The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  "You didn't bring Jigger along after all?" he asked, sitting down across from her.

  "Oh, he's here." Kate accepted a menu from the waitress who came to take their order. "We were just heading out to the Cog Railway when Abigail called. My sister took him instead, along with her kids."

  Conor declined to take a menu and smiled at the young woman. "Just a cup of tea would be grand, thanks."

  "No, not grand." Kate plucked the menu from the server's hand and presented it to him. "Eat something."

  He ordered a BLT, and when the sandwich arrived he ate a little before sitting back, tired from the effort. Watching him Kate nibbled at her thumbnail, looking as if she was trying to decide what to do with him.

  "What now? Do you want me to go home with you?"

  "Oh . . . ehm, I hadn't thought that far ahead." Conor realized he'd given no thought to anything beyond the priority of having her in his line of sight again.

  "Should I ask them to add another place for dinner?"

  "Jesus. No." The thought appalled him. "Look, just go ahead and have your party and I'll sort of hang about, keep an eye on things and on . . . well, you."

  "How? By hovering behind my chair like a bodyguard?"

  "Something like that, I suppose. I'm not exactly dressed for a fancy dinner with your family."

  "And how long are we going to need to do this?"

  "How the f—, how should I know? I'm making this up as I go along." His exasperation brought on an alarming cough, which threatened to get away from him until he smothered the spasm against his jacket.

  "Okay. I'm sorry." Kate lowered her voice and put a hand over his. "I'm not trying to upset you, but I need to be honest. You're the one who's got enemies, not me. You've had to stay alert for weeks, trying to guess what they'll do and and when, trying to keep everyone from getting dragged any further into your nightmare. You're under a huge amount of stress, you're exhausted, and you're sick. Isn't it possible your mind is playing tricks on you? That it's created an illusion of danger around me that doesn't exist?"

  "Yes. It's possible, of course." Conor dropped another slice of lemon into his tea and took a swallow. "You want evidence and I don't blame you, but all I've got are ghosts and dreams, and a bit of my mother's sense for the uncanny. I was never comfortable with it, but I've learned to respect it."

  Kate sat back, staring at him. "God almighty. You're like a Napoleon pastry; layers without end. Are you telling me you're clairvoyant? On top of everything else?"

  Conor squirmed in his chair, wondering whether the spark in her eyes indicated skepticism or amusement. "It's not really like that. Listen, I'm not asking you to believe in any of this. I'm just asking you to humor me."

  "I understand." Kate signed for the lunch and got to her feet, extending a hand to him. "And as a matter of fact, I do believe in it. Come on up to my room and rest. We'll figure something out later."

  No longer dozing in its mid-day hush, the lobby and its protesting floorboards had come alive with new arrivals. After they'd dodged a rumbling luggage trolley and navigated around the front desk's gathering crowd, Conor sensed a presence looming close behind them and quickly turned.

  "Katie! Have you seen Jeanette and the kids?" A stocky man of medium height came to an abrupt stop to avoid running into them. Impatience masquerading as concern flashed across his face. He rubbed a palm over thick black hair that stood up from his head like a piece of manicured topiary while Kate gave him a teasing smile.

  "Cog railway, Richard. I was there when she told you."

  "Ah, jeez. Okay." Richard relaxed. "I just wasn't sure what suit to bring in from the car. She brought two for me. Are your Dad and Anna here yet?"

  "No." Kate pulled an ironic face. "They'll swoop in at the last minute. I'm surprised they're staying this year. Daddy doesn't see the point of grand old hotels. He only likes things that are new."

  "Right, right." Richard looked between the two of them with an ingratiating tilt of his head. Before Conor could decide what to do, Kate was talking again.

  "Oh Richard, you remember my friend Conor? The Classical violinist from the Dublin Conservatory?"

  Conor immediately stuck out his hand. "Good to see you again."

  "Well of course, of course. How are you, Conor?" Richard crushed his hand and gave his shoulder a manly thump. "What brings you up to the mountains?"

  "A surprise." The words burst from Kate's lips and she paused, giving Conor a nervous glance that he returned in kind, wondering what in the name of God was going to come out of her next. She took a breath.

