Page 11 of Earl of Darkness (Heirs of Kilronan Trilogy 1)

She slammed the diary closed. “I don’t know. I didn’t write it. But it doesn’t sound pleasant. Not if you have to walk about with a forked tongue.”

Kilronan pulled up a chair. Straddled it, resting his arms along the back. The relaxed pose at odds with a body tense with anticipation. His implacable gaze locked on hers. Again came that quicksilver slide of emotion. What was it about this man that he sparked such an answering sensation deep within her? She clamped down on the slow heat seeping up through the hard, cold layers of her suspicion. Hadn’t she learned anything from her mistake with Jeremy?

“Read on. What else does it say?”

Scattered by the blunt force of Kilronan’s stare and her reaction to it, she stumbled to find her place. Scanned the next few lines, though it cost her in a renewal of the pounding in her head. This time the text spoke of a lord named Toth. The breadth of his power. The quickness of his temper.

After he’d lopped off his tenth head, Cat blinked. Tearing her eyes from the page with great effort. She rubbed her temples, hoping to stop the bass drum behind her eyes. “Sounds a horrid sort of monster to me. Do you think he actually ate the poor man’s entrails?”

Kilronan’s mouth twitched. “Wouldn’t doubt it. Though sounds as if the fellow deserved it. Slaking his thirst with rivers of blood and smiting his enemies with that lightning strike stare of his. Poor old Toth may have just come to the end of his patience.”

Cat pursed her lips over a nervous laugh. What a nonsensical sort of conversation to be having here in this dusty, cloud-shrouded room. But for a moment as she’d been reading, the old stories had come alive. She’d seen Toth swinging his great axe. Seen his enemies struggling to flee as he cleaved his way through their falling bodies, gore streaking him like war paint.

She’d looked upon a face that for the space of two heartbeats had been the grim, blood-soaked visage of Kilronan.

“No excuses. You either have the Kilronan diary or you don’t.” Lazarus’s words cut through the babbled justifications and finger pointing like a scythe.

Immediately silence reigned as the men looked to one another before glancing fearfully, first at the arsenal strapped to his waist, then up into his face, purposefully empty of expression.

Lazarus settled his gaze on the leader. His hand twitched with murderous intent, but he concentrated on the beat of his heart. Let the slow expand and contract of his lungs bring him back from the brutal edge of no return. “What went wrong?”

“I had it in my shop. In my hands,” Quigley whined. “But Lord Kilronan wouldn’t give it up. Not even when I suggested he let me borrow it in order to find him a translator.”

Lazarus must have shown his confusion, because Quigley hurried on with his explanation. “The old earl must have wanted to keep the contents of his diary safe from prying eyes. He wrote it in a language I’ve never seen.”

“So it’s useless to Kilronan,” Lazarus surmised.

“Precisely.” Quigley smiled, but it was an anxious, half-hearted attempt not returned by Lazarus. “Mr. Smith has assured me he’ll obtain the diary. Haven’t you, Mr. Smith?” Quigley said, drawing attention off himself and on to the twitchy bear of a man loitering by the door.

Lazarus speared Smith with a look. “Does he speak truth?”

Smith broke off scratching the stretch of grimy waistcoat encasing his midsection with a startled grunt and an uneasy shifting of his eyes. “Aye,” he grumbled. “I’ll get your book. But then I want what’s owed me. Payment in full. Quigley’s promised . . . a hundred quid.”

“I . . . I . . . never—” stammered Quigley.

“Done,” Lazarus interrupted, already tired of this conversation. “Quigley will pay.”

The bookseller gave a mew of protest, instantly quelled by a glance from Lazarus.

Smith’s brows drew into a beetle black frown as if he realized he’d underpriced his services. But he recovered his composure with a nervous jerk of his head. A quick clearing of his throat. “Right, then, if you’re through with us, me and mine will be off to get that diary for ya.”

“Go,” he ground out.

“And when I retrieve the book, I’ll be findin’ ya here?” Smith asked.

Lazarus’s reply came as a chilling whisper. “Or I’ll find you.”

Aidan leaned back in his chair. Stared up at the portrait over the library mantel. A pastoral setting, the west façade of Belfoyle in the background. Mother with impish Brendan, one hand resting on her shoulder, his other upon the shaggy head of the family hound. Sabrina, already a little lady at four, leaning against Mother’s skirts. And he and Father side by side. The earl and his heir. Both tall. Both confident. None gazing upon the domestic scene would ever suppose how great a distance truly separated them.

They had been a young family at the height of their glory. Strong. Powerful.

Their descent had been precipitate.

A light rap upon the door drew him back from his melancholia. “Yes, Mrs. Flanagan?”

The housekeeper shifted uncomfortably, guilt-ridden dismay written all over her. “It’s about that girl, milord. She’s gone.”

Aidan lurched to his feet, his gaze automatically falling on the diary. “Damn it—”

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