Quest of a Warrior (Legends of the Fenian Warriors Book 1)

by Mary Morgan

“What happened to Daisy?”

  Sighing, she kicked a stone away. “She broke a leg. It was too severe to repair. I loved her dearly, even as she took her last breath with her head in my lap.”

  All Conn wanted to do was embrace the sprite. Bring comfort to her as she recalled the painful memory. Yet, he kept his hands fisted by his side.

  Removing his keys, he mounted the bike.

  She glanced upward. “Looks like you’ll have a dry trip back to Sean’s place. Stars are shining and no threat of rain. Thanks so much for getting the Aga working and patching the roof.”

  What would it be like to have Ivy riding with him through the hills of Glennamore? His mind screamed at him to remain silent, but the words uttered forth of their own free will. “Would you like to take an evening ride with me tomorrow?”

  Seeing the startled look on her face, he waited, holding his breath and fearing her reply.

  “Are you sure it wouldn’t be any trouble? You’ll probably be exhausted after working all day here.”

  “I can guarantee you, Ivy, I will be hale and hearty for an evening ride.”

  Conn could see the hesitation in her eyes, but then she replied, “Then I’ll take you up on your offer. But only if you’re not too tired.”

  Smiling broadly, he added, “See you in the morn.”

  She stood back as he started the engine. Moving slowly down the path, Conn was sorely tempted to look back in his side mirror at the lass who made him react in the most peculiar ways. Breathing deeply, he ventured away from the village—away from the aqua-eyed beauty. He needed to cleanse his body, especially the fire that burned within.

  And the icy waters of the lake beckoned him.

  ****

  Conn peered over the rim of his coffee mug at Sean. “Is there a library on the history of Glennamore?”

  “No,” answered the man while reading the newspaper.

  “Then how does one find any information on the village?”

  “Celtic Knot.”

  “Of course,” responded Conn dryly.

  Sean put down the paper. “What knowledge are you seeking?”

  “Family ancestors, battles—anything related to the village.” He sipped the strong liquid, making mental notes for items he would require today at Ivy’s cottage.

  “Thomas kept all pertinent information at the store.” Sean scratched behind his ear. “You could say he was the keeper of knowledge, especially the generations of the villagers. Are you speaking of anyone in particular?”

  “O’Callaghan.”

  The man chuckled and picked up his paper. “Should have guessed. There’s a section on the village in the Celtic Knot. I’m sure Ivy Kathleen has already seen—” Sean tossed down the newspaper. “Sweet Brigid! I never told her about her uncle’s ashes. Completely slipped my mind. I should go out there this moment.” The man stood abruptly, but Conn held his hand up.

  “She found out yesterday and is making plans for a wake at the re-opening of the store.”

  Sean let out a groan and collapsed back into the chair. “A wake is exactly what Thomas would have approved of. Though, I must make my apologies later.”

  Conn stood and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’m positive she harbors no ill feelings toward you.”

  “’Tis shameful of me, no matter what you say.”

  Before leaving the kitchen, Conn reached for an apple and tossed it into his backpack.

  “Dinner at the Seven Swans?” asked Sean, picking up the newspaper.

  “Other plans,” he shouted over his shoulder, stepping outside.

  Breathing deeply, he glanced upward. “Thank you, Mother Danu for this beautiful day.” Kneeling, he placed a hand upon the ground. “Grant us this day without rain.” Standing, he smiled, since his final request was for Ivy. Sunshine and a promise of a ride on his bike.

  Maneuvering the motorcycle down the path, he turned left and sped down the main road toward the village. Conn had only driven a few miles when instinct had him slowing down. Veering sharply off the main road, he slowed to a stop. Idling the bike, he put his foot down on the ground and cast his gaze inward toward the forest. A thread of recognition flared within him.

  Turning off the engine, he got off the bike and walked along the dirt path through the dense copse of trees. Screams ripped through his mind of memories of long ago. The clang of steel echoed within the silence, and his hand longed to hold a sword. As he stepped over a fallen log along the path, a chill of familiarity shot through his blood.

