Lost in You (20 page)

He pinned his gaze on the blackest corner of his ceiling, but his mind remained trained inward—on the days after Ysbel’s death. He’d wanted to give the
Heller
within him full rein, ride the night on a rush of destruction and death. Send anyone to hell who stood in his way. He’d nursed that hate, fanning it to life any time he faltered or thought to turn away from what he’d become—more animal than man.

Until the village tucked between the moors and the sea. Until the night he’d returned from the dead to a young woman’s challenge.

A knock dragged him back to the present. Followed almost immediately by Morgan’s head peering around his door. “We need to talk. Can we come in?” She’d brought reinforcements.

“Bit late to ask,” he answered, fisting his hand over the ring.

Morgan ignored his sarcasm as she beckoned Ruan and Jamys in behind her. All three looked at once both sheepish and unflinching as they took up positions around his room.

He sat up, knowing what was coming. Dreading it, anyway. Ruan and Jamys settled near the door as if expecting him to make a dash for it.

If he thought he could make it, he might try. He was too keyed up, too pulled taut to sit quiet through their browbeating.

Morgan was the spokesman. She went right for the throat. “You’re not going alone.”

“Say that again?”

“You’re not facing Asher alone. It’s foolish and makes no sense.”

“What’s foolish is thinking your presence would help. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Don’t sell us short, Con. We’re not unschooled dolts. I’ve been with Scathach for five years. Ruan and Jamys,” she motioned to her brothers, “are skilled if not trained. We can do this.”

“I won’t allow it.”

Ruan straightened, shrugged matter-of-factly. “Short of tying us up, you can’t stop us from being there when it happens.”

“And what makes you think I won’t?” Conor swung out of bed. Rubbed an impatient hand across his jaw. “Hell, you’re barely out of the sick room. And that was Simon, for God’s sake.”

Ruan touched his side. “That was a coward’s blow, and you know it. I owe that bastard one.”

“But it’s not Simon alone. What will you do against Asher? You’ve got more sense than this, Ruan.” His gaze sought out Jamys. “Are you in on this lunacy? All three of you would be sport for Asher. For his packs of
Keun Marow
. He’s already killed four
amhas-draoi
.” His gaze swung between the three of them. “He’s already killed Ysbel.”

Jamys stepped forward. “We’re a family, Conor. That means we hold together. Fight one Bligh, you fight us all.”

“It also means I don’t let you get yourselves killed.” He speared Morgan with a glance.

“You talked them round to this foolishness.”

Morgan went stiff. “I told them what I knew about Asher and what I knew about you. They made the decision.”

“Is that right?”

Ruan cocked his head, tried for a smile. “Four are stronger than one, Conor. Don’t turn your back on our help without some thought.” His gaze turned somber and cold as blue ice. “Remember. We loved her, too.”

Like a fist to the chest, the words knocked him back. They understood how close he’d come to letting the beast in him rule. And they had given him time to make his choice without interference. His time was up. “It’s not your fight,” he said.

But he knew now the words were pointless. They stood firm.

Ruan clapped him on the shoulder. “It is now.”

Conor found his mother just where he expected to; buried deep among a stack of ancient texts, the pages crumbling, the leather bindings cracked or looking as if mice had gotten to them.

Morning sun streamed through the tall windows overlooking the rose gardens. The sky was a breath-stealing blue, the trees a spring collage of pink and white and green. But the view was lost on Niamh. Her eyes were trained on the words in front of her. Her mind locked on unraveling the mysteries within the writing. It had always been that way.

She broke off reading at his approach, giving him a pointed look over the top of her spectacles. “It’s taken you long enough to come to me. But better late than never.” She motioned for him to take a seat.

He must have shown his surprise as he fell into a chair across from her.

“Call it a mother’s gift.” She smiled. “And your grandmother’s nosiness. She told me what you were trying to find. And why.” She leaned forward, put out a hand. “Is there really no other way?” Just before she touched him, she withdrew, clearing her throat. “I’m sorry.” She took off her glasses, wiped them with a corner of her skirt. “You’re a grown man now, aren’t you? Well past a mother’s worry.” She disguised her obvious discomfort with a dismissive laugh as she settled the spectacles back on her nose.

But it only illustrated how deep their estrangement was. How much separated them. Even now.

“I anticipated your coming—eventually,” she said, her tone clipped and business-like.

“I’ve been looking through the Book of Cenn Cruaich. The writer delved extensively into the witch, Carman’s attempted overthrow of the
fey
world.”

“Have you found anything to help me?”

“No. But did you know the sorceress, Bechuille, who imprisoned the Triad originally spent the last years of her life on the Isle of Man?”

“I’ll be sure to tell Asher when I see him,” he mumbled. She raised her head. “What’s that?”

