Warrior's Curse (Imnada Brotherhood) (25 page)

“It won’t be the last while the Ossine hunt those whose loyalty is suspected.”

“True, but . . . ah . . . this Imnada was murdered by a Fey-blood.”

Meeryn felt her breath catch in her throat. This was a painful reminder that while Gray may have surrounded himself with Other who spoke of peace
between the races, there were factions who wanted only Imnada deaths and Imnada blood.

Gray’s head came up, every sense alert. “What happened?”

“We don’t know. All we have are sketchy reports. Nothing we can verify. That’s where Jack’s gone. To see what more he can learn.”

Delia rose in a lazy sinuous spectacle of shapely limbs and tossed smiles. “I hope my brother in law doesn’t fall foul of his former cronies. It could get ugly.”

Estelle stiffened, crumpling the letter in a tight fist. “Jack’s a big boy, and Nelson Skaytes is dead.”

Delia’s smile held all the warmth of a cobra. “But there are plenty of his wretched gang left to offer payback.” She drew a line across her throat. “He might be walking into a trap.”

Estelle paled, her gaze narrow, her lips pressed white. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“You’re my sister. I want your happiness. If a base-born criminal is what brings it, fine. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when it comes crashing down around your ears.”

The woman was completely shameless. Meeryn imagined shifting to a tiger aspect and biting the pretty little trollop’s head clean off. She met Estelle’s eyes and knew her hostess was having similar violent thoughts.

Lady Estelle drew a deep breath and forced her gaze and her attention from her sister and back to the letters in front of her. Pulled the last one free and held it out to Gray. “This one arrived from Captain Flannery. The Ossine have ransacked your house in Audley Street. Torn it apart nearly down to the bare joists. They were there for more than murder.”

“They search for Jai Idrish,” Gray said, shooting Meeryn a look.

“The sphere is useless to Sir Dromon without me to guide the power,” she replied.

“True, but the enforcer Thorsh was right—with your death, the crystal would search for another to bond with. And this time Dromon would make certain the N’thuil was one of his choosing.”

“Then I suppose I’ll just have to stay alive, won’t I?”

“Easier said than done,” Estelle commented. “By all evidence, Sir Dromon has given up any subtlety or pretense of defense. He’s on the attack, and he’s called on every Ossine enforcer he can muster to drive us into a corner.”

A sudden horrible thought occurred to Meeryn, and she sat up, stomach knotting. “Are Captain Flannery and his wife safe? What of their son . . . surely the Ossine wouldn’t . . . I mean, he’s just a baby . . .”

“They would kill him if they found him,” Gray answered. “He’s a half-breed unmarked rogue. To Sir Dromon, he’s an abomination and a threat to Imnada purity. By his way of thinking, the boy’s death cleanses the clans of a weak link. He refuses to acknowledge that the chain itself is dwindling.”

“The family is safe. For now,” Estelle reassured them. “But it’s just one more indication that we’re falling back on every front. If the Fey-bloods are moving against the Imnada, it will be the final nail in the coffin of our hopes for peace. Sir Dromon will have all the ammunition he needs to persuade the clans to retreat behind the Palings. Any who oppose him will be outnumbered and silenced . . . starting with you.”

Meeryn sat up. Then she stood up. “Unless Gray
assumes the Duke of Morieux’s throne and takes his rightful place as ruler of the five clans.”

Delia rolled her eyes, casting Meeryn a look as if she were a rather addlepated child. “Is that all he has to do? Why didn’t we think of that before? Assume the throne, Gray. That is, if they let you within ten miles of the place before they stake you as
emnil
and feast on your carcass.”

By now, the idea had taken root and none of Delia’s sarcasm would shake it. Meeryn knew the answer. It was there right in front of them if only they would see it. “He wouldn’t be
emnil
if he broke the curse.”

That gained their attention, though with various shades of interest ranging from incredulity to indulgence.

“You said it yourself, Gray, in the catacombs. Until you break the curse, none of this matters. Not the clans or peace between the races. You’ll be dead within six months and we’ll be right back where we started.”

Delia shot Gray a quizzical look which he ignored.

“The curse is the answer to everything. Once your bloodline is restored, your sentence of exile would be overturned by the Gather. You could take your place as Morieux.”

