The Lord and the Banshee (Read by Candlelight #13) - Gillian St. Kevern Page 0,46

him alone? “Julian—“

Cross caught himself. Leave him alone? That thought wasn’t his. He’d never once shied from his duty. Thomas Cross shirked no task, no matter how unpleasant. He swallowed, taking firm hold of himself. “Tell your father I would like to speak to him.”

“Do you mean that? Because if this continues, I am liable to—“

“Now, Julian.”

Julian pursed his lips as if he very much wanted to argue that, but blessedly he left. Cross exhaled sharply. He had a headache building. Was that the reason for this uncharacteristic turn of temper?

Cross reached for the bottle of port standing on the sideboard, pouring himself a glass. Movement in the mirror behind the sideboard caught his attention, and he looked up.

Blue eyes widened. Cross blinked, found himself staring into his own brown eyes. He set the bottle down, and staggered back to the sofa. “That’s not possible.” His mind replayed the image he’d glimpsed, for that brief second. A face in the mirror—and not his face.

Cross’s grip tightened on the sideboard. “You don’t even smell like you.” Julian’s words had new and awful significance.

22

“Thomas?” Pip knocked at the door. He didn’t wait for a response before pushing it open. “Julian said you wanted to talk to me.”

Cross winced. The haste with which Pip answered his summons spoke volumes about just how concerned he was. He lifted the mirror down, turning it to face the wall. “Draw the curtains.”

Pip gave him a puzzled glance, but obeyed. He pulled the red velvet curtains shut, plunging the room into dim half-light. He moved to the light fixtures, turning up the flame. “What is this about?”

Where to start? Cross poured two glasses of the port. He held out one to Pip. “Here.”

“A bit early in the day, isn’t it?” Pip took the glass, tilting his head. His eyes were worried.

Cross didn’t even attempt to answer. He took a deep gulp of the drink and set it down on the sofa. He patted the seat next to him. “You’ll want to sit.”

Pip took the seat next to him. “You’re making me nervous. What is going on?”

Cross took Pip’s hand. It felt warm within his own, almost burning in contrast to his numb fingers. “I have not been entirely honest with you. I have not been entirely honest with myself. I did not intend to keep this from you any longer than it took to resolve the business with the Connaught Castle banshee, and perhaps I would have… But things have taken such a turn I do not know that we can trust my intentions.”

Pip’s fingers tightened around Cross’s hand. He set down his drink, placing his free hand on top of Cross’s. “Whatever is going on, I cannot think of any whose judgement I would rely on more than yours.”

Cross shut his eyes. “This is not easy to say. I have kept silent from fear of worrying you, and now things have reached such a pass, I cannot do other than wound the one I would most like to protect from such harm. I can only ask that you will hear me out to the end, and beg that you do not judge me too harshly.”

“Thomas.” Pip’s voice was heavy with meaning. “I cannot imagine anything you could say that could wound me. I am yours—but if you do not tell me what is going on plainly, I cannot be responsible for my actions.”

Cross smiled ruefully. Pip’s confidence stirred faint hopes within him. “Very well. It started with my visit to Mereweather’s London clinic. I wished to consult him about the fall I’d had.” He paused, bracing himself for Pip’s reaction. “He diagnosed me with cirrhosis of the liver—a terminal condition. I had, if I were careful, anything from months to a year. No more.”

Pip sagged forward. “Thomas!” His hands went limp, then tightened their grip on Cross. “No. I cannot believe it. He must be mistaken—Mereweather is not the only doctor in London. A second opinion—“

“I am sorry.” Cross tightened his grip on Pip’s hands.

“Treatment. There must be something we can do. Mereweather is not a liver specialist—“ Pip tugged one hand free, running it through his hair. “What’s the name of that fellow—he was in the papers…”

“It’s too late.” Thomas took a deep breath. “Your hypothesis about the banshee appearing to those near death seems to be entirely accurate. I suspect that an instance of impending death allows the banshee to bridge the gap between worlds, or that she is in some way able to