He straightened. “I said that’s fascinating information,” he said, speaking louder.

She shook her head, laughing, “Liar,” as she pushed a pile of parchment toward him.

“Here. Begin with these. They’re earlier translations of poems discovered in the library at Clonkellin. Dense reading, but you never know what you’ll find if you suffer through.”

The pages were damp. Mildew furred the corners and darker blotches of who knew what stuck parts of them together like glue. And the smell was incredible. Decay mixed with old shoes and urine.

Where had his mother dug these stories up? Or was this her way of getting him to leave? Give him the filthiest manuscripts in the archives. See how fast he runs.

Determined to both find the key to Asher’s imprisonment as well as show his mother she wouldn’t scare him away so easily, he pulled off the top piece of vellum, smoothed it out in front of him. Bent his head to the task.

He never looked up, though he felt her eyes on him from time to time. He knew what he’d see within them if he did.

Always close, he’d felt the distance when he’d come home right after Ysbel’s death. The grief in his mother’s face and the chill in her gaze when it rested on him had been as painful as any wound. To avoid it, he’d simply stayed away. He didn’t have to face the guilt that chewed at him. The disillusionment in his parents’ faces.

He’d let them down. Ysbel’s death was his fault. The clock ticked away the hours. He read page after page. Gaping holes in the shelves where volumes had been now littered the tabletops, the floor. Neither had spoken. But with every minute gone and every entry read, his body wound tighter. His muscles twitched with impatience. His head throbbed with tension.

It was as if Ysbel’s ghost sat at the table between them. Giving him a not so gentle elbow in the ribs. Screaming in his ear. Forcing him to confront his mother.

The words started in his chest, clawed their way up his throat. “To answer your question,” he blurted out, “no. Unless I find something here,” he gestured at the mess piled around them, “there is no other way. And of course it’s your business.” Once he’d begun, it came easier. “I’ve probably never needed a mother’s worry more than I do now.”

“Conor,” she whispered, her voice shaky with emotion.

“My son. We’ll find a way. We must.”

She sounded so sure in his success he didn’t have the courage to contradict her. She’d lost one child to Asher. If she needed this belief to hold the fear at bay, so be it.

He began reading where he’d left off. But the air in the room was different. The mood broken by their confidences. The silence between them now brought comfort. Reassurance.

This time it was his mother who spoke. “I know everyone says I’m lost in a world of books. That I don’t know what goes on around me half the time.” She paused as if he might argue. When he didn’t, she cleared her throat. Started again. “But I know what you think. What you’ve thought since word came of your sister’s killing.” Her voice was hesitant. “None of it was your fault.”

He wouldn’t look up. Wouldn’t search out the truth in her eyes to find nothing but empty platitudes. That would hurt worse than the chilly indifference. He kept his eyes on the page.

“I mourned her, Con. I hated Asher for sending me such pain. Hated Simon for his greed. Hated Glynnis for her weakness.” Her voice calmed. Steadied. “But I never hated you. Never blamed you.”

His eyes swept up to meet hers. A soft honey brown that belied the steel behind them. He read real sorrow. Old griefs. New strengths. But no reproach. Her words spoke the truth. “You’re all I have. The only child left to me. And I will protect you as fiercely as a she-wolf.” This time when she leaned forward, she touched him. Ran her hand down his face. Patted his shoulder. “I only wish you’d come home earlier to hear me say it. It might have spared you a year’s worth of regrets.”

The urge he’d felt pushing him toward this showdown eased. Almost as if Ysbel were sitting back, arms crossed, congratulating herself on a job well done. His gaze flicked to the empty chair. He gave it a lopsided watery smile before turning back to his mother. “As you said yourself—better late than never.”

Ellery rambled the orchards, Mab sniffing ahead of her, tail waving like a flag as she searched the brush for game.

She’d used the dog as an excuse to wander out here. Poor thing needed a run, she’d told the skeptical grooms as she’d urged the dog away from its dinner. What she really wanted was to get away from the apologetic glances and sheepish, awkward conversations that had marked her days since Conor’s confession. They probably wished she’d disappear and let them get back to their normal well-ordered life. Or throw herself on Conor’s dagger and end Asher once and for all. Not bloody likely. She was no hero. She liked living, thank you very much.

Wind lifted the ribbons on her bonnet and chased her skirts around her ankles. A questing, churlish breeze that seemed to be seeking. Probing. For information. For weakness.

She clutched her pelisse tight as the gusts licked over her before moving on. The sun shone no less brightly, but a shadow darkened the sky, made real the ominous threat hanging over them all.

The jingle of harness pulled her heart into her throat. Had this ill breeze brought Simon with it? Was this her fault? A result of this crazy power Conor swore she had?

