Lost in You (16 page)

“Answers,” he said. “Is there another way to reseal the reliquary? A way that doesn’t involve fulfilling the blood curse? The
fey
must know.”

“But you have said you have the one who must be sacrificed. Why do you seek another way?”

Conor’s heart quickened, his hands clenched into fists at his side. “I would spare an innocent if I could. It’s not her crime that she’s paying for with her life.”

Aeval’s reaction was instant. She sat up, her hands gripping the pony’s mane so cruelly that it tossed its head. Her eyes snapped with anger. Even the men accompanying her stepped back. “Her?” she said. “That is what this is about? You wish to spare your lover the knife?”

He didn’t allow himself a reaction. That’s what Aeval wanted. Instead, he took a deep breath. Let it out slowly before he spoke again. “Only a trick of birth sends her down this path. Please. If you know of another way, tell me.”

She sneered. “The great Conor Bligh begging? The most powerful
Other
to walk among mortals in ten generations is pleading for his latest bedsport? You demean yourself—and me,
amhas-draoi
. Must I remind you where your loyalties lie? There is no other way. If you are to put an end to Asher’s threat, you must sacrifice the woman.” She yanked her pony’s head around to leave. Her silent companions moved with her. “You’re all that stands between Asher and the destruction he plans for Mortal and
fey
. Don’t fail us, Bligh.”

He clamped his jaw tight, holding back the yell of rage that burned his throat. Never had he fought so hard to remain in control. Never had the burden of his power been so great.

“Wait,” he called, almost forgetting the other reason he had for coming here. “Glynnis Bligh, Talan’s lady-wife. She was found dead near here this morning. Did you see anything? Did anyone among you?”

Aeval paused. Bending to converse silently with the other two, she twisted in her saddle to look back at him. “Sometimes discovering the truth about the one you love is painful,
amhas-draoi
. And sometimes it kills.”

She threw her head back and laughed as the shimmers overtook them and the hill closed, leaving him standing alone among the barrows with only the wind for company.

It was intolerable. All of it. The growing heat. The vile human form he wore. The whining subservience of the few
Keun Marow
he allowed in his exquisite presence. Even the amusing
Other
he’d taken on as a pet was beginning to tire him. The creature’s failure to follow through on his boast that he could steal away the soldier’s brat had only worsened the situation. Bligh was on his guard. He’d not let a slip like that happen again.

As if cued, Bligh’s kinsman flung himself into the room without knocking, a further offense. He’d grown foolish, almost reckless in his insolence. “It’s true,” he said. “I wouldn’t believe it from those monsters watching the house, but I’ve gone myself. She’s dead.”

Asher had a momentary stab of excitement before he understood. The old woman. This simpleton’s mother. Not Miss Reskeen. “They do not lie,” he said, giving him a pointed look. “They know better.”

Simon shifted from foot to foot. “You didn’t…I mean…You weren’t involved?”

A tight, cruel smile curled Asher’s lips. “And if I were? It would only be fitting after the debacle with that Reskeen baggage. She should be here. Now. Mine.”

“Conor’s strong—stronger than you thought.” The man’s voice sounded almost proud. Defiant.

A black madness boiled through Asher. “Bligh is nothing. An abomination like all the
Other
. He will die as those
amhas-draoi
before him. Painfully.”

Simon drew himself up, his eyes flashing. “The
Other
are more powerful than the true
fey
realize or wish to believe. They may surprise you one day.”

“Enough.” Asher’s frustration and impatience took shape. He lashed out, the dark energy licking through him like venom.

Simon swallowed convulsively before he slumped back in a chair, his face bone-white, the boldness wiped away.

“Do you come to plague me with your ridiculous predictions or have you a reason for disturbing my peace?” Asher asked.

Simon took a shaky breath, subdued and sulky now that he’d been slapped down. “I came to find out if you were the cause of my mother’s death. She wasn’t a part of this hellish bargain.”

Asher spun away to a high-backed chair set near the room’s only window. Carved. Quilted in velvet. A fitting piece for a future ruler. He would need to obtain two more just like it. Though, perhaps those could be simpler. Smaller. He was the eldest, after all. The strongest.

Crossing his legs, he picked at the plate of food set out for him. Bit deep into the flesh of a ripe plum. Out of season, but magic had its uses.

His tongue flicked out, caught the last bit of juice sliding down his chin. “A bit late and a bit false to play the loving son, don’t you think?”

“I deserve an answer,” Simon grumbled.

Asher’s eyes snapped to the man’s face. Froze him with a stare. “What you deserve is death.” He relaxed a fraction.

“For your failures as well as your disrespect. But much as I would have enjoyed swinging the scythe, it was not I who ended her life.” He drank deep from the claret. “I’ve not been able to penetrate Daggerfell’s defenses since your skirmish. More blame I lay at your door.”

“If you’d given me access to the skills I needed…” The wineglass smashed against the far wall, followed by the plate. “You had ample power to complete the task.”

