by Lila Dubois
Séan loved and respected his mother—even if she did make him feel as if he were no more than sixteen rather than a man grown.
She hauled a battered plastic box of first aid supplies out from under the sink. The last rays of sunlight touched her face and Séan could see the lines around her mouth, at the corners of her eyes.
She was getting old.
It was strange to think of his mother as getting old. For as long as he could remember, she’d looked the same—pretty, with dark hair like his, an easy smile and a total air of command. She didn’t smile as much since his father had died. His father had been older than his mother by almost twelve years. One of his favorite stories had been to say that he’d been resigned to being alone, to living and dying as a bachelor farmer when he met Joan. They’d met in Dublin, when Séan’s father had gone up see a show with a few mates. He’d wooed Joan for nearly a year before she agreed to start seeing him regularly. They’d been married six months later and Joan, who was an accountant, took over the business side of the farm with an iron fist and did the taxes of half the farmers in the parish. She’d retired from everything but the paperwork for their own farm when his father died. Séan had tried to take that over too, but the first time he’d messed something up in her computer system she’d banned him from ever touching the books.
“It’s foolish to stand on your pride and insist on working when you’re hurt.”
“It barely hurts.”
“Just like your father.” She shook her head.
Peeling off the wet bandages, she cleaned his hands with wipes and then applied ointment and more bandages. Before he knew what was happening, she’d grabbed the braces they’d given him and strapped them on.
“I can’t wear these, I’m going out.” Soft straps Velcroed around his wrists, holding a curved piece of plastic against his palms. On his right hand, three pieces of plastic extended from the palm piece, cupping his index, middle and ring fingers. On the left it was just his index finger. Little Velcro straps held his fingers in place. With the brace on, his right hand was basically useless, though he was able to pick up things with his left.
“No, you’re not.”
Séan resisted the urge to thump his head against the table and reminded himself that he was a man grown. Rather than argue, he didn’t say anything.
“I can hear you planning to sneak out.” She stood and put the water on for tea. “You’re going back to Glenncailty to see what’s happened with the bones.”
Séan’s jaw dropped open in surprise.
Joan was grinning. “You thought I didn’t know what happened?”
“I…I assumed they would try and keep it a secret.”
“Ah sure, a secret it is, no one knows and no one is talking about it.”
Séan sighed. “Of course not.”
“And how do you think I felt, having to hear from someone else that my son was one of those responsible for opening up a secret room in Glenncailty Castle?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d find out.”
“What kind of child did I raise that he thinks his own mother is stupid?” She sighed heavily, her voice distraught. Séan raised a brow. “Oh well, it was worth a try,” she said, voice returning to normal. His mother rarely resorted to theatrics, and it was both comical and silly when she did it.
“As Da would say, you’re mad as a hatter.”
“Maybe I am, but I’m no fool. I knew you were lying the minute I saw your hands. I’ve dealt with more than a few farming injuries in my day.”
Séan didn’t reply. If she’d heard the full story—that it was him alone who’d pulled down the wall while possessed by a very angry ghost—she wouldn’t have kept quiet this long.
He was expecting her to ask what they’d found, to ask about the bones, but she didn’t. She asked a far scarier question.
“I heard that Sorcha, the pretty redhead who works at Glenncailty, was there. Was she?”
“Uhhhhh.”
“I see.”
“What do you see?”
“I see why you went to help, if the girl you fancy was there.”
Séan opened his mouth, ready to deny that he fancied her. He’d spent years hiding his interest in Sorcha, too embarrassed to admit that he’d had his chance with her and messed it up by acting badly.
The time for that was passed.
“I don’t fancy her.” Séan took a deep breath. “I think I love her.”
The teasing smile dropped from Joan’s face. “You do?”
“I’ve never felt this way about someone before.”
“Oh, Séan, my darling boy, that does sound like love. I’m so happy for you.”
“Don’t start planning the wedding. She doesn’t love me.”
“Of course she does. Every girl falls for you.”
Séan grimaced. “You’re my mother. You’re not objective.”
“I may be your mother, but I know when a woman loves a man. That girl from Navan, Lizzy O’Toole, the other one whose name I could never remember…they were all in love with you, waiting, hoping for some sign from you that you felt the same.”
“I…they…what?”
“You, my macin ban, were totally oblivious. They each figured it out, gave up hoping that you’d someday love them back.”
Séan stared at his mother, shocked. That couldn’t be true. He’d enjoyed the company of the women he’d been with in the past, but it was never more than fun. There’d been nothing serious between them—at least from his side.
“Why didn’t they say something?”
“Have you told Sorcha how you feel?”
He pressed his lips together.
“There’s your answer,” she said. “Tell the girl how you feel. If you want her, you can have her—there’s enough of your father in you for that.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is,” she said.
“No, there’s reasons she doesn’t want to be with me.”
“So you’ve talked about it? Splendid!”
“No, Mother, she won’t…she doesn’t want me.”
