The Fire and the Earth: Glenncailty Castle, Book 2

by Lila Dubois

  Séan shook his head. “You asked me that night if I was afraid of the ghosts, and I was, I am. I ran from the ghost, ended up breaking a rib getting away. Later I wondered if the ghost was actually the girl whose body we’d found. My father, the priest and I came back here and blessed the place. Then I went to confession, begged God’s forgiveness for abandoning her soul when I ran.”

  Sorcha was startled to hear that the castle had been blessed so long ago. No wonder Séan had acted oddly at the large public blessing Seamus had organized just after the grand opening.

  “That night—the night I kissed you—I saw the ghost again, but this time it was much worse. The first time I didn’t see the chains or the full extent of the—” Séan paused to take a sip of wine. “—injuries. Until then I half-believed that what I’d seen was the ghost of the girl who died, and that with the blessing we’d brought her peace. But when I saw it again I knew that the place was still haunted, and I wondered if the girl who died hadn’t been lured to the second floor by that very ghost.”

  “You think the ghost lured that girl to her death?” The idea was horrifying.

  “I only wonder.”

  “This female ghost is who—what—you saw the night we kissed?” Sorcha remembered him—more animated than she’d ever seen him—telling her that he’d seen a ghost while he waited for her.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you describe what you saw?” Sorcha wanted to know if they’d seen the same thing. If what Séan described was the same as what she’d seen it meant the ghost was real—something she’d long ago accepted.

  Séan’s tale was terrifying. His description of the chain-bound woman matched what Sorcha herself had seen, but when he described the ghost’s eyes vanishing, hands turned to claws as she came at him, she had to swallow hard against her horror, which bubbled up in her throat.

  “I’ve seen her,” Sorcha said, voice shaky. “That’s the ghost I call the maid in chains. But when I’ve seen her she’s been standing still, holding a broom, in one of the upper halls. I’ve never seen her move, or bleed or—” Sorcha swallowed again, “—without eyes.”

  Séan frowned. “And the hotel people? What do they see?”

  “The same thing I do. They think she’s sad, and many were scared, but no one has ever described what you just did.”

  “She spoke to me.” Séan’s gaze seemed focused on something in the middle distance, something Sorcha couldn’t see.

  “The ghost?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I’m not sure. My Irish isn’t good, and her accent was thick—real country.”

  Despite the solemn nature of their conversation, Sorcha’s lips twitched. Séan himself had a thick country accent, so for him to say that meant it must have been very thick indeed.

  “I think she said ‘leave this place.’” Séan rubbed his beard, and his gaze snapped from middle-distance to her, focusing. “And then she called me cousin.”

  “Cousin?”

  “Yes. I didn’t leave, not when she said to. I thought I could help her.” Séan looked around the room, at the lovely, understated decor with suspicion. Suspicion that made no sense unless you knew what he’d seen in these walls. “Then she looked over her shoulder, at least I think she did. I moved so I could see what she looked at. That’s when she came for me, screaming, ‘Run.’”

  They were silent. Sorcha looked at the last few bites on her plate, but couldn’t bring herself to eat. Instead she took the last sip from her first glass of wine, then drained the second. Their server appeared, refilling her glasses. Séan shook his head when the man tried to refill his.

  When they were once more alone, Sorcha said the thing she’d dreaded saying. “You were right, the ghosts are dangerous. Too dangerous for anyone to be here.”

  Séan said nothing, only watched her with his steady, solemn gaze.

  “The hotel will close,” Sorcha said, thinking it through. She’d been here since the beginning and was certain Elizabeth wouldn’t be willing to risk guests. “Maybe Finn’s stable can stay open, as I’ve never heard of any ghosts on that part of the grounds, but everything here—including The Restaurant and the pub, will be gone.”

  Sorcha closed her eyes. She hadn’t listened to Séan and might never have believed him if it wasn’t for Caera’s encounter.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you that night.” If she had, she could have stopped everyone from getting so invested in this place.

