“More than enough,” Heaney confirmed with a sigh.
They continued on in silence until they reached the tangle of vines and brush that marked the edge of the fens. The muddy trail leading in looked wider and smoother, having been trampled by dozens of PSNI personnel multiple times in the past couple of days.
Donovan paused to listen. No buzzing, but a low hum rather like an engine on idle thrummed inside his head. Not gone then, only muted. His fingers tightened convulsively around the handle of the cane.
“They removed the body yesterday.” From Heaney’s edgy tone, he sensed Donovan’s unease. Either that or he just didn’t relish walking into the fens.
Couldn’t blame him there.
“What is it you expect to see?”
“Nothing, I hope,” Donovan answered honestly.
Gathering the tatters of his courage, he limped down the path. Heaney followed. Moisture clung to the surrounding vegetation and hung in the air, but the hum remained steady. No increase or decrease, even when they came to the excavation site, though the back of Donovan’s neck prickled with anticipation.
Two holes now gaped, piles of earth ringing both of them on three sides. Since he couldn’t bend his left knee, Donovan shifted awkwardly in order to grab a handful of mud from the closest pile.
“They made a thorough search of this area.” Heaney sounded more nervous. Could it be he felt something too?
“I know,” Donovan mused, letting the dirt sift through his fingers while he gazed around.
There was the place where Lynch had stood when he tackled him. They’d rolled into the farthest pit.
Swallowing hard, Donovan moved his eyes over the area where he and Rylie had crawled.
Flynn’s apparition had confronted them there.
The hum suddenly went up a notch, as if the motor had been engaged, and with it came a throbbing pain in his temple. Donovan snapped his head back toward the holes. A shape coalesced above the newly excavated one, shimmering only a little more darkly than the surrounding mists. Stiffening, breath caught in his throat, Donovan recognized the nearly transparent figure as Professor McRory.
Everything else ceased to exist as he stared into the bottomless depths of McRory’s dead eyes. Pain and sorrow engulfed Donovan, but no anger. No sign of the raging Norseman.
McRory lifted one hand, and a wave of sadness tinged with acceptance flowed from the wavering image. His mouth opened, but instead of words, only a soft sigh emerged. Then he vanished.
Donovan staggered, his right leg buckling as the hum and the figure simultaneously disappeared. Only his death-grip on the cane and the counterbalance of the brace on his left leg kept him from falling.
“O’Shea!” he heard Heaney cry. “Are you all right?”
Donovan wheezed in several noisy breaths and blinked his eyes, while the smaller man grasped him by the shoulders.
“Are you all right?” Heaney repeated.
“Fine . . . I’m fine.” Or as much so as he would ever be. Donovan kept his grip on the cane while he forced himself to make the same slow circuit of the excavations and the surrounding area. Except for the familiar dull ache behind his eyeballs, there was nothing.
No Celtic warriors or Druids.
No vengeful spirits.
No sounds.
Nothing.
He’d faced down his demons and for the moment at least, he had won. Taking a deep breath, Donovan mentally cast aside the guilt and self-loathing and turned to the path leading out of the fens.
“Let’s go,” he said to Heaney.
“Go where?” the attorney asked, falling into step beside him.
He didn’t answer for several moments, for he was trying to move faster. Damn the fecking brace and cane! Finally he said, “Back to Armagh, the hospital. I need to see Rylie.”
“Ah.” Heaney infused a wealth of understanding into that single syllable. He fished in his pocket and pulled out his mobile. “Do you want to call her?”
“No, I want to kiss her,” Donovan muttered. “At least for starters. If she’ll have me.”
Heaney chuckled as he replaced the phone. “Well then, that being the case . . . ” He gave Donovan a thump on the back, before he jogged around him, headed for the car.
Donovan emerged from the fens and crossed the yard, mumbling curses at his slow progress the entire way. Heaney had the Beamer running and the front passenger door open wide, waiting for him. He never looked back once. And he never intended to lay eyes on this place again.