Simon flinched at the display of temper, but held his ground. A simpleton, just as Asher had thought. “I was promised,” he insisted.

“I was promised Bligh’s head on a platter. We have both been disappointed.” His glance flicked down to his hand. A fresh wineglass appeared. “Be grateful I overlook it. Once my brothers are released,
fey
and Mortal alike will kneel before me. Or die.”

“You’ve not got the reliquary yet.”

“Soon.” He gave a barely perceptible shrug. “Bligh has only one chance. And he knows it. If, as you suspect, he’s become fond of this woman, he will refuse to use her. He will allow his affection to overrule his sense.”

He felt the man’s growing dissatisfaction. Dismissed it. Simon Bligh was a tool. He’d offered himself willingly, and he would be grateful for what he was given. He knew what happened to those who openly challenged him. Had burned the carcasses himself.

“You doubt me?” he asked.

Simon pursed his lips. “Conor’s as cold as stone and about as emotional. He’ll do whatever it takes to succeed. To defeat you.”

Asher sniffed, wearied with this conversation. “For all his powers, he is human. He will fall.”

Ellery flipped through a fashion magazine she’d found buried beneath a stack of weightier volumes on one of the salon tables. Cousin Molly had subscribed to these types of publications, and Ellery had always laughed at the flimsy silks and transparent muslins, the dainty kid slippers and Chinese parasols, picturing herself in one of those outfits sauntering down Bond Street with a gallant on each arm and another behind carrying her packages.

She looked around her now. Blond, blue-eyed Jamys sat, noodling at the keys of the pianoforte. Quicksilver Ruan dealt and re-dealt a deck of cards, and Conor, whose dark perfection made him seem even more menacing—if that was possible—brooded in a corner by himself.

She had the gallants. And every one better than her wildest imaginings. She only needed the right gown to go with them.

If Molly could see her now.

Across from her, Morgan leaned back and closed her eyes. “I don’t think I can take much more of this. I hate just sitting and waiting. Everyone’s on edge. And Aunt Glynnis’s death has only made everything ten times worse.”

Ellery put down her magazine. “Did she hate Conor so much that she could let Simon in? When she knew what he was? What he’d done?”

Morgan’s face hardened. “She always blamed Con for Uncle Talan and Richard’s disappearance. It didn’t matter that Con was barely more than a boy himself when it happened. And when Simon left, she blamed Con for that, too. I don’t know how, but in her twisted mind, it all made perfect sense.” She dropped her gaze back to her book. Ellery thought their conversation was over, but suddenly Morgan looked up. “Blood’s blood. You don’t turn on your own. And you don’t break ranks.” Her gaze and voice were fierce. “Simon destroyed that when he turned Ysbel over to Asher.” She threw down her book. “If I ever find him, no bonds of family will stay my hand.”

What could Ellery say to that? Compared to Simon’s treachery, Molly’s paltry insults seemed ridiculous.

She flipped through a few more pages, but now her mind was far from the light summer fashions. From beneath lowered lashes, she observed the group. Conor sat in a window embrasure, his arms wrapped around one bent leg, his eyes trained on the park beyond. She wished she were bold enough to approach him. Ask what held him there by himself.

Ruan downed his drink. Dealt out his cards. “Conor,” he called. “Piquet? If we can talk the others into playing we can try for a rubber of whist.”

“Not right now.” Conor’s gaze swept the room, paused for a heartbeat on Ellery before moving on. Long enough to make her stomach flip and a knot rise in her throat. Long enough to make her wish the floor would swallow her whole.

She went hot with shame at the way one glance made her stupid for him. Was this normal? Or was this trick of her body’s an inherited weakness? Had her mother felt this same stomach punch of emotions and sensations that turned Ellery inside out and hungry for more? And was that hunger what drove her mother from camp to camp—bed to bed?

A shadow fell across her magazine. She looked up into a dazzling smile and eyes that gleamed black as sin. “Cards, Ellery?” Ruan asked.

Morgan sniffed. “Don’t humor him. He thinks he’s Jack Sharpe and Don Juan rolled into one.” To Ruan, she asked, “Why aren’t you haunting The Cat’s Whiskers? Did the tavernkeep throw you out again?”

“If you must know, yes. But in my defense I had no idea that talented girl was his sister. You’re not generally exchanging family history at a time like that, are you?”

Jamys hit a sour chord. Shook his head. “That’s more than we needed to know.”

“She asked.”

Morgan rolled her eyes while Ellery looked to Conor, hoping for rescue. Instead approval—relief, almost—was all she saw in his gaze. But that didn’t make sense. He’d come to her last night. Staked his claim. Hinted at more.

Had it all been a lie? Just a way to get beneath her skirts?

She flushed. Humiliated at the ease in which she’d surrendered.

“Anyway,” Ruan continued, “can’t a man spend a pleasant evening in the company of the two loveliest ladies west of the Tamar without being accused of debauchery?”

