by Deb Stover
Bridget reminded herself of the eviction notice. She had a child to feed, and that child's daddy might finally come through with some support. Remembering Culley's laughing eyes, tears welled in her own. She'd much rather have had Culley with her all along than have his property now without him.
In fact, she owed it to Culley to make sure his son took his rightful place in the Mulligan family. Pride made her lift her chin and square her shoulders. A slow, determined smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "Then I reckon I'll take my son to meet his daddy's family."
"That's the spirit." Mr. Larabee returned her smile. "When shall I tell Mrs. Mulligan to expect you?"
A sinking sensation struck Bridget. The final blow. Her mouth went dry and her eyes burned. "Never." She held her hands out, palms up. "I don't have the money for the trip." Her breath came out in a whoosh and she fell back against the chair. Defeated. "I guess that's the end of—"
"No. It's just the beginning." Mr. Larabee smiled again and handed another envelope to Bridget. "Open it."
Shaking from the inside out, she leaned forward and took the envelope and looked inside. "It's full of cash."
Mr. Larabee nodded. "Mrs. Mulligan wired the money for you and Jacob to use for plane fare."
"I see." Bridget stared at the money in amazement. "And she trusts me enough to believe I won't use this for something else?"
"She said if you don't bring Jacob to Ireland, she'll assume you lied about his paternity."
Bridget’s pride reared its offended head and she rose, her knees quaking beneath her. "I never lie."
Mr. Larabee rose as well and gave her a satisfied nod. "I know."
After several deep breaths, she trusted herself to meet his gaze again. His eyes twinkled approvingly.
"Now what do I do?" She held the envelope against her chest, afraid it might vanish as magically as it had appeared. "I don't even have a passport. And what about General Lee?"
"We'll walk you through the process, but it will take a few weeks," Mr. Larabee promised. He rolled his eyes heavenward and chuckled. "And, heaven help me, we'll take care of General Lee."
She laughed along with him, and a strange new emotion filled and empowered her. A feeling she'd rarely known in her twenty-eight years.
Hope.
"Is there enough here to buy plane tickets and repay you and Mrs. Larabee for your generosity?"
"That's not ne—"
"Yes, it is necessary." She met his gaze and he nodded.
"Very well. I'm sure there's plenty."
A huge grin spread across her face and she hugged the envelope close. "A real castle, Mr. Larabee?"
He nodded, smiling. "Caisleán Dubh—Cash-Lawn Doov. At least that's how Mrs. Mulligan pronounced it."
"Doov?" Bridget echoed. "I wonder what it means."
"Mrs. Larabee said you'd want to know, so she looked it up on the internet. We think it means black."
"Black? So Caisleán Dubh must mean Castle Black."
"Or Black Castle, I suppose." He folded his arms across his lean abdomen, his expression paternal. "We're going to miss you, but I think you're about to embark on an adventure."
"Lord, yes." Bridget stared out the window at the soft drizzle. "An adventure."
"I think I'm jealous."
She smiled. "You're just going to miss my biscuits and red-eye gravy."
The man blushed to his ears and gave an emphatic nod. "And everything else you cook."
"I'll leave recipes."
"Much obliged."
She released a long sigh and grinned. "By golly, that finance company can have the trailer with my blessing."
"Good for you."
"After all," she hugged herself to make sure she was awake, "who needs a rundown old trailer when they have a castle?"
Chapter 2
Flying was both the greatest thrill and the most bone-chilling fear Bridget had ever known. All across the Atlantic, she'd prayed for their safety, while maintaining a false front of calm for her son's benefit. The last thing she wanted was to frighten Jacob.
However, Jacob was engrossed with the entire experience. He pressed his nose to the window to gaze down at the whitecaps and fluffy clouds. Every time the plane bounced through rough air, Jacob said, "Whee."
Bridget stopped breathing.
If—no, when—the plane landed safely at Shannon Airport, she vowed never to fly again. When the time came for them to return home, she intended to book passage on a nice, slow boat.
Of course, the Titanic had set sail from Ireland....
"Look, Momma," Jacob said, standing to peer out the window. "It sure is green."
