Lost in You (23 page)

“Are you going to tell him?”

“No, but only because there’s no reason to. The reliquary isn’t here. Conor’s taken it to the barrows. He’s given it to the
fey
for safekeeping.”

“Then it’s safe. Asher can’t get it.”

Wild hope boiled through her until Ruan’s grim face dashed her down again.

“If Asher defeats us, nothing is safe. The
Keun Marow
feed off the magic of
fey
and
Other
. Conor’s death alone would give them a strength unseen by any in our time.”

She held out a hand. “Stop!” She didn’t want the words spoken. To give her deepest fears voice was to give them control.

Conor dead. Conor as feast for those horrible, nightmarish creatures. She covered her face. Let the anguish come. Burn through her. Pass on, leaving an echo of grief she’d loose when she must. But not before she had to. Now was the time for action.

She straightened to face Ruan. “Surely, you can’t want Conor to face Asher any more than I do. Please. We have to find a better way.”

She met his eyes and saw his thought pass like a shadow over his features. She was the way. That’s what he was thinking. Her death at the quoit was the one way this could all be avoided. And yet Conor had refused. She would live on, and Conor would die to make it so.

But if he died without defeating the demon, would she have gained anything but hours—days at the most?

Her hands curled to fists. Impotent rage churned her insides. She wanted to scream.

The reliquary was the key to everything. Only how to use it to gain the greatest advantage?

A snap and a sudden sting across her palm caused her to open her fist. The bone figure lay in pieces, its head crushed from its body, pearls of blood lining her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said, knowing he would understand.

Ruan flushed, his jaw clenched, frustration darkening his eyes to slate. “So am I.”

Ellery did what she always did when in doubt; she worked. Lowenna had seen this need to keep hands and mind busy and offered space in her own sprouting herb garden.

“I’ve warned away the gardeners. You shouldn’t be interrupted. I tend this plot myself.”

When Ellery drew in a sharp, heady breath, Conor’s grandmother smiled. “Tending the earth will bring you solace. It always has for me.” She glanced up at the house, still caught in long, morning shadows. “Conor wrestles with himself. He longs for a life he sees slipping away. You can bring him back. You can hold him among us.”

“But for what? If Asher wins, there’s no life for anyone.” Ellery pushed her hair off her face with the back of one gloved hand. “And Conor’s made it clear he doesn’t want anything to do with me. I think you’ve overestimated my appeal. Or Conor’s interest.”

Lowenna offered a serene smile before departing. “Perhaps,” was all she said.

Gardening wasn’t one of Ellery’s strengths. Left alone, she dug into the earth with more enthusiasm than skill. But the solitude and the heat on her back, the spring birdsong and the gritty dirt between her fingers did more for her spinning, twisted thoughts than all the words of comfort that came before.

The sun moved higher before being swallowed by fast-moving clouds that flattened out across the sky, dull as gun-metal, their edges licked black. They crowded in, turning a bright morning into an oppressive, humid afternoon.

She stabbed at the soil, plunging her spade into the soft loam with wicked relish. It was Conor. Cousin Molly. Her father. It was everyone who’d ever underestimated her. Under-valued her. Used her for their own purposes and called it love.

She missed lunch. Hunger gnawed, but she’d prepared. Unwrapping a napkin, she laid out her cheese, her bread, two brown, wrinkled apples, leftovers from the fall. She reached an arm above her head, working the knots out. It felt good to be sore. It had been too long since the exertion of physical labor. A lifetime since she tended her own home, her own garden.

Meals. Mending. She couldn’t say she liked the chores, but they gave a sense of satisfaction she’d never realized she missed. It also made her bloody tired. A bonus. It meant she wouldn’t brood over might-have-beens and what-ifs. Wouldn’t dream of kisses that burned away the world around her, leaving her body a white-hot shell of searing heat. Wouldn’t yearn for a love that wasn’t meant to be.

Rain speckled the walk. Her apron. She raised her face to it, letting the cool drops splash over her cheeks, ease the flush of her thoughts. She shook the crumbs out, stuffed the napkin into a pocket and tossed the apple cores beneath a bush. The drizzle became steadier. The sky darker.