  “And I’m sorry. I’m sure I seemed like a mad man.”

  “You did, but I didn’t want to hear anything bad about the Glenncailty. I was so happy to be here, to have this job.”

  Sorcha stared at her wineglass, not really seeing it. Tomorrow she’d go to Seamus and tell him that the ghosts weren’t harmless, that it was dangerous for the guests to be here. For too long she’d been ignoring her own uneasy feelings—she could no longer be so willingly blind.

  “What did you think?”

  Sorcha’s head jerked up. Tristan was at the table, hands on his hips. He wore a rolled bandana around his forehead, with one dark lock flopping forward. She plastered a smile on her face. “Wonderful, as always.”

  “Which wine did you like it with?”

  He must be busy prepping for tomorrow’s service, because his accent was more pronounced, turning “with” into “wizth,” something that happened when he was working.

  “The heavier red,” Sorcha said, though she hadn’t given it the thought it deserved.

  “And what of you, my friend?” Tristan asked Séan.

  “It would have been better with some mash.”

  “Irish people and their potatoes.” Tristan threw his hands in the air. “What of the curry?”

  “It’s good. Not as heavy as the curry you get with chips at the chipper in Cailtytown.”

  “Thank you,” Tristan said dryly. “I’m happy to know that my food is as good as that of the greasy fish and chip shop.”

  Séan didn’t seem fazed by Tristan’s tone. He nodded solemnly and said, “You’re welcome.”

  “Tristan, it’s wonderful and simple and homey enough to resonate with the local clientele.” Sorcha felt vaguely sick as she spoke, smile stuck on her face. Tristan was putting in all this work in for a restaurant that wouldn’t be around much longer.

  They talked for a few more minutes, then the trainee servers were brought in to clear the table. Sorcha rose and Séan did the same.

  “Are you going back to work?” he asked.

  “I’m done for the day.” Together they made their way towards the kitchen, Sorcha thanking the servers as they passed the prep station.

  Sorcha peeked in the kitchen door. The kitchen was bustling. Sorcha and Séan darted through, using it as a shortcut to the grounds. Once outside, they followed the path along the back of the east wing, passing the pub’s smoking patio, which was full of people smoking and chatting.

  Sorcha moved quickly, not wanting to stop and talk. She could hear the crunch of Séan’s footsteps behind her. When they’d rounded the building and could see the parking lot, Sorcha turned to Séan.

  “It was nice to see you, and thank you for telling me about, well, everything.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “That Glenncailty will close.”

  “It will be hard. So many people have put their hearts into it.” Sorcha had to look away as she said it, her throat tight.

  Séan touched her arm and Sorcha looked up. “And I’m sorry you’ll leave.”

  The late afternoon sun brought out red and gold highlights in Séan’s hair and beard. It was then Sorcha realized that with Glenncailty closing there was nothing to keep her from being with Séan. Their history, brief though it was, and the policy she’d developed about not getting involved with locals had meant he was off limits, but it seemed she would not be living in Glenncailty much longer, meaning he would not be local to her any more.

&
nbsp; “I’m sorry I’m leaving too.”

  The mood between them shifted, rolling from heavy resignation to warm anticipation.

  “Sorcha, I’d like to kiss you.”

  “And this time you’re going to ask?”

  “Yes.” He smiled quickly, before saying, “May I kiss you?”

  Sorcha took a step, wrapping her arms around Séan’s shoulders. “I’d like that, very much.”

  His hands were warm at her back as he drew their bodies together. His lips were a moment from hers and she could smell the wine and spice that lingered on his breath. Anticipation bubbled within her, sweet and light as champagne.

  Their lips touched. The kiss was sweet and pure, but soon deepened to something richer and more vital, like going from the pale green of spring to the vibrant Kelly of summer.

