.

He moved, pushing her skirt up as he knelt over her, shaping her thighs and hips with his palms. Roddy panted and tried to think, tried to keep her gift focused, but he never met her eyes. She only saw black hair and smooth skin; his jaw and his neck and his shoulders, the curve of his back as he mounted her. "Faelan—" One last attempt. "Faelan, did you—see anyone—"

The memory came: a face, strange eyes, old; old, and familiar and frightening. He gripped her shoulders with a moan like a child's whimper. "Not now." His body shuddered and pressed into hers. "Ah, God. Not now…" The image vanished; reason dissolved into sensation as he penetrated. She tilted her head back, feeling her body and her gift expand, drinking in passion that seemed more than she had ever felt before. She knew what he wanted, what he felt; she moved beneath him in perfect answer. His need was to drown himself, to lose all thought and logic in the joining. He drove toward that, to be part of her: domination and submission, life and death, a mystery and an answer in the dark, hot oblivion that her body offered. His explosion took her with him, tore her into a thousand glittering sparks and put her back together, her own self, her own skin—alone again.

She realized it only from the loss. She
had
reached him, in that moment of fulfillment. But now the touch was gone. He lay on top of her, his sweat trickling down her shoulder, his palms damp in her hair. Outside the open window, a carriage rattled into the court below.

He slid to the side. His hand sought hers—an odd, obsessive move. He locked their fingers together and rested heavily against her. As his breathing slowed, his body softened. His fingers loosened; his arm and leg went slack across her, holding her down with warm, solid weight.

There was still late-evening light pouring in the window over the bed. She turned on the pillow and looked at him, at his thick lashes that lay like devil's wings against the taut skin beneath his eyes. His mouth was relaxed; his chest rose and fell in deep rhythm.

It was his peace that defeated her, rather than his threats or his sensual distractions. The question that had risen again on her lips died there. She touched his cheek and traced the line of his brow, and then turned over in his arms and let him sleep.

They rode into the O'Connells' yard at midafternoon two days later. Almost before Roddy hit the ground, MacLassar trotted out from the stable behind the house. He seemed much bigger than she remembered—finally grown too large to lift in the month that she'd been gone. She dropped to her knees, calling him, giving him a hug and a scratch in his favorite spot while he grunted and snuffled in excited welcome.

Faelan walked up behind them. "I'd forgotten that beast," he said, and then belied his disgusted tone by tossing MacLassar a leftover pasty from their dinner on the road. Roddy turned and smiled up at him, but as he met her eyes his blue ones faltered. His thick lashes swept downward and he found somewhere else to look.

Roddy bit her lip. It had been so since Kenmare, since she'd touched him with her gift: the old and miserable experience of seeing someone's glance slide away from hers as if it burned.

She hugged MacLassar again, a hard squeeze to hide the way her mouth crumpled up and her throat went heavy and too thick to speak. He squealed a complaint and shook out of her hands, bounding after Faelan in hopes of more food. Roddy came to her feet slowly, watching her husband walk away without waiting for her.

He didn't realize it yet, but Roddy knew already whom he would find inside. The babble of thought reached her, an incoherent stream, instantly recognizable amid the quiet surroundings of Derrynane. Before Faelan came to the front steps, the door burst open and the dowager countess swept out.

"Thank God!" she cried, running down the stairs with a quick, nervous tripping. Her blue eyes seemed huge in her thin face. "Roderica, my love—thank the Lord. They've been telling me—I can't credit it—we must leave immediately. Faelan, you will arrange for it on the instant. My God, the reports we've had, and Lord Geoffrey and your brother part of the plot! I can't imagine—Did you have any idea? Your own brother, my dear—You must be crushed. To think that
I
suggested that he come in my stead. And for you to go chasing off after him in that way—But Faelan's brought you back now, and we'll be out of this horrid place tomorrow. I should have insisted long ago; I knew I should have…"

Roddy drew back, uncomfortable and dizzied by the dowager countess' wild dance of thought and speech. The monologue went on at length, and then suddenly broke off, as the countess looked up at Faelan with that way she had—the expression of having just seen him standing there.

A shock of fear blazed through the countess, even as her mind whirled with expressions of affection. She went forward toward her son with hands outstretched. The sickening force of that strange, vivid juxtaposition of thought and emotion made Roddy's eyes blur. She pushed it away with frantic effort.

"Faelan, it is dreadful, isn't it?" The dowager countess' words seemed to come from a distance to Roddy, so powerful were the barricades she'd been forced to raise. "Lord Geoffrey. I can't credit it. He'll hang now. He'll hang for certain. And betrayed… hunted down like a dog! Who would do such a thing? Who could destroy that man—that good, kind man—He's been your friend for years, through everything you've—"

"Your Ladyship," Roddy said, holding tight to her barriers and trying to stop the unfortunate flow of words. "I'm so sorry that you came out of worry for me. You should have stayed safe in England."

