A benign tremor shot up my fingers into my arm, making me pull back. Heat and goose flesh erupted on my skin and then spread across my shoulders, straining the muscles in my neck. The sensation died quickly but left unease in its wake. I rubbed my eyes.
“Never mind.” I hastily opened the volume, my skin tingling as it connected with the leather.
“Sophia? Are you okay?” Leslie asked, with a furrowed brow.
“Fine. Just tired,” I replied, flipping through the delicate pages.
“It’s almost time to head home. I’m going to check the washrooms and lock up.”
I watched Leslie until she was out of sight.
The ache in my head flared into a painful jab. Traces of gilt twinkled along the edge, catching my attention. But the worn, golden touches didn’t explain the faint, lustrous shimmer that seemed to be fleeing from inside the pages. I opened the volume and read the page, my skin tingling as it connected with the leather.
My world spun, as if I was caught once again in the ocean, pulling me deep into a whirlpool. I was spinning and twirling like a washing machine. When the motion ceased, I opened my eyes. I floated in a stone room, surrounded by shelves lined with books and jars. Iridescent colors swirled around me, reminding me of blowing bubbles as a child. I wondered if I were inside one. Past the translucent wall, Rochus sat at his wooden table, the fire burning merrily in the hearth by his side—just as it had when I had last been there.
“It’s not over,” he said. “Trace the provenance of the gem.”
“Sophia… Sophia… you all right? Sophia…come back.” The words hissed in my ears. Leslie’s nose hovered inches from mine. I sighed with relief, glad to be back in the library, even if I was on the floor.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You tell me,” Leslie said. “I left to lock up, and when I got back you were flat on your back. Odd place to have a nap, really.”
As she helped me to my feet, I glanced at the book, still lying open on the table.
“I think I just had a one-side conversation with a ghost.”
Leslie quirked an eyebrow but said nothing.
Is anyone left out there?”
“Nope, the library is as empty as a sixteenth-century Aztec city ravaged by smallpox.”
“Good,” I responded, used to Leslie’s quirky comments.
“Not for the villagers,” she replied with a chuckle.
“No. Definitely not. Nothing contaminating the books, I hope.”
Leslie smirked. “No, there were no books harmed in the making of our imaginary macabre scenario. Glad to see you haven’t lost your wit.”
“We probably shouldn’t joke about such things.” I added, getting serious.
“No, maybe not. People are so sensitive these days,” Leslie agreed, with an exaggerated serious face. She crossed her arms. “So, who was the ghost? Not Gigi?”
“I wish. No, it was Rochus. He told me to trace the provenance of the sapphire. Gigi said that Opa bought it from a curator in Ireland. So, I guess I start there and work backward.”
“You want me to email the museum tomorrow?”
“No.” I paused. ‘Cullen asked me to come to Ireland for a couple days, and I think I’m going to take him up on it. I’ll go to the museum, myself. Could you take my cat while I’m gone?”
“Sure. I love Our Daphne. But a couple days? Girl, the flight is like seven hours and that’s not even including airport wait times. You’re flying all the way there for an afternoon.”
“Cullen’s family owns a private plane so; I just have to fly commercial the one way and he’s going to drop me off on his way to New York. I’ll be back in time for my next shift.
Leslie shook her head. “Just another regular day in the life of a princess, huh?”
THIRTY-FOUR
T he first hint of nightfall filtered in through the billowing sheers. Overhead, the chandelier tinkled musically in a gust of the storm’s breath, throwing eerie shadows across the room. I closed the terrace door I’d left open for the cat; she didn’t seem interested in coming in and curled up in the corner of the sofa, emotionally exhausted and looked up flights. Cullen would be calling soon.
I could hear a tap dripping. Otherwise, the house seemed painfully silent. I wandered back into the living room and picked up the notebook, reading it as I made my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth. By page ten I was forced to sit down. Shocked by the details of my aunt’s murder, I felt as if my bones had liquefied.
