She could not show him the Green Notebook. Instead, she had to change his story and keep it that way—which meant preventing him from having any more seizures.
The answer lay with the Poddle Neurological Institute.
“I’m going to do right by you,” she said. “The first thing I’m going to do is to take you to the Poddle Neurological Institute tomorrow morning. You need help in managing your memory loss.”
His head jerked like this was the last thing he’d expected. Yes, it wasn’t romantic or fantastical or magical. But it was the plain truth.
“Why would you do that?” he asked. “I already have a system.”
“You depend on others to inform you of your so-called life,” Clare explained. “Wouldn’t you want to leave evidence for yourself? In more places than books that your grandfather or Pierce can alter?”
“You’re accusing them of altering my life?” He hooked an eyebrow up at her. “Seriously? You don’t know me, while they’re the ones who’ve been there for me all along.”
“What if they’re erasing all evidence of me? Your precious Brigid?” She turned her wrist so she could take his hand. “What if I told you I was with you all of these thousands of years?”
“Were you?”
“What do you feel in your heart?” She clasped his hand and rubbed it against her face. “Can you find a sliver of me in your memory?”
He stared at her a long minute then got up off the floor and picked her up off the bed as if she were as light as a sleepy cat.
He held her in his arms, a little awkwardly because of having to twist the arm with the handcuff. “If you truly are my Brigid, you would love me. You’d only do what was best for me, and you wouldn’t want anything from me.”
Gulp. He’d called her gambit. But he spoke the truth. If she were Brigid, and she was his true love, then she would do everything in her power to help him.
“I don’t want anything from you,” she said. “Except to make you happy and fulfilled.”
“I will test you and see if you are my true love. Only then will I believe you mean me no harm.”
“Test me,” she whispered. “See if I am the real Brigid in your heart.”
“Uncuff me.”
Clare had no choice but to comply. After all, if she were who she wanted to be, she would love him and put his best interests in front of hers. She slipped the key from her pajama pocket and unlocked the cuffs.
“Thanks.” He turned her in his lap so her legs hung off the bed and she was sitting crosswise. Tipping her chin, he gazed into her eyes as if looking into the depths of her soul.
It felt strangely intimate, like they had sat together many nights in front of a cozy fire. She closed her eyes and let herself melt against his sturdy, warm chest. His woodsy scent, of cedar and mountain air wrapped her in a sensual and heady mist.
A rush of water tumbled down over jagged rocks, drowning out the thump of her racing heart. The night sky was murky and starless. Gray mist shrouded a ghost of a moon, but it was warm in front of the crackling bonfire.
She was sitting on a log, wrapped in the arms of her husband, and her clan was celebrating the return of an expedition. Children ran circles around the fire, and a little girl put her hands on top of Clare’s knees, looking up at her with innocent trust.
Clare smoothed the child’s silky hair back from her face and pointed to the animated face of the elderly storyteller, telling her to pay attention.
He pantomimed a fight and regaled the clan with tales from their distant past. Clare knew the story by heart, and when they got to the part of the marriage of Brigid to the arrogant and impetuous Bres, Clare felt her husband’s whiskers nuzzling the side of her neck. His tongue flicked and darted, teasing her and his breath was heavy in her ear.
Even though their clan was gathered around, the mist was descending and blocking out her sight. The little girl spotted one of her brothers and ran off, chattering and giggling. Embers and sparks jumped from the dancing flames, but Clare no longer paid attention to the voice of the storyteller.
She turned her face and her lips locked with her husband’s hungry kisses. His hands moved to her breasts, fondling them and filling her with a needy sensation.
The veil of vapor turned into the skins hanging on the frame of their tent. Clare and her husband whose name was at the tip of her tongue—Bres, that was it, lay down on their fur-lined bed.
She wrestled with his clothes, stripping his chest bare while he unlaced the ties of her dress. Hot skin to hot skin, she rubbed herself against his hairy chest, running her hands and fingers over the corded ridges of his muscles. Their kisses grew more fervent, drilling deep with unslaked desire, and fire raced through her veins at the pressing of his hardened spear between her thighs.