“You think Sir Dromon will just let that happen?” Delia snapped.

“No, he’ll do everything in his power to stop it. But once Gray is duke in fact as well as name, there’s nothing Sir Dromon can do to him or any of his followers.”

“She might have a point . . .” Estelle hedged.

Deila’s laughter was brittle and ugly. “On the top of her head, perhaps. But it’s madness to think Gray will break the curse before Dromon breaks him.”

Gray shook his head, gaze locked on some distant inner thought. “I have the Gylferion. I have Jai Idrish.”

Lady Delia sniffed. “Four useless hunks of metal and an old rock.”

Meeryn bristled. “Jai Idrish is more than an old rock.”

“Is it? Then prove it. Break the damned curse. Save his bloody life before the black magic tears him apart bit by excruciating bit.”

“I would if I could,” Meeryn said quietly.

“My point exactly. You’re as useless as your rock.”

“Delia . . .” Gray cautioned.

But the woman had stood up in a fluster of furious skirts and black looks. “Excuse me. I have better things to do than talk pointless blather about a future as bleak as this dreary house in the middle of nowhere.”

She stormed out of the room, for once no sashay, no saunter, not even a backward glance to see the kind of effect she might be having on her audience.

“Is she right, Gray? Is it hopeless?” Estelle asked, breaking into the jagged silence left in her sister’s wake.

“You underrate my motivation,” he replied.

“No, I see all the pieces and I worry. Just as Delia does.” She turned her gaze to Meeryn, questions clouding her clear golden-brown eyes. “Can Miss Munro really help you, or have you only brought more trouble down on your head with her defection and the stone’s theft?”

Gray bowed his head, hands clenched. “Meeryn just might be the only one who can help me.”

“Break the curse?”

“That too,” he said gently.

*  *  *

He heard her before he saw her; the rustle of leaves, the snap of a twig, a mucky slosh followed by a muffled oath. She wasn’t exactly subtle, but she was intrepid. He stared up at the setting moon for strength. Down into the pool where the moon’s mirror image floated amid the water lilies.

She broke through the underbrush into the glade, twigs in her hair, a smudge down one cheek. Skirts trailing mud. “Found you.”

“Didn’t know I was lost.”

She ducked under a branch, pushing the leaves out of her way as she stepped across the grass. “Only hiding. I don’t blame you. I’d not be surprised if our hostesses started shelling each other with dinner rolls.”

She glanced up at the moon, her face an alabaster disk against the dark. Night sounds surrounded them, the scrabble of small creatures emerging, the hoot of an owl in the far wood. Moths brushed by him, their wings soft as a whisper.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?” Meeryn asked, kneeling to trail her hand in the water. The moon fractured and dissolved.

“I say a lot of things. According to David and Mac, I’m very good at long-winded speeches and self-righteous declarations.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “You do have a knack for sounding a bit Henry the Fifth from time to time. But I was referring to the bit about my helping you.”

“Break the curse?”

She rose, shaking out her skirts. “Among other things.”

He breathed in the humid scents of summer; the dripping foliage, the pungent fragrance of moss and fern, the brackish odors off the still water of the pond. A long-ago conversation came back to him—he amended that—argument was more like it. David St. Leger always tended to bring out the priggish worst in Gray. It was as if he had to counter St. Leger’s reckless irresponsibility by being doubly staid and three times as dull.

They’d been arguing about women. Come to think on it, most arguments with David tended to be about women. Before his improbable marriage to Callista, David had sought any female with the proper parts to forget the wreckage of his life for a few blissful hours. Gray had wanted more, yet known that way was lost to him as long as he lived under the Fey-blood’s spell. Now perhaps he stood on the edge of breaking free of the curse’s chains. If that was so, his last argument was no longer valid. He would have to face his fears . . . if he dared.

“His Grace warned me about you,” Meeryn said, her voice overloud against the country silence.

“That I’d pull you into my war willing or not?” He snapped off a twig, stirred the water to create a miniature whirlpool. The ripples pushed outward across the surface to break and lap at the far edges before gliding back to him.

“Perhaps in part. But I think he realized how much I missed you when you left for the army all those years ago. Perhaps he worried your return would reawaken old affections. Make me vulnerable to old heartbreak.”

