Heir of Danger (36 page)

“So, what went wrong? Why kidnap us if you have the stone?”

“They wouldn’t listen to me. The bounty on Douglas is triple what a normal man can make in a lifetime. Máelodor wants him, stone or no stone.”

“And me?”

Rogan shook his head. “They took you as security. If Douglas tries anything, it’ll be you that suffers.”

Elisabeth swallowed. Somehow she’d known that already, but hearing Rogan say it only cemented it like a weight in her chest, pinning her to the floor, feeding the whirl of her thoughts. More than anything, she wanted to
burst into copious amounts of weeping and wallowing, but she refused to give Rogan the satisfaction.

Clamping down on the impulse to blubber, she asked, “Do you know where they’re taking us?” hoping the squeak in her voice wasn’t audible.

“Cornwall. We’ll be there by dawn tomorrow.”

A roar of sound exploded the night. Screams and running feet and shouts of command followed just as another whistling explosion pummeled the air, knocking her hard against the hull, sending dust drifting into her eyes.

Rogan threw himself to his feet as someone came half falling, half leaping into the hold, righting himself at the last instant to land crouched, ferocity washing off him in waves.

Brendan. Awash in blood, his eyes seeking her like blazes of wild light. A thin slash began at the top of his left cheekbone, ending by his chin. A second, uglier score marred the side of his neck.

“Lissa!” he shouted.

A cannon’s bellow, this time coming from above. The captain was firing back at their attackers. Could it be Helena? Could she have found them so quickly?

The ship seemed to shake with exertion, sails cracking like gunshots, the hull creaking threateningly. Brendan used the distraction to throw himself at Rogan, who leveled his gun at Brendan’s chest, startling him to a halt. “Kill me, you lose your best hope for keeping Miss Elisabeth safe.”

“The stone?” Brendan demanded with an icy menace even Elisabeth found chilling, and it wasn’t even directed at her. “Where’s the damned stone, Rogan? Tell me it’s safe. Tell me Helena has it still.”

Rogan flinched but did not weaken, the rightness of his cause trumping his obvious fear. “I have it.”

Elisabeth hadn’t thought Brendan could grow any more frightening. She was wrong. Something bloodthirsty entered his gaze. Something that held nothing of humanity, as if the
Fey
in him had taken over. Yet this was no shimmery, ethereal splendor but a heartless, implacable brutality. Elisabeth was reminded of the image in the scrying glass—the heir of Kilronan watching as evil was unleashed. This was a man capable of murder. Of malice.

“You son of a bastard—the Sh’vad Tual is all Máelodor needs to open the tomb and complete the summoning.”

Rogan’s eyes darted wildly in the flickering glow of the lantern, both his gun and his voice shaking as he responded. “Exactly. The king will finally return. The
Other
will have the leader they need to defeat the
Duinedon
.”

“It won’t happen, Rogan. It’s impossible. I’ve seen it. Arthur doesn’t succeed.”

A boom, and then another. This time the echoing crack of thunder, the slice of lightning. Above the din rose what must be the captain’s voice in a slow, chanting lilt. Winds rose. The ship lifted up and over before dropping into the trough of undulating waves.

Elisabeth banged her head as she fought to hold herself upright. Grabbing hold of one of the ropes lashing the barrels to keep from sliding in the murky sludge rolling back and forth over the floor of the hold, she sidled a step closer toward Rogan. With his attention all on Brendan, she might find a chance to grab the gun or at least turn its aim from the center of Brendan’s chest.

Brendan’s words cut the air like a blade. “The
Other
will fail, and when they do,
Duinedon
vengeance will be swift and merciless. They’ll not allow such a threat to continue to exist.”

“A risk I’ll take if it means the chance for a life lived free of harassment,” Rogan argued.

Elisabeth inched her way forward, palms burning every time the ship heeled over and her hands slid painfully along the rope. Three feet. Two.
Keep him busy, Brendan. Keep him talking.

“And Daz?” Brendan growled. “The old man. Did you kill him? Can we add his life to the list of those you’ve torn apart?”