"Aye." Faelan walked past her without offering his hand. "You know how much you dislike the place."

"But for Roderica's sake." The dowager countess seemed insensible to her son's antagonism. "I couldn't leave her here. Oh, no. I never wanted you to bring her here. It was a crime, Faelan. A crime."

He left her talking on the step. She turned to Roddy, her fine lips set in a pout. "Infuriating boy," she said. "I don't see how you abide him. Come in. Come in, Maire O'Connell is waiting to greet you. I've been here two weeks, and we've all been on tenterhooks. Tenterhooks, my dear. The things we've heard, you simply would not believe…"

Roddy took a breath, knowing she would have to endure the countess at least long enough to express proper greetings to their host and hostess. And worse, she dreaded to tell them that she had no news of Davan, whom she'd last seen lying unconscious in a Dublin alley.

Her fears of prostrating the intrepid O'Connells with worry on that score proved groundless. "Abandoned you to join the rebels?" Maurice roared when he heard. "Curse that brainless pup. Dublin stands—we've had that news a week since. By damn, he bids fair to make his exit on the scaffold if he don't get clear and hie himself back on the double."

"He's an O'Connell," Maire said, in her voice of ancient and fine-tempered steel. "He'll be making his own choices and living with them."

"Aye. Or die by 'em." Maurice looked gloomy. "Stupid young hothead. Wasting himself on this outrage, when I might have made a man of him in our own operations."

"I'm sorry," Roddy said, with heartfelt regret. "But I couldn't stop him."

" 'Tisn't your fault, lass. 'Tis this craziness that's got the country by the throat. Great God, it's madness! Sheer madness. What could be worse for us than French purges and French republicanism?"

"No tax on French brandy," Faelan suggested dryly.

The elegant old smuggler inclined his head with a brittle smile. "True enough, my friend. God knows where this business will end."

Roddy escaped finally, pleading headache and backache and anything else that would get her at a distance from the dowager countess' incessant mental babble. She had forgotten how it plagued her—or perhaps it was worse here, where everything about her talent seemed worse. In her room, she changed from the ill-fitting riding habit she'd managed to obtain from a seamstress in Clonmel into a familiar skirt and shawl, and slipped out the rear garden onto the path that led to the bay.

She knew what drew her. The hope of meeting Fionn again was like a sweet, distant melody that called Roddy to come, to listen closer and learn the song. She pulled off her shoes and stockings and walked along the sand, allowing her barriers to ease as the cool water slid up the beach and ran between her toes, sucking the sand from beneath her heels as it retreated back to sea.

She squinted against the late sun on the horizon. The abbey and its little island were cut off by the tide. No gay, golden figure beckoned to her this day; no seal played in the gentle surf. Roddy sat down on a rock, disappointed.

She thought of Faelan. It was easier at a distance, just as it was easier to think of Fionn if Roddy did not try to visualize her features too clearly or concentrate too hard on the memory of her voice. Roddy's mind skittered away from those things, from contradiction and illogic, from a reality that shifted and slid as easily as the beach sand drained from beneath her feet.

Time lost. Days.
I don't remember
, Faelan had said, and it was either lies or madness. She was caught between what she did not want to believe and what she did not dare to.

He would not look at her anymore. That frightened her most of all.

The empty strand seemed to mock her with its memory of a storm-swept day.
You've lost time, too
. Yet the thought seemed so impossible that she dismissed it. To give in to such doubts was dangerous—a commitment to irrationality that, once made, could never be recalled. There would be some explanation, some logic, if only she could find it.

She stood up and lifted her damp hem, climbing above the wave swash, carrying her shoes and stockings, picking her way among the wrack, across the small dunes and up the path. Sand clung to her ankles and fingers. Strange leaves padded the path beneath her bare feet, odd tropical shapes that Roddy had seen nowhere but in the peculiar mild climate of Derrynane that was different even from Iveragh's just over the nearby pass. Here where the mountains made a palisade to the north and the wind blew off the warm sea currents, it never grew cold enough to frost and the plants grew in green profusion.

At the top of the path, she stopped to drag on her damp stockings before walking through the stableyard. A fallen log made a spongy seat as she worked at the gritty wool. Half consciously, she began renewing barriers, sensing the countess even at a distance. But the sound of a voice made her look up and open her gift.

Rupert Mullane walked out into the yard with one of the many O'Connell cousins—one of the younger ones, who claimed no seniority or authority. It angered Mullane; his mind was full of offense that he had been pawned off with this junior member of the clan.
Too busy
, he fumed over Maurice's blunt excuse.
Too damned high and mighty
. Rupert took his horse's reins from the stableboy and mounted, giving a curt answer to the young man's offer of a later appointment.
Thinks I've not the means to buy. He'll be finding out. Aye, he'll be seeing that my gold's as good as the next man's.