  "For Oma. She loves music. He's going to play during the cocktail reception. He came as a favor to me."

  "Sounds wonderful." Richard was already looking beyond them at a group of golfers coming through the door. "I'm sure the princess will enjoy that. Will you both excuse me? There's a fellow I want to catch before he leaves."

  "Either a donor or someone he hopes will become one," Kate said as they watched him cross the lobby. She giggled. "I do that to him all the time. Introduce him to people he's never met like they're old friends. He's a Massachusetts state senator. He can't afford to admit he doesn't know everyone."

  "Yeah, that's hilarious Katie," Conor said drily. "Can we talk about this plan you've hatched without telling me? Fair play, the idea's not a bad one, but where am I supposed to get a violin? Or even a suit?"

  "Milton can help us." She pulled him toward the elevator behind the stairs. "He's the head concierge and he's been here forever. A suit and a violin? Piece of cake. He won't even break a sweat. We just need to get you rested and ready."

  "'Oma.' That's your grandmother, yeah?" Conor allowed himself to be dragged forward without protest. He was beginning to feel quite sleepy. "Why did he call her a princess? Is she a bitch?"

  "No, not at all. Far from it. Her name is Sophia Marie." Kate punched the elevator button and said nothing more. Conor raised an eyebrow and she dropped her head with a sigh. "My grandmother is part of Luxembourg's royal house of Nassau-Weilburg. Her father was the last crown prince of Bavaria."

  During the stunned silence that followed the elevator arrived. It was a real antique, manually operated and claustrophobically small. It looked like the first elevator ever invented. Avoiding his eyes Kate stepped in and Conor followed, taking up a position against the opposite wall. He watched a telltale flush of pink spread up her neck and over her cheeks, and gave her a broad grin.

  "What's so funny?" she asked in a small voice.

  "No, nothing. This is just an interesting sort of treat for me, discovering you've got secrets of your own."

  "I would have told you, eventually." Kate shrugged. "As you can imagine, these are not the circumstances under which I thought I'd be introducing you to my family."

  Conor put his back against the wall of the elevator, still smiling, pleased by the idea she'd thought about introducing him to them at all.

  18

  Her room was actually a spacious, two-bedroom suite. The main area had a canopy bed, a fireplace and luxurious furniture, along with a separate den with more furniture, the television and a mahogany desk. Conor conducted a methodical sweep of every corner, inspecting light fixtures, running fingers over the framed landscapes on the wall, examining the phones. Kate monitored this performance without a word. He imagined it confirmed all her suspicions about him wandering in a paranoid delirium, and he couldn't entirely dispel the idea himself.

  Once satisfied the room was "clean" he collapsed on the sofa in front of the fireplace while Kate went to phone Milton, the concierge. Conor's operational discipline relaxed into dull exhaustion as he gazed around the suite, trying to make sense of the fact that an ordinary farmer from Dingle—not entirely unrefined or lacking in unconventional skills, but still, of humble origin—could be in love with a product of European royalty.

  He put his head back and closed his eyes. Bloody hell. What would the neighbors say?

  He lapsed into a doze until Kate returned and d
ragged him up from the sofa, insisting he move to the bed. Conor felt ridiculous lying beneath the fussy-looking drapery, but the pillowcases had a pleasant alpine scent and the bed was irresistibly comfortable. He sank into the mattress as he would a hot bath, and made no fuss as Kate settled the comforter under his chin.

  "You must feel lousy. You're not being difficult."

  "I wouldn't dream of hassling a princess."

  "Don't." She ducked away, hiding an uneasy frown. "Please. Not even as a joke."

  "Why so sensitive? Where I come from you can't throw a rock without hitting some plonker who swears he came from kings."

  "This is different," Kate insisted. "My grandmother has been in this country since the 30s. She married a scientist from Boston, and then my mother married a hedge fund manager and I married a cash register salesman. There's nothing 'royal' about any of us, but the bloodline is real, and the heritage, and of course the European relatives. It's a challenge to navigate. I try not to get too involved."

  "Right, so." On the edge of sleep, Conor nodded. "I promise not to call you a princess. I'll just think of you as one."

