Heir of Danger (4 page)

“Quit carrying on like a baby. If I wanted to—and don’t think I’m not tempted—I’d have Gordon give you the thrashing you deserve. Or Aidan. That’s what I should do. Send for Aidan. He’d—”

“No.” The crack of his voice startled her silent. “You’re not going to send for Aidan. You’re going to keep your mouth shut. To anyone who asks, I’m John Martin.”

“Why on earth should I keep quiet?”

“It’s complicated. But believe me when I say doing anything else would be very unwise.”

She crossed her arms. Eyed him with suspicion. “Aidan should know you’re alive. Your brother—”

“When I’m ready, I’ll go home to Belfoyle. Right now, I’m here and I plan on staying here for the time being.”

He shouldn’t be arguing with her. He shouldn’t even have let her know of his presence. He’d told himself to keep his head down and his mouth shut while within five square miles of Elisabeth Fitzgerald. Jack had warned him at least a thousand times of the perils he’d face striding into the lion’s den. Be sensible. Be safe. Get in and get out quickly and quietly. But spying her across Dun Eyre’s drawing room had been too much of a temptation. He should have known she’d recognize him. And with that recognition would follow an ugly and awkward scene. Though he’d envisioned tears and accusations of
abandonment rather than fists and fervent calls for his continued death.

Lissa had always been more than a little unpredictable.

“Please, Elisabeth.”

“Give me one good reason.”

“How about having your current groom involved in a brawl with your former betrothed? I can imagine the whispers, and whispers become scandals. And you certainly wouldn’t want that. Not with the place crawling with relations and Mr. Shaw poised to lead you down the aisle. Your aunts would be humiliated. You’d be a laughingstock. Again. Think about it.”

It was obvious she had already thought about it. And come to the conclusion he’d hoped for. She’d say nothing.

Still, her livid expression hinted at additional blows aimed in his direction, and if he remembered rightly, that spark in otherwise gentle brown eyes spelled trouble. “Very well. Your identity is safe, Mr. Douglas, for the reasons you so correctly spelled out.” Her voice wavered, her hands closing into fists at her side.

He took a wary step back just in case, but it was unnecessary. She slumped onto a sofa, a hand rubbing absently at her temple. “But why? Answer me that one question. You were dead, Brendan. Dead and buried.”

Why did he leave? No way to answer that didn’t scare her to death. Why had he returned? Equally difficult to explain without revealing the depth of his past villainy. For some reason, it was easier to have Elisabeth hate him for a rogue who’d run out on his bride than know the far uglier truth.

His gaze flicked to the stone nestled between her breasts.

“Enjoying the view?” she asked tartly.

His attention snapped back to her face, which now wore an expression of resignation, as if she were used to men speaking to her chest. Something deep in his gut tightened at the thought of other men eying Elisabeth in such a bold manner.

“Perhaps like young Lochinvar, I came back when I heard you meant to wed another.”

“If that was meant to be a joke, you’ll have to do better,” she answered breezily. “As you explained when you asked for my hand all those years ago, our marriage was one of convenience at the behest of your mother.”

Had he said that? Damned rude of him. It’s a wonder she’d agreed to have him if he’d carried on that way. More a wonder she hadn’t smashed something heavy over his head for such impertinence.

He fought off a momentary stab of guilt, focusing his thoughts on the men hunting him, hardening himself against faltering resolve. “I’m here for one simple reason. Dun Eyre is the last place anyone will look for me.”

The stubborn square of her chin pushed forward, her gaze narrowed in new speculation.

“Which is why I’ll reiterate, the name is John Martin,” he said.

She twisted her broken fan until the sticks splintered. “You’re a right bastard, Brendan Douglas.”

He grinned at the base language coming from that pretty mouth. She’d always been a contradiction of femininity and ferocity. “But you love me anyway.”

“Once, maybe. But you’ve spent that coin.” She closed her eyes for a moment as if trying to adjust to this new reality, and when she opened them, surrender dulled the heat
of her gaze. It was almost worse than her fury had been. That he’d prepared for. This was different entirely.

“How could you come back like this and expect me to act as if nothing had happened?” she asked. “You left me, Brendan. No note. No explanation, though all and sundry were willing to supply one.”

