Lord of Shadows (18 page)

“I’ll see you soon.” He released her, shocking her out of the moment.

“Promise me?” Challenge in her tone.

He did not—or could not—answer.

Daigh tossed back his wine. Poured another from the bottle left by the publican. Sought to gather the lost pieces of his life. Hywel. Caernarvon. Sabrina might not have known the significance of those tossed words, but he did. She had triggered a cascade of images. Two lives sliding simultaneously through his fractured mind.

A man honor bound to his prince and liege lord, whose mixed lineage made him an asset to Gwynedd’s court.

A man slave bound to a gnarled, haggard master-mage with a malicious nature whose hands dealt excruciating pain. Whose mouth spewed mind-twisting poison.

Máelodor. The
Other
who’d unearthed his bones. Had pulled his spirit from the abyss of
Annwn
and bound him once more to this plane as a
Domnuathi,
a soldier of Domnu. To a life splintered and broken where memories brought with them body crushing pain, and where a dark force always lurked just beyond his consciousness. An evil that was both a part of him and a way to control him.

The black rage had almost conquered him this afternoon. His nightmare come true. Lancelot, or as he now discovered, St. John with Sabrina. The whoreson touching her arm. Whispering his nauseating filth in her ear. Close enough to steal her away to be used as bait.

Seeing them together nearly destroyed every wall he’d struggled to build between sanity and the howling storm of madness. Awakened his killer instinct, narrowing his vision to a pinprick, icing over a soul black with hate.

What had pulled him from the brink? What had fed the demons pursuing him, allowing him to escape?

He closed his fingers over the lacing of scars across his palm. Pushed himself back from the table to stand.

A memory. A dream. A precious moment from a life that couldn’t have happened.

Sabrina.

This time the misshapen dwarf barely cracked the door open before tossing him a belligerent scowl. “Lord Kilronan’s still not at home.”

“I know,” Daigh said, jamming his foot in the door before the man could slam it shut. “It’s Lady Sabrina I want. Tell her Daigh MacLir calls for her.”

He might as well have told the man to strip naked and paint himself blue. He eyed him like a disease.

“Lady Sabrina’s not at home,” he answered in an imperious tone. “But even if she were, she’s certainly not available to persons what look as if they’re straight from Newgate.”

Daigh’s temper flared. “It’s urgent.”

The man stood his ground, though his voice came shakier than before. “Urgent or not, if I was to let every
Tom, Dick, and Harry in here what says they know my lady, I’d soon be out of a position.”

It wouldn’t take more than a mere shove to propel himself inside. But what if the man spoke the truth and Sabrina had gone out for the evening. He’d gain nothing and be worse off than if he withdrew gracefully and tried again later.

Removing his boot, Daigh said, “Thank you for your help,” not even trying to hide his sarcasm.

The dwarf snorted. Slammed the door. Slid the bolt home with a resounding thud.

So much for coming in by the front door.

He stared up at the town house. A light shone from an upper window, but the lower floors remained dark. A narrow alley ran beside the house. Stairs led down to a locked door. An iron gate—unlatched—beyond which shrubbery crowded in a tiny patch of garden at the back of the house.

Light from a second-floor window threw squares of yellow across the lawn. Thick vines climbed a trellis along the back wall, a few summer roses still faded and clinging.

He withdrew silently.

But he’d be back.

Half asleep, she rose from bed, drawn to the window by an undefined apprehension. The icy floorboards chilled her fully awake, the sharp air she inhaled pulling her from the last of her dreams.

Crossing the room, she tried ignoring the troupe of cherubs cavorting upon her mantel and the winged Hermes in perpetual flight upon her desk. But Aunt Delia’s odd bent in objets d’art only seemed to emphasize the world Sabrina had been shoved into against her will. A world as
alien to her now as if she’d never been born into it. Never known the life of the earl’s daughter. Only the
bandraoi
apprentice.

