“Maybe you have, changeling.” He closed her fingers over the coal. “Coal and diamond are both made of carbon. You might be both a goddess and a witch.”
Griffin would have been more amused watching Brigid choose from among his car collection if he was sure she was only possessed by two personalities. He’d call her Brigid for now, since she didn’t know he had proof she was also Clare Hart, writer of childish romances where the supernatural heroes were defanged and tamed beta males whose only desire were to please her childish, entitled, and fanciful heroines.
He could puke at the descriptions alone. Overdone and outlandish, a daily costume party with props and animatronics. As if anyone lived in a cluttered castle full of stereotyped magical objects.
Snickering with an air of superiority, he watched Brigid flitter from one vehicle to the next, opening and closing doors, sitting inside and rubbing her hands over the leather and wood trim. She stretched her legs and adjusted the seatbacks, acting like his personal collection was a luxury car show.
“You should take your meds,” she said, poking her nose into the cockpit of his black Ferrari F40. “Then I can race you.”
“Racing can wait until Brigid gets her heart back,” Griffin reminded the flighty romance writer with the heart of coal. “Hurry up and pick one. We should get to the abbey before sundown.”
“We can’t go directly there in case we’re being followed,” Brigid said. She pushed away from the Ferrari and ran her hand over a silver Ashton Martin DB11 Volante convertible. “How fast does this baby go?”
“All my cars are fast,” Griffin said, although he wasn’t going to tell her the Ferrari’s top speed was faster. If they took the Ashton, it would give Myles and Mack the opportunity to keep up with them.
“Great, I like this one,” Brigid said. “Hold onto your hair.”
An image of her red hair exploding like flames burst behind his eyelids, and his heart ached so much he thought he’d collapse to his knees. If he succeeded in going back to the twelfth century, he’d have to sacrifice this redheaded Morrigan, daughter of Richard “Strongbow” de Clare, to give life to the bones of his beloved Brigid.
He could not be weak and give in to caring about this creature. She was evil, and she’d stolen what was his. If he could convince her she was the true Brigid, she’d walk into the bedchamber and exchange her life willingly.
He looped his arm around her shoulders and kissed her pert lips. “You’ll always be my beloved Brigid. Let’s see how fast you can drive.”
Chapter 16
Clare tore over the drawbridge and hooked a sharp turn over the bumpy country road, scattering a flock of sheep. The Ashton handled superbly, and its full-throated engine growled deep and strong, vibrating every cell of her body with exhilaration and excitement.
Beside her, Griffin wore a huge grin as he held onto his wool flat cap. “Don’t take the curves too fast.”
“Why not?” she shouted. “I love curves. The faster I take them, the faster we’ll get to Bronagh Abbey.”
She whooped as she hit the asphalt highway and accelerated around a bend in the road, leaving the castle in her rearview mirror.
Whenever the road straightened, she picked up speed, passing other cars and trucks. She’d already navigated the route to the abbey on her phone, but instead of going the most direct way, she randomly took turns and rerouted to throw off anyone tailing them.
“Do you like the scenic route?” Griffin asked as they circumnavigated a large inland lake. “I thought we’re trying to get there before nightfall.”
“You’re not spooked, are you?” She frowned as she peered into the rearview mirror. A black car seemed to be following them. Although it hung back and she was able to lose it when taking an unexpected turn, it always caught up to her once she was back on the main road.
“Me? Spooked? Not a chance,” he said, looking at his phone. “According to my navigation, we’re getting close.”
She looked back and realized her mistake. If the black car knew their destination, then it didn’t matter if she made erratic turns. The driver simply fell back and stayed on route, and eventually, she’d have to turn toward the abbey.
Without warning, she braked hard, jerked the steering wheel, and fishtailed a U-turn at a crossroads. Gunning the engine, she zoomed back the way they’d come.
Gotcha!
She caught a glimpse of two men in a black Ferrari F40.
“What are you doing?” Griffin asked. “You’re going the wrong way.”
She turned the wheel, causing him to lurch against her.
