“Shhh …” Clare put her finger over Maeve’s lips. “Don’t talk about me or Griffin. You’ll only put yourselves in grave danger.”
“Be careful.” Sorcha hugged Clare tightly. “If you need anything, you let us know.”
“I’m worried about you,” Maeve agreed. “But think positive, right? Maybe you and Griffin will fall in love and live happily ever after.”
“I’ll settle for live.” Clare blinked back tears at having to leave her two friends. “Wish me luck and a wee bit of love.”
Chapter 9
A hike overlooking the ocean always cleared Griffin’s head. Of course, these days, his head was too clear of clutter, and he was busy refilling it with memories.
Pierce kept videos, photo albums, and timelines for him. He relearned names and places, events, birthdays, and favorites.
All of these were trivia and didn’t help him make head or tails about his purpose in life or give any clues about the Heart of Brigid and his role in it. He needed his notebook for that, and no one could find it.
Griffin crested a ridge and stood on the edge of the headlands of the Inishowen Peninsula. The wild, wooly sea foamed and churned around a jutting rock farther out. Beneath that rock lay the bedchamber of Brigid.
He knew that now, after surveying the maps of his property, but he dared not descend the steps which would lead him to the Otherworld and Brigid without her Heart.
All he could do was wait for the private investigators to trace everyone he’d had contact with—down to the travelers who visited the restrooms with him, the people standing near him at the baggage check, the flight attendants who served him, and obviously, the outlandish woman dressed in black feathers who’d sat next to him.
Her name was Clare Hart, a writer of romance between humans and supernatural beings, and she’d disappeared. The investigators had tracked her to Dublin, but she’d apparently walked out of her friends’ apartment a few days ago and was not seen since.
Seamus O’Toole had also dropped out of sight, not answering calls, texts, or email messages, and Griffin doubted the four families had ever worked together to do their duties. He couldn’t count on Seamus being an ally nor could he assume he was an enemy—not until he found more evidence.
Griffin stared at the rocky outcrop, breathing deeply of the scent of the sea mixed with wildflowers and moss. The rocky ground held no trees, so unlike the description of the ancients which told of a land so dense with trees that the rays of the sun never reached the loamy soil beneath them.
He could picture the billowy sails of the Tuatha Dé Danann rising from the horizon. How different had Ireland appeared back then, an enchanted land teeming with life. Green and lush. Unspoiled.
It was his job to bring back Brigid’s heart, and all he had was a lump of coal. Taking it out of his pocket, he scratched off flecks of black.
“Come to me, Clare Hart, you witch. I dare you to appear. Why haven’t you shown yourself? Evil Morrigan.”
As if an answer to his summons, a peal of female laughter echoed from the valley behind him.
Griffin whipped his head toward the sound. He narrowed his eyes as a stiff wind chilled the hairs on the back of his neck.
A small cloud rolled overhead, and the sky darkened.
Warbling laughter blended with the crashing of waves.
“Who’s there?” Griffin gripped the coal tightly and descended the trail off the headland.
A boulder stood in his way, so he went around it, and when he lifted his eyes, he spied a maiden dressed in white basking on the top of the granite gneiss rock.
Her eyes were closed, and she leaned back with her face turned up toward the weak sunlight. Long, auburn tresses fluttered in the wind, and her legs were crossed to keep her white skirt from flying too high.
Brigid? But no, it was only a tourist.
A gray convertible was parked on the road leading up to the rocky ledge.
Griffin didn’t want to disturb her, so he crossed to the other side of the boulder and descended the path opposite where her car was parked.
“Hello,” the bright, feminine voice called after him. “Are you from these parts?”
Griffin stopped in his tracks. She was actually on his property, but he never accosted the occasional tourist who trespassed.
“Did you hear me?” the woman’s voice rose. “I’m wondering if you could show me around.”
Slowly, Griffin turned, and his jaw dropped at the sight of the angelic vision. The woman walked toward him, shimmering with light. Golden highlights danced on her reddish-brown hair, and her skin was as fair as fresh fallen snow.