He turned to study the fire as if he might find answers written upon the flames.

“I didn’t mind that so much,” she continued. “I mean it was mortifying with Aunt Pheeney spouting proverbs like water and Aunt Fitz stalking the house, muttering threats on your person. But then afterward, your father’s murder . . . that was so much more horrible. What was I supposed to believe after that?”

He swung around, a hand gripping the mantel. He noted the bloodless fingers as if they belonged to someone else. “What everyone did, I suppose. That I was guilty.”

“There were some who refused to believe,” she said softly. “Even then, they had faith in your innocence.”

“I’m sure you soon set them straight.” This was not a conversation he wanted to have. Being here cut too close to the bone for comfort. He hadn’t thought it would. He’d thought those ghosts had long been exorcised. More fool he. Time had done little to salve that wound. “Take heart,” he bluffed. “I won’t inconvenience you for long, and you and your Mr. Shaw can gallop up the aisle with my blessing.”

She too seemed to have shaken off her momentary confusion. She rose, adjusting her skirts in a show of indifference. “I’m relieved. I should have been heartbroken to know the man who threw me over didn’t approve of the man honorable enough to hang about for his own wedding breakfast.”

“Speaking of Shaw, where did you meet him? Last I heard, you were in London.”

“Keeping an eye on me?”

“A year-old
London Times
. What’s his background?”

“Are you my guardian now?”

“An interested party. I may not have married you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you happy.”

Folding her arms over her chest, she huffed, “Fine. Not that it’s any of your business, but Gordon has a decent fortune of his own. A solid position within the current government. And
isn’t
you. All quality traits in a husband.”

“Ouch. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were sorry to see me.”

“Ughh!” She threw up her hands. “You’re incorrigible. Go away, Brendan. Crawl back into whatever hole you’ve been hiding in, and stay there this time. You ruined my last wedding. You are not going to ruin this one. Do you hear me?”

“If you’re not careful, the whole house will hear you.”

Her dark eyes burned a hole right through him.

“Don’t worry, Lissa. I’ll not upset your apple cart. You and the respectable Mr. Shaw will wed and have respectable babies and lead a respectable life.”

Instead of spearing him with a suitable scathing response, she lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and swept past him to the doors. Throwing them open, she sailed back into the crowd as proud as any queen.

He let out the breath he’d been holding with an audible sigh. He’d jumped the first fence cleanly. He was in.

Brendan wandered the Dun Eyre gardens, reacquainting himself with the extensive grounds. Assessing terrain.
Studying the landscape. Seeing the parkland not as the masterpiece of tidy parterres and man-made wilderness, but as a means to hide, escape, or fight, depending upon circumstance. These skills had been the first things he’d learned while in exile. And had kept him alive more than once in the intervening years. By now, it had become second nature.

This should have been easy. Growing up close by, he’d spent countless hours running wild over this ground and knew Dun Eyre like the back of his hand. Coming upon a high hedge that ought not to have been there, he had to admit the back of his hand hadn’t looked the same since being crushed beneath a boot heel last November.

He curled his fingers into an awkward, aching fist. The grinding of rough-healed bones a memento of those dangerous days when it looked as if his crimes had finally caught up with him.

The gods had smiled on that occasion. It remained to be seen if he’d be so fortunate again.

He backtracked, hoping to loop around the thorny barrier and come upon the house from the west. The cold penetrated his coat while the bones of his hand throbbed. A weather sense he could do without. It had been too long since he’d experienced Ireland’s cold, damp spring. He’d grown used to sun and bleached blue skies and dry desert breezes.

The longer he remained close to his childhood home, the more memories surfaced like unearthed corpses. Every familiar landmark and well-known face brought those last horrible days back in vivid nightmare. Father’s reproachful gaze piercing him with shame and guilt. Father’s death playing out in eternal bloody violence until even waking there was no respite from the images.

Had it been quick and painless, or had the
Amhas-draoi
spent their vengeance in excruciating butchery? Had Father known in the end Brendan had been his betrayer? Or had he gone to his death ignorant of his beloved son’s treachery?