“Watch it.” She shoved the hand holding his mobile phone. It sailed up and out of the convertible.
“Hey, my phone.” He jerked his head around. “Stop the car.”
“It’s probably broken anyway.” She accelerated before taking a turn at the junction to a motorway, a faster road toward Dublin.
“Everything I was reviewing is on that phone,” he cried. “My notes, everything.”
“We’ll get you a new one,” she said. “No time to go back. We were being followed.”
He stayed silent, not responding, and Clare knew she’d been right to knock his phone from the car.
Griffin Gallagher didn’t trust her. Not that she blamed him when all she’d been doing was lying to him after stealing his gemstone.
Nope. She hadn’t done him any good.
That was about to change.
“I’m warning you,” Griffin said after many looks over his shoulder. “I won’t be responsible for what I do to you if you’re double-crossing me.”
“You won’t even remember this life,” Clare said. “You said so yourself. Sit back and enjoy the ride.”
“You’re not going to get away with this.” He picked up his duffle bag from the small gap in back of the seats. “I’m going to take my medicine right now and never let you out of my sight. Mark my words, I’m going to remember this.”
“Good, I hope you will,” she said, glancing over at him. “I was getting worried back there when you said you wanted to die and wake up in the twelfth century.”
“That will happen, too,” he said, popping a pill into his mouth. “But you’re not going to get away, little Miss Changeling.”
“I’m not trying to,” she said, driving at the speed limit so she wouldn’t draw attention. The kilometers went by, and he turned silent. The next time she glanced at him, he’d fallen asleep.
She checked in the rearview mirror every so often, but by the time they entered Dublin, she was sure she’d lost their tail. With Griffin’s phone gone, they were unable to track him.
Right before sundown, she pulled into a car park across the street from Sorcha and Maeve’s apartment. Griffin’s safety was her responsibility, and since she had to assume the men trailing them knew they were headed for Bronagh Abbey, she would have to lay low for a bit.
She’d also have to concoct a story to get him to comply. She parked the car and texted Sorcha and Maeve. Fortunately, Griffin was still out. The meds might have put him to sleep.
Keeping her fingers crossed, she reached into the boot of the car and took out a pair of handcuffs.
Click.
Griffin stared at the metal cuff around one wrist. The other cuff was attached to the crazy woman driver who was applying her lipstick.
His mouth was cottony, and he had a crick in his neck. How had he been so lame as to fall asleep?
“You’re not going to get away with this,” he said.
That did it. The gloves were off, and he was no longer going to consider this changeling a friendly entity and honor her by thinking of her as his beloved Brigid.
Nope. She was every bit the black-feathered witch he’d met on the airplane, the dastardly Clare Hart, fiction writer, liar, and thief.
“I’m not trying to get away with anything,” the woman formerly known in his mind as Brigid said. “We were being followed.”
Well, duh. They were his people, Myles and Mack
Brady, prizefighters and private investigators. But he couldn’t let her know her cover was busted.
“Why would they be following us?” He feigned ignorance. “We’re a man and a woman taking off on a countryside holiday.”
She lasered him with an accusing stare. “Wasn’t it significant they were driving a black Ferrari F40?”
“They’re as common as ravens up in Donegal,” he said. “Lots of old dukes holding onto centuries of wealth.”
“Ill-gotten sympathizers of the British crown.” She referred to the fact that the Irish nobility was purely a creation of the English monarchs to reward those Irishmen who aided and abetted the invaders.
“Why are we in Dublin?” The cars in the parking garage near him predominantly had license plates with the “D” for Dublin and its Irish name, Baile Átha Cliath, spelled out over the number.
“Safehouse,” the fake Brigid said. “Although I’m not sure how safe it is.”
“This is utterly ridiculous.” He shook his cuffed hand, dragging her attached hand. “Unlock it.”
She flipped a switch on the Ashton Martin to raise the roof on the convertible. “Not until we’re inside. If anyone’s watching, we’re holding hands.”