Tentatively, Bridget unbuckled her seat belt and slid closer, holding her breath as she peered over her son's shoulder. "Well, I'll be."
"Is that where we're going?"
"I reckon that must be Ireland," Bridget whispered, banishing her fear as the plane eased through more air turbulence. Lord, have mercy. Even after the flight attendant compared the turbulence to speed bumps or pot holes, she still hated it. After all, she could see speed bumps and pot holes.
"What's that?" Jacob pressed his finger against the badly smudged window. His full face print was smeared onto the glass in several places.
Bridget saw sheer cliffs along the coast. "I remember reading about those." She'd done her homework before leaving Tennessee. The local library had contained more information about Ireland than she ever would have guessed. "Those are the Cliffs of Moher," she said, hoping she had the pronunciation right.
The man with the aisle seat next to them broke his silence and cleared his throat. "Aye, and what a grand place 'tis, too."
Bridget met his gentle gaze. His blue eyes twinkled amid a web of wrinkles and bushy white brows. "You've been there?"
"Aye, many times." The man sighed.
Bridget settled back and re-fastened her seat belt. "You're Irish, aren't you?" The man's accent was enchanting, reminding her of Culley. That persistent pang of guilt returned. If only she could undo the years of believing the worst of her poor dead husband.
"Aye, though I've been in the States with my daughter's family these past eleven years." He smiled, his face glowing. "But 'tis what I'm needing now, this homecoming." He held out his right hand. "I'm Brady, and I grew up right down the coast from the Cliffs in Ballybronagh."
Bridget shook the man's hand. "I'm Bridget, and this is my son, Jacob. Mr., uh...?"
"Just call me Brady, lass."
Brady had kept his nose buried in a book. Now that he felt like talking, she decided to pick his brain for information. "So you're from County Clare?"
"Aye, and proud of it I am."
Jacob withdrew himself from the window and turned his attention to the man. "Have you seen our castle?"
"A castle is it now?" Brady's eyes twinkled. "There be many castles in Ireland, though I fear most are crumbling away."
Bridget had explained to her son that she'd learned his father—no, his daddy—was dead, and that they were going to Ireland to meet Jacob's grandmother. She patted her son's hand now, grateful she'd found the guts to tell him the truth.
"Momma, how do you say our castle's name again?" Jacob asked, studying her intently.
"It isn't ours, Jacob. It belongs to your daddy's kin." Her cheeks warmed and she feared she would butcher the pronunciation. "I believe it's Caisleán Dubh," she said carefully, glancing at Brady for approval.
The old man's eyes widened and his lips parted in obvious surprise. "Dubh, you say?" He shook his head. "That one's a sight to be sure." He looked at Bridget curiously.
"What kinda sight, sir?" Jacob asked the way only a child could. Directly, without subterfuge. "Is it really black?"
"Aye, 'tis very dark, and there isn't another anywhere I've heard tell of with its design." He gave them a sheepish grin. "At least, not in Ireland."
"Unique how?" Bridget asked, tickled to meet someone who knew about Caisleán Dubh. Maybe he even knew the family....
> "Caisleán Dubh is a square castle with a round tower keep to one side." Brady stroked his chin and squinted, obviously trying to remember. "Most castles are one or t'other—not both."
"It sounds interesting." Bridget chewed her lower lip. "It's very large, then?"
"Aye." He half-turned toward her, obviously warming to his subject. "Caisleán Dubh is built on a cliff, overlooking the Atlantic."
"A cliff?" Jacob leaned forward. "Way high, like the ones we just seen?"
"Saw," Bridget corrected, smiling at her son.
"Saw." Jacob made a face at her that warmed her heart.
Brady chuckled and nodded his approval. "As a teacher, lad, I can tell you how fortunate you are to have a mum who cares enough to make sure you learn to use proper grammar." He winked at Bridget. "Even if 'tis American grammar."
Bridget liked this man, and she smiled. "So there's a large castle and a tower. The stones are black." She sighed, trying to picture it. "Does it have a drawbridge?"