  Conn’s pace quickened, intent on reaching his destination. Halting in front of a giant yew tree, the air hummed with energy. Glancing in all directions, his vision of another place and time shifted. In the distance was the very place he stood between the mad King of Munster and Dervla. Every detail of the memory now etched in his mind after visiting the Hall of Remembrance.

  Gritting his teeth, he swung back around toward the tree. His hand shook as he brought it outward and laid his palm on the rough bark. “Grant me your wisdom of the ages, wise one.”

  Images tore through his mind—the passing of years within the ancient being, until the one he sought came forth. Keeping his focus steady, Conn could almost hear the lass’s breathing on the other side of the tree when she came into his view.

  Her head was bent, as she held the cloak firmly around her, while the other hand clawed at the bark. When a scream rent the air behind him, she lifted her head. Conn’s heart slammed into his chest at the sight before him. Eyes that he knew well stared back at him. Her mouth opened in shock.

  “Ivy?” he asked in a strangled voice. Removing his hand from the tree, he reached out toward her.

  Instantly, the scene vanished and Conn slumped to the ground. Gasping for breath, he attempted to slow his body’s reaction from being ripped through the vision so swiftly. Absorbing the healing energy from the land, he waited a few more moments before endeavoring to stand.

  Whispers of ghosts from long ago haunted him as he gently touched the tree. The woman was the image of Ivy O’Callaghan—from the dimple in her cheek, to the color of her hair. The only difference was Ivy’s eyes were aqua, and her ancestor’s ones mirrored the green hills of Ireland.

  Walking around the yew tree, Conn traced a finger lightly over the place where only moments before he had witnessed the lass’s hand digging into the tree. “Who were you?” he demanded.

  However, the forest responded in silence, unwilling to give up its secrets.

  Bowing before the majestic ancient, he whispered, “I thank you for your memories.”

  Striding quickly back to his motorcycle, Conn made another mental note to heavily peruse the Celtic Knot and all pertinent information on this ancestor.

  Twenty minutes later, Conn drove down the path to Ivy’s cottage. His nerves were wound tight from earlier, so he relished the tasks he had planned today. Driving to the side of the cottage, he turned off the ignition, dismounted, and reached for the bag of supplies off the back of his bike. Stepping away, he strode to the front of the cottage and halted. What was that infernal howling?

  Dropping his backpack at the front door, he moved around to the back of the cottage. Shielding his eyes from the early morning sun, he could barely make out Ivy standing in front of a rowan tree. As he approached her, she turned around. She shook her lovely head indicating not to come any further.

  And the howling intensified. Conn’s gaze traveled upward.

  “Oh, please, won’t you consider meeting me halfway. Once you’re in my arms, I can untangle you from the mesh,” she pleaded.

  Conn folded his arms over his chest. “The animal doesn’t believe you.”

  “Hush,” hissed Ivy.

  “If you come down here, I can feed you some fish.” She held her arms out wide.

  “Blah. Not to the animal’s taste.”

  Ivy glared at him over her shoulder. “I had the poor cat almost climbing down until you came barreling forth on the scene.”

  Conn ar
ched a brow. “I don’t barrel anywhere.”

  “Whatever,” she snapped.

  She turned her attention back to the trapped animal in the tree. “Now, as I was explaining, I can offer to free, feed, and give you a proper place to sleep. But you must let me help you.”

  “In addition to a small bowl of cream once a week, too,” Conn added dryly.

  Ivy turned and faced him. “Are these your demands, or the cat’s?”

  Conn chuckled low. “You have no idea what I would demand of you, Ivy.”

  Her face took on a rosy glow, and she quickly spun around toward the cat. “Yes, you may have your cream. Satisfied?”

  “And a warm rug in front of the Aga, as well,” stated Conn.

  “Absolutely,” she responded sarcastically.

  Conn gestured to the cat. “Jump,” he commanded.

  The cat let out a long meow and jumped into Ivy’s outstretched arms. “That wasn’t so bad,” she murmured to the animal.

  Conn stepped toward them. “Here, let me free you.” The cat let out a hiss, and he pointed a finger at the offending sound. “Need I remind you that I bartered some extra conditions for you?”