He let out a sound halfway between a growl and a groan. “Since we’re supposed to be buddy-buddy, would you mind telling me how you’re going to find the Heart of Brigid?”
“Since we’re joined together, you’re going to have to climb over my seat to exit.”
“There’s no way I’m climbing past the steering wheel.” He opened the passenger door and threw his long legs out. “Sorry, little fairy, but I’m bigger than you, and you’re coming out my side.”
He jerked his arm, and she had no choice but to wiggle her way over the console and stumble out of the Ashton.
After retrieving their luggage from the boot, Griffin walked cuff-by-cuff with Clare, for that was her true name, to a set of stairs which led to a low-rent apartment.
The door opened before Clare had a chance to knock.
“Is this the hunky duke of the castle?” a blonde dressed in full butterfly regalia, complete with wings and antenna, bounced on her toes. “Come in, come in.”
“Is it safe to bring him here?” a dark-haired, dark-eyed brunette pursed her blood-colored lips. She wore full-on lipstick, eye shadow, and rouge in the style of a vampire mistress, complete with a black veil over her large, expressive eyes. Her clothes were a cross between Spanish flamenco with the frills and red lace, and black leather Goth.
Clare pushed Griffin through the doorway and shut the door quickly. “We were followed out of Donegal, but I lost them.”
“I’m Maeve,” the blonde said, stretching out a blue-gloved hand. “I’m so glad to meet you. Don’t worry, you’ve come to the right place for wings, wands, and wigs.”
She giggled as she shook his free hand and wiggled her shoulders so that her butterfly wings fluttered.
“And I’m Sorcha,” the brunette said. Instead of shaking his hand, she slithered up to him, parked her hands on her hips, and let her eyes rove all the nooks and crannies of his body.
“As I was saying,” the Brigid impersonator cut off her friends’ leering gazes by standing in front of him. “We need to regroup and come up with a plan. Whoever was following us meant to do us harm, so I brought Griffin here.”
“How are we going to hide him?” Sorcha waved her hand at the piles of cardboard boxes, fabrics, feathers, wands, crystals, and miles of bric-a-brac. “Those two Garda officers came back with a warrant and searched the entire place.”
“Then they won’t be back,” Clare said. “Since I’m sure they found nothing.”
“What were these Garda searching for?” Griffin asked.
A niggle of worry wormed its way into his gut. Clare could have been followed after taking his diamond, and there were others interested in stealing it from her.
The three women stared at each other, large eyes gaping with obvious warning.
What did they know?
Clare put her finger over her mouth in a zipping fashion. She raised the other hand which was attached to him and said, “Griffin suspects I’m either his fairy queen, Brigid, in human form, or a changeling who has taken the place of his beloved Brigid. Don’t you, Griffin?”
Her friends’ eyes popped out of their sockets, and their mouths hung open.
“Of course, if you’re a changeling, then the true spirit of Brigid would be imprisoned in that object you’re searching for,” Sorcha said.
“Um, um, um.” Maeve continued fluttering, her chest heaving and her wings all a flitter. “What could the magical object be?”
“I might be Brigid herself,” Clare proclaimed, cutting off her blond friend. Her cheeks pinked, and her eyes sparkled. “Imagine that. When I met Griffin and visited his domain, I felt as if I’d known him in all of his previous lifetimes.”
“Wow.” Maeve clasped her hands together. “You mean, you’re the one he’s been waiting for? The one who the magical item would bring to him?”
Griffin almost rolled his eyes at how stupid the butterfly lady was. She practically confirmed Clare’s guilt of not just stealing his Heart of Brigid, but also her scheme at using it to get him to fund her movie.
“Ahem, I don’t think it’s quite like that.” Sorcha cleared her throat. “There’s only one way to test your theory. If the object in question is real, then when it is placed in the fairy mound, it will dematerialize from this world and materialize in the Otherworld. If it is a well-manufactured fake, it will stay there like a lump of coal.”
“Enough theorizing,” Clare said. “Griffin and I are hungry. After we eat, we’d like to stay in my old room. Tomorrow, I’ll cast runes to determine our next step. We need to tread carefully. Now that the object in question is on Irish soil, it has the ability to create illusions.”