"No," Brady said. "They positioned the castle close enough to the sea not to need one. The windows are high enough to prevent attackers from scaling the walls. From the land and sea, it appears inaccessible until you're right in front of it. At one time, there was a drawbridge that opened to the land through a wall built around the fortress, but only a few crumbling stones remain. It opened to the ground level, beneath the main hall."
"Oh, I can't wait to see the inside of it." Goosebumps popped out on Bridget's arms as she tried to picture Caisleán Dubh.
"The inside, is it? That would be a treat." Brady's brow furrowed and his expression grew solemn.
"I want to go inside, too," Jacob said. "Can we?"
"Well, lad... with the curse and all, I doubt you'll be seein' the inside of Caisleán Dubh."
An icy wave washed through Bridget. "Curse?" she echoed in a small voice.
"A real curse? Wow!" Jacob stretched half across Bridget to get closer to Brady. "What kinda curse? Is there a dungeon? Is it haunted? Is there a pit and a pen... pen—you know, like that movie?"
"Jacob." Bridget's cheeks flamed even hotter now and she placed a firm but gentle hand on her son's shoulder. "Don't bombard the poor man with questions."
The boy's face fell and he slumped back in his seat. "Sorry."
"'Tis all right," Brady said. "I'm the one who should be apologizin'. Perhaps 'curse' isn't quite the right word."
Bridget sighed in open relief. "I certainly hope it isn't cursed." She gave a nervous laugh.
"Caisleán Dubh is owned by the Mulligans," Brady said, watching her very closely. "So, I'm guessin' your husband must be a Mulligan." His brow furrowed and he stroked his chin with thumb and forefinger.
"Yes, sir." Bridget squared her shoulders. Now was the time for her to become comfortable with being Cully Mulligan's widow. "Culley Mulligan was my husband."
"Ah, Culley was it? I remember hearing about his passing from my granddaughter," he said quietly. "I recall young Culley as being a fine lad. I taught school for twenty-six years and he was one of my finest pupils. 'Tis a tragedy."
Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them away. "Yes, he was a good man." And I'll see to it his memory is good and pure, Lord.
Brady leaned forward and directed his question at Jacob. "So Culley Mulligan was your da, lad?"
Jacob shot Bridget a questioning glance and she nodded, hoping she could undo some of the damage her doubts about Culley had created in her son's mind and heart. Though she hadn't raved about Culley within her son's hearing, how could he not have picked up on her resentment all these years?
"Yes, sir." Jacob's eyes widened and he inched closer. "Do... do I look like him?"
Though she'd already told the boy at least a hundred times how much he looked like his daddy, Bridget recognized Jacob's need for confirmation. She bit the inside of her cheek, praying.
"Why, you're the image of young Culley. Aye, lad, you favor your da."
Thank you, Lord.
"And your Uncle Riley, as well."
"He's my daddy's brother." Jacob bit his lower lip, obviously struggling to remember all the names. "And my aunt's name is..."
"Aye, an aunt it is." Brady smiled. "I'll not be rememberin' her name now, as she was but a wee lass when I left for the States."
"Mary Margaret," Bridget said quietly, stroking the curls that framed her son's face. "Culley called her Maggie, though."
"Ah, a fine name to be sure." The older man studied Bridget with renewed interest. "For that matter, Bridget is a fine Irish name in its own right."
She smiled, remembering her grandpa's stories about their ancestors fleeing Ireland during the Potato Famine. Of course, he hadn't been alive then, but the tales were passed down from generation to generation. And now she was returning to the scene of the crime. So to speak.
"Yes, Bridget Colleen Frye is my maiden name."
"Irish as can be." Brady's smile spread from ear to ear.
The old man's obvious pleasure at hearing about her Irish roots delighted her for some reason, and she returned his smile. "My grandpa claims I was named after my great-granny, though I never knew her."
"'Tis a fine thing to name children after those who came before them." A distant expression entered Brady's eyes, but he quickly resumed smiling. "There's somethin' about the name Frye I should be rememberin'." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "It'll come to me later, to be sure."
"Tell us about the curse," Jacob said, leaning across Bridget's lap.
"Jacob." Bridget really didn't want to hear about a curse. She'd faced enough of those in real life without dealing with a make-believe one, too.