He blinked, pulling himself back into the present. He could drown his sorrows at the bottom of a bottle for the rest of his pathetic life if he wanted. Now he needed to be cool, confident. Focus on his goal.

Retrieve the Sh’vad Tual.

Take it to Scathach for safekeeping.

And grovel as he’d never groveled before to save his sorry life.

Simple.

Hunching his shoulders against the chill, he trained his eyes on the path ahead, ears tuned to any hint of fellow wanderers. In the thick shadows away from the house, he’d shed the
fith-fath
. He was sorely out of practice, and the concentration it took to maintain the spell left little energy for aught else. Best to use his powers sparingly.

The hedge folded back upon itself, the path spilling out in a shallow set of stone stairs. Below him, the house stretched wing to wing from its foursquare central block. The ball had ended, guests leaving in a line of carriages or retiring to their quarters for the night. A few lights glittered from windows, but the blaze of candleshine and torchères lighting the entrances had been doused, night closing thick against the buildings.

He counted third-floor windows. Seven in from the right. Elisabeth’s bedchamber. Light still shone behind the curtains. She would be undressing. Slowly untying her garters. Seductively rolling down the stockings on her long legs. Her luscious curves held tightly captive by stays and
petticoats freed to fill the thin muslin chemise she wore to bed. The pins holding her chignon in place would be removed, letting that spill of dark red hair slide deliciously over her back to her hips. And last but not least, she’d lift her hands behind her neck. Unclasp the necklace that lay in the valley of her sweet, full breasts, and place it back in its box.

A wry chuckle escaped him. Gods, he must need it bad to be fantasizing about Elisabeth. She’d been close as a sister. A little sister. She amused him. She was smart, funny, daring, and rode a horse as if she’d been born in the saddle. But never had she been fantasy material. And yet now? If she’d been struck by the changes wrought in him, he’d been equally surprised.

He remembered Elisabeth as a little plump. A lot freckled. Hair a wild riot of dark red curls. And an impish gleam in her big brown eyes. Then he’d looked up and, instead of the girl of his memories, he’d fastened his gaze on a voluptuous woman tempting as chocolate with a body that made his blood rush faster. Seeing her made him light-headed and stupid with thoughts he never should think and ideas he daren’t let take shape.

He should have joined Jack their last night in Ennis. His cousin had that scoundrel’s knack for finding the perfect woman to scratch any itch. Brendan shifted uncomfortably, dousing his lust-filled imagination with more somber thoughts—the consequences if Máelodor gained possession of the Sh’vad Tual.

War between the
Fey
-born race of
Other
and their un-magical
Duinedon
neighbors. And the cataclysm for both sides should this come to pass.

“. . . a king’s ransom . . . what does she wear . . .”

“. . . doesn’t matter, Marcus . . . let it go . . .”

Men’s voices rose up from the bottom of the stairs. Automatically, Brendan went still, his breath barely stirring in his lungs. No shoes scuffed the stone steps. They must have taken shelter in one of the numerous benched alcoves.

He delayed conjuring the
fith-fath
. Instead, he bent closer, letting the shadows glide up and over him until nothing moved to alert the men they had an audience.

“I’m going mad with boredom, Gordon. What the blazes do people do around here?”

“It’s not London, certainly, but it has its own simple charms. I’m quite enjoying the escape from the mad crush.”

Gordon Shaw. His brother, Marcus. Brendan’s knees stiffened, his shoulders tightened, but he dared not move now.

“Charms aside, you can’t convince me you’re truly happy kicking your heels in this backwater while the London Season progresses at full swing. And what does Lord Prosefoot say about your absence during the session?”

“He was most agreeable. And it’s not as if I didn’t bring work with me. I’ve gotten quite a bit done too. Don’t fret. A week more and we’ll be on the packet for Holyhead. In London by the end of the month”

A dramatic groan. “I don’t think I can survive another week tethered to this provincial idea of entertainment. I never told you, but yesterday at dinner I was caught by Miss Fitzgerald’s cousin, Mrs. Tolliver of Bedfordshire. I had to sit through an interminable recitation of family connections between the Shaws and the Tollivers stretching back to the Conquest. Filial duty only goes so far.”