by Lila Dubois
“I did. Now I can’t.”
“Sorcha, are you all right?” Séan asked.
“Yes.” She took a breath. “I think I was inside her, the mother, or she was inside me.”
“We know,” Séan’s gaze searched her. “You were…talking.”
“Did you understand her?” Melissa said. “I didn’t get it all.”
“Some of it was Irish.”
“What did I say?”
“You said…that you had to kill them, your children, to hurt him.”
Tears filled her eyes and she nodded. “He—the father—killed the oldest boy because he looked and acted Irish.”
“Ah, this is why she’s killing them?” Tristan asked. His voice was tight, and Sorcha could only imagine what he was going through watching the horror over and over.
“Yes. She was angry, so angry.” Sorcha rubbed her arms.
“He kills at least one child, she kills two, and then he kills her.” Tristan shook his head. “That pain, that rage… They are not ghosts.”
“What are you talking about?” Sorcha whispered, “I saw them, I felt them. So did Séan.”
“The man beside me wants Séan. He is trying to get in, but he cannot.”
“But we did what he wanted?” Séan said. “I took down the wall, we opened the door.”
“It doesn’t matter, these aren’t ghosts.”
“What are they then?” Sorcha asked desperately.
“Memories.” Tristan took a half step back and shook his head. “They are memories so strong that they left a mark. Ghosts are souls, left wandering because they cannot leave. These are not true ghosts, they are moments of history that even time cannot erase.”
“We can’t…we can’t make them go away?” Sorcha asked.
“No.”
“We need to leave, run.”
“I…can’t.” Tristan said.
“What do you mean?”
Melissa, who’d been quiet at Sorcha’s side, went up to Tristan. While the rest of them were frozen in place, afraid to move, she seemed unaffected.
She examined Tristan’s face, took his pulse, then nodded. “All right, I believe you believe there’s something going on here.”
Tristan let out a little puff of air that was almost a laugh. “You don’t trust what you can’t see?”
“I’ve seen more dead bodies, graves and horrifying things than most people. Trust me, if there were ghosts, I’d know about it.”
She stepped back from Tristan and walked into the room. Marching over to the tarp, she crouched at her bag. “Ghosts, or memories or whatever you want to call them, don’t exist, but people’s reactions are very real, and that I can help with.”
She took two flares out of the bag, and a small plastic device.
“Most major religions have exorcism rituals, though they are called a variety of things. There are similar elements used in most.” Melissa spoke calmly and clearly, as if giving a lecture. “The first is fire.”
She popped the caps from the flares. There was a hiss and then red flame shot out of them. She held both in one hand and turned in a circle.
“The second is sound.”
Holding up the little plastic box, she pressed the button in the middle.
A piercing siren ripped through the air. Sorcha clapped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes closed. The scream of the siren set her teeth on edge and made her eyes water. Someone touched her. She opened one eye, looked up at Séan, who was now in the hall with her. Ghost at the threshold or not, she didn’t blame him for getting out of there.
He opened his arms and she slid into them gratefully, hands still pressed over her ears.
The sound stopped, and the silence was almost as deafening as the siren had been. Together she and Séan peered around Tristan at Melissa. She was looking at Tristan.
“They’re gone,” he said. He looked around. “That worked.” He stiffened, then whirled to look behind him. Sorcha remembered the ghost that had been at his back, so much brighter than the others. His shoulders relaxed. “The memories are gone.”
Chapter Sixteen
A Time to Sow
Hand in hand, Sorcha and Séan exited the west wing, using the back door rather than going into the castle. Melissa’s emergency siren had brought people running—Sorcha wasn’t ready to face everyone yet. As the director of guest services, she needed to be in there, helping to restore order and redress any inconvenience.
But right now she was raw and needed to be away from everyone.
Everyone but Séan.
It was raining, and as they stepped out into the night the rain soaked her hair and clothes. It felt good, cleansing.
Séan tipped his head back, let the rain fall on his face. He was a man of the land, meant to be out here, in the rain and wind—strong and gentle and kind. He smiled a little, his lips quirking as the rain plastered his hair to his face and darkened his beard.
“I love you.”
The words were out before she could stop them, before she could remind herself that she couldn’t have him, that what was between them was over, had to be over.
For an eternal moment, he didn’t respond. Then his chin tipped down and he looked at her, his eyes almost gold in the murky light of the stormy afternoon.
“And I love you, Sorcha Kerrigan, and I always will.”
A sob caught in her throat. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. He tasted like rain and man, and something darker that might have been fear.
His wet hands found their way under her clothes, caressing her skin. She shivered, kissing him harder, deeper. Their bodies rocked together and she felt the start of his erection against her hip. They were outside, in the space between the west wing and the mews. Some high shrubs hid them from the first floor windows of the main wing, but anyone on the second floor or walking on the garden path that passed by the rear wall could see them.