She’d worked most of the anger and resentment out of her system. And managed to clear a good portion of Lowenna’s garden for planting. But she wasn’t ready to go in. Wasn’t ready to face the compassion mingled with disappointment. She was too new at navigating the crosscurrents of familial feelings. Self-conscious. Awkward. And they were Conor’s family, after all. Not hers. No matter how hard they tried to include her. Make her feel as if she belonged.

Ignoring the rain, she walked away from the house. Away from the terraced gardens and then the manicured lawn. Past the rows of tall slender poplars, the heavier stands of ash and elm. Over the footbridge and beyond the ivory columned folly, abandoned slick and dripping until summer.

This track ran uphill. She’d purposefully avoided the low-lying, wooded paths Conor had led her through. This track was different. Nothing sheltered the meandering curves, only scrubby brush that huddled against the stone walls as if for protection against the wind. It blew steadily, driving the rain into her face. Taking her breath away with it when it pushed on.

Sky and ground mingled, making the top of the hill indistinguishable until she crested the rise, surprised by the suddenness of her ascent. Behind her, the roof of the house poked above the crown of trees. Before her, the track dipped steeply down. Ending at a long wide stretch of beach. The Channel beyond. All of it gray. Misted with rain. Except for the man who stood alone with his back to the water, one hand resting on a boulder, jutting from the sand. A sharp, black shape amid a swirl of fog and foam and wave.

She felt the tensing of his body from here, the way his head came up, his gaze diamond-hard and focused on her. He never moved. Never shifted from his lonely spot until even the gulls settled back among the rock-strewn beach.

She’d turn away. Pretend she hadn’t seen him.

Childish? Yes. Cowardly? Most definitely.

Still, he waited. Rain sliced across the long, elegant bones of his face, over his chest. Puddled under his boots.

What the hell. She flung up her arms in exasperation and walked down the hill to him.

Conor leaned against the rocks, arms crossed, watching the fog rolling toward shore. Trying not to watch Ellery. Gods, she was beautiful. And more amazing to him was that she knew it and didn’t care. Took it for granted.

Not in a bad way. Not in a way that made her vain or conceited. But just as if it wasn’t anything to be especially proud of. A trick of birth that she could have done without and been just as satisfied.

She stood at the water’s edge, tossing stones into the surf. The rain had passed, leaving her damp hair in ringlets, her gown clinging to every amazing curve. “The month is almost over,” she said. “Only a few days left.” She skipped a pebble twice across the wave tops before it sank.

“I know.” He tried to keep the worry from his voice. The expression on her face when she turned around showed him how badly he’d failed. “I’d hoped you wouldn’t notice.”

She grimaced, flinging the last of the stones into the sea. Wiped her hands on her apron. “Small chance of that.” Leaving the water, she joined him at the edge of the dunes. Plucked a stalk of tufted grass. Eyes downcast.

The light dimmed as the sun sank behind the clouds. It was late. They should head home. Out of the rain. But neither one made a move in that direction. Too much remained unsaid. The peace too fragile.

She hugged her arms to her body as if she were cold. “I keep thinking about how far I’ve come. Everything seems like a dream. A nightmare at times.” She paused. “I haven’t forgotten, you know.” Her words were barely more than a whisper. “I keep trying to reason myself back into hating you. Into running as far and as fast as I can.”

This was where he should tell her she was right to run. To get out. Or risk being hurt worse. But the words wouldn’t come.

Her face glowed like a flame, her eyes bright and blue and clear as the sky. “But I can’t make myself hate you,” she said. “This—what I’m doing—it’s lunacy. I know it. I’m in love with someone who’s admitted to wanting to kill me.”

Love? She loved him? A flash of heat scorched through the frozen center of his heart; the part of him that had died with Ysbel blazed back to life. Grew. Expanded until his chest ached with a new and dreadful pain.

She couldn’t love him. Shouldn’t love him. But she did. And it was so tempting to simply yield. Forget years of training and give in to this new and terrifying reality.