Her breaths came in pants, and her entire body pulsed for this man with the strange name, Bres which meant beautiful.
She opened her eyes, wishing to behold the beautiful man who was believed to be the image of perfection—made king because he was a formidable warrior with no blemish or fault.
“Brigid.” The raven-haired man looked out of place and not at all the beautiful fair-haired Bres she’d imagined. For one, his hair was cropped short, and his nose listed to one side. Small lines were etched at the corners of each eye, and he had a dagger-shaped scar on his forehead.
A lurching sensation, like the sudden stop of music, crashed against Clare’s chest. Her palms pushed the man back. The mist had lifted, and the fire was gone. She was lying on the lumpy mattress of her bed, and the scent of forest and night sky faded into the drone of traffic noises and the ticking of a clock on the wall. The bulb in the bedside lamp flickered, and stacks of boxes were piled against the wall of her room.
“Griffin, what were we doing?” She was on her back with him on his side, his upper body hovering over her.
He gazed down on her, his eyelids at half-mast, and stroked her cheek. “You were becoming my beloved Brigid.”
She didn’t want to contradict him—that he wasn’t what she’d expected from her vision. But then, Bres turned out to become a cruel tyrant—hated by his subjects, and Brigid was not in love with him. It had been a political marriage from the start.
Could it be that her true heart lay with this dark and mysterious man? A griffin?
He was imperfect with his scars and broken nose. He struggled with his memory losses and seizure attacks, but if he proved to have a beautiful heart inside, then she would have no trouble showing him she loved him.
Her eyelids were heavy, but she wanted to etch his image in her mind and remember the moment when she figured out that if she fell in love with him, she would become his beloved Brigid.
“Don’t ever forget me,” she begged. “Don’t forget the woman of your heart, whatever her name turns out to be.”
He shot her a puzzled look, put his hand on her forehead, then kissed her on the cheek.
“You’ve had a long day, love.” Reaching over her, he turned off the lamp on the nightstand. “See you in the morning, or the next life.”
Chapter 18
The next day, Clare dressed in Sorcha’s conservative work clothes: a navy-blue blazer, tweed pants, and a white pin-tucked blouse. Griffin was in the shower, singing an old Irish lullaby, and he showed no signs of trying to get away.
Perhaps he was biding his time, or worse, he’d had a seizure overnight and had forgotten who he was.
“Everything go okay last night?” Sorcha asked at the breakfast table while Maeve lurked outside of the bathroom to get her deserved eyeful. After all, she still claimed his body, or crudely, one specific part of it.
“It’s out of my control,” Clare admitted. “We’ve practically told him the rough diamond is at the abbey. He could send a message to his grandfather or butler, but I don’t believe he has.”
“He doesn’t have a mobile phone.” Sorcha loaded up plates of bubble and squeak, a breakfast pancake made of leftover mashed potato and whatever choppe
d veggies happened to be handy.
“I’m going to get him one.” Clare filled up the coffeemaker and ignored the whistling tea kettle. “The important thing is to make new memories for him, so he’ll forget the bad ones from the past.”
“What’s going on here?” Sorcha narrowed her eyes. “You two were chained together going to bed, and this morning you’re acting like honeymooners. He’s singing in the shower. Am I guessing you got Maeve’s share of Griffin Gallagher?”
“I’m still aiming for his heart,” Clare said. “If I’m truly the Brigid of his dreams, then I would love him and cherish him. Locking him up proves I’m not.”
“You don’t really think you’re Brigid, do you?” Sorcha poured a glass of orange juice for herself. “You’re just fooling to get the money.”
“Shhh …” Clare heard a squeal from Maeve as the bathroom door opened. Steam filtered out, along with a half-dressed Irishman. The towel around his waist sagged low over his sculpted torso, and beads of water dripped from his hair.