“You’re on my property,” Griffin said. “Did you take a wrong turn?”
A smile broke across her face, and her eyes crinkled with mirth. “Then it’s my fate to meet you. My name’s Brigid O’Brien.”
“Brigid?” Griffin’s voice choked in his throat. “Were you named for the saint or the goddess?”
“I’m named for me.” The woman’s eyebrows curved as a small frown showed her displeasure. “Whose land might I have the pleasure of trespassing on?”
“Griffin Gallagher,” he said. “I’m the duke of the castle you must have driven by. How’d you like the view here?”
“It’s everything my heart yearns for.” The woman put her hand over her chest. “I feel strangely at home here.”
“Well then, you must let me show you around,” Griffin said, remembering his chivalry. He offered her his arm. “We Gallaghers are one of the few families left with land and title.”
“Then I’m indeed fortunate today,” Brigid said. Tucking her small, graceful hand in the crook of his elbow, she looked up at him with eyes green as fresh cut grass. A sprinkle of fine freckles danced over her nose, and her scent was clean and fresh like sundried sheets hanging on a clothesline.
“As am I.” The corners of his lips turned up, and pride puffed in his chest that he would prove Pierce wrong. He wasn’t going to resign himself into marrying a Morrigan witch. In any case, now that he’d screwed up, he wasn’t in a hurry.
He might as well be a normal guy and have fun with the ladies. This tourist was pretty; she looked as gay as springtime, and his heart leaped with the first sign of life since his gargantuan failure.
“In that case, we’re each other’s lucky charms,” Brigid said, her voice high-pitched and sweet.
“You’re definitely a sight for sore Irish eyes, lass.” He made his voice deep and heroic.
“And I,” she said. “Feel like I’m coming home.”
“Where would that be?” He detected an accent from the East Coast, where the Anglo Normans settled in the late twelfth century.
“I grew up in Bronagh Abbey in the Midlands but have been living in Dublin,” she said.
“What brings you up here?”
She took a deep breath of the sea air and pushed her hair from her face. “This feels like the very edge of Ireland, doesn’t it? Is it out there that the Tuatha Dé Danann first appeared on our shores? Do you happen to know their landing place?”
“It could be that island out yonder, with the beach on the contrary side,” he said. “Shall we hike to the headlands and view it?”
“I’d love to relive that,” she said. “Watching the ships burn must have girded everyone’s heart with bravery, valor, and resolution.”
A wistful look settled on her face as if she were under the spell of a distant memory. A feeling of déjà vu overcame Griffin, and he, too, was transported to that fateful day when gods and goddesses touched down on Irish soil.
Invigorated by her femininity and the bracing wind, Griffin showed Brigid all the wonders of Malin Head, the craggy, razor-sharp cliffs of gneiss, the frothing water, the heather and thistle growing in the clefts, and the shadowy island of Inishtrahull, in the north beyond the mist thrown by the confluence of cold air over the warmer waters of the Gulf Stream.
“Woohoo!” Clare loved driving fast, especially when the man in the p
assenger seat was holding on for dear life. He obviously did not remember sitting next to her on the airplane and seemed taken in by her Brigid O’Brien persona.
Clare hadn’t known how she would approach Griffin, but the fact his memory had been wiped blank was the best-case scenario. Now, she could help him get his diamond back without being implicated in the crime.
Maybe they could even become friends.
She stepped on the accelerator and took a curve too fast, then gunned the engine on the winding road circumnavigating Gallagher Castle.
The top was down on the convertible she rented, and the wind made the ride seem rougher.
“You might be more careful,” Griffin said. “Watch for the sheep we have grazing on our grounds.”
“Eh, the sheepdogs will herd them out of the way.” She tore down a section where the road rose and dipped like the back of a sea serpent. “This is fun.”
“You’re a crazy lass.” Griffin let out a hoot of laughter. “But you must be hard on cars.”
“You only live once!” Clare slowed at the sight of a heavy iron gate.
“Well, gate crashing will end that real soon,” Griffin said.