Again, Clare’s friends gaped at each other in obvious confusion. She was spewing a bunch of hooey and trying to get them to buy into her Brigid façade.
Enough was enough. He wasn’t going to burst her bubble—not yet, because he didn’t know which fairy mound she’d hidden the Heart of Brigid inside.
Tonight, he’d humor Clare. Whether she was Brigid in the flesh or the Morrigan daughter of Richard “Strongbow,” he needed her to complete his destiny. Once he had the Heart of Brigid, he could take both Clare and the Heart down to the queen’s bedchamber and change the entire world.
Chapter 17
Clare could barely keep her eyes open after her dinner and shower. Surprisingly, Griffin hadn’t tried to get away or demand a phone call to let his grandfather know he was safe. He slurped up the stew Sorcha had prepared in the crockpot and gobbled up Maeve’s soda bread. He was even a good enough actor to play like he was her boyfriend, looking through her Bronagh Abbey yearbooks and asking Sorcha and Maeve about their childhood.
She allowed herself a brief fantasy, that she’d met him on the airplane, they’d hit it off with casual conversation, and now, they were in the hanging out and getting to know each other stage.
Too bad, she’d ruined it from the get-go because she was upset about Seamus ripping her off, and she’d taken it out on the first arrogant rich guy she met.
Now she was playing catch-up. It would be a miracle that he wouldn’t prosecute her. She fully intended to restore the diamond to him, but only if she could be sure he wouldn’t suffer another seizure, lose control, and then be told a load of nonsense by his grandfather and butler.
Clare retired to the room which was being used for storage. Maeve and Sorcha had piled everything up against one wall, leaving the twin bed uncovered. They sat with Griffin on the bed with Maeve handcuffed to him.
The three of them had been taking turns with the handcuffs to make sure Griffin didn’t walk out the door. She’d detached herself when he went to the bathroom. Sorcha took her turn when she and Maeve washed and dried the dishes. When Sorcha went to search for the photo albums, Maeve got her turn to k
eep Griffin leashed while Clare showered.
“Can I stay all night with him?” Maeve asked, closing a photo album from their Bronagh Abbey days. “It’s cold in my room, and I could use a bed warmer.”
“I doubt it’ll be so comfortable sleeping with your arm in one position,” Sorcha said. She took the key and unlocked the cuff on Maeve’s wrist. “We should let Clare and Griffin have quality time. I’m sure they have a lot to talk about.”
“Talk, smalk,” Maeve complained. “Don’t forget I’m the one who tagged his you-know-what.”
“Enough!” Sorcha slipped the cuff onto Clare’s wrist, while Griffin gave her a quizzical look.
She had to remember he didn’t know-what, because he’d only come back from losing most of his memory. Although, could it be he was pretending he lost more than he had?
After Maeve and Sorcha said their goodnights, Clare threw a pillow and blanket on the floor next to her twin bed. “I hope you’re comfortable, but there’s no room on the bed for you.”
“There would be if you slept on top of me.” He grimaced. “Not suggesting it, but how are you going to dangle your hand off the bed all night?”
“I’m going to have to,” she said.
“I won’t go anywhere. I promise.” He jiggled his cuffed hand.
“Sorry, can’t take the chance of you walking out and hailing a cab.” She yawned and laid her head on the pillow, wanting so much to close her eyes.
“Why are you keeping me prisoner? If you were Brigid, wouldn’t you want me to find your heart and make you a fairy queen? Why waste our time hiding?”
She looked over at him in the dim light, and warmth came flooding back to her at the kisses they’d shared earlier at his castle. How far away in both time and place had that felt—as if they had been in another world.
Once she found out about his memory problem, she’d hidden the Heart of Brigid and headed to Griffin’s castle to test him out. He seemed to have forgotten about her—at first, but she couldn’t let him figure out he was supposed to sacrifice her once he had the Heart of Brigid …
Lucky Like Love: The Fae Legacy #1 Page 12