Rogan’s face tightened. Brendan was losing him. It wouldn’t take much for him to pull the trigger. “The old man’s alive. At least, he should be. I left him unconscious but breathing. More mercy than he’d have received at
their
hands.”

Elisabeth was there. She need only lunge to her right and she could knock Rogan off balance.

She never got the chance.

Brendan’s face seemed to shine, his eyes shimmering burnished gold and bronze and amber. Hard. Pitiless. He lifted a hand, flicking his fingers forward.

Rogan doubled over, retching. His body jerking as seizures tremored through him.

Brendan’s gaze swept toward her, the horrible power in his eyes stripping her raw. “Come. Quickly.”

Letting go of the rope, she crabbed her way around Rogan, making it halfway to the ladder before the harper grabbed her ankle. Her feet slipped out from under her at a heaving rush of storm waves, and she felt herself falling. Her head slammed against the barrels, her side hit the edge of a crate, her knees banged hard on the floor.

In the wild swing of the lantern, she glimpsed bodies, heard shouts, a gunshot. Someone grabbed her around the
waist, another slapped her hard enough across the cheek to throw spots into her eyes. She heard the thunk of fist meeting flesh over and over, and by the time she wiped the tears away, Brendan was on the floor, and a knife had been pressed cold against her throat.

Rogan struggled to rise over Brendan’s slumped and bloodied body, voice hoarse, hands shaking. “You say hell will be the refuge, Douglas. But you’re already there.”

Brendan looked up through one glittering eye, the other one swelling shut. “No, Rogan. You’ve no idea. My hell hasn’t even begun. Nor has yours.”

“Get him out of here,” shouted one of the men.

The winds had dropped from a hurricane scream and the nauseating pitch and roll of the waves had eased. Thunder still rumbled and bounced over the water, but no longer did the bark of cannon fire sear the air. The storm must have separated pursuer from pursued. The hope of rescue vanished.

Two sailors grabbed Brendan beneath the arms, dragging him up and out of the hold.

The man watched before turning back to Rogan and Elisabeth. “That happens again and I don’t care what you say, Rogan. I’ll let Quick’s boys do whatever they wish with her. Do you hear?”

The harper nodded sullenly, following him out. The heavy scrape of the grille pulled across the hatchway like the closing of a coffin.

Alone, Elisabeth curled once more into her corner, unable to stop the slow leak of tears.

Her whole life, she’d avoided asking the questions.

Yet the answers had come.

And there was no going back for any of them.

Croker had come twice with his knife. Each time leaving Brendan shaken and bloody. A hairline slash down his neck. A razored scoring of his upper arm. Death by a thousand cuts.

The last visit had been a few hours ago, or so it seemed. He’d closed his eyes in a vain attempt at sleep, but his mind spun through plot after plan. He’d have a small window of opportunity once they came ashore. He needed to be ready when the time came.

The ship remained taut, the water slapping and curling against the hull. Winds steady and southwesterly. No return of the mage storm. They must have outdistanced their attacker to the point the captain felt safe in resuming only subtle nudges to the weather. Enough to keep them on course. Not enough to exhaust him should he need to call the power down again.

Brendan’s heart lurched at the sound of a key turning in the lock. Croker back for more?

He fought at the cords binding his hands behind his back, his ankles to the chair until his wrists burned and his bones felt as if they’d been pulled loose, but there was not even the slightest give in the knots. They’d not risk his escape from the cabin again.

The door swung open on the shuttered flame of a lantern. The light splashing up onto Rogan’s drawn and tired features, his eyes bleary and uncertain.

Brendan’s gaze narrowed, his jaw clenched against the curse forming on his lips. Whatever his crimes, Rogan was right. He was all that stood between Lissa and the crew’s lust. Brendan needed the harper alive. Better yet, if Brendan could convince Rogan of his mistake, perhaps he’d be a powerful ally at the moment of decision.

