by Lila Dubois
His anger fueled her own, though it was as much fear as anything else.
“I told you, I cannot. If you won’t respect that, then I’d suggest you stay in the hotel tonight.”
Tim rocked back on his heels, as if her words were a physical blow.
He looked away, and she could see the muscle in his jaw working. “I wish I knew what you were hiding from, why you were punishing yourself like this.”
Caera couldn’t answer him, not now.
As she’d feared, her past had destroyed their love, before it even had a chance to grow.
Fighting back tears, Caera turned and walked away.
Chapter Fifteen
Ghosts of the Past
It was a night for sadness.
The whipping wind had returned. Trees bent and moaned, plants lay close to the soil and the lights in the castle flickered as power lines shook.
Caera crossed her arms over her belly and tipped her head back, letting the wind slice through her clothes, tangling her hair. She didn’t feel the cold, she didn’t feel anything. It was well past midnight, her work finally over. She’d returned to the cottage to find Tim’s suitcase and fiddle gone. Sorcha, who’d stayed away knowing Tim was returning, was back. When Caera walked in, she’d opened her arms, pity on her face.
Caera hadn’t been able to face her.
She’d changed from her black work suit into a warm pair of pants, tugged on a wooly jumper and headed out into the oncoming storm. The paths of the formal gardens had called to her. She’d gone first to the bench where she and Tim had sat only hours before.
She wandered on, taking the path that led her as far from the lights of the castle as possible. Soon she could see the back wall, the steeple of the church and the roof of the dowager house beyond.
A sudden gust of wind whipped her hair in front of her eyes. She drew her fingers across her face, tucking her hair behind her ear.
A pale figure stood on the path.
Caera gasped, and the figure turned to her. It was a young woman, a scarf draped over her head, her long dress motionless in the steady breeze. She was silver and white, as if time and death had leached the color from her.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Caera whispered, crossing herself.
She’d come to accept that the castle was haunted, that there were spirits left within the walls, but she’d never seen a ghost like this.
The girl closed her eyes, and a shimmering tear slid down her right cheek. She bowed her head.
The wind picked up, howling across the garden like a banshee. The ghost dissipated in the wind, her figure melting away in smoky ribbons.
Caera staggered back, heart racing. Her knees hit something, and she turned to see a great ghostly dog standing across the path. He was as tall as Caera’s hips, his fur shaggy and coarse. The ghost dog was silvery gray, but dense and opaque where the woman had been translucent and shimmery.
The dog opened its mouth, a pink tongue rolling out.
Not a ghost.
“Ah Jaysus,” Caera told the dog. She swallowed hard, trying to calm her heart. Adrenaline raced through her veins, and her skin was covered in gooseflesh. “You scared me half to death, dog.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t the ghost?”
For the third time in as many minutes, Caera’s heart leapt into her throat. A figure detached from the shadowed trunk of a tree.
Seamus O’Muircheartaigh stepped onto the path, a second wolfhound at his side. His chiseled features were hollowed by shadows. The wind tossed his salt and pepper hair. The dog near her ambled over to him, butting Seamus’s leg with his head.
“Mr. O’Muircheartaigh,” Caera said with a slight nod. “Your dog startled me.”
“True enough, but it’s the ghost that has you scared.”
“You saw it too?”
Seamus turned his head towards the castle at the front of the garden. “I’ve seen them all.”
“I, I’m sorry.” Caera didn’t know what else to say.
“Why would you be sorry? They’re my ghosts, aren’t they?”
“I never thought of it like that.”
“It’s not often she appears.” Seamus jerked his chin toward the spot behind Caera where the ghost had been.
“Who is she…was she?”
“I couldn’t tell you a name, but I know why she remains.” The master of Glenncailty’s attention shifted back to her. “Will I tell you her story?”
Caera wanted to say no, but she didn’t. She nodded. With a wave of his hand, Seamus invited Caera to walk with him.
“She’s one of the maids who served the first lord of Glenncailty.”
“Ah, poor thing.” It was a sad tale, and sadder still if it was true, that young women had come to serve in the castle only to be tortured and raped. She hadn’t known that one of them haunted the garden. She’d heard that a young woman dragging chains could be found on the third floor. That ghost was one of the reasons Sorcha was reluctant to put anyone in the honeymoon suite, which was on that floor.
“In her time serving the Englishman, she suffered, as did they all. Her suffering was all the worse because there was a young man she’d planned to marry. Though she saw her beloved every fortnight, she did not tell him what was being done to her and the others. She kept her shame close to her heart, for fear of what they’d say and for fear of what the lord would do if she told.”
Caera looked at Seamus. She did not like where this story was going.
“Soon the Englishman grew tired of her. He sent her to work in the fields. When her young man found out, he came to her and said that he wouldn’t have her working in the fields, that it was time they married. The young man had worked hard, saved his money and could support both herself and her aged mother and siblings, who were the reason she’d gone to work in the first place.
“Her young man was ready to marry her and start their life together, but the girl refused. She wasn’t worthy of her brave young man, because of what the Englishman had done to her, or so she believed.”
