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The Mystic Cove Series Boxed Set (Wild Irish Books 5-7)

Page 41

by Tricia O'Malley


  “‘My dearest Fiona,’” Fiona began and the room grew quiet – the only noise that of the wind outside and the flames crackling in the fireplace.

  “‘As I said, I would be requiring a favor of you in exchange for John’s life,’” Fiona glanced at John and his look of surprise. “It’s all right, my love – anything was worth having you home.”

  “I hope the price isn’t too much to pay,” John muttered, running his hand down Fiona’s thigh.

  “Let’s find out, shall we? ‘As you’ve been informed, there is another branch of this family you know little about.’”

  A collective gasp echoed around the room and Fiona held her hand up for silence. “I’ve just learned of this, ladies. I’ve been meaning to fill you in but I’ve been a bit busy – what with being reunited with the love of my life. Let me finish and we’ll discuss.”

  The murmurs quieted down and Fiona turned back to the letter, the words forming again when she focused on the page.

  “‘My descendants know little of who or what they are and I’ll need one of yours go to find them and instruct them on their path. A few of them have started to research – as it is virtually impossible for them to ignore their magick. I’ve been content with not interfering in their lives – but dangerous times are ahead and you must go to them and help,’” Fiona said.

  “This is ridiculous. Dangerous times? Who is this from anyway?” Cait exploded, pushing her hand through her short hair in frustration.

  “Theobald. Grace O’Malley’s son from her second marriage. Born at sea in mid-battle. I’m assuming he holds powerful magick as well,” Fiona murmured and then raised her hand to silence the room.

  “‘I’m sure you’re familiar with the Four Treasures creation myth. Except it isn’t a myth, and there really are four treasures that must be recovered by the four women whose destiny it is to hold them and keep them from falling into the wrong hands. Each woman a daughter of one of the great cities ranging along the Danube – must be found and instructed.’”

  The room exploded.

  “What cities?”

  “What myth?”

  John cleared his throat and held up his hands – the room immediately quieted.

  “I’ve spent a few years on the other side, you know, so I’m sure I’ll be able to shed some light on this story,” John said quietly.

  “Go ahead, love, tell them about the creation myth,” Fiona said wearily. There was more on the letter, but it was best that they got through this part first.

  “When earth first came into being,” John began, and everyone settled down to listen, “There was but dirt and dust. Danu, the divine goddess, allowed water to drip onto earth to form the sacred oak from whence two acorns sprang. These acorns – one male and one female – turned into God Dagda and Goddess Brigid. Their job was to populate the world. In doing so, they created many children of Danu who all lived in four cities that ranged the now-flowing waters of a river. The river is now known as the River Danube,” John said and Fiona saw more than a few eyes widen at that. “Four cities – Falias, Gorias, Finias, and Murias, lined the banks of the Danube. Each city had a great treasure that was given to them by Danu. Falias had a stone called Lia Fail – otherwise known as Stone of Destiny.”

  Flynn cursed across the room.

  “Sure and you’re kidding me right? Isn’t that supposed to be the Scottish throne?”

  “There’s more than one stone,” John said evenly and Flynn swore again. “This stone is meant to shout in righteous joy when the person who is meant to lead sets foot upon it. It also has a delightful twist of being a lie-detector of sorts. Gorias, the next city, had a treasure that was a very mighty sword. This sword was often referred to as the Retaliator and it shone with great light when given to the right warrior. Famous god Lugh wielded the Retaliator in many battles. It was known to strike down enemies in its path, for people became entranced by its glow.”

  The wind picked up speed outside as the room remained silent.

  “Finias is the next city and was gifted with a magick spear – often referred to as the red javelin – it was known to always find its enemy. Once it was pulled out – it could not miss – no matter where the enemy hides.”

  “Sure and that’s impossible,” Aislinn breathed – her eyes wide.

  “And finally, we have the city of Murias with the cauldron of plenty. It was said that nobody could go to the cauldron and leave unsatisfied. It could feed the world if need be – but it also has a power of satisfying people’s needs or wants. It is exceptionally dangerous for any of these weapons to fall into the wrong hands,” John said, the flames of the fire reflected in his eyes.

  “So what happened? How did these weapons get lost?” Keelin asked tentatively from where she cuddled Baby Grace in an armchair.

  “Goddess Danu asked her children to go to the Island of Destiny. Also known as Innisfail,” John said.

  Flynn swore again and Keelin looked at him in confusion.

  “Isle of Destiny, Innisfail, or as we know it, Ireland,” Flynn muttered.

  “Once the children reached the Isle of Destiny, great wars were fought between Danu’s children and her sister of the earth’s children. Eventually, Domnu, her sister, won and Danu’s children were driven to the hills. They would be what we consider the fae now,” John shrugged.

  “So, um, there really are fairies?” Keelin asked, her gaze swiveling across the room.

  “Yes, there are,” Fiona spoke up. “And this letter is suggesting that we identify the women whose destiny it is to wield and protect these weapons – in order to keep them from falling into the wrong hands.”

  “And who are the wrong hands?” Cait demanded.

  John cleared his throat.

