Wild Irish Grace
The Mystic Cove Series, Book 7
Tricia O’Malley
Lovewrite Publishing
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:
[email protected]
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Author's Note
Wild Irish Dreamer
Chapter 1
Ms. Bitch
Authors Note
The Mystic Cove Series
The Isle of Destiny Series
The Siren Island Series
The Althea Rose Series
Author's Note
Author's Acknowledgement
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 little 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 yo
ur 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 know 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.
“You’ve had another one of your dreams, haven’t you?”
“Haven’t I told you it’s rude to be popping into a person’s living room uninvited, old woman?” Grace complained, glancing over her shoulder to where Fiona sat at the kitchen table, looking as human as ever, surveying with a critical eye the various supplies and ingredients laid out in front of her.
“You’ll be remembering it was my cottage first,” Fiona said, her nose in the air, but a twinkle in her eye took the sting from her words. Sure and it had been a shock to Grace when she’d walked into Fiona’s cottage the day after the funeral to begin sorting through Fiona’s stuff and had found the old woman relaxing in her rocking chair as if nothing unusual had come to pass. It wasn’t the first time Grace had seen a ghost, but it was certainly her longest and most involved interaction with one. Having Fiona near had brought great comfort to Grace and her family, and even though she’d taken on the role as a translator of sorts for her family, she quickly found that they could all still communicate with Fiona in their own ways.
Hers was just the most direct.
“How could I forget? You still live here,” Grace grumbled.
Fiona laughed, knowing that Grace loved having her around. “You’ve a need for me yet,” she said, her eyes knowing as she continued to catalog the contents of the kitchen table that had once been hers. It had served thousands of meals and hundreds of visitors through the years.
“Of course I do,” Grace said, moving to the stove where her teapot had begun to sing. “Your wisdom transcends all time. Though you’re welcome to go visit the others, you know. You don’t always have to hang out here.” Grace feigned grumpiness while she poured her tea, knowing that Fiona enjoyed their banter.
“My other chicks are well sorted. It’s you I’ve got my eye on,” Fiona said, tilting her head to study the shadows under Grace’s eyes. “You’ve lost a bit of weight.”
“And I’ve more that I could lose. A slender build is not in my bloodline,” Grace said, adding sugar and milk to her tea. Being voluptuous didn’t bother Grace overmuch; in olden days it had been a sign of wealth and prestige – signifying that she was prosperous enough to feed herself and her family. It was only in this world that it seemed everyone was so involved in looking perfect, paying so much attention to a number on the scale, that they forgot to just live their lives. Grace knew how fleeting a lifetime could be. Wasting that time fussing over whether her bum looked good in a skirt was useless. If one man didn’t find it appealing, another would – or so she reminded herself with a sigh as she settled at the table. Her dating life had been virtually nonexistent in the past year, and not for lack of interest.
“You don’t need to lose weight and you know that. Now, tell me, was it the same dream?” Fiona asked, her gaze shrewd as she studied her granddaughter’s face.
“It was, once again. And…” Grace was shocked to hear her voice catch, and she rushed to sip her tea, which she immediately regretted when it scalded her tongue. Choking, she shook her head for a moment and held up a finger for Fiona to wait while she swallowed and ran some quick magick to deal with her pain. Once she was sorted, she met Fiona’s eyes. “And… I wake up feeling like I’ve lost the love of my life. Over and over. It’s exhausting. I don’t know what I’m meant to do or how to rid myself of these dreams.”
“Maybe you’re not meant to rid yourself of them,” Fiona said.
“But I can’t keep living like this. How can I grieve the loss of a lover I’ve never had? Never known? At least not in this lifetime.”
“Have you asked him for a message? In your dream?” Fiona asked. “Maybe he’s trying to communicate something.”
“I… no, I haven’t,” Grace admitted, tucking one foot beneath her and absently rubbing Rosie’s ear, who had come to sit by her at the table, resting her head on Grace’s leg. “I get so swept up in reliving those moments on the shore that I’m just there, you know? I know it’s me and it’s not me at the same time, but I feel it so deeply that I forget I can guide or ask for things in my dream. Lucid dreaming… I just… it’s like the dam breaks on my emotions and all I can do is feel, not think, and I’m both the happiest and the saddest I’ve ever been in one night.”
“That does sound exhausting,” Fiona said, leaning back a bit as she studied her granddaughter. “Living with loss is incredibly difficult.”
Wild Irish Grace: The Mystic Cove Series, Book 7 Page 1