The sound of reality pawed and meowed at the terrace door—Daphne needed in. It was pouring rain outside but she, of course, had wanted out anyway. I had never met a cat that loved to be outside as much as her.
“There you are!”
A gust of wind blew in through the open door, and I shivered as I closed and locked it. A shadow by the corner of the fence caught my eye but I dismissed it. With everything going on, I wasn’t going to allow myself to start seeing shadows at every turn.
Pushing aside further thoughts of the box, I strolled into the bathroom, lit the candle and inhaled the relaxing aroma of spiced cinnamon. I watched the candle flicker before I turned the tap on, adjusting it for a few seconds until the steam began gathering. Was there anything better than a steaming hot shower? Well, yes—having someone to join you in it—someone like Cullen.
Missed call. It only took a moment to ring him back.
“Sophia, darlin’, I was missin’ ye.”
“You’re early. I was still in the shower.”
“Now that’s a nice image. Thinkin’ of me, I hope?”
“Yes,” I said, a rush of warmth spreading between my legs. It was the effect his voice had on me every night.
“I couldn’t wait ’til I got home. Are ye well? Ye sound a touch sad.”
“I’m coping. I was just going through a box from Gigi’s. It was my Great-Grampa’s. He was a private investigator.”
“Anything good in it?”
“His journal.” My eyes perused a love note Grampa had kept—a heart was drawn, roughly, on a napkin with the names Veronika and Jackson inside. “He talked about how distraught Gigi was over the murder of her sister and then her father’s disappearance. It looks like he investigated things for her and uncovered that her father was the killer.”
“That’s messed up.”
“I know right?! It’s hard to believe. Gigi talked about him all the time. I guess she never knew. He must not have told her. I mean, who wants to find out their father’s a murderer, even if it means he is still alive and rotting in a penitentiary?” I tried and failed to imagine Gigi’s father as a monster. Considering the stories Gigi had told me, it didn’t make sense that he could have killed his own child.
“Truthfully, I’m creeped out.”
“Shall I come over? I can be there in ten—maybe twenty-four hours, depending on the flight.” Cullen laughed.
“Very funny.”
“I’m sorry, love. I could ring Liam and ask him to stay with ye. He’s with Morai again. She’s after visitin’ her friend in Montreal. That’s close to you, isn’t it?”
“Who is Morai again?”
“Da’s mum.”
“She doesn’t like to travel on her own, so she drags Liam about. He’s a good sport, the poor bugger. I know he’d come check in on ye and even stay for a bit if need be.”
I thought of Cullen’s brother—the priest. “That’s a nice offer but Montreal is like three hours from me. Anyway, it won’t be a problem. I have good news.”
“You do?”
“Yep. I’m going to take you up on your offer.”
“You’re coming to Dublin?”
“Got my flight all pulled up. I was just waiting for your call to make sure you still wanted me.”
“Don’t be daft. Never wanted anything more.”
We said our goodbyes and I returned to the box with the journal and sat down, staring. The details of my great-aunt’s death bothered me so much mostly because they were so
familiar. Had Gigi told me any of this when I was younger? No, she wouldn’t have done that, but something about the way Zafira died reminded me of my nightmares. Had my dreams been about my aunt?
The box was now making me feel uneasy. The fact that my house didn’t have an alarm, which had never bothered me before, now made me anxious. I looked out the window. At least the shadow was gone.
THIRTY-FIVE
T he plane had already been delayed forty minutes and so I’d scrolled through an article referencing the Delhi Sapphire. I hadn’t learned anything new but it had brought back memories of Gigi. I leaned my head against the high-backed seat, and slept most of the flight, waking briefly when the girl behind me bumped my seat once again. This time, instead of dreams filled with jewels and murder, I lusted after Cullen, who sometimes melded into Conrad. The eyes never changed—almost as if they were one and the same.
After twelve hours of travel, I arrived to my hotel in Dublin, set my suitcase down beside the leather chair and walked around the suite. It was beautiful—absolutely exquisite—and far more spacious than I needed. The king-sized bed was covered with crisp white linens, black velvet pillows and a white throw.