“You know much of her story—did she tell you all this herself?” Caera bit out the words.
Seamus stopped and faced her. “It doesn’t matter how I know.”
“It does. Who told you—” Caera swallowed down the rest of the question. “My life, my past, are not to be made light of in a ghost story.”
“You’re quick to assume I’m speaking of you.”
“If you’re trying to convince me that the past doesn’t matter by telling me a tale, you’d best stop.”
“If this story means something to you, then maybe she’s the reason you’re here.”
“What?”
“Sometimes the ghosts are looking for someone, someone like who they were in life. Maybe she called you here.”
Caera shook her head, sure he was manipulating her. “Even if this story is true, then the fact that that girl walks this place as a ghost should be evidence enough that the past can ruin a life.”
“You assume she’s a ghost because of what was done to her.”
Caera’s hands curled and uncurled in fists. She wanted to lash out at Seamus, who knew too much about her life for her liking. She’d exchanged no more than pleasantries with him in all the time she’d worked here and yet now, in the middle of a stormy night, he presumed to lecture her about her life, all in the guise of a ghost story.
“And why does she haunt the garden?” Caera asked, her tone cold.
“She sent her young man away. She squandered their love, and that was a true, sad crime. He didn’t know why she’d sent him away and so, heartbroken, the young man left his farm and went to Dublin. He boarded a ship there, planning to make his fortune on the sea, hoping that if he were rich she’d love him again.
“His ship sank not even a full day out of harbor. On his way to Heaven, the young man’s soul appeared to the girl. He cried out that his one regret was that he hadn’t been worthy of her love. When she saw him there and knew he was dead, she sc
reamed in pain. She tried to tell him that she loved him and always would, but it was too late—he’d gone on.
“Realizing what she’d done, what she’d wasted, the young woman made herself a noose and hanged herself in the chapel, hoping God would forgive her sin.”
Caera turned her back on Seamus and walked away. She wouldn’t listen to any more of this.
She wasn’t sure who had told him about her past, but that was a problem for later. Her footsteps crunched over the gravel while the leaves rustled and the trees moaned in the ceaseless wind.
Whatever Seamus thought he knew about her, her story was nothing like the tale he’d told. She couldn’t blame her past on some cruel lord. Her choices were her own and the consequences hers too. Whatever she and Tim might have had was done, over before the loss of it could hurt either of them too deeply.
Even as she thought it, Caera knew it was a lie. The thought of never seeing Tim again, never touching him or being touched, was enough to make her stomach roll with dread.
Still, he wanted something from her that she couldn’t give, wanted her to be someone she dared not be. He’d had that right of it when he said that she was happiest when she was playing or singing, but that didn’t mean she could be a professional musician. She—
The ghost appeared before her, so close that Caera’s vision with filled with pale silver and gray smoke. She gasped, stumbled back, but the ghost followed her.
The woman raised her head, showing Caera a face that was no longer human. Where eyes should have been, there were two dark holes, large and round as golf balls. Black liquid poured from those empty sockets, flowing thick as blood down the hollowed, wasted cheeks. The mouth was open in a silent scream, and open far wider than any living mouth would ever be, the jaw nearly resting on the chest.
Icy fear filled Caera. The pale, sad vision had become a monster, a wasted thing that emitted rage and grief the way a stove gave off heat.
It—for Caera could no longer think of it as she—raised its hands. They were withered and curled into claws, the tips stained black. The scarf fell from its head, revealing a long fall of lush hair, made gruesome by being atop that ragged, monstrous head.
“No,” Caera gasped. She held up her hands, keeping them close to her body so she wouldn’t touch the terrifying thing. For each retreating footstep she took, the ghost moved forward. The wind ripped through the gardens, but this time it did not dispel the ghost. Caera’s hair lashed around her head.
For a moment, it covered her face, and in that second the ghost lunged. She felt cold stab into her chest.
She looked down to see a silvery wrist protruding from her breast. Caera tried to scream, but she couldn’t cry out, couldn’t move.
The stormy night wavered, as if she were looking at it through water. In its place, mud brick walls appeared, their white painted surfaces lit by candles.
As if from a distance, Caera could hear voices. They were speaking Irish, fast and hard, but Caera could understand.
“I have money enough for us and your family. Come away from here. You don’t need to serve the English bastard anymore.”
“No. I will not go.”
The speakers appeared as shadows cast on the wall, a man, tall and strong, beside him a slight young woman. He took a step back at her words.
“You’re to be my wife. We can be married now.”
“I will not be your wife and I will not go with you.”
“Why do you say this?” His voice cracked with betrayal and grief.
“I am sorry, but I cannot be what you want.”
“I love you.” He grabbed the woman’s arm, but she drew away, his shadowy hand slipping down her arm. He held her fingers tight for a moment, her arm stretched out between them, but then with a tug, she freed her hand.
“Leave me,” she said.
The man staggered back, his hands rising and falling as he tried to find words. Then he turned and left.
Relief and agony filled Caera, though they were not her own. The shadow of the woman dropped to her knees, rocking back and forth as she wept.
