by Lila Dubois
A shiver danced down her spine. “Okay, that is a bit creepy.”
“Seamus must have been able to see them reacting to you.”
“So what does it mean that they were watching me?”
“I’m not sure, but once you walked in there, they all looked at you. That’s when he stopped and gave up.”
“I thought my inspiring speech had convinced him to do the right thing.”
“I was inspired.”
“Thank you.” Melissa rose up on tiptoe and placed a soft kiss on Tristan’s cheek. “But I have to stay.” She squeezed Tristan’s hand as she pulled back. “I’ll be fine. Even better if you bring me tea and breakfast in the morning.”
“Is that all I am to you? Food provider?” He was frowning, but his eyes sparkled with laughter.
“Well, your cooking is better than sex.”
Before he could grab her and convince her that finding a bed was more important than watching over the graveyard, she turned her back on Tristan and went in search of a place to camp out.
There was a stone bench, half-covered by ivy, against the side of the church. She cleared off the top with the butt of her torch, then used her arm to sweep away the beaded water drops. It was still cold and damp when she sat down, but it was better than sitting in the mud.
Pulling out her phone, Melissa scrolled through her list of contacts. It was time to call in reinforcements.
* * * *
Tristan was not going to leave her alone out there. He returned to the castle long enough to make a carafe of tea, a few cheese-filled baguettes and a box of pastries and pack it all in one of their catering crates.
His steps slowed as he reached the garden wall, but when he ducked through the door, there were no ghosts—just the shadows of trees and the rustle of the wind.
Melissa was sitting on a bench at the side of the church, her phone to her ear. Her eyes widened when she saw him. She smiled and raised her hand in a little wave and Tristan smiled in return. It had been a long time since a woman had made him feel this way.
He took a seat beside her, wondering who she could be talking to at one o’clock in the morning.
“Yes. First flight out. Call the department admin and tell them to put it on my research account.” She listened, then frowned. “What are you doing for him? I’ll call him, but it’s up to you. If you’d rather be in the library…”
Melissa winked at Tristan, who raised a brow. Whoever was on the other end of that call was being given very little choice but to agree to whatever it was Melissa wanted.
“Good. Before you book, call Susan. I’d prefer that you be on the same flight. Then you can both go to the museum and pick up the equipment we need.”
She tapped the screen, ending the call, then said, “You came back.”
“You thought I’d leave you out here alone?”
“You have to work in the morning.”
“C’est vrai.” He would undoubtedly regret his decision come sunrise. More precisely, the kitchen staff would regret his decision. He was not at his most patient when tired. “Who were you talking to?”
“A PhD student at the University of London.”
“Why?”
“I’m bringing in reinforcements.”
Tristan frowned as he poured her a cup of tea. “Why? We don’t want anyone else here. That’s why I was digging for you today.”
Melissa accepted the cup, but set it down by her leg. “You still want to keep this all a secret?”
“That’s not it.”
“What then? I understand, even if I don’t respect, Seamus’ urge to cover up whatever happened here. And Séan is from Glenncailty. His family is part of all of this, so yes, I get why he wouldn’t want strangers here. But you I don’t understand.”
Tristan looked away from her. He didn’t have an answer.
“Maybe you should go back, get some sleep. I’ll give you the key to my room.” Her words were quiet and stiff.
Tristan faced her, examined her profile in the moonlight. “Melissa.” She didn’t look at him. He pinched her chin, forcing her to face him. “I don’t have an explanation. It’s just how I feel.”
“Then I’m sorry.”
“This doesn’t mean that I’ll leave you alone in the dark.”
She rubbed her lips together, and if she were someone else, Tristan would accuse her of doing it on purpose to distract him. Those lips were worthy of poetry.
“Then thank you.”
“Drink your tea. I have filled baguettes and pastries too.”
“Filled baguettes? You mean sandwiches.”
“Sandwiches…named after some foolish Englishman who thought he invented using bread to house meats and cheese.”
“Didn’t he invent it?”
Tristan tsked, glad the moment of tension was past. He pulled out one of the baguettes.
