by Anne Stuart
The wind was growing strong, and she could feel the occasional spit of rain against her face. She ought to go back inside, immure herself again in that living tomb, before the storm picked up, but she was loath to do so. She wanted to enjoy the fresh air for as long as she could. And she wanted to see what the ghost woman had been staring at.
There were no such things as ghosts, she reminded herself doggedly as she headed for the cliffs. The wind was growing stronger now, and the trees were bending beneath its force. The rain had picked up, but the cold lash of it was refreshing against her skin. The sea called to her, the storm tide raging. But Katie loved the sea and the storm and the fierce winds whipping through her hair.
She wasn't sure what she expected to see in the churning water. The remnants of her rental car, perhaps, or a ghostly creature calling for her. For a moment she could see nothing but the waves crashing against the rocks, and then she narrowed her eyes against the sting of rain.
The seal was there again, riding easily on the storm-tossed water, staring up at her fixedly out of his dark eyes. The same seal she'd seen yesterday, she knew that without question, just as she knew it was a male. And that it recognized her.
She couldn't move. Even as the storm built around her once more, the rain pelted down, drenching her, she stood motionless at the edge of the cliff, staring into the lost eyes of the sleek brown seal. He was calling to her, she knew it. He wanted her to come to him.
You're the only one who can save him, the voice had told her, and in her mind Katie had thought of O'Neal, with his lost soul. But now it was the seal calling to her, floating in the water, riding the waves, waiting for her.
She took a step toward the edge of the cliff, without realizing what she was doing. Then another, the ground wet and crumbling beneath her feet, and she moved nearer to him.
The sound that came to her was strange, harsh, sudden. A deep, barking noise from the throat of the seal, warning her, sending her away. She fell back abruptly, then shook her head in belated panic. She'd been mesmerized by the churning water, the liquid eyes of the seal, and she'd been ready to take one more step, one that would send her plunging downward to certain death.
She took a deep, shaky breath. The seal had disappeared. His warning given, he'd dived into the black waves and vanished, and she was alone in the rain, trembling.
"You look like a drowned rat, dearie," Mrs. Marvel greeted her from her spot by the stove. "Take off those wet things and I'll give you a nice cup of tea. What in heaven's name made you wander out in such weather?"
Katie slipped into a chair near the stove. The normally cozy room felt cold and unwelcoming, but there was nowhere else she could go. "It had cleared for a while," she said. "I thought the storm might be ending."
Mrs. Marvel shook her head darkly. "Never trust the weather in these parts, Katie. Changeable as a woman, they say."
"Who says a woman is changeable?" Katie argued. "I tend to be remarkably steadfast."
Mrs. Marvel set a cup of steaming tea in front of her. It smelled of chamomile and mint, and Katie breathed in the scent with greedy pleasure. "Steadfast?" Mrs. Marvel echoed. "Or stubborn?"
"A bit of both, I suppose," she said with a sigh. "I know my faults too well."
"Well, there's nothing wrong with knowing your own mind." Mrs. Marvel sat down at the table beside her, and her usually cheery face was somber. "Dearie, we'll get you out of this place as soon as we can, I promise you that. In the meantime, the less you wander, the better. The cliffs are dangerous, the house itself is so huge there's no way Willie and I can keep up with it, and there are sections that are in poor repair. Dry rot and such. I'd hate to think of you breaking your neck in this old place."
"The notion doesn't appeal to me, either," Katie said lightly.
"And there are other things," Mrs. Marvel continued. "I worry about you, my girl. The best thing for it would be to get you safely out of here, but until we can, I think you ought to stay in your room. I'll tell O'Neal you're not feeling well if he happens to want your company. Not that I think that's at all likely—he's a man who treasures his solitude, and your presence here disturbs him."
Katie supposed she should have found the notion threatening. O'Neal wasn't the sort of man one would like to disturb. Nevertheless, a faint glow of pleasure warmed her.