She stood, waiting for him to answer. Waiting for him to say something. But words weren’t enough. And he was too afraid to wrap her in his arms, taste the sweet release of kissing her, the press of her body against his. Once released, his need would take over. He’d probably panic her all over again.

Instead, he kept the excitement locked within. Gave her no reason to regret her confession. “It was never a question of wanting to kill you. And once I knew you, knew what you could be to me, the sacrifice became impossible.”

He plowed his hands through his hair to keep them busy. And off her. She had no idea what she was doing to his resolve just by standing there.

So close. So Ellery.

He closed his eyes. Breathed deep. Maybe that would calm his runaway reaction. “Say you believe me. Right after you tell me you love me again.”

“I believe you. Now. And I love you.” Her voice, low and smooth, wrapped around him. Poured through him.

His pulse galloped as every nerve in his body screamed at him to grab her, hold her, never let her go until he’d devoured every inch of her. Showed her with action what he couldn’t put into speech.

Duty and loyalty and service seemed to melt in the sweet honey of her words. Could it really be that simple? Could she really know him for what he was and still want him? The realization of her words pushed every other thought out of his mind.

He opened his eyes, and she was there. Inches away, her gaze wary and nervous, her skin flushed. Fear seemed to shadow her still. Fear of him. Of them. It was enough to stop him cold. Make him take a step back to keep the space he needed to maintain control.

“Why?” He sounded like he’d been running. Hoped she didn’t see his own emotion, so close to the surface, it radiated along his skin like lightning. “What changed?”

She frowned, her face serious, her bright eyes darkening to slate. “I thought of Glynnis. And Talan. She never understood. Never wanted to. And then it was over. He was gone, and she never got the chance to try.” She looked away, out across the water to where the fog melted into the waves. “I don’t want to end like her. Alone. Bitter.” When she swung back, there was desire in her gaze and defiant bravado. As if she faced down an enemy. “Wondering what my life would have been like had I seen past my anger.”

But even now she could end bitter and alone. He didn’t know what to say. How to answer her.

She broke the silence first. “I won’t ask if you have to do this.”

“There’s nothing for us if I don’t.”

“Scant more if you do,” she said firmly.

She left him, walked with long, purpose-filled strides away up the beach until Conor thought she might just keep going. The past few minutes, a guilt-ridden hallucination. But then she whipped around, headed back. Gone was the hesitant vulnerability. In its place was the Ellery of past battles. Determined. Focused. Scary as hell when she got that certain light in her eye.

“Is that the only reason you face him? Or is it something more? Something personal.” Her eyes flicked down to his pocket. Back to his face. She didn’t wait for his answer. “Is there really no other way?”

“I’ve searched the records—the teachings—for any scrap. I even questioned the
fey
themselves.”

Her doubt was slight, but he caught it in the widening of her eyes. The way she stood. Since meeting him, she’d seen things she would have scoffed away as fantasy only weeks earlier. But a part of her obviously still found it impossible. Fought her new reality. “They won’t help?” she said, finally.

“They reminded me I already had the one thing that could send Asher back.”

“Me.”

“Exactly.”

She let out her breath in a whoosh of air. “In sparing my life, you risk your own.”

“It’s the only way.”

She fisted her hands, brought them up as if she wanted to strike out, a savage helplessness glazing her features. “Why?” she shouted. But her words weren’t meant for him. She hurled them at the sky. The sea. The ones he knew were listening unseen. “Why does it have to be this way? Why can’t you fight your own battles? Leave us out of it.”

No answer. He didn’t expect one. But this time he ignored his better judgment and took her into his arms. Stroked her hair. Let her cry for the injustice.

And not once did she pull away. Not once was she afraid of him.

Ellery had gone looking for Conor three times today. And been turned away again and again. He was riding the boundaries with Jamys. Conferring with Ruan and Morgan. With his mother and not to be disturbed.

Now another day was gone. That left two until Beltane. And she’d seen him for a total of half an hour over breakfast with the entire clan in attendance. Not exactly a place for sharing confidences—or kisses—and she wanted both. Dinner wouldn’t be any better. The whole family would be there. Laughing, chatting, pretending everything was all right.