  He woke some time later and slid a hand under the pillow, confirming the gun had not wandered out of reach, then cradled the second pillow against his ribs as his rumbling cough sent pain like the sharp end of a knitting needle through his chest. While recovering, Conor became aware of a more insistent but less agonizing sensation—a pinch on his right big toe, and then the same on his left. Conor lifted himself up on one elbow and saw Jigger at the foot of the bed.

  "It worked." The boy laughed. "Hi Conor."

  "Hi yourself. What's the idea, abusing my toes while I sleep?"

  "Kate said to wake you up at five o'clock, but she told me to be careful when I did."

  "Where is she?" Conor sat up, instantly alert.

  "Taking a bath."

  "Oh."

  His sigh aggravated the feathery, tickling thing in his chest and Conor dropped amongst the pillows, using them to muffle the racket. Empathic instincts awakened, Jigger hurried forward to rub his back, woeful and fascinated.

  "Kate thinks you have pneumonia. I think she's right."

  "Which makes three of us, then. Unanimous vote."

  "And she said you're going to play some music for her grandmother, but you left your fiddle at home."

  "Also correct."

  "You seem to have a lot of troubles, don't you?"

  Conor choked out a laugh and pulled himself upright. "You've noticed that as well, have you?"

  "Yes. I've noticed." Jigger pointed to a violin case tucked into a corner on the sofa. "Kate's friend Milton found a fiddle for you. Do you want to look at it?"

  He carried the case to the bed like a tray of fine china and placed it in Conor's hands before bouncing up to sit next to him. Conor flipped opened the lid and they both peered inside.

  "Pretty shiny," Jigger remarked. "And not old, like yours."

  "No, but we won't hold that against it." He tuned the instrument and ran off a few scales before peeking through the f-hole at the label inside. The violin had come from the Naples workshop of Vincenzo Anastasio, a contemporary master luthier. Impressive.

  He was in the sitting area, amusing Jigger with an interpretation of I Am The Walrus when Kate emerged from her bath. She wore a silk dressing gown of sky blue, her head turbaned in a towel, and as far as Conor was concerned she might as well have been ready to go. He couldn't imagine what she could put on to look any more beautiful. Kate met his gaze with an equal measure of concentration, and appeared less satisfied with what she saw. She sat on the sofa next to them and tugged on Jigger's ear.

  "Your turn, kiddo. I've got the tub all ready for you. Bubbles piled high." When the bathroom door had closed she moved closer to Conor. "I'm having second thoughts about this plan. I think we should get you home. I'll make up some excuse."

  "And be disappointin' yer poor aul' gran?" Conor asked in an exaggerated drawl. He took her hand and rested it on his knee. "I'll be fine. I'm sort of looking forward to this, to be honest. A shower and a shave and I'm a new man. Just wait and see."

  Kate seemed unconvinced, and anxious. While doing his best to hide it he was worried as well.

  Something is coming.

  The whispering chant of his dreams clicked against his brain like the relentless tap of a metronome.

  Something is coming.

  He believed it. He could feel its approach. It wasn't far away.

  This time the shower didn't produce the restorative effect Conor had hoped for, but the suit did. Milton the concierge was clearly a "fixer" of the first order. He'd come through with a full dress, tuxedo tail package complete with white vest and matching bow tie, studs and cufflinks.

  It had been years since he'd worn white tie and tails. By the time he'd finished snapping and buttoning himself into the entire kit a burst of energy pulsed through him. After fitting the gun with its clip-on holster into a comfortable spot under the tailcoat, he combed his hair, took a generous pull from his bottle of prescription cough syrup and stepped from the bathroom.

  "Oh my." Kate rose from the sofa, one high-heeled shoe dangling from her hand. "Who are you, and what have you done with my farm manager?"

  "I pass inspection, then?"

  "Pass? My God, you've aced it. You look perfect. It looks like it was made for you. You look—" Kate stopped abruptly. Unable to resist teasing her Conor waited, head tilted.

  "You look very handsome," she finished quietly.

  “And you look like a . . .” He grinned at her squint of warning. "Like a movie star."