  The cat turned its head away and Conn proceeded to remove the netting from the animal’s leg.

  “Shh…” cooed Ivy, stroking its head. “He’s not really all that mean. You’re a gorgeous calico cat, my friend.”

  Removing the last of the offensive material, Conn held it up. “Fishermen’s netting. Curious how the animal made its way from the fishing shore.”

  “How far?”

  “Several kilometers,” he responded, tucking the netting into his pocket.

  “In miles, please. This is all new to me.”

  “Two-and-half miles.”

  She snuggled the cat against her chest. “You poor thing. You must be famished from your journey.”

  “She most likely got trapped while savoring the fresh catch of the day,” stated Conn.

  Ivy tilted her head to the side. “She?” Then her eyes narrowed. “Is this because you view females stubborn and assumed it was a she?”

  Taken aback by her comment, Conn shrugged. He knew the cat was female from the moment he started speaking to the animal. In addition, all the requests were made by such animal and not him. He was doing his best to handle the situation as a mediator. In truth, he found the feline to be quite stubborn. “If you don’t believe me, check for yourself.”

  “Horrid man.” She turned to the cat, “Let’s go find something for you to eat, and then you can accompany me to the bookstore.” Ivy gave a slight smile to Conn as she passed by him.

  “Ungrateful beast,” he muttered, though he returned her smile.

  Conn watched the pair disappear around the corner of the cottage and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. The morning had been an interesting one. However, it was the evening he eagerly awaited, and work beckoned.

  Making his way to retrieve his backpack, a truck came charging down the road. Stepping quickly aside, he narrowed his eyes at the driver. The man slammed on his brakes, coming to a halt a few feet from Conn. Jumping out of the truck, he went around to the back and opened the doors.

  “Are you the one doing the repairs on Thomas’ cottage? I have panes of glass for the front window.”

  Conn strode forward. “Yes, I’m the one mending Miss O’Callaghan’s cottage.”

  “Yes, yes,” mumbled the portly man. Reaching for the box, he handed it to Conn.

  “Do you have an invoice?”

  The man waved him off. “Paid for by Thomas several months ago. They were specially made to match the others in the cottage.”

  “Thank you,” replied Conn and walked toward the cottage.

  Entering, he almost collided with both females—who looked at him as if he was the offending person.

  “Glass panes for the window.”

  Ivy set the cat down. “Oh, so quickly?”

  “It would seem your uncle had ordered them several months ago.”

  She shivered and rubbed her hands together.

  “Are you all right, Ivy?” Conn placed the box on a nearby chair.

  She gave him a weak smile. “Fine. I’m fine.”

  Without thinking, he grasped her hands within his, rubbing his thumb over the vein in her wrist. “I despise that word. It is often used when the person wishes not to state their true feelings.”

  Ivy swallowed and met his gaze. “Why do you care, Conn MacRoich?”

  The words tumbled free from him once again. “Because I do.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Secure your heart if you venture under a heady mix of stars.”

  ~Chronicles of the Fae

  Slumping down at her desk, Ivy massaged her temples. The headache had started early that morning and by noon had traveled down the back of her neck. “Too many visions,” she mumbled, closing her eyes. Instead of blocking them, she attempted to draw them forth and brought along the headaches associated with them. “Foolish, Ivy. You should have waited until after the opening of the store.” Opening her eyes, she stretched her arms over her head.

  Glancing to the side, her new-found friend was curled up among the blankets Ivy had placed within a small box, purring contently. “Ahh…a nap sounds heavenly right now. Take an extra hour for me.” The cat lifted its head, yawned, stretched, and went back to sleep.

  Shuffling her paperwork into a neat arrangement, Ivy ran her finger down the lists in her notebook. Everything had been ordered for the wake. Phone calls had been made, even the dreaded one to Peter Gallagher of the Glennamore Daily Dispatch. He assured her that the entire village would be there.

  Standing, she peered out the window. In two days, the bookstore would be re-opened. She planned to keep the same hours as her uncle had, every day, except Sundays. Leaning her head on the cool glass, she smiled as several sheep ambled along the grassy hills. Peaceful, content—a place she longed to walk along when time permitted.