It was going to be hell.

She climbed the stairs on her way to dress for dinner. Her chamber was bathed in a somber evening light, the drapes not yet drawn, the fire not yet lit. Her window stood open to a cool, mellow breeze. A small victory after hours of argument with maids who refused to believe an open window wouldn’t lead straight to lung rot. She’d told Conor once she appreciated walls, but parts of her still needed a rush of wind and open space. A wing chair was drawn up close to the casement, its back to her. A crawly feeling snaked up her spine, and she shivered, pulling her shawl close around her.

Someone was there.

She froze, ready to turn and run. Then the figure stirred, grunted, and let out a growly half-snore. Ellery’s shoulders relaxed, her stomach unknotted. She approached the chair, bending over a napping Conor, his elbow on the chair’s arm, his head resting on his hand.

She touched his shoulder. Whispered his name. His reaction was instant and dramatic. “
Andraste magla. Gwydion kompella. Bligh fetha!
” His eyes flew open, sleep still clouding their depths. Grabbing her wrist, he pulled her roughly against him. One arm shot up and around her neck, choking her. Her shawl slid to the floor.

She had a moment’s flash of terror before he came fully awake.

He gasped, cursed, his movements now just as violent. He released her, flinging himself out of the chair. Putting the space of the room between them. His chest heaved. His hands shook. Horror filled his face.

“Gods forgive me.” He dragged in a deep, ragged breath. Let it out. “I haven’t slept in days. You startled me.” He rubbed his hands down the sides of his breeches. “Damn it. I swear, Ellery. On my life, I didn’t know it was you.”

Her initial shock had ended before it blossomed into full-bore panic. But Conor’s apologies continued. “If I…I didn’t hurt you. Tell me I didn’t hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me. Really.” She stepped toward him, but he stiffened. Backed up.

This was ridiculous. They could circle each other all night. She crossed the room, grabbing him before he could dodge away again. “For pity’s sake, Conor. I’m fine.”

He shuddered, his shoulders slumped, his head lowered in defeat. “Do you see now why I need to face him?”

She frowned. Where was this going?

He straightened, his expression grim. “Even if Asher no longer sought you. Even if he released all claim on the reliquary. Hell, if he planned henceforth on a peaceful life of growing potatoes, I’d still meet him on the Beltane Sabbath. We’ve no life until he’s gone.”

She glanced down at his hands. The long, wide fingers, the callused palms. The strength in them. The violence.

“You’ll always wonder,” he said. “In the most secret corners of your heart, you’ll always question whether I could kill you if left with no other choice.”

“No.” She covered her ears. She didn’t want to hear this.

“That’s why I’ll climb to the quoit and draw on the power there to destroy him once and for all.” He pulled her hands away. Made her listen. “If I don’t, the questions will gnaw bit by bit. And rip us apart in the end.”

Hot tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. But her body seemed lighter, a weight she hadn’t understood suddenly lifted from her shoulders. She offered him a brave smile. “I may not like it, but I understand a warrior’s sense of responsibility.”

He gathered her against him as if she were fine crystal. “And as you’ve pointed out to me before, I’m a good little soldier.”

She sniffled into his shirt. “A few days from now, you’d better be the best.”

Amusement filled his tawny eyes. The hard, empty ruthlessness replaced with a new calm. It sent her bruised heart flip-flopping. Emotions slammed her from all sides. And then he kissed her. Just a gentle brushing of his lips across hers. A quick taste when she wanted to feast.

She moved into his embrace.

His hesitation was barely noticeable. A tensing of his shoulders, a hitch in his breathing, but it was enough. This unease between them had to end. And it was up to her.

She caught his head, brought it down to take his mouth in a confident kiss of persuasion.

He held back, dropping his arms stiffly to his side, somehow afraid to enjoy what she offered.

