Heir of Danger (10 page)

So much for Brendan Douglas’s damned luck.

Against her will, sleep finally dragged her under.

She woke, heart pounding, nightmare vivid and alive in her mind. Cold raising gooseflesh upon her body. Arms clamping her middle. And an exotic spicy scent tickling her nose. She recalled them with perfect clarity. But . . . she took a ragged breath. Closed her eyes. Opened them again. Everything remained. The cold. The arms. The scent. Heaven help her! Not a dream, then.

She was being held tightly against an unyielding chest, her legs slung sideways across a horse’s withers. Scrub and hedge enclosed a sunken lane, the gurgle of running water coming from nearby. A whirr of wings scraped the air above as some night prowler hunted. Beyond that, the only sounds were the horse’s breathing, the creak of saddle and the jangle of bit, and the steady fall of each hoof on the muddy track.

She lurched, head spinning, stomach lifting into her throat.

“Careful. The mare’s skittish enough carrying two.”

No. Not that voice. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t.

She went stiff, the top of her head connecting sharply with his chin.

“Ow, bloody hell.” He jerked back, his grip tightening, the mare shying sideways in a dancing skitter of hooves. “Hold still, I said. You nearly made me bite my tongue off.”

She looked up to see him rubbing his chin, annoyance in every disgusted line of his face. But just that slight movement caused her stomach to turn, and her head to whirl in a dizzy blur.

“What in blazes are you playing at, you stupid, selfish, arrogant bastard son of a damn bloody son of a . . .” Shaking with rage, fear, confusion, and a growing, belly-rush of nausea, she dredged up every expletive she’d ever heard, their palliative effect considerable, though they had absolutely no influence on their target, who remained frustratingly unfazed.

“You can thank me later,” he growled.

“Thank you? For what? For destroying my”—she couldn’t breathe—“for kidnapping”—couldn’t stop the overpowering need to be sick—“put me down.”

“I can’t.”

She beat against his chest, tears hot on her cheeks, stomach whirling. “Put me down. Now.”

“What’s wrong?” For the first time he sounded uncertain.

“Now. Or I’m going to throw up all over you.”

He lowered her to the ground, where she immediately fell to her knees, digging her hands into the mud. Uncaring where she was or that she seemed to still be in her nightclothes. The dizziness made the world spin and lurch under her as she heaved until her throat burned and her stomach cramped.

She heard him dismount behind her. He put a hand upon her shoulder as she retched and wept and sniffled and coughed.

And though she fought it, once more the black well of unconsciousness claimed her.

“What are you looking at?” Brendan snapped.

The flea-bitten black-and-white mongrel cocked his head to the side, ears pricked, dark beady eyes filled with reproach. He’d slipped in as the owner had left, sniffing every corner, inspecting every stick of furniture. A process that took about five minutes in the shabby little cabin.

“I had to do it. That, or let Máelodor’s goons have a go at her.”

The odd little dog turned away, trotting across to the pallet. Climbed up, settling beside Elisabeth with a grunt of satisfaction.

“Get off there. You’re probably full of fleas.” He reached for the dog, which grimaced its teeth in a snarl.

Brendan backed off. “Fine. Let her itch. One more reason for her to despise me. As if she needed any more reasons.”

He sat down, tipping his chair back against the wall. Crossed his arms over his chest and hunched his shoulders in an attempt to keep warm. The rain had begun again. A draft blew through what passed for walls, and the turf fire sizzled and spit with every drop from a leaky chimney.

The proud homeowner had vacated to a neighbor’s for the night. Coins in his pocket and a knowing leer on his weathered face. As if dirty one-room hovels conveyed the perfect romantic ambience for a seduction.

Brendan wished it were that easy. But somehow he didn’t
think Elisabeth would quite see her abduction with a rosy, starry-eyed glow. And he’d already experienced her wicked left hook. He rubbed his bruised chin. The last thing he needed was to transport a struggling, hostile female cross-country. They’d have Máelodor’s men,
Amhas-draoi,
and an angry bridegroom breathing down their necks within miles.