  Sitting on the ledge, Ivy continued to gaze outward. A road weaved around the trees, and Ivy’s thoughts turned toward her evening ride with Conn. What had possessed her to say yes to him? Or even go out to see him off that evening? She was another person around the man. Not the shy introvert her parents often chided her for being. No, she became bold whenever he was near—drawing forth another woman.

  “He was probably being nice. And now is burdened with taking me for a ride.” She laughed at the ridiculous statements. Ivy could hear her mother chastising her for thinking herself unworthy, as she often told her.

  “Why are my eyes so large, Mama? And I don’t like the color,” pouted Ivy, turning her head away.

  “Dear, beautiful child. They mirror those of your ancestors. You are special, my wee Ivy.”

  “I don’t want to be special,” she complained, twisting her fingers together. “The other children make fun of me. The older ones said you must have put bleach on my head for my hair to be so blonde.”

  Her mother walked around in front of her and knelt. “They’re jealous, because they’ve never seen a faery before.”

  Ivy giggled. “I am not a faery, Mama.”

  Her mother trailed her fingers over Ivy’s cheek. “Every person on this planet is special, Ivy, some are blessed with gifts—”

  Ivy placed a hand over her mother’s mouth. “Shh…if Father heard you, he would be angry.”

  Her mother placed a kiss in Ivy’s palm, before taking it into her own. “Do not fear him, Ivy. He may not believe in the old ways, but do not, I repeat, do not cower in front of him.” She squeezed her hand and stood. “Besides, he’s at work and not at your school.”

  Ivy glanced around. “He doesn’t like me to talk about…you know.” She gazed up into her mother’s eyes.

  “Do not hide from who you are, Ivy Kathleen. Ever. Now, let us go greet your teacher.”

  Ivy sighed as the last remnants of her memory faded. “I so miss your wisdom, Mother.”

  Rubbing her eyes, she
moved away from the window, only to be startled by the pounding at the front door. Quickly moving toward the entrance, she was grateful for the two windows opposite the door. Peeking outside, she noticed two teenagers chatting and laughing.

  Unbolting the door, she put on her best smile and said, “The store will be open in a few days. Please return at that time.”

  Their smiles transformed into ones of shock. The girl recovered first. “Hello, I’m Nan Sullivan. We’re here to help you out.”

  The boy stepped forward. “I’m Roger Griffin.”

  Now it was Ivy’s turn to act stunned. “Help?”

  They both nodded in unison.

  “My brother, Peter, mentioned that The Celtic Knot was re-opening and I—we were hoping we could have our jobs back,” stated Nan.

  “You worked for my uncle?”

  “Sure did,” replied Roger. “It wasn’t much, but we enjoyed choosing a free book once a month.”

  “Really,” Ivy replied with humor. Fully prepared to check out their stories, especially when one of them was kin to Peter Gallagher, she added, “Why don’t you come in and give me all the details. I’ll need to write down your available hours.”

  Both followed her quietly to the counter. Ivy reached for the pad and pen and jotted down their names. Glancing up, she noticed their solemn looks. “Is this the first time you’ve been here since the death of Thomas?”

  “Yes,” replied Nan. “I keep expecting to see him walking down the lane, or sweeping the front steps of the store. Never spoke ill of anyone. And he always made time to listen. He was the nicest man in the village.”

  “Agreed,” stated Roger quietly.

  Sorrow for a man she never knew left an ache in Ivy’s heart. “Sadly, I never knew my uncle. Thank you for sharing your view of him. You’ll have to tell me more stories when you’re working here.”

  “You’ll let us keep our jobs?” asked a stunned Roger.

  “Why wouldn’t I? I can’t do this alone and welcome any and all assistance.” Pushing the pad and pen toward them, she added, “If you write down your availability and what my uncle paid you—besides letting you have a monthly free book, I would be grateful.”

  Nan reached for the offered items. “You’re wrong, Ivy Kathleen, we’re the grateful ones. We feared you wouldn’t want to hire anyone.”