Desire raged through her, so forceful there was no time for tenderness or even words. What should have taken months and weeks had been distilled down to a few days. And the breath-taking, runaway emotions of love, passion, exasperation, and affection reduced to their basic elements. Come together at this heady moment. “Don’t you dare hold back. Not now,” she said.

His gaze was flat. Unconvinced. “Mayhap it’s best if—” Putting a finger to his lips, she whispered, “Don’t say it. Don’t say anything.” She backed him toward the bed, tripping him down onto it. Straddling him so that her skirts rode up around her thighs. She wouldn’t give him a choice.

Conor groaned as she popped the buttons on his breeches, as she hiked her gown further up to her waist. He opened his mouth to speak, but the glare she gave him stopped his words. Made his lips curve in a surrender smile.

Her kiss melted into his kiss, and then he was the one taking from her, his tongue, his teeth, his hands, his reluctance replaced by an impatience that startled her with its ferocity.

A quick shift, a slide of his fingers and hot liquid pleasure filled her. It was raw and wild and frenzied. She threw her head back, grinding against him, anything to extend the pulsing agony of his touch. Then his fingers were gone, and she moaned with the ache of his leaving.

But not for long.

He wrenched her gown aside with a ping of lost buttons, and her shift fluttered after. Flipping her onto her stomach, he licked down her spine, over the swell of her buttocks, between her thighs.

She squirmed beneath the onslaught of hands and mouth, wanting more yet not wanting what he was doing to end, but he held her firm, wouldn’t allow her to escape.

This wasn’t the gentle lovemaking of their first joining. This was a demand for surrender. Nothing less would satisfy him. Cupping his hand between her legs, he let her feel the hard ridge of his erection nestled at her rear. Rubbed against her in a provocative invitation to things forbidden.

She closed her eyes, arching her back to let him know she was more than willing.

He leaned forward, the pressure of his cock awakening wicked fantasies. Reaching up, he kneaded her breast through the fabric of her gown.

She groaned, the sinful crush of his hot, sweaty skin, his short, rapid breaths creating an exquisite torture that swept through her, pooling in her center.

He dragged her onto her hands and knees, his fingers deep inside her, his body covering her own. She threw her head back, her breaths coming in sharp, rapid bursts. Broke her own rule by speaking. “Take me. Now.” Her voice was husky with anticipation.

His dirty-sexy laugh sizzled along every raw nerve. Then he was guiding himself into her from behind. Holding her firmly back against him. Her arms gave out as he plunged into her again and again. Filling every inch, her muscles contracting tight around him. The violent domination heightened every sensation. Exposed every sinful secret. She fisted the bedcovers, stifling her sounds of pleasure in the thick quilts. Just as she teetered on the edge, the sharp kicks of delicious heat twisting through her, Conor pulled out. Rolled her over.

Poised above her, he paused to let her gaze rake his body. Come to rest at his groin. It was obvious he wasn’t finished with her. Just seeing his erect shaft made her heart slam the blood through her body in eager expectation. He was dazzling, with the lithe suppleness and chained strength of the hunter in every sliding muscle. And she was easy prey. His eyes glowed pale yellow, his gaze unfocused with a brutal hunger that excited her. She throbbed with unfulfilled need. So close and yet…

He held her captive, refusing to release her hands, ignoring her low whimpers of wanting as he moved over her, nipping, sucking, lapping the curves and corners of her body until every sense was alive, every inch of her skin aroused to his touch. She closed her eyes, but lights danced in front of her, burst around her.

When he finally parted her legs and drove into her again, she closed around him, rose up to meet him. He thrust over and over, forcing her to his rhythm as the sweet flood of heat between her legs swelled and moved out along her nerves until she was consumed by it. Until she shattered into a million pieces.

Aftershocks spiraled through her, blind tremors of ecstasy that faded to be replaced by another and another as she fell.

His body flexed against hers. The muscles in his neck stood out, his arms hardened around her. He shuddered, groaned, and laid his head on her shoulder. They remained that way for long moments as their breathing slowed, their pulses quieted. A breeze from the open window pebbled her damp flesh, but she was too tired to move.

Conor never spoke, and though he shifted his weight off of her, he kept his face averted, his thoughts shielded.