"It's dangerous here, Katie Flynn." Mrs. Marvel's voice was low and doleful. "Keep out of his way, and you should be fine."
For a moment Katie didn't move. "Are you saying O'Neal would hurt me?" she questioned bluntly.
"I'm not saying anything. I'm just saying be careful." Mrs. Marvel rose, effectively putting an end to the conversation.
Katie wasn't so easily dismissed. "But…"
"I'll be bringing you your dinner tonight," Mrs. Marvel said brusquely, returning to the stove. "In the meantime, why don't you go and lie down? That was quite some bump on your head you got this morning. You might even have a slight concussion. You go rest, dearie. If you like, I'll have Willie see you to your room."
"No!" she said with unflattering haste. "I'll be fine." She was absolutely starving—it had been a long time since breakfast and no one apparently ate lunch around here. Her head was hurting, the rain had soaked through into her clothing, and her nerves were stretched taut.
"That's a good girl." Mrs. Marvel dismissed her, and Katie had no choice but to rise, as well.
She paused by the door to the hallway. "You've warned me about the house, the storm and O'Neal," she said. "What about the ghosts? Are they a danger as well?"
Mrs. Marvel turned to her, a wondering look on her face. "There are no such things as ghosts, Katie. Me and my Willie have lived here twelve years and never seen anything that doesn't have a rational, reasonable explanation. There are no ghosts, dearie."
Katie didn't move. She would have said the same thing twenty-four hours ago. Now she found herself accepting their existence as easily as she accepted her Catholic God.
"Maybe they only appear to me," she suggested.
"And why would that be?" Mrs. Marvel said with loving practicality. "Go lie down and rest your poor head, Katie dear. You've had a wild day and you know it."
It made no sense at all, Katie thought, loath to leave Mrs. Marvel's bracingly practical company. The next thing she knew, she'd start believing in shape shifters and zombies and man-eating aliens from outer space.
Maybe she was imagining them all. Actually there was no maybe about it. Superstitions were one thing, the supernatural was another entirely. "You're right," she said. She managed a smile. "I'm very lucky you were here, as well."
And Mrs. Marvel's answering smile was warm and benevolent.
He was standing in the hallway, waiting for her.
Katie clamped her hands over her mouth to muffle her instinctive scream. O'Neal had loomed up out of nowhere, a shadowy, watchful figure, and in the gloom of the dimly lit hallway he unnerved her completely.
Of course, he would probably unnerve her on a bright sunny day, as well, she reminded herself with stern practicality. She looked up into his sea-colored eyes. "You scared the life out of me," she said breathlessly.
"Not quite." His clothes were dry, but his hair was wet and slicked back, and water still clung to his skin. He must have just come from the shower, and yet he smelled of the sea. A wild, erotic scent that seemed to reach out and catch her.
"What were you doing wandering down by the cliffs?" he continued in his cool, abrupt voice.
"And I always thought the Irish were so charming."
"Don't try to weasel out of it," he said sternly. "You could have fallen to your death. What in God's name made you decide to continue your wanderings out that way?"
"I was looking at the seal."
He took a deep breath, and it sounded oddly shaky in the stillness of the stone hallway. "Seals are a dime a dozen in these parts. If you're that interested in wildlife go to the zoo."
"I've only seen one seal here," she said. "Though I've seen h
im several times."
"How do you know it's the same seal? For that matter, how do you know it's a he?" O'Neal demanded.
"I just know. For one thing, he watches me."
O'Neal's laugh was without humor. "You think the seal's in love with you? What next, Katie Flynn? Two ghosts, an enamored seal and…"
"Three ghosts."
"Mary, Mother of God," he muttered, a prayer, not a blasphemy.
"Not her," Katie said.
O'Neal looked at her, and for a brief moment she thought she saw a glimmering of amusement in his bleak green eyes. It was gone before she could be certain. "God must have sent you here to torment me for my sins," he said with a sigh. "Next you'll be reading my palm and holding séances."