The city seemed to rise around her. Hemming her in. Drowning her out. So many voices. So many feelings. Humming and buzzing through her mind like an angry swarm of bees.

Pushing the heavy drapes aside, she stared down into the garden. Leaves clung to the slippery wet branches of the trees despite the stiff wind. A cat yowled its desire to be let in. Raucous laughter echoed up and down the street from a few young bucks making a late night of it.

She felt as if she were shrinking with each hour that passed. Stepping back to the time when she couldn’t speak without stuttering. Couldn’t move without stumbling. Couldn’t exist without feeling that every eye was upon her, waiting for her next embarrassing misstep. Even the fingernail moon riding low in the west seemed to wink at her in disdain.

The days spent in Aunt Delia’s company hadn’t detracted from that feeling. Only intensified it. Her aunt’s greatest pleasure seeming to be ripping family and friends to shreds over the evening meal.

Tonight for instance.

Jane had smiled and eaten, now and then shooting Sabrina glances of shared amusement. Mouthing the word “rabble” at inconvenient intervals. But beyond that, she’d been absolutely no help in deflecting Aunt Delia’s attention or breaking into the one-sided chatter—her aunt more than able to hold up all sides of any conversation.

Just as well. Sabrina’s mind swung from thought to thought like a pendulum, catching a comment here and
there while wrestling with the echoes of her last conversation with Daigh.

Aunt Delia recounted Aidan’s wife’s less-than-stellar origins . . .

“A brewer’s stepdaughter of all things, darling.”

Did Kilronan mention Brendan Douglas?

The scandal with an as-yet-unnamed gentleman that sparked her fall from Society . . .

“Some say she was actually with child, though I don’t countenance such vulgarity. Aidan would never tarnish his family’s name by marrying another man’s whore.”

What do you know of Brendan?

The rumors about her lost years that included, of all ridiculous charges, life as a thief in the employ of a murdered archrogue . . .

“They say he was slaughtered. Not enough pieces left of him to bury.”

Stay away from St. John.

Aidan’s besotted love that had exiled him to the remote reaches of Belfoyle where Lady Kilronan’s lack of social entrée wouldn’t be an issue . . .

“Not seen him since Kilronan House burned. Married by the village priest. No family present. Not even a proper wedding breakfast.”

Don’t talk to him. Don’t trust him.

By the time the servants had removed the dessert course, Sabrina’s sympathies lay squarely in Lady Kilronan’s camp. And she almost looked forward to meeting the colorful and much-maligned countess. Anyone who could ruffle Aunt Delia’s feathers couldn’t be all bad.

Still, it made Sabrina acutely aware of the scrutiny she’d undergo while under her aunt’s chaperonage. What on earth
would happen if Daigh showed up here? Would it be better if he didn’t?

She shivered, recalling the warmth of his touch, his full, sensual lips, his hard, brutal beauty. She swallowed around the knot in her throat as heat pooled low in her stomach. And most important, how would she handle her growing attraction to a man whose past intruded into her mind with the clarity of memory?

I’ll see you soon.

What unknown force brought them together?

What unknown link bound them together?

And what unknown trouble would they face together?

For trouble was coming. She felt it in the crisp November breeze. In the flutter of blood beneath her skin.

She dropped the drapes back into place over the window. Crossed to the desk. And, scowling at winged Hermes, opened her journal. Put pen to paper in an attempt to fight off the realization that what she’d taken for the storm had only been the calm before the tempest yet to come.

The wall, the trellis, and poorly pointed brickwork. Daigh was in.

Sabrina’s scent hung in the air. A dying fire glowed red in the grate. The bed a jumble of gray against the darker shadows.

He took a step farther into the room, and the world exploded behind his eyes. His legs crumpling. The floor rushing up to meet him.

“You!” Sabrina hissed.

He rolled over, touching his head. His fingers coming away sticky. “Bloody hell, woman. Are you crazed?”