  “Ah, well, I suppose if you wanted to voice it in the most basic of terms – the Children of Danu are the children of Goddesses and represent light. The Children of Domnu come from the earth and they are drawn to the dark.”

  “And it appears that we must find these treasures in order. I’ve been given a name,” Fiona said, holding the paper up.

  “What is it?” Margaret asked.

  “Clare MacBride.”

  As soon as she uttered the words, the letter imploded in a brilliant flash of light, leaving nothing but a layer of dust on Fiona’s slacks.

  And a thousand unanswered questions in its wake.

  Wild Irish Grace

  Book 7 in the Mystic Cove Series

  Copyright © 2018 by Lovewrite Publishing

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design:

  Alchemy Book Covers

  Editor:

  Elayne Morgan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without express permission of the author. This includes reprints, excerpts, photocopying, recording, or any future means of reproducing text.

  If you would like to do any of the above, please seek permission first by contacting the author at:

  info@triciaomalley.com

  Wild Irish Grace

  The Mystic Cove Series

  Copyright © 2018 by Lovewrite Publishing

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design:

  Alchemy Book Covers

  Editor:

  Elayne Morgan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without express permission of the author. This includes reprints, excerpts, photocopying, recording, or any future means of reproducing text.

  If you would like to do any of the above, please seek permission first by contacting the author at: omalley.tricia@gmail.com

  Dedicated to the difficult women in this world. May we hear you roar.

  “Well-behaved women seldom make history.” ~ Laurel Thatcher Ulrich

  Chapter 1

  He’d come to her once again, in her dreams, as he had since she’d come of age. A man she’d loved across centuries, for lifetimes, and yet had known so very litt
le of in real life. Her love for him was like a star, each evening searing her soul with its heat, night upon night, until she could only hope that one day the star would collapse in on itself, leaving her dreams finally free of the one man she measured all others against.

  Dillon Keagan.

  Frustrated, and very aware of needs unmet, Grace sighed and pulled a pillow over her head, running a small spell in her mind to charm herself free of the dreams. They had increased of late and had robbed her of any peaceful moments of sleep over the past several months.

  Her power carried her only so far, drifting softly in the grey in-between of awake and dreaming. Then, once more, she found herself walking on the shore, irresistibly drawn to the man who laughed to her from where he stood knee-deep in water, a fishing line in hand, the ocean breezes kissing his curls.

  “I’ve a mighty feast for us this evening, Gráinne, that I do,” Dillon called to her as he added another fish to the almost-full basket that lay wedged between two rocks on the shore. Grace smiled at him, battling a shyness so unnatural to her that she wanted to overcompensate by coming up with a bawdy joke to tell him. Instead she caught her toe on a rock and let out a stream of curses usually reserved for sailors as she hopped on one foot, her cheeks flaming in embarrassment.

  “You’ve a mouth on you, that you do, my pretty Gráinne,” Dillon laughed, coming to her and sweeping her up in his arms, dazzling her with his charm and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. Blue as the sea when the first rays of sun streamed across its surface in the morning, Dillon’s eyes captivated her with their warmth, laughter, and how they spoke of worlds unknown.

  Grace wanted to know those worlds, to hear him tell tales of cities both near and far, and to know who this man was and how’d he’d come to land on her shores. Shores she guarded fiercely and had made a name for herself in ruthlessly protecting.

  Oh, but she never wanted to leave this place, Grace thought as she nuzzled into his neck, allowing him to carry her like a helpless maiden to the abandoned hut they’d commandeered, where they had spent the last few weeks hopelessly lost in each other’s arms. Dillon had been as much of a surprise to her as she to him: he a shipwrecked sailor clinging to the tatters of his boat, and she – an unexpected woman captain of a sleek little sloop – his rescuer. She’d spared him her usual treatment of the vagabonds she’d discovered on the water, whether it was because of his striking good looks – sun-kissed curls and dancing blue eyes – or the fact that she’d known since the moment she’d laid eyes upon him that their lives were somehow inextricably connected.

  Grace had docked near a small village on the west coast and sent her crew on home to their families. There had been too many battles and her men were weary. A good leader knew when her crew was spent, and it had been months since many of them had slept in a bed or known the warm arms of a lover. They’d return in a month’s time, replenished and refueled, and ready for whatever battle they’d next need to fight.

  But for now, in this moment, this part of the world was hers and Dillon’s alone. It was their own little island of discovery and exploration, and they dove into it with delight, exchanging stories of battles both won and lost, and sights seen across the seas.

  They made love with abandon, late into the night, while the fire burned low and their bodies burned hot, each touch an exploration, an awakening. When Grace looked into his eyes, the edges of her world and his blended to become one.

  It felt like coming home.

  After hours spent exploring each other, she lay liquid and supple, her eyes on the light that just creased the horizon of the water. The fire was long dead and Grace shivered.

  “What worries you, my love?” Dillon’s voice, sleepy and sated at her ear, sent warm tendrils down her neck as he pulled her back close to his chest, his body cradling hers in warmth.