Brady exchanged glances with Bridget and seemed to sense her reluctance. He shrugged and flashed Jacob a cock-eyed grin. "I might've stretched the truth a wee bit, lad."
"No curse?" Jacob's disappointment was downright palpable. "Well, there was a tragedy at Caisleán Dubh, to be sure," the old man said. "Do you know the story of Romeo and Juliet, Jacob?"
Jacob shook his head and Bridget gave him an indulgent smile. "I don't reckon they teach Shakespeare in kindergarten," she said, ruffling her son's hair.
"Well, what happened at Caisleán Dubh is somethin' akin to that tale," Brady continued, shaking his head solemnly. "You ask your mum to read the story to you. A lad is never too young to be learning."
Bridget sighed and whispered, "Thank you."
"Besides," the Irishman said with an emphatic nod, "I believe you'll be hearin' all about the Curse of Caisleán Dubh soon enough."
* * *
Riley Mulligan shoved a stubborn shock of black hair out of his face and unfolded himself from his mum’s car. He despised the city, and the nature of his mission today made his belly burn and his temples throb.
Fiona Mulligan was beside herself, because she had badly wanted to make the trip. However, an attack of gout had different ideas. The poor woman wouldn’t be able to venture farther than her rocking chair for at least two days. And Maggie was too young to send alone to Shannon, though she’d been driving for over a year now. Besides, she had school today.
Riley sighed and made his way across the parking lot and into the terminal. A quick glance at his watch confirmed that he should reach customs in plenty of time to meet the woman.
He’d rather drink a watered down pint. Jaysus, he’d even rather eat Maggie’s pitiful excuse for soda bread—a shudder rippled through him at the thought of his sister’s most recent effort in that regard. Truth be told, given his druthers, he’d choose to be doing anything but this.
But a promise had been made, and keep it he would. Mum’s tears and pleading had done him in, just as she’d known. He’d never been a man to deny a weeping woman anything, so long as it made her stop. A weakness among the Mulligan males, it was, handed down from generation to generation. Alas, Riley Francis Mulligan was no exception.
And now, Jaysus help him, he was in the city to fetch the woman who claimed to have married Culley and borne his son.
<
br /> Renewed anger vibrated through Riley as he emptied his pockets and passed through airport security. Soon he would see the liar's face for himself, and he’d be having nothing less than the truth. Culley wasn't here to defend himself, so it fell to his brother to do it for him. And do it he would.
Clenching his fists, he paused before a monitor and checked the flight number and gate. "On time," he muttered, shoving his unruly hair out of his face again. He glanced at his watch, and moved to the area where passengers would emerge after going through customs.
They didn't have so much as a photograph of the woman or the lad, though the attorney Mum had spoken to had provided a description. Bridget Mulligan was, so Mum had informed Riley, an attractive young woman with wavy brown hair, above average in height and slender. The boy was said to have nearly black curls.
Like Culley's... and his? By the saints, he didn't want to ponder any of this. The woman was a fraud and he would prove it. Any resemblance would be pure coincidence.
Armed with this certainty, he stood staring as passengers emerged from customs. He'd refused to hold the sign his sister had made bearing the woman's name. She could find him on her own or turn around and go back to the States where she belonged.
His heart thudded louder as each passenger filed past with no sign of a woman meeting her description, and not a single dark-haired lad. Well, fine, then. He swallowed the burning bile in his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets, prepared to leave. Though Mum and Maggie would be disappointed, this was for the best. The woman would've brought them nothing but misery, and Jaysus knew the Mulligans had seen more than their fair share of that.
Just as he retrieved his keys from his pocket and clenched his fist about them, they appeared—a woman in her late twenties with brown hair curling about her shoulders, and a lad with a headful of nearly black curls. Riley's breath froze as his gaze shifted from the child to the mother.
The woman stared at him, her eyes wide and her lips slightly parted. Her already fair skin paled further and he thought she might even have swayed a bit. Was it because he resembled Culley? Even so, just because the woman knew what Culley had looked like didn't mean she'd married the man and given birth to his son.