Griffin waved at the guard, and slowly, too slowly, the jaws of the heavy gate opened. Statues of griffins perched on top of the gate posts, and a large letter “G” was designed into the center of the iron doors.
“I don’t mind crashing a rental car.” Clare put on a careful laugh. “I can’t wait to see your castle.”
“There aren’t many left in Ireland,” Griffin said. “I have to warn you. It’s old, haunted, and cursed.”
Clare affected a shiver and moaned. “I love it. Can’t wait to write about it.”
“You’re a writer?” Griffin asked sharply.
The inflection in his voice gave Clare a warning. That had been too close to the truth. Maybe he had an inkling of recognition. She’d better tread carefully.
So far, he’d been a pleasant and gracious host. Not a sign of the rudeness and arrogance he’d dripped on the airplane. True, she had annoyed him by brushing her feathers over him and making him sneeze. But he’d started it by not stepping out into the aisle to let her into her seat.
She drove slowly through the gate and entered a formal garden full of trimmed hedges. The gray stone walls of the castle were jagged and old, covered with vines, and several round towers loomed above the battlements.
“What do you write?” Griffin asked.
She flashed him a shy smile and said, “Aspiring writer. I haven’t written anything yet, but I hope to write stories.”
“What kind of stories?”
“Mysteries,” Clare said. “Historical fiction. Stuff with castles and secrets.”
“At least it’s not silly romances between humans and fairies.” Griffin guffawed. “I’ve been reading one, and it’s unbelievably stupid. The writing is childish and vapid, and the heroine is overly hysterical.”
“Oh, really? Who’s the author?” Clare couldn’t help asking, hoping he hadn’t discovered one of her books.
Somehow, she cared about the opinion of this version of Griffin—not to mention that his gentlemanly ways had her desires stirring in all the wrong places. She needed to get a grip. She was here to return the egg—er, the egg-shaped Heart of Brigid, not allow her hormones to run amuck.
“Pah, let’s not ruin a good conversation by mentioning her name.” Griffin waved a hand dismissively. “Let’s just say her characters are entirely too silly. They think wearing fairy paraphernalia makes them attractive to the Fae. Doesn’t she know it’s an insult to the Fae when mere humans parade around with wings, pointing their obnoxious wands and zapping everything in their paths?”
Gulp. Sounded like her characters. So, she overdid it in the clothing and accessory side, but try growing up an orphan with two changes of clothes, exactly the same.
“I don’t know what’s so silly about that,” Clare retorted. “There are high-fashion evening gowns based on fairy garb.”
“Real fairies don’t wear what passes for fairy garb on the internet,” Griffin pronounced. “You didn’t know that?”
It figured that his version of a real fairy was darker and more malevolent.
“Have you met one?” she asked as casually as she could.
“You mean you’re not one?” Griffin said, his eyes raking her gauzy white dress. “And here I thought I’ve encountered a living goddess.”
She hooked a sidelong glance at him, slightly challenging. “If I were a living goddess, I could do one of two things. Strike you down and command you to do my bidding or pretend I’m a silly tourist lost in the bogs.”
“I’d prefer a beautiful and smart tourist,” Griffin said. “Goddess or not, Brigid O’ Brien, I like your name and your style.”
“I’m glad I meet with your approval.” Clare felt her cheeks warm and hoped she wasn’t blushing. “Your family is quite a legend in this area. How far back can you trace your lineage?”
“If you’re a goddess, you’d already know,” Griffin said, one side of his mouth turning a corner up. “But fear not, Brigid O’Brien, I will show you the stuff of legends. Are you sure you’re prepared for a grand tour?”
“Of both your castle and your secrets?”
“The castle I’ll show you, but my secrets are not so easily given. Especially not to strange women found sitting on a rock. It’ll be your job to ferret me out.” He winked, looking amused.
“Challenge taken,” Clare said. “But beware. I might have special powers in the probing department.”
“Probe away.” He wiggled his eyebrows and flicked his tongue across his firm lips, sending a spiral of lust twirling low in Clare’s belly. “I’m going to enjoy your attention.”