She backed off the path, hoping stealth would allow her to get far enough away before she made a dash for the house. But Mab ran ahead, the old dog barking with joyful abandon. So much for stealth.

“Miss Reskeen, isn’t it?” A man stepped from the trees, leading a leggy, gray gelding. In a stylish coat of bottle-green and buff breeches tucked into mirror-clean boots, she almost hadn’t recognized the officer from Glynnis’s funeral. The man Morgan was trying desperately to forget.

Mab trotted beside him, her tongue lolling in a big doggie grin, her tail drumming against his leg. Some guard dog she turned out to be.

She called Mab to her side, donning her best lady-of-the-manor reserve. “How do you know me, sir? We’ve never been properly introduced.”

His smile turned a handsome face into something dangerously appealing. A fact of which he seemed all too aware. “No, we haven’t. But Mr. Bligh mentioned you when I was here last. A close family friend, I believe?”

Family friend, indeed. That was putting more than a touch of rouge on the pig. She offered him a chilly smile. “You’ve been mentioned as well. Though the terms were far less complimentary. Rogue. Scoundrel. Libertine. Need I go on?”

His smile vanished, his gaze going stone-hard. “At least she’s mentioned me. That’s something, isn’t it?” The horse tossed its head, pawed impatiently at the ground as if sensing its rider’s flicker of anger, and Mab’s gaze moved between the colonel and Ellery as if unsure who to favor. Then, tail straight, ears pricked, she turned and, barking, ran up the track. Around a bend.

“Go home to your wife, Colonel Sinclair. You’re not welcome at Daggerfell. Surely you see that.”

“Can you take a message to Morgan for me?” Before she could refuse, he continued.

“Tell her I’m sorry she found out the way she did. Tell her I can explain.”

“I’ve listened to the explanations of men all my life. Excuses is more like it. If you were worth having, you’d tell her yourself, or better still, leave her alone. You’ve hurt her enough.”

He stiffened, his back parade ground straight, his chin set. “Thank you, Miss Reskeen for your help.”

“I’m not trying to help you, Colonel Sinclair. I’m thinking only of Morgan.” She crossed her arms. “Good day,” she said, hoping he’d take the hint.

Tipping his hat, he swung into the saddle, pulled his horse’s head around to follow Mab back through the trees and onto the track that led toward the village.

Ellery watched him leave. Good riddance. He looked like the worst sort of officer. Proud. Impatient. Full of his own self-worth.

She called for Mab, but the dog wouldn’t come. Following the sound of frenzied barking, Ellery rounded the trees. As she got closer, the yips and yowls grew shriller. More frantic. A snaky feeling made Ellery swallow hard. She started to run. Oh God, if something happened…

At the far side of the trees, she slid to a stop. Sinclair had dismounted and tied off his horse. Beyond him, Mab still growled and snarled, her back bristling with viciousness.

Ellery risked a look over his shoulder. Wished she hadn’t. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her breaths came short and quick as fear ricocheted through her like bullets.

A corpse dangled by its neck from a low bough across the path. Dressed in black, a dagger had been thrust hilt-deep into its chest.

The colonel approached it, nudged it with one hand so that it twisted back and forth, its head lolling at a grotesque angle.

“Is it…” Her words wouldn’t come.

“A dummy.” He reached up. Yanked the body to the ground.

“Dressed to look human.”

She shoved it with the toe of her boot. Flipped it onto its back so that its eerie painted stare grinned up at her. “No,” she whispered through chattering teeth. “Dressed to look like Conor.”

Conor stood at the door, a hand on the knob. Ysbel’s chambers lay just beyond. This time there was no hesitation. He slid the bolt back, flung the door open. Stepped inside as if he’d been gone only hours and she’d be here waiting for him.

Golden afternoon light from the diamond-paned windows splashed across the coverlet, climbed the sage-green walls, caught and clung to the dust that hung on the air. Her things still littered the mantel, the tabletops. Her bookshelves. But they’d been straightened and tidied. A sure sign that Ysbel no longer occupied the room. She’d been a complete mess.

He sank onto the bed, ran his hand over the patterned quilt, tried to capture a hint of her scent. But there was nothing here. Her shade might linger, but Ysbel was gone. And not even Asher’s destruction would bring her back to him. He pulled the ring from his pocket, rolled it between his thumb and finger, watched the light flash over the gold. Fisting his hand over it, he dropped his head. His eyes burned as he shook with dry, wracking sobs. “I’m so sorry, Ysa. It’s my fault. All of it.”

The answering warmth that flowed over him and around him soothed the tightness in his chest. Across his shoulders. But it was the subtle aroma of hedge rose and lavender that eased the bruising in his heart. It wreathed him like a cloud, and he knew she was there. And she forgave him.