The stone room disappeared, and now there was blue, endless blue water marred by whitecap waves. The ocean. A ship tipped up, its broken mast floating away as it sank, inch by inch, below the water.
Agony ripped through Caera, so deep in her body it felt as if she were being disemboweled.
“No, no, no!” The word was an endless looping scream in her head. “Come back, come back to me.”
Now there was pressure around her throat, and Caera felt her own hands drawing the knot tight. Before her, she could see stone walls, a dark cross. Her breath cut off, her chest heaving with the need to draw in air. She was afraid, hopeful, and yet her soul was already dead and gone, so the feelings rang hollowly in her chest.
Woof, woof. The deep barks of a dog rumbled through Caera. The vision of the cross wavered.
“Caera, Caera.” She heard her name, but the speaker was far away, too far away to reach her.
“Amach leat anois direch, in anim Dé!” Seamus’s voice boomed in the night, drowning out the moaning trees, the sputter of candles, the howling wind, the clattering of the bench as she kicked it over.
“Amach leat anois direch, in anim Dé!”
The cross, the stone walls, the smell of candlewax and the sound of creaking rope disappeared. Caera drew in a ragged breath.
She was lying on the grass beside the path, gulping in air. Above her, the storm clouds rolled and swelled.
A wet tongue touched her cheek, while on her other side a dog whined. Caera pushed herself up. Seamus was squatting at her side, his hounds circling her, pausing occasionally to nudge her legs with their long snouts or to lick her cheek.
She turned hollow eyes on Seamus. His face was set in grim lines, and he shook his head.
“I don’t know you,” he said quietly. “But I’ve seen that ghost more frequently of late, and I’ve seen her follow you between the stable and your cottage. If her story is like your own, then I believe she drew you here, either to warn you or to punish you for making her same mistakes.”
“I—” Caera tried to speak, but her voice was raw. Her throat felt as though she’d swallowed glass.
Seamus pushed her hair to the side. “You’ve a mark there, as if you’d been strangled.”
“I felt it,” Caera said in a hoarse whisper. The shock that was keeping her calm was wearing off. She was starting to shake. “I felt it as she hanged herself. Oh God, oh God.”
How foolish, how terribly foolish the girl had been to reject love, to hurt the one she loved while she tried to protect him. The cost they’d paid had been high, too high.
Caera drew in a shuddered breath. She was starting to sob, but her throat made it hurt to cry, hurt to breathe.
“It’s too late,” she sobbed. “He’s gone.” For a moment, she felt that otherness inside her, as if the words weren’t her own, but those of a long-dead girl who’d made a terrible mistake.
“He’s not—”
But Caera didn’t hear the rest of Seamus’s words. Her sobs had turned to jerky, gasping breaths. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and Caera fainted.
Tim rubbed the back of his head and checked the bedside clock for the hundredth time. It was after 3 A.M., and he was no closer to sleep now than he had been at 10.
Outside, the wind howled on. He wished it would rain, just to stop the wind from howling like that.
He was back to being angry with himself. He shouldn’t have done what he did, shouldn’t have sprung it on Caera like that. It was clear that she had real issues with what had happened when she tried a music career in the past. He should have been more sensitive to that. He planned to spend the rest of his life with her. There was no need to push her into doing anything right now. They had time.
They’d had time. Now they had nothing.
If the past hours ten hours were anything to go by, any minute now he’d switch from being pissed with himself to being pis
sed with her.
Pushing up from the bed, he went to the window.
Sorcha had taken pity on him and given him a room in the hotel. It was nearly full, so he had a room on the first floor of the west wing. She’d said he shouldn’t have any problem, but with the mood he was in, he would have appreciated some distraction. The building hadn’t cooperated. He’d snuck past the barricade on the stairs to the second floor, but even when he touched the wall at the end of the hall, he hadn’t felt anything.
There was a soft tap on his door. Tim frowned, not sure he’d heard it, when the sound came again, louder this time.
He opened the door. A tall man stood outside, carrying…
“Caera.” Tim’s world went blurry for a moment. He grabbed her limp body from the man and carried her to the bed. She took a breath, the sound raspy, but he let out a breath of his own in relief. She coughed, her head turning to the side, and he saw her neck. A thick red line marred the pale skin of her throat.
Tim touched the mark, horror growing within him. She moaned as he brushed the raw flesh.
She’d been strangled.
Rage like he’d never known filled Tim. He turned to the man, who still stood in the doorway.
“Hold your temper, boy, I di—”
Tim slammed his fist into the man’s face. He’d hurt Caera, and by God, Tim would make him pay. The man staggered back, hitting the doorframe. Tim punched him in the gut, then delivered a solid uppercut to his jaw. He’d kill him with his bare hands.
A low snarl was all the warning Tim got before a wolf leapt at him, knocking him away from the man.
Tim went down under the wolf’s weight. It growled, lips pulling back from his teeth, but Tim didn’t care. He shoved his forearm under the wolf’s jaw and threw it off, ready to jump up.
Another wolf appeared.
Positioning itself between Tim and the man, the wolf crouched, its shoulder blades flexing beneath its shaggy coat.