  “I can’t stay here – in this moment with you. I have children who need me, tenants who depend on my lead since my husband has passed, boundaries to defend, and treasures to preserve. How am I to stay here – tucked away in this hut – forever?” Grace said, her eyes heavy with sleep and something more, an ache of knowing that this moment of pure joy was not to be forever.

  She’d had many highs and lows in her short but fiercely-lived life, and a realist she was – Gráinne O’Malley, the great pirate queen of the Irish seas. But buried deep beneath her warrior’s shell was a fiercely romantic heart that cherished love in all its forms. It was both her greatest strength and biggest weakness. Her gaze landed on the stone they’d engraved together, branding the cottage as their own.

  My heart for yours.

  Dillon turned her so that she met his eyes, the sun’s light just enough so that they shone intensely blue in his face as he gazed down on her, his look both a caress and a promise. Raising her hand to his lips, he first kissed it before bringing both their hands to her heart.

  “You’ll have this moment, forever, here in your heart. Once a love like ours is known, it can never be taken from us, and transcends all barriers – those of mortal law, those of time, and beyond what most can comprehend. It’s an endless love, one that grows through the ages, and we’ll meet, time and time again, our souls knowing each other, our love binding us for centuries. Be it but weeks of time in this life, know that we’re promised for more, Gráinne O’Malley, for it is written in the tapestry of the universe.”

  Grace lost herself in his words. She’d heard them time and again in her dreams, and yet each time he uttered his promises of a love that knew no boundaries she was sucked back in, the pain of love and loss a bittersweet taste in her mouth.

  Sighing, Grace pulled the pillow from her head and sat up in bed, annoyed with herself for wanting both to weep in longing and to laugh for the sheer joy of having felt such a love fill her soul. Granted, it was only in her dreams – dreams where she walked as Gráinne O’Malley and not as herself, Grace O’Brien, in the now – but to know that such a love existed was like being in the desert and seeing the hint of water on the horizon.

  Try as she might, Grace had never found out what happened to Dillon or how he and Gráinne had parted ways. Though she had many gifts of magick, remembering all the bits of her past lives was not one of them. Some historical records reported that Dillon was a shipwrecked sailor Grace had taken as a lover before he’d been murdered on Donegal land. Gráinne had spent her life avenging his murder, even after she’d taken a new husband; she’d never forgiven the Donegal clan and had gone on to seize their castle and make them regret the day they’d ever wronged Gráinne O’Malley. A part of Grace hoped the story was true, for she was known to have a fiercely vengeful side that rarely forgave a grievous slight, but the part where Dillon was murdered made Grace hope that the threads of time had come unwoven and a happier ending had come to her love.

  Grace tugged her hair and ran her hands over her face, taking a few deep breaths to calm herself. In the past few months the lines between the worlds had begun to shift and blur even more than was natural for her, an exceptionally powerful healer and practitioner of all things magick. With this shift in energy, Dillon had begun visiting her in her dreams nightly, causing her to ache each morning as though she’d lost the love of her life once more.

  It was a decidedly uncomfortable way to wake up.

  “Enough of that nonsense,” Grace said to Rosie, granddaughter of Ronan the Great, who wagged her tail at the foot of the bed, her eyes alight with excitement over her impending breakfast.

  “Come on, Rosie, let’s have ourselves a day off. We haven’t had a day of fun in a while,” Grace decided, and the dog did a spin of joy at the end of the bed. Looking at her iPhone, Grace reminded herself of the date and what year she lived in.

  For though she’d once walked the shores as Gráinne O’Malley, her soul lived in the here and now, and she would do well to remember that. Lover or no, Grace had a life to live and a destiny to fulfill.

  Chapter 2

  Grace didn’t entirely k
now what a day off looked like, for when work was both a love and a passion, they blended seamlessly together. She rarely put boundaries up between the two. Why bother? Work filled her with great joy and a sense of purpose – plus it tied her to the gifts of her bloodline, handed from Fiona to Keelin and on to her.

  Healing wasn’t her only gift, not by far, but it was the most rewarding one, Grace thought as she tilted her head and poured an extra bit of lavender into a pain-relief cream she was working on for Mrs. Donan’s arthritis. It had been damp weather of late and she knew the old woman was struggling. With a glance at the stormy clouds that held a promise of rain on the horizon, Grace decided that staying in for the day had been a good choice.

  “We’ll have us a lovely catch-up day with our supplies, won’t we, Rosie? I’ll put on some music and stoke the fire – we can even have a dance party,” Grace said, beaming down at the pup who was her virtual shadow. Idly braiding her sunset-colored hair and tucking it over her shoulder, Grace hummed her way across the room to stoke the peat in the small stove that sat nestled in front of a beautiful wooden rocking chair. The chair – hand-carved, its edges now worn smooth by love – had been a gift from John to his Fiona on their wedding day, along with the cottage that Grace now lived in.

  Losing Fiona three years ago had been a blow to her entire family – in fact, all of Grace’s Cove had mourned her passing. But at a hundred and three years of age, Fiona had finally decided enough was enough and had passed easily into the next realm. Her passing had barely fazed Grace – another gift of hers that she sometimes considered to be both a blessing and an annoyance.

 

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