Our son. He had his father’s eyes and hair, but the mouth was Eden’s. Hartley didn’t know what else he had received from his mother’s mortal heritage, or what magical gifts he possessed.
But he was of the Fane. He was the fulfillment of Lord Bradwell’s bargain. It was time for all debts to be paid.
“Tod,” he whispered, and the menace in his voice caused Atlas to flinch under his hand. He soothed the beast with a touch. “Tod knew. He found it amusing to hide this from me, but he shall atone for his deception.”
“Did you… speak?”
Dalziel’s voice, rough with pain, intruded upon his dark musings. The mortal remained where he had fallen, half supported on his good arm as he endured the wait for assistance.
Hartley left Atlas and went to Dalziel’s side. “I spoke only to myself,” he said. “Are you in pain?”
Dalziel laughed. “Aye. But I thank ye for saving Master Donal.”
For stepping in to protect his own son. Donal. It was a good name. Hartley smiled when he remembered the boy’s fearlessness in the presence of an angry stallion. Yes, the Fane gift was there. A magical bond had already begun to grow between them.
Hartley knelt and touched Dalziel’s damaged shoulder. The man flinched and gasped.
“Be still,” Hartley commanded, “or you will suffer more.”
Dalziel froze. Hartley turned a small part of his attention to the injury and drew his hand over the bloodied skin and torn shirt. Dalziel released a long breath of relief and amazement.
“The pain… it’s all but gone,” he said, staring at Hartley in amazement.
Hartley got to his feet. ” ‘Tis but an easing. The arm is back in place, but only time will heal it.”
Dalziel stuttered questions and thanks, but Hartley did not answer. He untied Atlas and led him into the stable, took a brush from a rack on the wall, and began to groom the stallion with long, sweeping strokes.
Healing Dalziel, though the effect had somewhat weakened him, proved that his Fane magic had not waned after five years of sleep. The forest remained the source of his power. Even man’s Iron, all around him in this place, was an irritant he could endure. He could enchant Donal and whisk him away before Eden realized he was gone.
But where was the challenge in that? Where was the sweet victory over mortals who thought that they could defy a lord of the Fane and go about their lives unscathed?
No. Let his last days on earth purge him of all mortal desires. He’d beat Eden and her father at their own game.
Atlas snorted for emphasis as Hartley picked up his near hoof to examine it for stones. If he was to play mortal again, he must get used to such humble tasks. He would work his way into Eden’s life as he’d done before. And when he had taken what he wanted, he would leave her as she had left him.
Alone. Utterly alone.
Eden found Mrs. Byrne in the sitting room. Donal had run ahead, and he and the housekeeper were chattering away in an almost incomprehensible Irish dialect.
“My lady?” Mrs. Byrne nodded and touched Donal’s shoulder. “The boy has told me what happened. Is Dalziel hurt so badly, then?”
“I believe so. He cannot move his arm. The doctor must be sent for immediately.”
“The nearest doctor is five miles away, in Ambleside. I’ll send Armstrong on our fastest horse, but Dr. Huddleston may not be at home. And with these roads—well, it may take half the day or more.”
“Let us hope not. In the meantime, I require men to bring Dalziel down to the house where he may rest comfortably.”
“Aye. I’ve a notion where Hindle and Grubb may be.” Mrs. Byrne pulled the bell cord. Armstrong appeared, and she gave him the instructions. Then she summoned Hester and sent her to find the outdoor servants.
Donal came to Eden’s side and took her fingers in his small but surprisingly strong hand. “Mo—Lady Eden, will the doctor fix Dalziel?”
She smiled at him. “Yes, he will.” She kissed the top of his head, savoring the smell and texture of his thick, clean hair. “You did very well, Donal. I’m proud of you.”