Irish Moon (22 page)

He wished he had a better answer, one that
would diminish the desperate look in her eyes. He could not even go
so far as to be able to place a sense of lapsed time to frame what
memory he did have. Heremon’s kind eyes, the cloth soothing his
brow, the bitter broth similar to that which she’d given him at
some point later. “If I did, I am unable to recall.”

She nodded, turned to the entrance. The tip
of her plaited braid swished at her hips, their curve outlined in
shadow and draping cloak. “Thank you for giving it to me. In
exchange I will try to help you find your missing belonging.”

“I thank you, Lady
Breanne, but I did not
,
in fact
,
intend to give you the book.”

She spun back around. The sky seemed
lighter.

“I meant to show you something in it, what I
believe is a rendering of the item I lost.” He reached out for the
book.

Eyes tight on him, she released her hug of it
and handed it over. Curiosity seemed to have won out over
possessiveness. Ashlon smiled slightly. He paged to the one he
sought and returned the book to her waiting hands.

Breanne stepped out of the dark cave and into
the growing light. Ashlon followed, half fearing she might try to
leave with the book. He hated how much weight he’d placed on her
translating the book and leading him to the chest. It made him feel
vulnerable and worse, he also liked her there with him, near
him.

He refused to embroil her
further
,
though.
Once she had told him what information lay on those pages, he vowed
to act independently heretofore. Ashlon rubbed the soreness from
his eyes and blinked. Breanne read and slowly walked, knowing her
way without looking. She headed toward the cottage.

Ashlon followed quietly. He tamped down the
urge to ask her what she read. Once she’d finished, he would ask
her. Not before. She had no reason to help him now, or ever.
Pushing her couldn’t behoove his situation or strengthen his
position.

Mid-stride, she paused,
turned a crisp page
,
then continued onward. They were close to the cottage. Did
she intend to go inside? The ocean rushed and roared against the
frogs and crickets. She paused again, flipped and watched a page
fall in dips down to the grass.

She knelt to retrieve it, her cloak pooled
around her, the hood falling from her hair. The moonlight bathed
her in silvery light. Ashlon stopped next to her, ready to stoop
down when she looked up. His gut tightened. The look of wonder
shining in her gaze struck him and a small buzzing began in his
veins.

“What have you found?”

She stood slowly, her eyes
searching his. She placed the page to her heart. “He wrote this.”
She closed her eyes and when the
y
opened, wetness shined in them. “The day he died,
he wrote this, to me.”

Ashlon watched her struggle to remain
composed, not sure what to say, knowing what he wanted to ask was
not appropriately empathetic. He wanted to know about the drawing,
about the chest that looked so similar to what he had lost. But
that was self-serving and if she were to help him, he should focus
on her.

“The two of you were very
close
,
then.”

“I did not know we were. He was always kind
to me, but never so much that I would guess to be foremost in his
mind when death came to his door.”

Ashlon did not point out to her that timing
likely had much to do with whom he wrote to in his last hours. If
only a man could be so blessed as to know when death was imminent
and have time to write letters, visit loved ones, speak last words
of devotion. Though Jacques had.

The realization hit him.
Ashlon breathed in to steady himself. Had Jacques known what lay
ahead seven years ago
?
Did he know he’d be tortured, imprisoned, his reputation
defiled only to be ultimately burned? Impossible. To have known,
even suspected, and then follow destiny down that terrible road was
the act of no sane man. And Jacques may have looked crazed that
day, but he was by far the wisest man Ashlon had ever encountered
before and since.

Breanne read the letter
again, smiling
,
but also frowning. Slowly, she shook her head. “I do believe
you’ve just gotten much more than you bargained
for
, Sir Sinclair.”

Chapter Thirteen

Heremon’s cottage door sat
ajar. Breanne entered carefully with Ashlon behind her, sword
drawn. She didn’t feel it necessary
,
but didn’t argue when the man
unsheathed his silver blade and put his finger to his lips. When
they found the dwelling empty and undisturbed, she almost
gloated.

If she wasn’t awake with anticipation, she
certainly was with expectancy now. She couldn’t believe it. She
actually held Heremon’s own Grimoire in her hands. The pages were
soft and heavy, the binding smooth from years of oils. The work of
decades, the secrets of nearly a millennia, all for her to behold
and keep.

Even more, he’d written her a letter. Her.
Not Niall, not Finn, not some other Druid from another territory.
Her. And in all its wonder and instruction, her denial collapsed.
Since the day she’d come upon him in the wood she’d resisted his
words, his death, and the truth.

She could deny it no
longer when it was literally spelled out for her. To think she’d
almost not come to him first
,
by her own contempt and second
,
by her situation. She had no
inkling the importance of the affair she’d done so much to shirk
her role in. Now she did.

Erlene could wake and call the whole keep to
come find Breanne and she would not care. Coming here tonight and
receiving these two things were worth any punishment. Well, save
death.

Breanne lit a candle, then
a fire. Ashlon’s intent stare followed her to and fro and made her
belly dance all the more giddily. He didn’t appreciate the depth of
its seriousness. It was up to her to make him
see
.

She sat before the hearth and indicated a
seat for Ashlon. He still gripped the sword hilt and sat at the
edge of the chair.

“Does he write of the chest in the drawing,
Lady Breanne?”

She turned back to the page in question. She
ran a hand over its silken surface.

“Aye, he details the chest and its
significance here.” She pointed to the words scrolling a frame
around the picture. “You’ve come a much longer distance than I
originally thought. When I found you….”