  In truth, neither "princess" nor "movie star" captured it. She was stunning in a strapless, floor-length gown of pale gold overlaid with a pastiche of autumn colors. It was like a gorgeously rendered canvas, accenting her hair, which she'd tamed into a shining coil. He thought she more nearly resembled a high queen of Celtic legend but held his tongue, aware that it would sound rapturous and might test her patience even further.

  Jigger bounced in from the adjoining bedroom, shoeless but otherwise dapper in a white jacket and red bow tie. "You both look like something from a fairy tale," he exclaimed, having no qualms about sounding rapturous. "I think we're all beautiful, don't you? Kate, remember you have to help me with my shoes. I can get them on but I can't tie them. I'm excited to meet your grandmother and hear the music. Are we ready to go?"

  Shoes tied, he bolted for the door and then the elevator while they followed him down the hallway.

  "Is your family prepared for the social dynamo about to descend on them?" Conor asked.

  Kate nodded. "I laid the groundwork but I'm not worried. Cocktail party chat is right up their alley, and right up his. He'll be a big hit."

  With effort, Conor had mastered an urge to caress the glowing skin of her bare shoulders, but when the elevator reached the ground floor he instinctively placed his palm on the small of her back as the door rattled open. Kate leaned against the pressure of his hand before she stepped out, smiling at him.

  The pre-dinner reception took place in the Conservatory between the main lobby and back veranda. The room was an airy circular colonnade, topped by a rotunda with a celestial blue ceiling featuring a tiny, soaring gull at its center. Around twenty people had gathered so far, all dressed in sparkling evening attire, drinks in hand. Jigger had trotted ahead and was already talking to a group settled in front of the fireplace.

  In quick succession Kate introduced Conor to her brothers, their wives, her sister Jeanette, a small girl named Emily who wasn't identified as belonging to any of them, and an aunt Winifred.

  "Have you got all that?" she teased, steering him toward the next wave of relatives.

  "You'd be surprised," Conor said. "I'm good at memorizing things."

  "Natural talent, or training?"

  "A little of both."

  Having met the siblings and spouses—all of whom smelled of money—and having surreptitiously examined the exits, the waitstaff a
nd the random guests on the porch, Conor stationed himself beside the grand piano. He watched Kate chatting with her relatives as he tuned, and inspired by the hues in her shimmering dress launched into a solo version of the Grappelli and Menuhin arrangement of Autumn Leaves. Jazz standards seemed a good fit for the setting, and since he'd long ago mastered the Grappelli and Menuhin catalogue he carried on with Skylark.

  The room filled, and its atmosphere had warmed to a festive buzz when the guest of honor arrived, flanked by a couple Conor assumed were Kate's father and step-mother. Her grandmother was easy to recognize as she stood in the doorway. Tall and slender, Sophia Marie had a smooth complexion and long silver hair pulled into a bun secured by a diamond brooch. Wearing a beaded gown of forest green she moved with aristocratic grace, but the air of nobility was softened by lively blue eyes and a warm smile that so reminded him of Kate that Conor momentarily lost his place in the tune he was playing. With a poise that managed to be both regal and self-effacing, the Bavarian-born princess swept in to general applause.

  He continued serenading the room while observing the family dynamic. He'd noted Kate's stiff formality in introducing him to her three oldest brothers, and her more relaxed attitude now, chatting with her sister and Peter, the youngest of the brothers. Around her the guests revolved in a slow-moving orbit, the scent of their mingled colognes circulating with them as they moved.

  Conor was no stranger to events of this sort. The well-groomed individuals here provided a familiar backdrop that could anchor similar scenes around the world. In his former life he'd spent many an evening performing recitals and concertos for the bejeweled, tuxedoed upper crust in Dublin, London, Paris and Rome. He'd chatted up the conspicuously wealthy at obligatory post-performance gatherings, drinking their Champagne and eating their exquisite hors d'oeuvres, and unlike many of his countrymen he harbored no automatic antipathy toward them. Like any other people, some he found interesting, others dead boring, and a few had made his blood boil. The only constant was that he'd always been happy to excuse himself after a polite interlude to search for a more filling meal and easier conversation in the nearest pub. Trailing in the wake of the "splendid set" wasn't his idea of a fun evening, and—he had to admit it—discovering Kate was a card-carrying member unnerved him a little.