A beautiful bouquet of flowers sat on the nightstand with a card from Cullen. Now, how had he arranged that?
I changed into high-waisted, dark denim jeans and headed for the archaeology branch of the National Museum of Ireland. There wasn’t much time and I’d have to go back to inquire about the curator, but it wouldn’t hurt to scope the place out. It took me less than six minutes to reach the impressive columned building on Kildare Street. I climbed the marble stairs, entered the rotunda and gawked at the opulent, dimly lit interior. It wasn’t long before I’d found an exhibit with pieces of gold, bracelets, earrings, rings and brooches. I’d slyly hitched myself to a guided tour group, listening in as the guide talked about the artifacts and the history of Ireland. The place was as magical as I’d heard and I lost all sense of time. Eventually, my phone pinged with a text from Cullen, the sound echoing through the hall. He was finishing up with a client and meeting me at a pub called Mulligans. One of my colleagues had recommended it and Cullen had been a good sport about agreeing to meet there, although I was sure now it was a tourist spot. The thought of food made my stomach rumble, and so I cleared the text and checked the time. The museum closed at five, which left me with only ten minutes anyway. Tucking the phone in my satchel, I hurried toward the doors.
Grafton Street was entertaining and I stopped to take in the street performers along the way. Which was fun but I began to feel paranoid that someone was watching me. Cullen had wanted to pick me up but I’d insisted on sightseeing, and he’d reluctantly been forced to agree. I was now rethinking my independence.
Finally, I came to Mulligans of Poolbeg Street, the designated meeting place. It had authentic, old wooden décor and the bar area seemed ideal for a nightcap and a chat. There was an abundance of Victorian countertops and mahogany, with plenty of confessional partitions, dark corners ideal for intimacy and pints of creamy porter.
An older couple, arm in arm, strolled leisurely toward me, leaning against one another. The sight of them made me smile. I took a look around to see if Cullen had arrived yet. As I slipped through the narrow door, exiting the one section, I noticed a collection of old, theatrical posters. The lounge décor looked the total opposite. It was filling up with a young crowd, bopping to the latest music. A rowdy group of young tourists stood by, drinks in hand, arguing over lyrics to a bawdy tune.
A dark-haired man stood just behind the group staring at me—not quite with them. His stare lasted only a second and I hadn’t seen his face clearly before he was gone, but he’d given me the creeps none the less.
“Hey, Dolly! You with the head on ye,” a drunk slurred, as he cast an arm sloppily around me.
“Get off me.”
“I’d rather get on you. How’s about a ride?” he slurred again, this time pawing at my top.
Trying to get away from him, I backed up, tripping over someone’s foot and landing on my rump. The drunk’s pint followed, soaking my shirt.
I jerked my head up at the sound of Cullen’s voice.
“Hey!” He came striding into the scene and caught hold of the kid who had touched me. “Don't be actin’ the maggot.”
From my position on the floor, Cullen seemed extraordinarily tall, broad-shouldered and well-muscled beneath his rugby shirt.
“Ye best scram, before I teach ye some manners.”
“I will in me arse,” the drunk replied.
Cullen turned away and offered me his hand which I accepted. I stared into his eyes—a startling brilliant green. He had slicked his wavy, coppery hair back. It wasn’t so much that he was typically handsome, but he was one of the most arresting men I’d ever met—confident and authoritative and not just because of his height or build.
Energy, almost like a current, streaked into me. He released me and turned back to the feisty drunk who I was pretty sure had just commented on my breasts although, to be fair, it was hard to understand all of their jabs.
Cullen looked angry. “You talking to me or chewin' a brick? Either way you're going to end up in a dentist chair!”
The barman brought down a glass on the bar with a bang and pointed at the kids. “Hey! Yous lot! Scram.”
“Well, that was exciting,” I said sarcastically.
“Womanizing rascals,” Cullen muttered. “Are ye all right?”