“Does he offer a location?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes, he does.
Here.” She offered him the letter.

Ashlon took the
parchment
,
but
only returned it, shaking his head. “I do not understand the
language.”

“It matters not. You likely wouldn’t
understand even if you spoke Gaelic. You see, the script tells a
riddle.” She smiled at the paper.

“Forgive my candor, Lady Breanne, but I must
impress upon you to relay the riddle to me. I have wasted much time
and cannot afford to continue to let the chest in that depiction
remain hidden.”

Breanne frowned. “I appreciate the
seriousness of this very much, Sir Ashlon. You do not need to
explain.”

“Again, forgive me, but I need only for you
to translate. You will then be free of my dependence, as you have
demonstrated is your wish. I implore you to translate these words
now so we both may return undiscovered.”

“I will translate
them
,
but you are
wrong to believe our affiliation ends there.”

“I fear it must.”

“I fear it is not your decision. Discovering
the chest’s location depends on us both.”

Ashlon ran a hand through his black curls.
“When I wrote to you stating this is a matter of life and death, I
was not merely luring you forth. I dare not—will not—put you at
risk.”

“You do not put me at risk. Fate does.”

He stood, sheathed his
sword. Breanne’s stomach flipped. He did not look
pleased
,
to say
the least.

“Will you read the letter aloud as well as
the inscription surrounding the drawing?” He spoke through tight
lips.

“I will, but I assure you it will make little
difference. And I must say I am surprised. I thought you sought my
help and would therefore continue to appreciate it.”

He held a hand out as though to stop her. “I
will appreciate more than you will ever know. Please, simply read
both items to me so we may leave.”

He didn’t sound grateful. He sounded plain
irritated. Almost as irritated as she’d been over these last few
days with his constant presence in her home. But the grating
feeling proved unwarranted. She should have known that ministering
to his health was only part of her expected duties. Heremon must
have intended more.

Finn would have said this
was obvious, that she always missed the obvious. Now was her chance
to keep her eyes open
,
as well as her mind
,
and live up to the calling Heremon had trusted
her worthy of. She took a cleansing breath.

“My dearest Breanne, I
pray this letter reaches you safely as I will not be here to ensure
it does. I know not my killer or his weapon of
choice
,
but be
assured that I face both readily and without fear. Trust that he
will expose his true self to you and prepare for it.

“My death is not the
reason for this letter
,
however. Life is. The lives of Tir Conaill, the
lives of all of Ireland, are tied to your destiny and fulfilling
it. A stranger has come to us and he holds the key to the future I
refer to. You will know him when you see him by trusting your inner
voice. He is on a journey of his own
,
which you must help him carry out.
Your lives are inextricably linked and have been foretold
of.

“Protect him, Breanne. See his quest
rewarded.”

Breanne placed the letter back into the book
and held it open in her lap. “These inscriptions are encoded to
tell us where this chest lays.”

“It is what I seek.”

“Although you seem certain it is what you
lost, I should point out that this page is quite old. Should you
look again to ensure that we don’t hunt the wrong object?”

“How old is quite old?” Ashlon reached for
the book.

“Based on its placement within the pages in
the center half, penned chronologically I would estimate a few
decades. I will need to study the book further to ascertain a more
exact timeframe.”

“Impossible. I only arrived a fortnight ago,
no more. You must be wrong.”

“I’m not wrong,” Breanne said. “If you look
for yourself you can see the aging variation within the pages
themselves. Heremon began at each end and worked inward as is
customary for a text of this kind.”

“
I see no difference.”
Ashlon paged from the rear, to the front and reverse. He shook his
head. “Perhaps he skipped about, or missed a page?”

“He did not, but it makes
little difference of when he drew it
,
so long as you can distinguish
that it is the chest you seek and not, definitely not
another.”

“Have I not stated this fact?”

“There is no need to get
annoyed, Sir Sinclair
—
.”

“Ashlon. Please, call me Ashlon. The
knighthood you refer to leaves a bad taste and I prefer the
informal whenever possible.”

“
As I said.” Breanne lifted
her chin. “Becoming annoyed with me will do little to aid your
task. I am only attempting to help.”

“You may help….” He took a breath, eyes
closed. “You may help by translating the bordering script. I am
certain the drawing matches. Please.” His eyes locked to hers, his
mouth set.

She didn’t know why the
look in his eyes burned her so badly
,
but she had the inclination to
stand right up and leave him there. Ungrateful was the first of a
few descriptors she could use for it. Breanne narrowed her
eyes
,
but refused
to break contact
,
despite how fast her heart trotted.

“I will need some time to translate the
script.”

Ashlon crossed his arms.

“It is the truth,” she
said. “And I have naught to gain by lying to you. In fact, I give
you my word that you will only hear the truth from me, though you
may not like it.” The suspicion in his stare lessoned a
bit
,
but
Breanne’s anger rose nonetheless.

“How much time?”

“I canno’ say really. A day or so.”

He clearly disliked her
answer. “I must impress you to rush. I need to find this before
another does. I don’t know how your man Heremon knew so much to
have drawn it before I arrived. I don’t care. All I know is that I
am responsible for it and the sooner I search
,
the sooner I locate
it.”

“I will work on it in
every available hour. You have my word.” She resisted placing a
comforting hand on his knee. “It may not help to
hear
,
but we will
have little chance to search now
,
anyhow. In two days time, when guests begin to
arrive for the wedding of my mother and Niall, we will be less
noticed as missing.”