He toyed with the idea of casting the sleep of the
anfarath
over her every time she looked as if she might wake. But toting an unconscious woman to Dublin held its own disadvantages. Normally it took the victim a few hours to overcome the nausea and dizziness. He’d never tried to keep someone asleep for up to a week. He couldn’t be sure what the effect would be. Not a risk he wanted to take, especially as rusty as his powers had become. Hell, she might not wake at all at the end of it.

“Damn Jack and his altruistic tendencies. This is his fault. ‘You have to go back, Brendan. You can’t leave her. Máelodor’s men are on their way,’” he mimicked. “If Jack was so bloody worried about Elisabeth, why didn’t he go back and get her?”

The dog never even lifted its head, though its eyes remained steady on Brendan.

“Fine. Elisabeth’s my responsibility, but let me nurse my grudge, will you? It’s keeping me warm.” It also gave him something to do besides wonder how the hell he planned to explain to Elisabeth what would seem like the most heinous of crimes.

“How can I make her understand it’s for her own good? That the last thing I want or need is an unwilling companion? That I’d be more than happy to return her to Dun Eyre if it didn’t spell her grisly death? That I’m not really the right bastard she thinks I am?”

The dog blinked and sneezed. Twice.

“Perfect. Now I’m asking advice from a mop with legs.” Brendan leaned his head back to stare up into the tangle of cobwebs and shadows. Tossed a grim smile to the dusty rafters. He’d never make Elisabeth understand. He
was
a right bastard, among a host of other less charitable qualities.

Elisabeth rolled over, murmuring in her sleep, the greatcoat he’d spread over her sliding off onto the floor. Her night plait had loosened, wild red curls escaping to feather her cheeks. But her face remained white as her chemise, a frown wrinkling her brow as she groped for the lost warmth.

He dropped the tipped chair back to the floor. Stood to retrieve the greatcoat. This time, the dog allowed Brendan to approach. Even reached out a cold nose to nuzzle Brendan’s fingers as he draped the coat back across Elisabeth.

Immediately, she snuggled into its warmth, a smile playing over her lips, a whispered thank-you barely audible.

A little late. And she probably wouldn’t remember thanking him when she woke. She’d be as waspish and furious as ever.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he tried to focus, but concentration was impossible. He was cold. Damp. Uncomfortable. And saddled with a woman who would wake in hysterics. Enraged, upset, and sick as a dog—no offense. Not a good combination at the best of times. And this was far from the best of times.

He tried clinging to the one thing that mattered. The Sh’vad Tual was safe.

He pulled it free of his shirt, where it dangled from the gold chain. Such an unassuming gem. Crudely hacked edges. Neither brilliant nor beautiful. Yet, as he stared, gold and bronze and rose flickered and grew within the deepest
corners of the gemstone’s heart to become amber and citrine and brassy yellow. Dusky claret, light shell pink, and gold-red like good brandy.

Some colors surfaced and sank. Others flashed and twinkled only when he didn’t look directly at them. And then there were the colors difficult to describe with any palette he’d learned. A brown possessing shades of smoky silver and carrot orange at the same time. A blue that in one shaft of light sparkled in a purply lilac and in the next instant sharpened to a jungle ferny green before darkening to sooty dull black.

He stared until his eyes stung and watered, the facets of the stone unfolding within his palm like a map. He saw caverns and caves. Sweeping oceans and skies alive with stars and streaming pennants of starshot gas. There were trees scraping clouds electric with lightning and a single drop of water sliding off one perfect veined leaf.

The clouds parted on a shaft of light. A man stood among the ruins of a battlefield. His golden head slick with sweat and blood. His sword broken. Death descending.

Pain lanced Brendan’s skull as if someone had taken an ax-blade to the back of his head. The stone flamed against his palm, the colors pouring forth through his fingers in a ribbon of ebony and lavender and emerald and azure.

“Damn!” Shaking out his burnt hand, he dropped the stone. Once more cool to the touch. Dull and lifeless.