She glared down at him, still holding the heavy marble
statue she’d used to crack him over the skull. “I’m not the one breaking into a lady’s bedchamber in the middle of the night.”

Already regretting the reckless impulse bringing him here, he shoved himself up onto an elbow, wincing against the room’s dizzy whirl. “You asked me to come.”

“Not like a thief in the night. That’s twice now you’ve nearly frightened me out of my wits.”

“I needed to see you.”

“You’ve certainly managed that.” She cinched her robe closed more firmly around her waist, but it only highlighted the shapely curve of her hips, the smooth skin showing above the collar of her shift, hair atumble down her back, wisps framing the narrow oval of her face. The fire reflecting in her eyes like flames upon a dark sea.

Her face haunted his memories. He’d caressed the silk of her cheeks, kissed her sensual lips, caused laughter to brighten her eyes.

Why did he remember her this way? Was he going mad? Was he already there?

“If my aunt finds you here . . .” Her gaze darted toward the door.

He shoved his thoughts away. They brought him nowhere. Whatever past he recalled, it was one he could never recover. Whatever woman he remembered was naught but dust. “She won’t. If you disarm, we can talk. Then I’ll leave. No one will know I was here.”

She eyed the statue uncertainly. Placed it on a nearby table, though within reach.

He dragged himself upright, the room staying comfortingly in one place. He touched his scalp. No bleeding and barely a bump. This hadn’t been the wisest of plans. But it had gotten him inside. And with Sabrina. Alone.

He ground his jaw. Refused to let his mad sexual fantasies get in the way. He needed information. That was all. Nothing else.

He inhaled a shaky breath.

“I didn’t hurt you too badly, did I?” Eying him contritely, she fiddled with the tie of her robe.

“Nothing permanent.” He grimaced.

“Of course.” Her voice sharpened. “Then you can explain why you broke into my bedchamber.”

Pacing a few steps, he leaned against the mantel. Stared into the slumbering fire. “Tell me about Brendan.” She gave a little gasp. He whirled to face her. “Then I’ll tell you what I
can
.”

Her gaze narrowed at his choice of phrase, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she dropped into a chair. Her profile etched in soft charcoal lines. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything. Everything.”

She shook her head as if it pained her. “He disappeared seven years ago just before my father’s murder. But—”

“Murder?”

She flashed him a scorching glare. “My father was executed by the
Amhas-draoi
.”

He jerked in his seat, a flush of heat then cold queasing him from head to foot.

Did you really think you could win against an
Amhas-draoi?

Lancelot’s taunt curled up from a corner where he’d shoved the man’s predatory sexuality. The scouring taste of his mouth crushed to his. The nerve-disrupting blast of magic that had left Daigh praying for death amid his own vomit.

Sabrina continued, unaware of Daigh’s struggle against the cloying chilly sweat. Still with her eyes locked on her
lap. Her words lacking any emotion as if she spoke of strangers. “Father and his associates were hunted down and executed.”

Were Máelodor and St. John after Douglas as part of some
Amhas-draoi
operation? No, couldn’t be. They’d been too wary of discovery. And St. John had spoken of their plan.
Other
dominance. The Nine.

He followed a hunch. “Did Máelodor suffer the same fate?”

She looked up. A line between her brows. “I’ve never heard that name.” She gave a slight shake of her head.

A roadblock. He detoured. “What were your father and his friends doing to have the
Amhas-draoi
after them?”

“Daigh, tell me what’s going on?”

“I will, but first—what were they planning? What crimes did they commit that ended in a death sentence?”

She subsided, but fear finally stole over her face. “The
Amhas-draoi
came to me at Glenlorgan. They asked me questions. Over and over until I wanted to scream. Then they told me horrible stories of Father and Brendan. I didn’t want to believe them, but they said they had proof.”

Daigh watched as the past took hold of her. Her body fading into the dark as if hoping none would find her there. The world and the memories might pass her by.