Clare couldn’t help letting a satisfied smile slide onto her face. She almost felt like jumping up and down and humming, but she had to stay in character. Brigid would remain calm and collected.
This venture was going better than she’d expected. Griffin was completely different from the way he’d acted on the airplane. He’d definitely forgotten their previous encounter and how insulting he’d been about her writing romances—although he came close when he demeaned the women who wore what he called fairy garb.
Had he also forgotten the Heart of Brigid and his belief that it would lead him to the woman he was obviously pining for? Correction, used to pine over.
Maybe he’d even forgotten the horrible story of needing the blood sacrifice of a woman he thought was the daughter of his enemy. In that case, she’d better keep his green notebook safely away from him.
Clare turned her attention back to the design of the garden, the many gargoyles, statues, and fountains, and the low, stacked stone walls which kept the sheep in their pastures.
Silence hung inside the car, but it wasn’t unpleasant. A closemouthed smile graced Griffin’s face, and he seemed to truly enjoy the gorgeous vistas on his own property as if he were seeing them for the first time. Life never grew old if he lost his memory constantly and had to reconstruct new ones.
Clare drove over a drawbridge, which was already in the down position. Her heart pounded on overdrive as she entered over the moat and glanced up at the majestic, old structure. With the gate, the moat, and guards, it would be impossible to sneak in to replace the Heart of Brigid.
She hadn’t expected to get invited in this easily, and she didn’t have the Heart of Brigid with her.
After leaving Dublin, she’d hidden the valuable gemstone inside one of the fairy-mounds near Bronagh Abbey, where she, Sorcha, and Maeve had lived growing up. It was in a wild, remote area in the Midlands, situated on a rocky ledge overlooking a sheep farm on one side and a still, glacial lake on the other. A valley nearby contained a Stone Age cemetery with many unearthed passage tombs and abandoned gravel pits. Large table or door-like megaliths, called dolmens, were erected nearby by unknown ancient races—some say, giants.
The fairy-mounds were off-limits to the orphans livi
ng in the abbey which was built on the site of a druid temple. However, like all curious children, Clare and her friends had discovered secret tunnels underneath the abbey, allowing them to explore the old tombs and doorways to the Otherworld.
“Are you going to get out or keep gawking at my home?” Griffin’s voice broke her out of her worried thoughts.
“It’s unbelievable,” Clare recovered quickly. “Most old structures of this age are in ruins. Your family has kept this place up well.”
“We have a huge legacy to maintain,” Griffin said. He waved off a servant and came around the car himself to open the door for her.
Gallantly, he leaned down and offered her his strong and sturdy arm. His dark-brown eyes twinkled, and he flashed her a charming smile. “Welcome, Lady Brigid, to Gallagher Castle. It would please me immensely if you’d lunch with me and allow me to give you a tour.”
“I’d love to.” She slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow and alighted from her chariot—er, her rented convertible.
The woodsy scent of his aftershave, magnified by his body heat, kicked up a feeling of giddiness and promise. She couldn’t return the rock today, but she was about to get an inside look into a palace rumored to harbor fairy magic. How else could anyone explain the aura of beauty, charm, and the obvious luxury which surrounded her every step?
Red carpet lined the walkway to the marble entrance foyer where gild-plated mirrors and majestic crystal chandeliers hung. Old oil paintings and tapestries covered the walls, and an enormous double staircase swept up to the rotunda filled with stained-glass images of warriors, griffins, princesses, and kings.
Clare could imagine Fae magic pumping its mysterious vibrations through every corner and crevice of Gallagher Castle. Yet all of it was done tastefully, with no gaudy displays of swords, chalices, wands, crowns, feathered capes, and crystal stars hanging from the walls and ceiling.
Maybe Griffin was right. True magic lay not in baubles and talismans, wands and wings.
True magic was in the heart.
Her heart was pounding so fast, she could barely breathe. She knew she was gaping, and her mouth was open in amazement. Her eyes were wide, and her head felt light. But she held onto Griffin’s arm like a lifeline in a sea full of possibilities and uncertainties.
Lucky Like Love: The Fae Legacy #1 Page 8
