Heir of Danger (3 page)

Gordon and his half brother, Marcus, stood amid a group of sober-clad companions. Gordon’s handsome features and athletic physique, as usual, drawing the eye of every woman in the room. She squared her shoulders. Plastered a smile upon her face. In a few days, this absurd spectacle would be over. She would be wed.

“Come along, Elisabeth. They’re all waiting on you,” Aunt Pheeney coaxed. “Behold, the bride cometh.”

“I think that’s bridegroom, Aunt Pheeney.”

“Tish tush, close enough.”

The music ended. But only for a moment before the scrape of violins began again. Different couples. Same pairings and partings to the steps of the dance.

She held back, slightly breathless, a strange tightening in her stomach. “Let me just collect myself for a moment and I’ll be in.” At her aunt’s skeptical look, she added, “I promise,” and kissed her soft, dry cheek.

Her aunt patted her hand. “Very well, child. But a moment only.”

Elisabeth watched the scene below her as if she were a little girl sneaking down from the night nursery to catch a glimpse of her mother and father among the florid, laughing faces.

Even long after their deaths abroad, when Aunt Fitz
and Aunt Pheeney had been the ones hosting the lavish balls and jolly house parties, Elisabeth’s gaze had always wandered over the tableaux below her as if she might spot her mother’s Titian hair or her father’s broad back amid the throng.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped from the comfortable shadows of the hall into the blaze of a thousand candles. Immediately, Gordon lifted a quizzing glass to his eye, studying her for a long moment before he lowered it, a question glinting in his eyes.

She tried smiling an apology, but he’d already turned back to the men in response to a chummy slap on the back that left them all guffawing in good humor.

But another had yet to look away. The stranger with Uncle McCafferty. The weight of his stare sent heat rising into her cheeks until she realized it wasn’t her face he was fixated upon but her chest. Hardly the first man to be so bold, though it unnerved her just the same. Let him ogle his fill, then. What did she care? She lifted her chin to return his steady regard with her own.

He stood well above her uncle, perhaps even of a height with Gordon. But whereas her betrothed possessed a wrestler’s build, this man’s lean muscularity spoke of agility and nuance. A swordsman. Not a pugilist.

His gaze narrowed as he bent to sip at his wine. Tossing Uncle McCafferty a word while keeping her under watch. There was something familiar about him. The way he stood, perhaps. Or the slash of his dark brows. His eyes finally moved from her breasts to her face, a rakish invitation playing at the edges of his mouth. Warmth became a flood of scalding heat. No, she certainly did not know such a forward, insinuating gentleman.

And with a regal twitch of her skirts, she entered the fray.

The hours passed in a haze of conversation and music. She barely sat out a single dance. Traded from partner to partner as each man sought to compliment her beauty and impart his good wishes. Gordon spoke for her first, of course. Led her to the floor, his hand gripping hers as if she might try to escape. He made only one comment upon her choice of adornment. “I’m sorry you didn’t like my gift. If you’d prefer, we can choose something more to your liking.”

Guilt dropped into the pit of her stomach, and she smiled more brightly than she otherwise would have done. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.” He arched a brow which made her words spill faster. “But it didn’t go with my gown, you see. Tomorrow evening. I promise. I have a new gown it will suit perfectly.” She went so far as to bat him playfully on the arm with her fan.

Gordon offered a pained smile. “Wear your little bauble, Elisabeth. Among this company, it’s quite beautiful enough.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“No need to fly into the boughs, my darling. I only meant that I find you faultless in anything you decide to wear.”

Her prickles smoothed, she gazed up at him in clear invitation. They could slip away for a moment or two. There were alcoves aplenty. And it wasn’t as if they weren’t going to be wed in a few days.

Unfortunately, Gordon stepped back at the same instant she leaned forward, almost unbalancing her. He cleared his throat, a decidedly proper expression on his face.
“Careful, Elisabeth. Your great-aunt Charity is casting dagger glances our way.”