They didn’t care. Sorcha toed off her shoes, wishing she was wearing a skirt as she shucked her slacks. Rain and cold air hit her bare legs, but Séan was there, backing her against the wall of the castle, lifting her and wrapping her legs around him. He’d opened his pants, and his cock was hard and ready. He didn’t prepare her, didn’t wait. He thrust in to her, demanding that she accept him. Sorcha was more than ready. She wanted, needed the fullness of his sudden invasion.
“I love you, I have since the moment I saw you,” he whispered. “I will always love you.”
“I love you, I love you so much I’m scared to even think the words.” She fisted a hand in his hair as she buried her face against his shoulder while his hips pumped into her in a steady rhythm.
They came together, shuddering and shivering, holding each other as if they’d fall away into the abyss if they let go.
The rain stopped and Séan looked up. He glanced around, then met her gaze. His lips quirked in a smile. “Ah, my Sorcha. You drive me mad.”
“I can’t believe we just had sex against a wall in the rain.”
His semi-erect cock was still inside her. Sorcha started to push him away so she could find her trousers, but the movement was enough stimulation that they both moaned.
“That first time might have been a fluke,” he whispered as he kissed his way down her neck. “Maybe we should try it again.”
“You’re enough to tempt a saint, but I have to go. I have to help.”
“All right.” He pulled back, slowly lowering her legs.
Sorcha picked up her soaked slacks and with a groan pulled those and her equally wet underwear on. “I need dry clothes. I’ll grab a uniform.”
“I’ll get them. Where’s your key?” He zipped his pants.
“You’re wet and cold too.”
“That doesn’t mean I won’t help you.”
Sorcha paused, then said, “I didn’t lock the cottage.”
“Where should I meet you?”
“Front desk. If I’m not there, they’ll know where I am.”
H
e nodded, then turned for the garden path. He could follow it all the way to the west wing and the forest beyond.
“And Séan?”
He looked over his shoulder.
She opened her mouth, but she didn’t know what to say, or rather, didn’t know where to start. So much had happened in the last few hours.
He nodded once, as if he understood. “When you’re done, we’ll talk. There’s time, Sorcha, time for us to figure it all out.”
He smiled, a true, full smile, turned, and was gone.
Sorcha took a deep breath, let it out, and headed back into the castle.
An endless day.
Sorcha couldn’t believe that sneaking into the kitchen for breakfast food had been only this morning. It seemed like it was a lifetime ago. She’d spent the past few hours reassuring guests, apologizing for the “construction accident” that had set off an alarm and finally sitting down with Melissa and Tristan to explain everything to Elizabeth.
It must have been nearing midnight, though she’d decided to stop checking the time, since it made her more tired. She hadn’t seen Séan since that brief, and very hot, interlude in the rain. She knew he’d been back because Kristina had been holding a skirt and sweater for her at the front desk. They were horribly mismatched—a thick, gray knit sweater that was pilled and had holes, worn only on winter mornings when she curled up with a mug of tea and a book. To go with that he’d brought her an elegant satin pencil skirt. Along with her wild hair, hastily pulled up into the bun, she looked a bit mad.
Considering the time, she could only hope Séan had gone home. She’d done a quick walk through of the first floor to see if he was in the restaurant or any of the other public rooms. When she didn’t find him, she gave in and headed back to her cottage.
She opened the door and there he was. He rose from her kitchen table, rubbing his hands on his thighs as he stood. He looked large in her little kitchen. His hair fell over his forehead and his eyes were intense.
Sorcha closed the door behind her, leaning back against it. “You’re here.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t be?”
She smiled. “No, I knew you would.” The sight of him, the memory of the way they’d had each other—hard, fast and desperate—had her blood humming. She wanted his hands on her again, but this time she wanted a bed and for them to take their time.
“Tea?”
“I had something else in mind,” she said with a smile, reaching for the hem of her sweater.
“And I’m of a mind to talk to you.”
Sorcha considered his words. She was sure that she could make him forget about talking. She could strip off this sweater, then his pants. In no time he’d have her bent over the table, fucking her until she couldn’t feel or think about anything else. She wanted to do that, not only because she wanted him but because she didn’t want to talk. She was terrified of what might come out of any conversation they had.
She wavered on that point between choosing what was easy and pleasurable and choosing what was hard and scary.
“Tea would be lovely,” she said.
While he filled the kettle, she went to the bedroom. Leaving on the sweater, she changed her pencil skirt for a pair of comfortable lounging pants. When she returned to the kitchen, there was a cup of tea waiting for her. She sank into a chair and smiled at Séan, picking up her cup.
“Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome.”
“And thank you, for earlier, you…brought me out of it.”
“You did the same for me. Are you all right, after that?”
Sorcha had been trying not to think about it. “I felt that baby die in my hands, by my hands.”
“It wasn’t you.”
“I can’t really imagine a rage so deep, so powerful that a mother would kill her own child.”
“She’d already lost a child. Maybe she went mad.”
“Two parents, both of whom were willing to kill their own children.”
“A terrible inheritance.”
They sipped tea in silence. Sorcha found herself clenching and unclenching her fingers. That woman had taken her child, her beautiful, healthy child, and killed him, while Sorcha had held a fragile little thing, turned too quickly to corpse.