“Hello, ladies.” He winked, giving them a wave before turning around and swaggering into Clare’s bedroom.
All three pairs of female eyes remained transfixed on the broad back and the outline of sexy buns underneath the skimpy white towel.
After Griffin shut the door, Maeve fluttered to the kitchen, bouncing and squeaking. “You slept with him last night. Tonight’s my turn.”
“We only slept,” Clare clarified. She could feel their questioning gazes as hot and bright as spotlights trained on her, and she wilted under their stares. “We did a little kissing and making out, but I kept my legs clamped shut.”
“When are you going to let go?” Maeve asked. “It’s not every night you have that kind of virile man in your bed.”
“Don’t bug her about her virginity,” Sorcha said. “It’s something you can only lose once.”
Maeve fanned herself. “I know, but you have to do it at some point.”
“Under the right conditions,” Clare said. “It has to be epic, and being stuck in a storage room on a lumpy twin bed is not epic.”
Sorcha sighed, readjusting her glasses. “Not when you could have been in his castle. Did you get a chance to visit his bedchamber?”
“We were busy packing.” Clare recalled the satin or silk sheets, the wood paneling, and the ornate rugs and plush draperies. “It was pretty luxurious, but it’s not only the location, it has to be the right man and the right frame of mind.”
“The longer you hold on to it, the harder it will be to just do it,” Maeve said as if she were an expert.
“So says who?” Clare challenged. “Have you found the right one?”
“No, but when he shows up, I’ll know without a doubt. He will be legendary.” Her face pinked up with a sweet blush, and Clare knew she was thinking about her favorite super-hero type—a caped crusader warrior with a cleft-chin and booming voice, holding up a bright and shining sword.
A male voice clearing his throat stopped Sorcha from boring them about her preference for bodybuilding geniuses wearing Harry Potter glasses.
“Good morning, Griffin!” Maeve whirled around. “Did you sleep well?”
Griffin put his arm over Clare’s shoulders in a possessive gesture. “I’ve nothing to complain about. Thanks for letting me hide out here. Clare and I have a full day ahead, don’t we?”
Shock did not even begin to register as Sorcha and Maeve pointed at her, shaking their heads.
He’d called her “Clare.”
He knew.
Clare’s mouth was dry, and her heart flailed. All he had to do now was walk out that door, call the Garda and his grandfather, and she would be marched to prison after giving the location of the fairy mound where she’d hidden the precious gemstone she’d stolen from him.
Taking Griffin’s hand, she pulled him back to the room and shut the door.
“How did you guess? Or did you remember? What are you going to do now?” Panic was in every beat of her heart, and her breath caught on ragged puffs.
“Relax, love.” He squeezed her hand. “I wondered when you’d realize your dual or triple identity. Do you often find yourself transported to a different time, place, and body?”
“I, uh, what do you mean?” Her tongue felt too big for her mouth, and tightness gripped her throat.
“Come, dear. You can tell me.” He sat down on the bed and pulled her onto his lap. His arms around her were comforting, and somehow, he was consoling her as if he felt sorry for her.
“Tell you what?” Her eyelids blinked of their own accord, and he seemed to transform right in front of her into a chieftain prince. His hair curled, shoulder-length, and a beard sprouted over his clean-shaven face. The knife mark was gone, and his nose was perfectly straight. He wore a crown with a single jewel in the center.
It sparkled purple, red, and blue, but instead of being rough and misshapen, it was a fully faceted and cut diamond.
She gasped, reaching up to touch the Heart of Brigid, but he caught her hand. “What are you reaching for, my little thief? Are you thinking of taking what isn’t yours?”
“I only wanted to know if it’s an illusion. Is that my heart on your crown? Are you king of Ireland?”
“Only if you’re the queen of the Fae,” he replied. “Your stone must scream for me to make me the High King. Touch it, and tell me if I am worthy.”
A keening sound, like the shrill wind screeching through a gap between the walls of the ends of the world, whirled around Clare, and her entire body quaked and rattled, ripping bones from joints and scattering them to the four winds.