  Anticipation and delight danced down Sorcha’s spine. She was tingling with the desire to touch and be touched. His hand seemed very large on her back, and when his arms came fully around her waist she could feel their heavy weight, the muscles hidden under his nondescript clothes. He felt strong and steady as he held her, kissed her, in the dying light of the day.

  The crunch of footsteps on gravel interrupted them. Sorcha dropped onto her heels and leaned away. Séan’s arms tightened around her and Sorcha looked at him beneath her lashes. His gaze was intense, hot—as if he would never let her go.

  The footsteps were getting closer. Sorcha reached back for his hand and tangled her fingers with his, then slipped from his hold.

  “Sorcha.” He said her name, nothing more, but the longing and desire in his voice captivated her. He squeezed her fingers.

  “Come with me.” She lifted his hand, pressing it between her breasts. “Come with me.”

  Together they slipped from the parking lot into the trees.

  Chapter Three

  A Time to Love

  They went away from the castle, and with each step they took Séan felt lighter. He was both relieved and horrified that he’d been right about Glenncailty, though he wasn’t the kind of man to point out when he’d been right. He only hoped that Sorcha wouldn’t wake in the night, the memory of her ghost encounter leaving her shaking—that had happened to him more than once.

  If the castle closed, she would leave. Cailtytown was too small for her to stay—there was no work. Especially not for someone like Sorcha, who could have a fancy job in Dublin at the snap of her fingers. Séan shook his head. That worry would have to wait. He’d learned not to borrow trouble, because trouble had a way of finding him. Besides, there were other things he could think about right now.

  Sorcha took them to the east, where a tree line formed the border of the castle grounds, if not the border of the property. There were cottages back here, he knew that, and as she stepped off the path onto the grass, headed for the trees, he thought he saw a bit of whitewash and some thatch.

  It was cooler in the shade of the trees. She shivered and Séan untangled their fingers, wrapping his arm around her waist so they walked side by side. She looked up at him from under her lashes.

  “You’re a mysterious man, Séan Donnovan.”

  “Sure I’m not.” He’d been called plenty of things before, but mysterious wasn’t one of them.

  “You are. You’re full of secrets.”

  He looked at her. “Aren’t you?”

  For a moment her gaze went dark, but then she laughed lightly. Séan thought it sounded forced.

  “Well, everyone has a few secrets, but yours seem more interesting than mine. After all, you’ve seen ghosts and done secret exorcisms.”

  He shrugged. He’d done no more than any other man would have, and less than he should.

  “Is that where you live?” he asked as they came around the trunk of an old tree. There was a cottage in a little clearing of sorts. Someone was trying to keep the forest away from the whitewashed stone walls and thatched roof. There was a belt of mowed grass all the way around, and the trees had been trimmed back. There was even a stone path leading away from the iron-bound wood front door, though the path soon disappeared as the underbrush thickened. They moved out of the trees into the clearing, the stone path firm under his feet after the soft vegetation.

  “Yes, this is my little house. There’s about ten cottages, and we’re renovating them. Eventually they’ll be guest accommodations.” Sorcha pursed her lips and stopped to contemplate the cottage. “Well, that was the plan. I guess it doesn’t matter.”

  Séan hated the sadness in her voice, and the fact that he’d indirectly put it there.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s me and Seamus who should be sorry. You tried to warn us years ago.”

  “I wish I’d been wrong.”

  “So do I, though Caera says she wouldn’t have let herself love Tim if it wasn’t for what she’d seen.”

  Sorcha opened the door and Séan frowned at what she said, not sure what she meant. He was prepared to ask her as he followed her in and closed the door behind him, but then the reality of where they were and what they were doing hit him.

  The cottage was old, both in stones and style. The large central room was a kitchen, lounge and dining room, with a turf-burning oven and a little grated fireplace. It was warm enough this time of year, so the fireplace was bare. He was a tall man, and was aware that there wasn’t much clearance. He felt large and powerful in the little, feminine space. It made him want to grab her and kiss her, as he had all those years ago.

  “Would you like a cup?” She motioned to the kettle that waited on the counter.