She straightened, smoothing her skirts. Tossed a demure smile over the crowd, all as if she meant to almost topple feet over head. “Oh, pooh for Great-aunt Charity. Glass houses and all that rot. If half the stories about her are true—”

“Still, my dear. It wouldn’t do to antagonize her unnecessarily. I don’t want her thinking I’m a scoundrel.”

“What if I like scoundrels?”

“You’re such a tease, my dear.” He acknowledged an impatient summons from his brother with a wave. “Marcus is after me to make a fourth, dear heart. Will you be all right on your own?” He smiled. “Silly question. Of course you will. You’re a natural at this sort of social small talk. And besides, it’s family. Not a bunch of strangers, eh?” He chucked her chin as he might a child’s before leaving without a backward glance.

She took advantage of the respite to snatch a savory and a glass of wine from a passing tray. Nibbled as she watched the crowd of parrot-bright ladies and dashing gentlemen. They laughed, danced, drank, and in one or two instances sang. Boisterous. At times rowdy. But always good-natured.

“Among this company . . .” What had Gordon been implying? And why did she feel she’d been chastised like a child? She shook off her questions with a sigh and a sharp flick of her fan.

“Abandoned at your own festivities?” came a voice from behind her, thick and dark as treacle. Definitely not Great-aunt Charity, who possessed a parade ground bellow.

No, Elisabeth knew that voice. That impudent tone.

She swung around to come up against an unyielding
chest. Her glass of wine sloshed onto his coat, staining his shirtfront dark red. He stepped back with a quick oath. And the moment burst like a bubble. The man from earlier. A stranger. Not him. Not at all. What was wrong with her that she jumped at shadows?

“Forgive me.” She blotted at him with her napkin.

“Here, allow me.” He eased it from her hand as she belatedly realized the unintended intimacy of her actions.

“I . . . Oh, dear . . . you don’t think . . . oh, dear,” she babbled.

He dabbed at the spot before crushing the napkin and shoving it into his pocket. “No matter. At least it’s not blood this time.”

What on earth did he mean by that?

He lifted his head, his veiled gaze finally meeting hers dead-on. Eyes burning golden-yellow as suns, the irises ringed in darkest black.

She crushed a hand to her mouth to stifle the sound choking up through her belly.

His lips twitched with suppressed amusement. As if this were in any way funny. Earth-shattering, more like. “Hello, Lissa.”

Had anyone seen? Did anyone know? Surely such an event should be accompanied by a clap of thunder and the earth tilting wildly on its axis. But no. Gordon remained in company with his card-playing friends; Aunt Fitz and Aunt Pheeney chatted with the vicar and his wife; the rest of the guests remained wrapped in their own entertainments. Everything was as it had been a mere moment ago when she’d been happily, comfortingly unaware of the lurking catastrophe in her midst. Yet, all it would take was one curious family member or one inconvenient well-wisher to turn past notoriety into new accusations, insinuations, and speculation.

Miss Elisabeth Fitzgerald. From on-the-shelf spinster to an excess of bridegrooms in the space of a heartbeat.

“You’ll excuse me . . . sir.” The steady throbbing behind her eyes expanded until her whole brain hurt, and she’d trouble walking on shaking legs.

Instead of allowing her to depart gracefully, Brendan
Douglas accompanied her into the hall. And then somehow she found her hand linked with his. The contact firm, the callused palm at odds with his polished exterior as he steered her across to a small salon.

He turned to close the doors behind them, his coat stretching tight across his shoulders. And when he faced her again, she noted for the first time a hastily stitched seam. A worn cuff. Less polished than well patched. He hadn’t changed as much as she thought.

“What have you done to yourself?” she asked.

This probably shouldn’t have been her first question, but it was all she could manage as she saw her life flashing before her eyes.

“This?” He passed a hand over his face as if stripping away a mask, a tingle in the air lifting the hairs on her arms and the nape of her neck. Instantly his features shimmered and blurred, rearranging themselves before sharpening back into focus. “A
fith-fath
to keep from being recognized. I didn’t think I’d be welcomed back with open arms otherwise.”