“Clare, Clare,” shrill voices called. “Wake up, Clare.”
“Clare,” a man’s voice commanded. “Come out of it, my dear. Come, Clare, to me.”
Clare couldn’t catch her breath. She coughed, sputtered, choked, and wheezed. Her shoulders shook, and her ribcage heaved. Her arms and legs twitched on their own, and spittle flew from her mouth.
And then there were the tears, rolling like rivulets down the sides of her nose. She buried her face into the crisp cotton shirt with the strong shoulders and the even stronger, beating heart. His arms were like bands of protection, and his body sheltered her.
“I’m so-so sorry for ly-lying. I-I’ll m-make it r-right. I on-only want to-to help you, my l-love.”
“You could not help it.” His calming voice soothed her. Firm lips kissed the side of her head, and a warm hand caressed her back. “Your story world is so real to you that you hallucinate. You are the goddess of poetry and your worlds meld together, blending and stretching through space, time, and identities.”
“How did you know?” she cried, quaking and shaking. All her life, she’d had visions, but she hadn’t told anyone—not even Sorcha and Maeve. The nuns had called her possessed. The abbess would have thrown her out of the orphanage.
“I see it in the way your visions carry you away,” he said. “There is an aura, a sparkling of energy, a crackling of sensations. I can feel the force take over your body and mind, and then you’re not there anymore, or at least not the part of you who can communicate.”
“Who am I?”
“Whoever you are in the moment.” His words were like balm, smooth and creamy lotion over the raw pain of the gashes scratched onto her soul.
Her shaking subsided, and she was able to catch her breath. In and out. In and out. Her tears trickled to an end, and she lifted her head from the rock of Griffin’s shoulder.
He was her high king, but modern and back to the twenty-first century. She was back in her apartment in the old section of Dublin.
A rolling sensation, like rocking on a rowboat, floating down a gentle river filled Clare with a springtime of hope. Flowery flavors and scents of green grass swept the worries and dark cobwebs from her scalp. Her bones felt fluid and her muscles limber. She uncurled from Griffin’s embrace, stretching like a lazy cat—refreshed and renewed.
“You understand me,” she said, gazing at h
is rugged face, as ageless as the Cliffs of Moher. “This is why the nuns called me a changeling and the abbess said I was demon-possessed.”
“You are not a demon, but an angel,” he said. “Don’t worry about me walking away. I can’t wait to see and feel how you love me.”
Chapter 19
Griffin had never seen Dublin from the windows of a bus before. From up high, he marveled at the number of people walking down O’Connor Street as well as the flocks of birds perched on the statues and monuments. They’d left his car in the car park garage because Clare didn’t want to fight the traffic through central Dublin.
She sat at his side, setting up the mobile phone he picked up, not to replace the one she knocked out the window, but a new account not under his grandfather’s name.
Despite his love for his grandfather, Griffin wasn’t sure the old man was coherent. He and Clare had made several timelines of the family saga of Brigid, Richard “Strongbow” de Clare, what he remembered of his father and the mystery of his mother. There were serious discrepancies. They’d pieced together what they could from the annals he’d packed as well as notes Pierce had made for him.
“I’ve set up GPS tracking for you,” Clare said, shoving the phone under his nose. “From now on, wherever you go, the phone will keep track of your location by date. You’ll need to register your face for the account login.”
She tapped an icon and held the phone in front of his face. “I’ve also downloaded an online journal with reminders to take notes every three hours. You can either text the notes or do a voice recording. It’ll also take a selfie, which is a picture of yourself when you hold the phone like this.”
“I know what a selfie is,” Griffin argued. “I’m not that out of touch.”
“But you never took any, did you?” She stretched her arm out and tapped a circle. “There, me and you on the bus.”
“If I took any, I don’t know where they are,” he admitted. “The last phone I had had no pictures. Grandfather claims I took a picture of the Heart of Brigid before I got on the airplane.”
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