"No. I don't believe in those things."
"Only in ghosts?"
"And a seal who watches me," she added. His hair was very dark when it was wet. Deep soft brown like the thick rich fur of a seal. She let out a stray shiver. She was chilled, and the icy cold of the hallway was seeping into her bones.
He shook his head in disbelief. "You're ridiculous, you know that?" He sighed. "You're also cold. There's a fire in the library. You may as well come and warm up."
"How charming," she said, the ice in her voice as well as her damp body. "But I was just going back to my room."
"It'll be like a refrigerator there," he replied.
"I need another nap…"
"No, you don't. You've been sleeping too much as it is. With a head injury you need to stay awake and alert," he said sharply. "Come along to the library and I'll have Mrs. Marvel bring hot coffee and sandwiches."
She could resist the twin lures of a warm room and his unsettling presence, but the promise of food could seduce her at any time. She wavered, and he must have sensed it.
"The library has a grand view of the ocean," he said. "Maybe you can show me your passionate seal."
"I never said he was passionate, or enamored, or…anything. I just said he watches me."
"A stalker, is it?"
"You're annoying, aren't you?" she said with a weary sigh.
His response was a faint smile, one that reached his eyes and curved his beautiful mouth. One that transformed him from a fascinatingly beautiful man to a god. "It's what I do," he said sweetly.
She was so bemused by the sudden glory of that smile that she didn't resist when he took her arm in his. "Come along, Katie Flynn. I promise I won't eat you."
And Katie went.
Chapter Eight
« ^ »
He was a fool and a half to have brought her with him. The less he was around Katie Flynn the better off he was. She drew him, like a moth to a flame, and yet flames were no part of a great deal of his life. He wasn't worried about getting burned. He was worried about drowning in her fire.
He found himself wondering how easy she was as he watched her settle into one of the high-backed chairs by the fire, tucking a throw around her. Whether she was used to going off with mysterious, possibly dangerous men. Perhaps he was wrong in being so wary of her. Maybe he could simply take her to bed, enjoy a few hours of mutual pleasure until the storm passed and then send her on her way with no regrets, recriminations or horror scenes.
It had been so long since he'd had a woman.
But Katie Flynn wasn't the one to break his celibacy, no matter how much she tempted him. Showing up on his doorstep like a drowned rat, she'd upended his solitude, his hard-earned peace, his very life, with her presence. Sleeping with her would only make things worse.
"Okay, I'm here," she said with a slightly pugnacious tilt to her chin. "Why did you want me?"
He could think of a million reasons. The tangled mane of red hair, the pale, luscious skin, the soft mouth that spoke too sharply, the blue eyes that saw too clearly. He wondered what would happen if he flirted with her, oh so gently? He'd probably lost the ability to flirt. It had been fifteen years since he'd last chatted up a pretty lady, not since the boating accident that had taken his family and ruined his life. Though his father would have insisted that a true Irishman never lost the ability to flirt.
"I want you to tell me about your ghosts," he said, leaning against the mantel and feeling the warmth of the fire sink into his bones. The ocean was so cold. "I've read all the books in the house and there's nothing else to do. Why don't you while away my time with ghost stories?"
She glanced around her, at the walls and walls of books that lined the library. "You've read all of the books?" she asked skeptically.
"All of them."
"I thought you didn't believe in ghosts. What are you trying to do, test the limits of my dementia?"
"Maybe I want to see if someone is playing a trick on you," he said, doing his best to keep from smiling. He wondered if Katie Flynn ever gave an inch. She reminded him of generations of strong Irish women, tough and uncompromising and tender and loving.
"And who would that be? There are only the four of us here. Who do you think would be doing such mischief?"
"I trust the Marvels implicitly."
"There's no one else here," she said. "Unless you get your jollies staging apparitions. You know, I could well believe it of you. You don't want me here, and there's nothing you can do about it, so maybe you're getting revenge by scaring me to death."