Séan’s hand covered hers, stopping her restless motion. “Sorcha, look at me.”
She smiled, but it was watery. He looked so very handsome, and she loved him so much.
“I love you.”
“Séan, don’t say that.”
“I will say it, because it’s true. This afternoon, out in the rain, you finally stopped thinking, stopped worrying. You love me.”
She should deny it, but it seemed pointless. “I do, but that changes nothing.”
“You think that because you can’t have children we cannot be together.”
“Séan, I already told you, I know that it might not sound like a problem, but I would rather be alone than come to be hated because I couldn’t bear children.” She looked down into her teacup. “I know I’d think differently if I hadn’t had a child. When I was pregnant, I felt connected, part of something greater than myself, felt that my life was worth something more than just my own happiness and wants. It was a feeling…a feeling I’d never deny someone else.”
Séan nodded slowly, as if he agreed or understood. He pulled something from his pocket and unfolded a few sheets of paper. He put his hand on them, as if they were some sort of talisman.
“If I were sterile would you leave me?”
“Séan, that’s not fair.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t know that you’re sterile. I know, I’ve been through it once, and I can’t do it again.”
“But if I was, if I’d been married before and there were no children, and I knew I couldn’t have children, would you walk away?”
“Of course not.”
“Why?”
Tears filled her eyes. “Because I love you.”
“Love me enough that it wouldn’t matter?”
“Of course.”
Séan rose out of his chair, came around to her side of the table. He dropped to his knees beside her. Taking her hands in his, he kissed her knuckles, then turned her hands over and kissed her palms.
“Then believe me when I tell you that I love you.” He brought her hands to his chest, folding them over his heart. “I do not love you because I want children, but because when you smile I want to smile too, when you laugh the world seems good, and when I touch you I believe that there is something more to this life than the worry and sorrow of each day.”
Sorcha pulled one hand free and covered her face as she started to cry.
“Do not cry, my love.”
“I want this, I want you, but I’m scared.” She wiped her tears with her sleeve. “I love you so much I could not bear for you to come to hate me.”
“I would never hate you.”
She wanted to give in, wanted to give herself permission to be happy, permission to believe that love was enough.
Séan’s gaze searched her face. He nodded, then rose, slipping away from her. Sorcha folded her hands on her lap. She’d finally gotten through to him, pushed hard enough that he was leaving.
He resumed his seat and picked up the papers.
“My mother told me that there are many things that can go wrong in life. All you can do is find someone you love and do your best to fight through them together. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to help you deal with this problem—we’ll do it together.”
He cleared his throat and looked at the paper. “Hypoplastic left heart syndrome has no known cause. It’s extremely rare. If it’s genetic, then I would have to be a carrier too, which is also very rare. Also, if it’s genetic, there’s testing we could both have, so we’d know.”
He flipped to the second page. “If you want to have children but biological children aren’t an option, then we could adopt. There are—”
�
��Stop, stop.” Sorcha shook her head. “Séan, I know all this. Why are you doing this?”
He looked up. “I’m trying to explain that whatever happens, if it’s no children or one of us gets sick or if I lose the cows and the farm has to be sold…whatever it is that happens, I’ll love you, and with you by my side I know we can survive it.”
Sorcha let out a sob as she jumped from her chair and threw herself into his arms. He held her, stroking her hair as she cried.
“I love you, I love you,” he whispered over and over.
Sorcha took a deep breath, let it out and gave in. She gave in to the love she felt for him and gave up the fear she’d carried with her since she’d lost her child.
“I’m so sorry, I was such a fool,” she said, cupping his face. “I love you, and I’ll be there with you, no matter what happens.”
He stood with her in his arms and carried her to bed.
Epilogue
Seamus dropped into the chair in his study. The bodies in the nursery were the siblings of George Moriarty. George Moriarty, who’d arrived in England at the age of five, where he’d been named the legal heir to his father, Charles Moriarty, the Earl of Hensley, with holdings in England and Ireland, where he was known as the Lord of Glenncailty.
George Moriarty, his ancestor.
Seamus clenched his fist. There were plenty of skeletons in his family closet, but he hadn’t known about this one. Charles Moriarty had killed those in the glen who he thought were part of an uprising, a movement that would become the failed Fenian Rising. He’d killed anyone he found suspect, including his oldest child and namesake, who’d been with his cousins when the soldiers came. When Charles’ mistress heard what he’d done, she’d killed the youngest two in a fit of rage.
Seamus took a small black book from his desk. It was the journal of young George, started aboard a ship bound for England with one or two small painstakingly written child-like notes. Unlike his siblings, he’d been spared, off at private lessons with the priest. From its pages, it was clear he never knew the truth of what happened to his family. Toward the end, when he returned to Ireland as the Lord of Glenncailty he talked about how he hated the Irish, hated his family there. Someone had filled the boy’s head with lies about how the O’Donnabhains, his mother’s family, and Mac Gearailts, his uncle’s family, had killed his brothers because they were half English.