When they reached the main road, Heaney proceeded to shave several seconds off Donovan’s previous land speed record. Screaming around a school bus and several lorries, the mild-mannered attorney drove like a man possessed. Donovan wondered aloud if they would wind up back in the ER as patients, but Heaney just laughed.
Rylie stood under the cascade of hot water, content to let it wash away the remaining grime, stench, and horror of the fens. This was her first real shower in three days, though trying to bathe and wash her hair with one hand was almost impossible. Still, she was so happy to be rid of the annoying IV and the various tubes and wires that she didn’t really care.
Today was the day she’d been scheduled to leave Ireland. But thanks to the efforts of Sean Sullivan, a true knight in shining armor, the airline had issued her a full return voucher good anytime within the next thirty days. Donovan’s garrulous brother-in-law had also taken it upon himself to call her stepfather, Jim Powell, while she had been in surgery. When she’d been in recovery, Sean called back and reassured Jim she was safe and in good hands.
In truth, the only hands she wanted to be in were Donovan’s, and for the past three days, he’d seldom left her side. When they had arrived at the emergency room, he clung to the gurney, refusing treatment, right up to point where they pushed her through the swinging doors to the operating room.
The last words out of his mouth were, “Don’t you dare leave me.”
“I won’t,” she promised, and then the door swung shut.
The first things she saw when she woke up in the recovery room were Donovan’s blue eyes a few inches from hers.
“There now, Mr. O’Shea. What did I tell ya?” asked a nurse in a querulous tone.
He breathed her name like a benediction, then dropped his head onto the blanket next to her and sobbed once.
“Donovan?” she rasped through her raw, aching throat. “Are you okay?”
Drawing in a ragged breath, he raised his head and answered, “I am now.”
Then he kissed her full on the mouth, and Rylie tasted his tears. She tried to reach for him, but her right arm was tangled in a mass of tubes and her left arm wouldn’t move at all.
That was because the surgeon had to repair muscle damage and give her a unit of blood, she later found out. Another operation would probably be needed, the doctor had advised, but not immediately.
Both she and Donovan feigned ignorance when asked about the strange substance smeared under her makeshift bandages. Thinking, much less talking about the awful events in the fens wasn’t something she wanted to do right away. And so far, she had been spared from answering questions. She was fairly certain that she had Mr. Jeremy Heaney, Esq. to thank for that.
After she’d been moved from recovery into a room, she’d sent Donovan home with Sean and Doreen to rest. He returned a few hours later, right after she’d eaten her chicken broth and green gelatin dinner, with Heaney in tow.
The PSNI had found Lynch’s body face down in Lough Neagh. An autopsy would determine his cause of death. Though the attorney had listened with disbelief etched plainly on his boyish face to Rylie’s claim that she remembered nothing, he assured both she and Donovan that he was confident no charges would be filed.
Loopy on pain meds and the after effects of anesthetic, Rylie had slept all that night and most of the next day. But whenever she woke up, Donovan was in the chair beside her bed.
The surprise had been the appearance of Doreen. Donovan’s siste
r explained in her brusque manner that she and Sean had moved Rylie’s luggage from Cavanagh House to their spare bedroom and Doreen had laundered Rylie’s clothes. Then, before Rylie could stutter out her thanks, Doreen pulled out a new nightgown. She tied and adjusted the halter-top so that all Rylie had to do was slip it over her head. She’d also brought Rylie’s toiletries, clean underwear, and her blow dryer.
Rylie almost believed the whole incident had been a dream, except after she finished her breakfast this morning, the nurse asked if she wanted to take a shower and put on her new gown.
Reluctantly, Rylie shut off the hot water and struggled to wrap a towel around her wet hair with one hand. With that feat accomplished, she patted herself dry with a second towel. The plastic wrapping the nurse had placed over the blue sling effectively blocked the moisture from her injured arm, but the bandage on her throat was soaked. She carefully pulled it off and blotted the four neat black stitches, willing herself not to think about why she needed them.
Dressed, hair almost dry and feeling semi-human, Rylie was startled to find Doreen instead of Donovan waiting in her room.