"An interesting theory, but it has several holes. For one thing, these apparitions you keep seeing have the unfortunate effect of keeping you from leaving when I desperately want you to leave. For another, you don't seem the slightest bit frightened. Which makes me wonder whether you actually see anything at all? Any sensible woman would be terrified if she saw one ghost, much less two."
"Three," Katie corrected him glumly.
"Oh, yes, that's right. Three. Do you have the sight, Katie Flynn? Do you often see ghosts and banshees? Do you know things are going to happen before they do?"
"No."
He grimaced. "I expect not. If you knew the future you wouldn't have nearly driven off the cliffs."
"These are the first ghosts I've ever seen in my twenty-eight years," she continued in a determinedly practical tone of voice, obviously hoping to lure him into thinking she was a sensible creature. "Maybe ghosts don't live in western Pennsylvania."
"Maybe they don't exist at all, either in Pennsylvania or Maine." He was warm enough now—the ocean chill had faded, and he sank down on the huge, shabby sofa with a weary sigh. "So why aren't you frightened of these ghosts?"
"Maybe because I know they don't mean me any harm."
"I thought one of them lured you to the cliffs. That sounds like malevolence to me. Your pet seal doesn't sound too helpful, either." He said it deliberately, waiting for her reaction. "Don't you believe in the existence of evil? Or are you one of those mindless, sunny creatures who think life is basically good?"
"I believe in evil," she said quietly. "I think there's evil here. I just don't think it comes from the seal or the ghosts. If anything, the ghost was trying to warn me away from the cliff."
"Who do you think it comes from, macushla? Me?"
A faint flush darkened her cheeks at the Irish endearment, even though it was spoken sarcastically. Maybe she knew as well as he did that the sarcasm was only a defense. And then she lifted her eyes and looked at him fully, and there was no fear in their utter blueness. "I don't know."
He wasn't sure what answer he had wanted from her. A declaration of trust would have been unwanted and unlikely. An avowal of dislike would have been the most practical solution. He wondered if she disliked him. He'd done everything he could to make it so.
"Why don't you ask one of your ghosts next time you see one?" he suggested with mock affability.
"I see them, I don't talk to them."
"But I thought they told you their names? Fiona and Da? Though both of those are pretty easy guesses. All Irish fathers are called Da, and Fiona's name is on the portrait over the mantel."
She looked up at the painting, giving him a chance to study her profile.
Good bones, he thought. A stubborn chin, even as it dropped in shock, and she gasped.
"What's wrong?" he demanded, casting an irritated glance at the painting. It looked the same as always—the eyes hadn't come alive, no ghost emerged from the canvas. Lady Fiona Castlereagh O'Neal looked as stubborn, beautiful and sensible as she always had. She looked like his mother Maeve.
"The third ghost," Katie said in a hushed voice. "That's what she looks like. I saw her on the balcony at the guest house, staring out to sea, and I…"
He surged off the sofa, knocking the small table onto the floor. Coffee cups went flying, but he ignored them, stalking over to her with such fierceness that he could see the unwitting terror on her face. He leaned over her, his hands on the arms of the chair, trapping her there, and his anger was so strong he was beyond being sensible.
"I ought to break your neck," he said softly.
She stared up at him as if she had no idea what was bothering him. Lying, treacherous creature, with her smart mouth and her soft eyes. But she didn't cower, she simply met his gaze with stern courage. "Why are you trying to frighten me?" she asked.
He didn't back off. He had never deliberately hurt a woman in his life, and no matter what the temptation, he wasn't about to start now. He also didn't want her to realize that fact. He wanted her scared. "Someone's been telling you things," he said harshly. "Somebody pumped you full of information and then sent you out here to torment me. There aren't any real ghosts, I just have you to haunt me."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said. "I came here by accident…"
"I thought you were lured here by the ghost of my little sister." His voice was sharp and anguished in his relentless sarcasm.