  “I would like something.” He closed the space between them in a few steps. “But it’s not tea.”

  Sorcha met him halfway, her fingers twining in his hair. She came up on her toes, her lips only millimeters from his. When she exhaled, he felt her breath on his face. She smelled good, not any scent he could name—it was expensive and feminine, making her seem exotic, though she looked as pretty as the rose of Tralee with her red hair and blue, blue eyes.

  He lowered his face to hers, ready to kiss her. He was stopped by her fingers on his lips. He pulled back and raised a brow in question.

  “This time, let me,” was all she said.

  Sorcha’s fingers dropped from his lips. Keeping one hand threaded through his hair, she placed the other on his shoulder, steadying herself. Séan cupped her hips, resisting the desire to move his hands to her ass.

  Tipping her head to one side, she brought her face to his. She held for a moment before dipping in for a quick, dry brush of lips. She paused, their breath mingling.

  This time the kiss was longer, and hard enough that he felt the swell of her lips. When she pulled back, he grunted in frustration.

  “Not enough?” she asked, a teasing lilt in her voice.

  “Not nearly enough.”

  “What do you want?”

  “This.” Taking firmer hold of her hips, Séan pulled her hard against him then bent his head to hers and kissed her. His was no gentle kiss but a fierce possession. He nipped her, slipping his tongue between her lips to taste her.

  They held each other, mouths fused, the pleasure mounting with each moment.

  When he broke the kiss, they were both breathing hard.

  “I’ve been waiting for that,” she whispered.

  “For what?”

  “For you to kiss me again. No one has ever kissed me the way you do.”

  “I want to be gentle.”

  “I’m glad you’re not.” Sorcha pulled his hands off her hips and took a few steps back. She stepped out of her shoes, kicking them to the side. Next she carefully took her nametag off her lapel and placed it on the counter. Séan stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep himself from walking across the room and grabbing her. This felt almost surreal. He’d longed for this woman for years, and after the disaster of their first meeting he’d never thought he’d be this close to her again.

  The button of her blazer slipped free under her slender fingers. The jack
et fell open revealing the green dress she wore. When the blazer was gone, draped carelessly over the heat guard of the fireplace, Séan got his first good look at her. The dress showed off her legs below the knee and her slender arms. A belt around the middle highlighted the swell of her hips and breasts.

  He’d thought she was beautiful since the first moment he’d seen her. He’d wanted her since they danced, and now he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was the most perfect woman in the world.

  She reached up and did something to her hair. The red waves fell around her shoulders, haloed by the golden light of dusk.

  Dusk.

  Séan jerked as if he’d been struck. His gaze darted from Sorcha to the window. The light was failing, and if he had to guess he’d say it was half six. Sorcha’s hands were on the belt around her waist, fingers working the buckle.

  Hating himself, Séan closed his eyes for a painful moment before saying, “I have to go.”

  Sorcha’s hands fell to her sides. “What?”

  “It’s almost six.”

  Sorcha crossed her arms and raised a brow.

  “I have to go milking.”

  Sorcha blinked. “Milking.”

  “I have to milk my cows.” Séan rubbed his chin, feeling like a great country fool. Here he was with the woman of his dreams stripping off her clothes and he had to leave to milk his cows. “They have to be milked twice a day, and my girls know when they should be milked and they’ll be lined up at the parlor.” He winced at his garbled explanation. “There’s no one else to do it.”

  That was it. Whatever chance he’d had with Sorcha had been destroyed by talk of cows.

  “I’ll just…” He dropped his arms helplessly to his sides. “I’ll just go, then.”

  He turned and had his hand on the door when she said, “Wait.”

  Sorcha’s dress was loose around her shoulders, and she had her folded arms pressed to her chest.

  “When you’re done milking—” Sorcha dropped her arms and her dress fell to her waist. She wore a black lace bra, with hints of creamy skin showing through. “Why don’t you come back?”