Shudders chattered his teeth, and he wrapped himself tighter in his coat. Waited for Elisabeth to wake.

And the true misery to begin.

Disconnected images. Jumbled, upended thoughts. They battered her mind with bizarre dreams, leaving her sick to her stomach, a horrid buzz in her ears.

Aunt Fitz’s odd, mysterious smile. Gordon standing alone in the church, holding his sapphire choker. Flocks of cackling, sharp-eyed pigeons wheeling over Dun Eyre before streaming east toward Dublin and London. Brendan clutching her pendant, light seeping between his fingers. Herself, stuffed into her wedding gown, a piece of cake in each hand.

Images surfaced before submerging back into an endless twilight. She struggled to stay ahead of the encroaching dusk, but no matter how many strides she took, the shadows stretched closer. She broke into a run. Her fear feeding the gray nothingness just behind. Stumbling, she fell. Cried out for help from the one person she knew could stop the death waiting for her inside the void.

And came awake, sick and retching.

“Don’t fight it. It only makes the nausea worse.”

Fight it? Is that what he thought she was doing? No, she’d long since raised the white flag. She only wanted the floor to remain in one place and the walls to stop spinning. Then she could die in peace.

“You’re not going to die,” came the exasperated answer.

She went rigid. Had she spoken out loud? She didn’t think so. “You mean this tenth circle of hell is going to last forever?”

“Of course not. An hour or two, and you’ll be back on your feet.” Added under his breath, “I hope.”

He tucked her back under the greatcoat, the straw pallet crackling beneath her head. She shivered, curling into the heavy wool as she tried to piece together where she was. A peasant’s mud cabin. Dirt floor. A few pieces of rough furniture. The odors of sweat and dirt and animals hanging low in the room. Rain puddling in a corner. Wind rattling the door, backing smoke down the chimney.

Brendan retreated to a chair, tipping it back against the wall. Arms crossed, annoyance and frustration clouding his gaze. As if he had any right to be annoyed with her.

She wanted to scream at him. Hit him. Beat him senseless for doing this to her. This and all the other this-es he was guilty of. Instead, the room swirled around her in a mad gyration, and all she could do was seethe and count the minutes until vengeance could be hers.

“Where are we?” she asked, through chattering teeth.

“On the road between Corofin and Gort.”

That far? Even if they departed immediately, it would take hours to arrive at Dun Eyre. “How long”—she swallowed—“how long have I been here?” She couldn’t bring herself to add,
alone with you, unchaperoned
. It would only serve to emphasize the catastrophe that already loomed greater than life-size.

“Twenty-four hours, give or take.” Disgust clear in his voice.

A full day. She should be married by now. A respectable matron preparing to leave on her wedding trip to London. Instead, Gordon must be frantic. Aunt Fitz and Aunt Pheeney in a panic.

Or . . . She sucked in a horrified breath.

Aunt Fitz knew Brendan had been at Dun Eyre. Elisabeth had even joked about his ridiculous claim of stealing the bride away. Was it possible everyone believed Elisabeth had run off with Brendan? Could they imagine this had been an elopement rather than an abduction? Could her life get any worse?

Brendan rocked the chair forward with a thud. Stood to pace the cramped room, tapping a finger against his chin. “We can’t stay here much longer. If you’re not better soon,
I’m going to have to heave you aboard Onwen and take my chances on the road.”

“Heave me . . . good luck with that. I’m not going anywhere with you, except home.” Mayhap she could explain how she was called away unexpectedly, in the middle of the night, alone, in her nightgown . . . and mayhap pigs could fly. Who would believe such a ridiculous tale?

He faced her, a grim light in his eyes. An unfamiliar hardness to his features. “Believe me when I say I wish I could. But Dun Eyre isn’t safe. Máelodor’s bounty hunters are on their way there.”

Anger overpowered the tiny frisson of fear rippling up her spine. “Isn’t safe? What are you babbling about? Who’s Máelodor?”

“Someone who currently wants to take me apart piece by piece. Preferably with a dull blade.”