Rogan hung the lantern from a peg above the table. He sat across from Brendan, his eyes widening at Croker’s handiwork, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously as he ran a finger over the scarred tabletop, clearing his throat. “Elisabeth is well. I wanted to let you know I’ve seen to it they stay away from her.”

Brendan had tried closing his mind to what might be happening to Lissa, but at Rogan’s assurances, he felt the throbbing pain in his temples and the tightness in his chest ease.

“You said you’d scryed what the future held,” Rogan continued, his voice thready in the tense silence between them. “What Arthur’s return would mean for the
Other
. What have you seen?”

Brendan closed his eyes, the backs of his lids dancing red with flames. A spreading, suffocating pressure building up through him as the stone drew closer to its destination. “Arthur is cursed, Rogan. His reign fated to fail. I’ve seen the battle’s end. Arthur is defeated. The
Other
lie scattered and destroyed. There is no return of a golden age. Only fire and death and ruin.”

Rogan’s lips pressed to a thin white line. “I don’t believe it. Arthur was a great and glorious king. His power almost rivaled that of the
Fey
themselves. He couldn’t possibly fail against a horde of weak and powerless
Duinedon
. They won’t have a choice. They’ll be forced to live with us in peace.”

“A peace bought with so many innocent dead is no peace. It’s tyranny. With Máelodor at its head. And Arthur his slave-born puppet.”

“You lie.”

“If you’re so certain, why did you come? I don’t think you’re as confident of your convictions as you pretend.”
He paused, trying to gauge the man’s mood. “Does Lyddy know where you are?” Brendan ventured.

“Leave her out of this. She’s not involved.”

“Neither was Elisabeth,” Brendan answered quietly.

Rogan blanched. “Enough talking.” He rose, fumbling uneasily with his pipe. “We’ll be arriving off Cornwall in a few hours.”

Brendan nearly choked on the request he was about to make, but he’d had too long to dwell on the possibilities to leave this one unaccounted for. “Then time runs out. I would ask a favor from one I thought of as a friend and one whom I think still could be.”

Rogan turned back, the lantern swinging wildly in his hand. “I won’t free you.”

“I don’t ask for myself, but for Lissa. See to it she’s kept safe after. You understand what I’m trying to say: after. And if you’re able to, escort her to Belfoyle. She’ll be sheltered there if the worst should happen and war begins.”

Rogan’s face seemed to sag, and he looked as if he might speak, but he merely nodded before departing, the key once more scratching in the lock, the darkness crowding back in on Brendan like closing walls.

He swallowed back his fear. He’d been here before. Surely nothing could be worse than St. John’s repulsive advances, his degradation, his power-mad sexuality that had left Brendan retching and sickened with his own body.

He closed his eyes, willing a calm he did not feel. The words burned up through him. Buried themselves in his brain. A whisper on the wind. An echo in the water.

It is my curse and my fate. What can mere mortals do against that? What can you do?

He lowered his head. His curse and his fate.

What could he do?

Alone had meant safe. Alone had meant deadly. But alone had also meant alone. He’d weakened and this had been the outcome. He’d sought to outrun his curse and his fate. Had only succeeded in pulling his ruin down on Elisabeth as well.

A rough shake of her shoulder dragged Elisabeth awake. Rubbing her sticky eyes, she peered up into Rogan’s anxious, sweating face. Milky gray light spilled from the open hatch, the air damp and drizzly. The ship rocked softly, no sound to break into the quiet birdsong and murmured lap of water against the hull.

“We’re going ashore,” he said.

“Where’s Brendan?” she asked. Anger holding her fear in check—barely.

“Topside.”

He pulled her to her feet, skirts sodden, stockings clinging uncomfortably to her legs. She tried pinning her hair up in a quick knot, but the damp had caused her curls to frizz into an untameable mess and a crick in her neck made turning her head painful.

Rogan gave a grunt of impatience, and Elisabeth surrendered, shoving the heavy wild mass back over her shoulders.

“How is he?”

“A bit the worse for wear, but still ornery as an ox. If he’s not careful, Croker’ll forget and stick him just to keep him quiet.”