“I knew that aqua color would become you,” Doreen said with an approving nod. “They’ve moved Dermot back to Holy Family. I’m on my way to make sure he’s settled, and thought I’d pop by. The nurses seem to think you’ll be released today.”
“I hope so,” Rylie replied, her head spinning from the other woman’s rush of words. “Thanks for . . . everything.”
Doreen waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “’Tis the least I can do for Boh’s Yank. That’s what Da calls you, ya know.”
Rylie’s mouth dropped open in surprise and she sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed. But that pronouncement was nothing compared to Doreen’s next bombshell.
“’Twould mean a lot to him if you and Donovan got married here in Ireland,” she remarked as casually as if she were discussing the weather. Then at Rylie’s stunnedsilence, she continued, “A spring wedding would be ideal. But if you and Donovan don’t want to wait, a Christmas wedding would be lovely, too.”
“Wh—what?” Rylie sputtered. “Doreen, your brother and I . . . We—”
“Just think on it, will you?” Doreen interrupted, then with a glance at her watch, she added. “I must run.”
Still dumbfounded, Rylie gasped, “Wait! Do you know where Donovan is?”
“I . . . ” Doreen looked around the room as if she expected her brother to materialize right through a wall. “Oh yes, he asked Mr. Heaney to take him out to the cottage first thing this morning.” She dropped her gaze to the floor and her tone shifted. “The PSNI found that professor’s body yesterday.”
Rylie’s stomach lurched and her breath caught. Would this nightmare never be over?
“Oh,” she murmured, her hand rising to the stitches at her throat.
“Don’t worry,” Doreen reassured. “I’m sure Donovan shall be here directly.” And she disappeared out the door without another word.
In spite of Donovan’s foreboding, they arrived without mishap. Heaney screeched the Beamer to an illegal halt right in front of the hospital’s main doors.
“Good luck, O’Shea. And if she turns you down, I intend to try my luck!”
“You wish,” Donovan retorted, slamming the car door behind himself. For an attorney, Heaney was a decent enough sort.
With a jaunty wave and a squeal of tires, Heaney departed. By the time Donovan reached Rylie’s room on the third floor, his aching leg had made him forget all about his headache. ’Twas hardly nine in the morning and he felt as if he’d spent a twelve-hour day at hard labor.
However, he immediately forgot that too. As soon as he stepped through the door, she cried out his name and flew at him, nearly knocking him over. She wore a filmy blue-green nightgown that he quickly discovered left most of her back bare. The moment his hands touched her silken skin, a wave of raw desire ripped through him and sprang his lad to full alert. He felt a tiny half step from heaven itself.
“Oh God, Donovan! I was so worried,” she babbled into the front of his new leather jacket. “Doreen said you went . . . ” She choked on the rest, tightening her grip on him.
“’Tis all right, sweetheart,” he soothed. “I’m all right.”
He rubbed his cheek across the top of her head and realized he’d forgotten to shave when her soft hair caught in the stubble of his beard.
“Are you sure?” Rylie pulled back and met his gaze, tears shining in her stormy gray eyes. “Did you . . . see anything . . . in the fens?”
Donovan dropped his left hand and gripped the cane to steady himself. “I saw McRory.” She blanched at his words, so he rushed to add. “He’s found peace.”
She gave a shaky sigh. “Was . . . was that all?”
“Nothing else. I swear.”
Very carefully, so that he didn’t jostle her injured arm, he threaded his right hand into her hair and drew her face to his. Bending his head, he brushed his mouth across her upturned lips.
“So it’s over,” she breathed against his cheek. Then hooking her arm around his neck, she plunged her tongue into his mouth.
Caught off guard, Donovan swayed unsteadily and had to push her away. “It may be over for now,” he blurted, the lead weight back in his stomach. “But I still have The Sight or curse or whatever ’tis.”
Rylie planted her right fist against her hip and stuck out her pointed little chin. “I don’t care. I love you, Donovan, and that’s all that matters to me.” And then she launched herself at him again.
This time he met the onslaught of her tongue with his own, but only for a moment. They were dangerously close to toppling over, so he broke the kiss after one luxuriant taste.