He reached the stick farther but never struck bottom. No telling how far down it went. How dangerous
the depths. “We were friends, Meeryn. Nursery playmates.”

“You were twenty-one. I was seventeen. I’d hardly call us babes in the cradle.”

He let the stick go. It fell with a soft splash, lazing away across the pond like a slow snake. “But we never . . . I never . . .”

“No, you never did, did you? I always wondered why. None would have faulted us. We were promised. Ossine-blessed. It would have been as natural as the ocean’s tides, but you always kept your distance. You were never anything less than the perfect gentleman.”

“Were you looking for a rake who’d steal your maidenhead? Did you find it with McIlroy?”

He felt her tense, saw the lines crease her brow. “Conal was handsome and charming, and I was passionate and angry. It made for a combustible combination. But I knew it couldn’t last. The Ossine had already chosen my destined mate and it wasn’t the second cousin to Owen Glynjohns, no matter how well connected he was nor how secure his future.” She held his gaze, her expression one of resignation. “Nor how much he cared for me. When your grandfather sent him away, I was sad, but not surprised.”

“The duke should have let you have your husband. He’d have been dandling younglings on his knees. He’d have had a new family to replace the one he lost.”

“And you’d have been let off the hook. Freed from the chain you thought was wrapped round you like an anchor.”

“That’s madness.” He snapped off another stick, but this one fought back. It broke with a jagged spray of splinters, one catching him below the eye. He felt
the sting and the drip of hot crimson down his cheek.

“Is it? Or is it that you couldn’t take what wasn’t yours by right, Gray? Not your brother’s title. Not your brother’s intended. That’s why you left without saying good-bye. That’s why you stayed away so long. And that’s why you won’t look at me now. I’d always thought it was that stupid, foolish letter I wrote you. But it wasn’t, was it? You’d already made up your mind to avoid Deepings . . . and me. The army was just a convenient escape.”

He said nothing. There was nothing he could say.

“Look at me, Gray. Ollie is dead. He’s gone. So, look at me.”

He kept his eyes upon the glade.

“Look at me, damn it!”

He swung around to face her. She leaned against the bole of an old tree, its trunk misshapen, its branches spread low and wide like open arms. Like a ghost, she gleamed lithe and white in the gloom of the glade’s shadows, her hair spilling free of its pins, her feet bare of their slippers.

“Did you mean what you said tonight,” she repeated. “Can I help you?”

He couldn’t tear his gaze from her as she stepped toward him, the moon’s soft glow haloing her in silver, throwing stars into her dark eyes. He saw her chest rise and fall and knew she was not as cool and collected as she wanted to seem. He scented the rush of blood to the surface of her skin. Felt her desire.

She lifted a hand, wiping the cut on his cheek with the soft pad of her thumb. “Do you need me?”

He clasped her wrist, feeling the race of her pulse, seeing the darkening of her eyes as she moistened her
lips, uncertain but not afraid. He leaned down, his lips against her neck, the taste of her like wine. “Yes.”

*  *  *

The woods were quiet and dark, as was the house. Entering through an unlocked door into a small parlor, they held each other’s hands as they crept through silent rooms muffling their laughter and jumping at shadows. Meeryn felt fifteen again. Sure that she and Gray would be discovered any moment and sent to their beds without supper for sneaking out to the barns to drink stolen brandy and smoke cheroots.

Up the creaking stairs, past a corridor of closed doors. His hand in hers was rough and strong, his expression grim as if every floorboard were a potential enemy. At the gallery, she paused. If she were fifteen, this was where she’d wait for . . . what? She hadn’t known at the time. Only that her body yearned for something only Gray could give her. Her skin would tingle, her heart would beat loud as a drum beneath her ribs, and she’d feel an aching pull between her legs. She would watch him, expectant, afraid, then disappointed as he slid free of her with a last fading grin and perhaps a brotherly peck on the cheek.

“Second thoughts?” he whispered now, brows furrowed, confusion flickering in his bright gaze.

Drawn back to the present, she shook her head and smiled as he drew her toward him for a long, deep, toe-curling kiss.

“I can’t offer cheroots, but I do have brandy,” he said as if reading her thoughts. He guided her up the stairs to the attics and his whitewashed garret far from attentive ears or nosy neighbors.