From far-off, a dinner gong sounded.

She sank further into the bed. Closed her eyes. Like she thought, this was going to be hell.

Conor sat motionless, his gaze trained on the glowing embers of a dying fire, an untouched tumbler of whisky at his elbow. The heavy shadows of the study wrapped round him like a winding sheet, but he made no move to toss on another log or light a candle. He enjoyed the dark. Found comfort in it.

The door opened behind him, throwing a slice of dim, flickery light across his shoulder. “Wedding jitters?” His father’s arrival banished the ghosts, ripped through Conor’s shrouded thoughts with the perceptive edge of familiarity.

Conor thought of Ellery, upstairs asleep. An ache started low in his chest, burned up his throat, clamped his skull in a vise-like grip. Why now? Why had he found this precious gift now, only to have it snatched away? He focused back on the fire. Asking these same questions over and over for hours had gotten him nowhere. Call it fate. Irony. Cosmic humor.

“She’ll make a good Bligh, Conor,” his father said. “Strong. Clever. And with a sense of humor if I’m not mistaken.”

“She hasn’t had much chance to use it these last days.” Mikhal honored Conor’s need for darkness. Snuffing out his candle, he eased himself into a chair. Sighed. “No. Joy has been lacking, but we’ll make up for it. Tomorrow, no glum faces. It’s a celebration.” He locked Conor in a steady penetrating stare, his tone serious. “Your mother tells me what you plan.”

Conor stiffened. “I told her not to speak of it to anyone.”

“I’m not anyone. I’m her husband. And you are my son. She shouldn’t have to bear this knowledge alone.”

“It’s the only chance I have to meet and match Asher.” Conor braced for an argument that didn’t come.

“Have you told Ellery what you’ve decided?” His father’s shrewd gaze was relentless.

Conor’s breath came quicker. The tightness in his chest spread to his whole body.

“Ellery will mourn me as dead and move on. You must never tell her otherwise. It would bind her when freedom would serve her better.”

“She doesn’t strike me as the kind you need to shelter from the facts.”

His hands gripped the arms of his chair. “Promise me, Father,” he leaned forward, the words coming in almost a hiss of breath, “promise me she shall never know. I don’t want her to wait for a husband,” he paused, “or fear a beast.”

As if he’d used up all his energy in that one long stare-down, his father sagged back against the cushions. Looked to the fire. “I’ll say nothing.”

First Ysbel. Soon it would be him. His parents would lose both children in a span of years. And both deaths could be laid at his feet. They may not blame him for Ysbel’s murder, but that didn’t mean he’d absolved himself. His mother had been pale but calm as he’d explained his plans. His father, too, seemed drained of any emotion. As if they’d passed the point where heartache and sorrow could touch them. It was a relief, even if it was surprising.

“You see why I must do this?”

His father’s gaze flicked up, the fire mirrored in his solemn eyes. “We knew when you joined the ranks of
amhas-draoi
that your life was no longer ours. We did our grieving then. Your mother and I trust your judgment in matters of magic and war.” He gave a tired smile. “It is only in matters of the heart we feel you may need some guidance.”

The silence between them was grave, but peaceful. There was no more to be said. His father knew how Conor felt. And though he’d lost faith in the last year, Conor had always known the steadfastness of his father’s love.

So when Mikhal spoke, it startled Conor back from his thoughts. “Do you wish for a child between you?”

He took a moment to shake off the fog of waking dreams. “In my head, I pray that she remains barren. A new man may think twice before saddling himself with a dead man’s whelp.”

“And your heart?”

“That’s easy. I want her to have a child so in years to come when memory has faded the sharp edges of her anguish, she might remember me.”

“She’ll do that regardless.”

Conor thought of the time he’d wasted holding himself back from her. Of the sorrow and grief she’d experience in the days ahead. Of everything he’d put her through from the moment he’d burst into her life, soaked and half-dead.

A log collapsed, sending up a shower of sparks. “Perhaps,” he replied. “Perhaps not. And which would be better, I cannot say.”