Despite the exhaustion, aggression leapt into Julian’s eyes and he tightened his hand around James’s. “Perfectly.”
I looked between the two men. “Fine, he can join us, but on one condition.”
Julian lifted his head and our eyes locked.
“What is it?” James asked.
“If he attacks me again, I get to kill him.”
James didn’t hesitate. “Fair enough. You’ve my word not interfere if it comes to that.” He turned to the others. “Do we have an agreement?”
Justine laughed. “I would never dream of denying such a reasonable request.”
I stared at Julian for a moment longer, my anger no less tangible than the throbbing line of bruises across my stomach. In a jealous rage, Henry had once threatened to cleave the man open from neck to navel. I stormed from the clearing, vowing to do just that if he ever set a hand on me again.
Chapter Four
The Stolen Doorway
We rode most of the remaining miles in silence, two abreast, with the men in front of our meager party. Since leaving the woods, Justine and I had struck an unspoken truce to be, if not the best of friends, at least civil to one another. This was no small deed in light of the bad blood that had flowed between us, and all because we had shared a similar taste in men. Then again, Henry Fitzalan was no ordinary man. On the contrary, he was quite extraordinary, and no doubt half the ladies in London were secretly in love with him. The other half were either too young, too old, or blind as bats.
Almost lovers. That was how I saw them, and the very notion of their previous intimacies made me cringe with jealousy. It didn’t help that she was the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes upon. Even now, I couldn’t help stealing a surreptitious look at her from beneath my hood.
Great-aunt Justine. The notion seemed no more real than when I first learned of our strange family connection mere days ago. Older sister to my deceased grandmother, she easily passed for a young lady of eighteen years with her brilliant coppery locks and a complexion of smooth cream. Though I had yet to inquire about her exact age, I guessed the woman had seen a handful of English monarchs. Quite possibly more, judging by the ages of her parents, Catria and Tiarnach.
My great-grandparents had set their birth names aside centuries ago and were currently known in London as Lady Cate Dinley and Master Tom Faber. They claimed 1500 and 1300 years respectively, a feat accomplished by Cate’s rare gift of healing combined with Brigid’s second gift, which freed them from human mortality. As Cate’s direct descendant, this longevity applied to me as well. What I didn’t know, and feared to ask, was if it also applied to Henry. For this reason, I refused to give the matter much thought, opting to cross that particular bridge when I got there.
The steady clump of hooves mixed with the rush of wind that swept through the thinning woods and over the open fields. Soothing. Repetitive. Nerve-racking. Henry never strayed far from me, his smile always a bit crooked and mischievous. Even in my memories, a bruise marred his cheek from a brawl at the theater. Vengeance heated his eyes to brilliant green.
I sighed inwardly. The man was protective and brave to a fault, with a passion for fighting that exceeded my understanding. To be sure, I was still angry as a bull at being left behind, but I loved him beyond reason and would surely forgive him within a heartbeat of our reunion. His last kiss had been to my palm, and I curled my fingers around it, holding it close.
Brief hints of sunshine continued the farther west we went. The roads remained a muddy mess from the previous storm, making for slower travel than I would have liked. Any movement was good, though, each step shortening the distance to Nora.
Close as a sister to me, my dearest friend had the courage of ten men. In my soul I knew she was still alive. But what would happen when they reached the oak grove? Would her life be forfeited to Deri’s madness?
Determination fed my aching body. Mile after mile, my prayers became a mantra. Please let Nora be safe... Please let me kill the wretch.
“In case you’ve been wondering,” Justine said, yanking me away from the vivid image of Brigid’s knife embedded in Deri’s heart. “Sophie is caring for Lucy Goodwin in your absence.”
Guilt rolled through me. From the time we left, I’d been so focused on Nora, I hadn’t spared her mother a second thought. Nor Sophie, for that matter, who happened to be Justine’s sister and another newly discovered aunt. Since arriving in England, I seemed to be collecting relatives like other ladies collected cats.
“Is Lucy bad off?” I asked, acutely aware of my hand in her suffering. The Goodwins had come to London on my account, and were now both embroiled in a world that should never have touched them. But touch them it did, through Nora’s abduction and Lucy’s subsequent distress.
“From what I heard, the woman asked for you, and then went into hysterics when she learned of your departure.”