“Don’t do that,” she snapped.

No matter how often she told herself there was nothing wrong with the race of
Other
’s
Fey
-born powers, she still flinched at the casual use of a magic that seemed like fairy-tale fantasy. Her grandmother had been
Other
. Elisabeth remembered her as a dreamy old lady who spent every waking moment in her gardens, walking the paths, murmuring to the flowers and trees as if she greeted friends.

The neighbors called her mad. Elisabeth knew better, though she kept her mouth shut. No one must know. Better to be thought eccentric than
Fey
. And though none of her grandmother’s powers had passed down to Elisabeth, she’d
been raised knowing that alongside the normal
Duinedon
world she lived in, there existed another. A treacherous, beautiful, amazing world where anything might be possible and life held wonders brighter as well as evils blacker than any she could imagine.

Brendan grinned. “I forgot magic scares you.”

“It does not scare me.”

He lifted his brows in apparent disbelief. “Sour grapes?”

“It is not sour grapes. I don’t care a fig for your ridiculous—”

His grin widened. Oh, if only she could wipe that annoying smile from his annoying face. A face that even undisguised sparked little recognition. The Brendan of her memories had been a skinny, awkward, bookworm with ink-smudged hands and girl-pretty features beneath a thatch of dark brown hair in perpetual need of trimming. Brilliant, impatient, sarcastic, conceited.

And she’d been head-over-heels smitten. Not that he’d ever noticed.

Almost no trace of that angelic attractiveness could be seen in this harder version of Brendan. Instead his looks bore the same rugged edges as her stone, as if both had been chiseled with a hasty hand, and his body, once thin and narrow-shouldered, had matured to a startling muscled athleticism. Hardly Herculean. More a rangy, quicksilver leanness. Years abroad in harsher climes were evidenced by the dusky tan of his face, the lines creasing the corners of his mouth and gathering by his eyes. Those startling, extraordinary eyes. The one feature he could never camouflage. Always they’d shone like molten honey-gold. Alive. Vibrant as the sun. And stunning as a horse’s kick to the stomach.

“Why are you here? You’ve no right.”

He sketched a flourishing bow. “Allow me to introduce myself. John Martin. Distant cousin to the bride, recently arrived from abroad. Amid the bustle of so many, none questioned one more relation among the crush already here for the wedding.” A teasing smile hovered as he straightened. “Though I have to quibble with the room I was given. I’m practically under the eaves. A veritable garret. One would think I wasn’t welcome.”

That did it. They were alone, the drone of conversation and laughter and the gay strains of the quartet left far behind. No one to witness her confusion. No one to comment on her quaking limbs or the snapped sticks of her fan. She could finally give vent to the rage churning up through her. As if it had a will of her own, her free hand swung out. Connected with his cheek in a wrist-jarring, finger-tingling slap. “You stinking great, bloody-minded bastard!” She wanted to hit him again. Her hand curled into a fist. “Why couldn’t you have stayed dead?”

Brendan ducked the second blow. It barely grazed his shoulder. But the third had seven years of bad blood behind it and took him full on the chin. He reeled backward more in shock than in pain, striking his head on the edge of a bookcase. Stars exploded behind his eyes, and he dropped half to his knees.

“Oh no, oh dear. I’m sorry. Are you all right?” Hands fluttered around him. Fingers brushing his scalp.

He winced on a grumbled string of profanity.

The hands retreated. “You needn’t resort to such vile language.”

He opened his eyes to Elisabeth’s worried, angry visage.
Her arms wrapped about her midsection, face blanched of color. It made the carmine sheen of her hair all the more radiant. Living flame.

“You nearly cracked my skull open. What did you expect I would say?” He reached up, examining the point of impact. Already it swelled and stung like the very devil. “Thanks ever so for the great lump on my head?”