“In your case, no,” Morgan shot back. “Don’t you have a ship waiting for you in Plymouth?”

“The
Merrow
is being fitted out with new pumps. And Uncle Mikhal asked that I come home to go over some accounts before I ship out. You’re stuck with your big brother, Morgan.” He offered her a sugary smile.

She sighed. “Perfect. Bored and annoyed.”

“Well, if you don’t want my company, mayhap Ellery does.” He held out his hand. “A walk, Miss Reskeen? If you like, I can show you the folly my grandfather had built for Gram.” His voice lowered. “A lover’s tribute.”

Conor rose to his feet, his gaze now sharp as a spear point. “You’re drunk, Ruan.”

Ruan’s teasing good humor vanished. “I’m ashore, Conor. And what I do when I’m on dry ground is my business. Not yours.”

“Ellery isn’t some harbor doxy to be lured into your bed with a sweet word and a walk beneath the stars,” Conor said.

Ruan stiffened, his expression lethal. Beneath the charmer lurked a forbidding powerful
Other
in his own right. Ellery hadn’t realized he was so—big. “No, she’s not,” he said slowly. “But perhaps it’s you who should remember that, Cousin. Not me.”

Ellery’s face flamed. She threw herself to her feet, cutting off a strangled sob with the back of her hand.

“Bloody hell, Ruan,” Jamys whispered.

She didn’t hear anything after that. She stumbled from the salon, humiliation shriveling her insides, tightening her chest until she couldn’t catch her breath.

She hated men.

“Have you ever wanted something you knew you could never have?”

Conor checked himself at the sound of Ellery’s voice. Someone was with her. He peered through the crack of the bedchamber door. Gram was there. As usual, she’d sensed she was needed.

He should leave, but curiosity held him silent, waiting for his grandmother’s answer.

“For the last ten years,” she said.

Ellery hugged a pillow to her chest, her shoulders slumped against the head of her bed.

“Ten years ago, my husband died,” Gram explained. “I have never stopped missing him, or wishing he were alive and at my side.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, my child. I was aware when he placed his ring on my finger that sorrow would follow in time. But the joy we had while he lived more than offset the pain at his passing. It is better, I think, to experience such love even for a brief time, than pass eternity without.”

Ellery didn’t look convinced, and Conor couldn’t blame her. He’d made a disaster out of this whole thing. “But how do we know the difference?” she asked. “How do we tell what’s love and what’s only an act to get beneath our skirts?”

“You’ve seen too much in your short life. It makes you cynical.”

Ellery frowned. “It makes me wise.”

Gram’s soft trill of laughter followed. “Trust to your own instincts. You tread a knife-edge in your attempt to avoid your mother’s mistakes. Other than bringing you into this world, your mother’s sins—if that is what you wish to label them—are no part of you.” She paused. “Don’t you agree, Conor?”

Caught, he slid smoothly into the room. “You knew I was there?”

His grandmother held out a hand to him. He took it, stunned at the fragility of her bones. Time passed too quickly. “You have talent,” mischief danced in her eyes, “but my experience goes back to the dawn of this age, my grandson.”

She stood, patted Ellery on the shoulder. Kissed Conor on the cheek. “And tonight I feel the weight of every century. Good night to both of you.”

Her departure left an awkward silence in its wake. Conor tried filling his memory with images and feelings. The scent of her, the way her dark curls exposed the tender nape of her neck, the flash in her blue eyes when she was angry or determined to have her way, her sharp-tempered sarcasm that she used to hold the world at bay, and the loving, hot-blooded woman beneath the prickles. But Aeval was right. He was
amhas-draoi
. He knew where his allegiance lay. And it wasn’t in Ellery’s arms.

Finally, she tossed her pillow aside and stood up, her shoulders square, her chin up.

“Listening at keyholes now?” she snapped.

How to answer her that wouldn’t get her more upset?

“Ruan was out of line. He didn’t mean it.”

He needed tact, subtlety—and huge doses of exaggeration—if he was going to nudge Ellery toward Ruan. It was the ideal plan. She already liked him. Ruan was smart, funny, respectable—despite appearances otherwise—and altogether too handsome for his own good. Perfect. In all the ways that Conor wasn’t. He just wished the damn lunk-head had acted more like a besotted lover and less like an ass. It left it to Conor to talk up Ruan’s good points. Win Ellery to his way of thinking.

“I know he didn’t mean it,” she said, sagging as if all the air had been punched out of her. “He was just trying to liven things up. And it would have worked if we’d been in the mood to be cheered. I guess it’s all this waiting for the worst to happen. And then it does. And you know that even worse waits around the corner.”

“He’s a good man.”

She shot him a questioning look. “Who?”

“Ruan. He’s not as fly-by-night as he looks. And he likes you. A lot.”

Her mouth curved in a sad smile, her eyes searching his. Looking for something he refused to give her. “I like him too, Conor. But what has that to do with anything? I thought you…and I…was I wrong?”