“I love you too,” he affirmed. “But right now, my very weak flesh needs to sit down.”
“So I guess the rooftops are still out.”
Donovan hobbled to the nearest chair and collapsed into it. “I’m afraid so.”
She perched on the wooden chair arm and ruffled his hair. “Better watch out. Your sister has plans to marry us off by Christmas.”
He captured her hand and placed a wet kiss squarely in her palm. “Would that be so bad?”
Rylie gasped, eyes round with shock. “Yes—No—I mean . . . ” Flustered, she gave him a little shove. “You’re the one who doesn’t know how to do long term.”
Grabbing her hand again, Donovan unzipped his jacket and pressed her palm flat against his rapidly beating heart. Which belonged to her anyway.
“You told me I only had to do three days.”
Then his lips claimed hers. Her tongue met his in a wild, eager duel. He knew he would never tire of the hot, sweet taste of her. The tangy satin inside her mouth. The hard peaks of her nipples. The sensual heat of her surrounding him, making him whole. Forever would scarcely be enough time.
Before desire burned away the last vestiges of his reason, Donovan broke the kiss, and leaned his forehead against hers. They were both panting.
“As I was saying,” he remarked when he finally caught his breath. “Considering the past three days, I think long term shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Piece of cake,” Rylie huffed. After a long inhale she added, “Besides, we can always postpone the ceremony until spring.”
Donovan shook his head. “I don’t plan to be anywhere near this place come Beltane.”
“Bell what?” She slid on the chair arm and almost fell into his lap, her breasts brushing erotically across his forearm. He had to stifle a groan at the intimate contact.
“Beltane is an ancient Celtic holy day, like Samhain.” Unable to resist nuzzling the tender flesh behind her ear, Donovan cut off further explanation. He wasn’t made of stone after all. Well, at least not all of him.
“Oh right,” Rylie agreed, a breathy moan slipping out at the touch of his mouth. “Smart man . . . very smart man.” And she kissed him again.
The End
About this Book
THE VI
LLAGE OF BALLYNEAGH IS WHOLLY FICTITIOUS BUT the other towns and cities in the book, Armagh, Dungannon, Ballymena, Portadown, Newtownabbey, and of course Belfast all exist, though not exactly as portrayed by this author. The Giant’s Causeway and Rathlin Island are also real locales and the author tried to render both as accurately as possible.
The fens of Lough Neagh do exist, though not in the precise location presented in this story. These natural wetlands are extensive and located on both the east and west shores of the lough. At least one portion in County Armagh is designated as a national nature reserve.
The Niall Marker is a real gender-specific genetic trait that has been traced back to the fifth-century High King of Ireland, Niall of the Nine Hostages. Research studies indicate that as many as fifteen percent of the men in Ireland (both the Republic and the North) carry it.
Acknowledgments
WRITING MAY BE A SOLITARY ACTIVITY, BUT NO BOOK IS created in a vacuum, certainly not this one. Many people’s combined efforts were necessary to see this story into print and while I cannot hope to thank every person who contributed, I would like to acknowledge and thank the following:
First and foremost, the love of my life, Dave, who took me to Ireland and so many other wonderful places. I am forever grateful (if sometimes undeserving) for your unfailing belief and support of my writing, and for your unique artist’s perspective.
My editor Deb Werksman, who pulled my baby out of the slush and loved it as much as I do.
Marlyn A. Farley, my First Reader Extraordinaire, who read my fumbling efforts for decades and remained positive and encouraging. I would never be here without you!
My face-to-face critique partners, Aimee Carper, Cathy Decker, and Jo Lewis-Robertson who cared enough to bleed all over this manuscript and help me make it the very best story I could write.
My BFFs (Best Friends Forever) and head cheerleaders, Whit and Shirl. And the other members of my cheerleading squad, especially: Sharen, Debbie J., Pam W., Michele, Terri S., Dennis, Alice, Phyllis, Kathy E., Donee Sue, and Guy, and others too numerous to name but you know who you are.
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