Joan’s gaze searched his face. “Listen to me, Séan Donnovan. There will always be more reasons to stay apart than to be together. Trusting in another person, loving another person, is the hardest thing anyone does in this life. If this girl has convinced herself that there are reasons she can’t be with you, then you need to either walk away or decide if you’re ready and willing to be with her, despite her fears.”
Séan stared down at the tabletop, taking in his mother’s words. He admired Sorcha and wanted to respect her feelings and desires, but if he did that it meant giving her up.
“Mother?”
“Yes, Séan?”
He stood, wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, sit down and I’ll make us some supper.”
“I’m going to…”
“There’s plenty of time for wooing, and you need to eat. Sit, eat and think.”
Séan dropped back into his chair. She was right, he couldn’t just run off and tell Sorcha that he didn’t care if she had some genetic thing, that he loved her and nothing else mattered. He may not be good with women—had the women in his past really been in love with him?—but even he knew it was a mistake to dismiss her fears by telling her they didn’t matter.
He needed time to think, to plan.
Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t go see her tonight. Pulling his phone awkwardly from his pocket, he left his mother in the kitchen and stepped out into the hall, where he called the castle. The woman at the front desk told him that Sorcha was still at work and would be until late.
Séan thanked her and hung up.
Sorcha rubbed her eyes and then the back of her neck. She’d been wrestling with their online reservation system for hours, trying to get it to adjust for the fact that they had fewer rooms than normal due to the closed west wing. After some frustrating after-hours calls to
their web designer, she’d gotten it figured out.
It was nearly midnight. Time to go home.
She still hadn’t heard from Séan.
Sorcha shoved that thought away, reminding herself that she had no right to pine for him.
Leaving the cramped office space in the staff room, she headed for the foyer, her jacket and the tote containing her rubber boots over her arm. Part of her wanted to go find the forensic anthropologist and see what she’d discovered, if there was anything new. A bigger part of her wanted to avoid the west wing at all costs. She’d already given Dr. Heavey her cell phone number in case she had any problems. That would have to be enough for now.
Tristan was on his way out too, and as she pulled on her jacket, he opened the heavy front for her and gestured her through. She nodded to the staff person at the registration desk and slipped out.
“Thank you, Tristan. How was dinner service?”
“Bien. The specials did well and wine service was up.”
“That’s wonderful, did the curry…”
Her voice trailed off. At the foot of the front steps was Glenncailty’s long curved drive, which led past the steps to the parking area. On the other side of the drive was a wild garden of roses, tall grass and old trees. It was made to look as if the forest that surrounded the castle came right up to the front door, though in reality the area was maintained by the gardener.
Séan was sitting on a pretty stone bench just across from the steps amid the wild foliage.
He was here.
Sorcha didn’t know if she should run and throw herself into his arms or if she should ignore him. Séan’s gaze flicked to Tristan then back to her, and Sorcha heard the other man walking away.
Composing herself, Sorcha walked down the steps and cut across the drive. She took a seat beside Séan, who was sitting with his arms crossed.
“It’s late,” she said, taking her rubber boots from the tote.
“It is, but it’s a pretty night. Look up.”
Sorcha looked up to the sky. It was crystal clear, and the pinprick light of stars covered the night sky.
“It is beautiful. Sometimes I forget to appreciate it.”
“We all do.”
She felt him watching as she took off her heels and put on her boots. With that done, she turned to look at him. “I’m surprised to see you.”
“A good surprise or a bad one?”
“A…good surprise. I hadn’t heard from you, so I—” Séan had shifted, uncrossing his arms, and she saw the braces on his hands. “Oh my God. Séan, your hands.”
He looked down, then shrugged. “The doctor thinks I need it because my fingers were dislocated, and because of the infection she didn’t want me moving too much and breaking the cuts open again.”
Her heart pounding, Sorcha touched his cheek. “I’m so sorry. We should have gone right to the hospital that day. I can’t believe we sat around talking and, um, other stuff.”
“I’d rather have sex than go to the hospital.”
“That’s not the smartest thing you’ve ever said.” She smiled. “How are you feeling now?”
“Well enough. The farm chores take a bit longer than normal.”
“Wait, you’re milking the cows with your hands like that? Is that a good idea?”
“I don’t like the farm relief people being out for more than a few days. It stresses the cows.”
Sorcha took hold of his right forearm, examining the brace that held three of his fingers in place. “You took care of me when it should have been me taking care of you. You were the one who suffered.”
“What you saw there hurt you too.”
What you saw.
Thoughts of Séan calling or not calling had only been a way to keep herself from thinking about what she’d seen in the nursery, what she’d experienced.
“What did it feel like, when you were possessed?”
He rose, and for a minute Sorcha thought maybe her question had upset him so much that he’d leave. Instead he said, “I’ll walk you home.”
Tucking her heels into her bag, she too rose. Séan held out his arm and Sorcha looped hers through it, holding him up near the elbow to minimize the possibility that she’d jostle his injured hands.