“Um… fine.” I nodded. “Thanks to you. I should have listened and allowed you to escort me from my hotel.”
“Aye, I hate to be right.”
“I doubt that.”
He cracked a slight smile, transforming his face. “Ye sound like my brother. Now, how about that pint? Afterwards, I thought we could head over to the Pearl Brasserie for a nice, quiet dinner?”
I looked down at the front of my outfit. “I’ve heard that place is nice, but I’m not really all that presentable anymore. Would you mind if we just grabbed food here?”
“I don’t mind at all, although I think ye’d be the loveliest woman in the room anywhere we went.”
I felt my face flush. I wanted to reach out and kiss him hello. It hadn’t exactly been the greeting I’d imagined but there would be time for that.
Minutes later, Cullen had arranged dinner in a cozy quiet little booth away from the party. I gave him a sidelong glance.
“You bring many ladies here?”
“I do not,” he answered, straight faced. “This was your idea.”
“Fair enough,” I said with a grin, although I planned to grill him more later.
He ordered us supper while I disappeared to the little lassie’s room. When I came out, there was already a bottle of red wine waiting. He poured me a glass and I took a seat on the bench opposite him, slipping my shoes off and getting cozy against the wall.
Ye haven’t mentioned Gigi once.”
“I miss her,” I said. My eyes teared up.
“Bollix. I’m right scarlett. I shouldn’t be after askin’.”
I laughed, tears spilling onto my cheeks. “It’s all right. It’s cathartic to talk about that kind of stuff. I just can’t do it without crying yet.”
“Well, whenever ye’re game. ‘Til then, lets’ talk about somethin’ else. You mentioned doin’ research while ye’re here.”
“Yes! Actually, I stopped and checked out part of the archaeology branch on the way to meet you. I have to go back. It’s a huge place. Anyway, I’m looking for a man who used to work for the National Museum of Ireland. I’m sure he’s passed, but I’m hoping to track down his family to find out about a gem that he passed onto my family.”
“What’s his name? Maybe I can help. My grandda—”
Before Cullen could finish his sentence, someone approached our table with several food platters and a second bottle of wine.
“Hope ye’re thirsty!” A smile curved Cullen’s lips.
Aroma from the food waf
ted in the air, making my stomach grind.
Cullen unrolled his silverware when his jacket began to buzz.
“Sorry about that,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket and reading the screen. “It’s Ma and she says hello.
“Oh nice. Tell her I said hello back.”
“I will.” He smiled. “She also says I’m a terribly rude host, for not inviting ye to stay at my house. So, what do you say?”
“To what?”
“To coming to stay at my house tomorrow? Ye won’t have me disappointing my parents, will ye?”
***
Surrounded by hedges and covered in moss, Cullen’s home looked like a whimsical, Tudor-style cottage with façades of dark timbers and limestone and a massive chimney that thrust skyward. The roof was asymmetrical and steeply pitched with gable ends poking this way and that. The whole place reminded me of Snow White’s cottage—unique, charming, clean and comfortable.
I looked around to see where Cullen had disappeared to. At any other time, I would have enjoyed taking in the details, but this time I was more interested in the owner than the well-appointed house. I wandered down the hall and into the living room, where Cullen had hung some family photos and artwork. He had sunk into the sofa with a pint in hand.
“Who is this?” I asked. “Is this your ancestor, or do you enjoy hanging large portraits of men on your walls?”
Cullen laughed. “Well, I do enjoy a good manly portrait from time to time, but that would be my great-great-great-grandfather, Tandy O’Kelley.”
“I see the resemblance. What is that?” I asked, pointing at the man in the photo’s side.
“His dagger. Grand, isn’t it? When I was a lad, my Da made one out of cardboard for me and I pretended it was his.”
“And I take it that lovely woman is your great-great-great-grandmother.”
“Ye’d be right, all right.”
“What is that?” I said, suddenly standing straighter.
“Her frock?”
Cursed be the Crown (Cruel Fortunes Book 1) Page 22