Together they stared walking, crossing the drive and following a path towards the tree line. “I’ve been dreaming about it, dreaming that I was back in that hall,” Séan said.
“Oh, Séan, I’m so sorry.”
“In my dreams the wall isn’t there—I mean, the plaster wall. It’s only the stone wall, but it looks cleaner, newer, and the bricks are new too. I’m not sure how I know that, but I know the bricks are new. I start hammering on the bricks, and calling out a name.”
“What name?”
“Mary.”
“Do you know anyone named Mary?”
He shook his head. “I know plenty of Marys, including a cousin or two, but don’t think I was dreaming about them.”
“Then what happens in your dream?”
“I’m calling out for Mary and I hear people, footsteps. Then I’m being pulled away from the wall. I can’t see what, or who, is pulling me. That’s it, that’s the end of the dream. It’s not frightening so much as I still feel angry and sad when I wake up.”
They walked in silence for a moment. When they crossed into the trees, the moon and starlight disappeared and Sorcha took a small pocket flashlight from her purse and flicked it on.
“What if what you’re dreaming is a memory?” she asked.
“Whose memory?”
“The memory of the same man who possessed you.”
“Is that possible?”
“Is any of this?”
“For that you’d have to ask a priest or some scientist.” Séan pulled her close to his side. “Possible or not, these things are happening.”
“Yes…I guess they are.” They’d reached her cottage. She turned off her flashlight as they stepped into the little clearing, which was lit by starlight. “I think that I saw a memory too.”
Séan turned her to face him, his gaze piercing as he searched her face. “When?”
“When we were in there, in the…nursery.” Sorcha took a breath, let it out slowly, trying to control her emotions. “When I tripped and fell, my hand touched one of the spots of blood on the floor. That’s when I…” Sorcha pressed her lips together, frustrated she didn’t have the right words. “I…remembered. I remembered what had happened, as if I had someone else’s memory.”
“What did you see?”
“There was a man and he was beating her.” She touched her cheek. “He called her a witch and then I think a ‘murdering Irish whore.’”
“It was a woman’s memories?”
Sorcha stopped to consider that. “Even before the man called her a witch, I knew it was a woman, though I don’t know why.”
“He spoke in English?”
“Yes. The man who was beating her sounded English, but I couldn’t see him. He threw her down, kicked her. One of her legs was broken. She knew he was going to kill her, but she didn’t seem to care.”
“You could feel her emotions?”
“Yes. Then she said…she said she would burn in hell for her sins.”
Séan pulled her against his chest and hugged her. “Why didn’t you say anything at the time?”
“I would have, but after I saw that is when I uncovered that trail of blood, then found the bodies. Found those poor little bodies.”
He nodded. They stood in the moonlight, rocking slightly side to side. She felt safe in his arms.
Sorcha pulled back and looked up into Séan’s face. “Would you like to come in?”
“I would, but I may not be of much use to you.” He held up his hands, but his gaze was hot.
All thoughts of bones and old suffering disappeared under the promise of pleasure.
Sorcha smiled and leaned into Séan, pressing her breasts to his chest. “I guess I’ll just have to do all the work, won’t
I?”
His nostrils flared and Séan tried to grab her but couldn’t hold her. With a little smile, she took a few steps back to her door. “Coming?”
Without hesitation, he followed her into the cabin.
Chapter Eleven
The Mystery
It was only six hours later when Sorcha and Séan sat at her little kitchen table drinking tea and eating biscuits for breakfast. When Séan’s phone alarm had gone off, Sorcha had gotten up too. She was working an earlier shift today and getting up at six with Séan only meant that she’d have a bit of time to herself this morning to tidy her house. The counter was a mess of old teacups and takeaway boxes. She’d brought home meals from the Glenncailty kitchens rather than eating in the pub to avoid talking to anyone.
Séan looked more alert than he had any right to be after only five hours of sleep.
He drank his tea and took another biscuit from the pack. The cookies were the only food she had in the house. She made a note to go in to Cailtytown and get some bread for toast. Boiling water in a kettle and making toast were the extent of what she really cooked here.
“I should eat biscuits for breakfast every morning,” Séan said happily.
Sorcha propped her elbow on the table, her head on her hand. “That’s a proper, healthy idea.”
He smiled and winked, and Sorcha’s belly fluttered.
“I was thinking about what you were saying last night,” he said.
Sorcha raised a brow. “Anything said during sex cannot be held against you in the morning.”
“That wasn’t what I meant, but I promise you I won’t forget what you begged for.”
Even without the use of his hands, Séan was a dangerous and through lover. He’d pinned her down and tormented her with his mouth, goading her into admitting to some of her fantasies.
“And I won’t forget what you said,” Sorcha countered. Not to be outdone, she’d taken her turn at pleasuring him orally, but she had the advantage of being able to use her hands. It had helped her overcome the guilt from sleeping with him when she knew she shouldn’t.
Plus, she’d been relieved that he’d still wanted her after she’d told him about her past.