She waved her hand. “I’m still full. Thank you again. That was, without a doubt, the most amazing meal I’ve ever had. And I ate it in a hotel room wearing this…” she plucked at her sweatshirt, “…and some fuzzy socks.”
Her mention of the food he’d sent to her room reminded him of their text conversation and the delicious noises she’d made when she called him.
“I was promised pictures of that.”
“I didn’t promise anything. You asked.”
“Why didn’t I get any?”
“Because I’m not a sixteen-year-old girl?”
“I don’t want naked pictures of a sixteen-year-old girl. I wanted them of you.”
“When did naked get added? I was wearing clothes.”
“To start. I would have asked you to take off one thing at a time, sending me a picture after each piece was gone.”
Tristan plucked a piece of soft Brie from the bread. “Open,” he said, brushing Melissa’s lower lip with the morsel.
She was breathing deep and her eyes were wide. He doubted she knew how obvious it was when she was aroused, and he wouldn’t tell her. If he did, she might try to hide her reactions, and he didn’t want that.
She took the cheese from his fingers, licking them clean with the tip of her tongue. Tristan’s cock was hard as steel in his jeans.
“My turn,” Melissa whispered. She tore off a small chunk of bread and held it to his lips. Tristan accepted it, nipping her fingertips, then cupping her wrist, holding her arm still as he kissed the center of her palm. Her fingers curled against his cheek.
“How do you make such simple things seem so sexy?” Her skin was silvery blue in the starlight, but he could hear the blush in her voice.
“Life is sexy.”
“I’ve heard life described a lot of ways—scary, fragile, painful. Never sexy.”
“It doesn’t have to be one or the other. Life is all those things.”
Tristan held up another bite of cheese but she turned away. “Too full.”
His lips twitched in a smile. He popped the Brie into his mouth. He’d been so engrossed in making her food that he couldn’t remember if he’d eaten.
Melissa shivered, and he wrapped his arm over her shoulders. She tentatively leaned into him. He lay his head against the wall of the church and took a bite of the baguette. She relaxed against him. His cock was demanding action, but his heart was happy enough to hold her.
She’d said she loved him.
He’d been thinking about that off and on ever since it happened. He was sure her words were genuine when she said them, but the stress of the situation had probably caused her to feel things that didn’t apply now that the danger had passed.
“Tristan?”
“Yes.”
“Are you religious?”
He looked up at the stars. “I was.”
“What happened?”
“Jacques.”
“You stopped believing after he died?”
“Church was a ritual to me. Something I did because it felt right. I was never a good Catholic. For example, I intend to make love to you even though
we are not married.”
She made an odd little sound, cuddling closer to him.
“What changed?” she asked after a moment.
“After Jacques died, I couldn’t go back. Suicide is a mortal sin. According to the church, my brother was now in hell. He suffered while alive, and that suffering is what pushed him to kill himself. The idea that he had to suffer more was…”
Tristan stopped as anger and grief choked him.
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s fine. How could we not think about it when we’re faced with all this death?”
“Not just death, but what comes after it.”
The shadows, which had seemed so cold and threatening, now felt like a cocoon around them, creating a place where it was safe to say these things.
“I asked Jacques’ ghost,” he said.
“Asked him what?”
“If he was my brother’s soul.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he didn’t know—he wasn’t sure how he’d be able to tell.”
“I don’t know why, but that makes me feel better. If that thing in the church was wrong, and after death some people are condemned to remain here, perhaps ignorance protects them.”
“What about you? Are you religious?”
“No. I was confirmed, but I think churches are the social constructs of men and women.” She sat up, twisting to face him. “But I do believe that there’s something bigger than us out there.”
“You believe in God.”
“Whatever name is used.” She looked up at the stars. “I have to believe that there’s peace waiting for us, even if that means that we’re scattered into a million little atoms that go spinning off into the universe.”
Tristan looked up at the stars and smiled. “Peace.”
Her hand crept into his, and he laced their fingers together.
“I don’t know if I want you to be right,” he said after a moment.
“Right about what?”
“About ghosts. Right about the souls moving on.”
“Why?”
“Because part of me wants Jacques’ ghost to be real—a real piece of him.” Tristan’s stomach rolled. “I would trade places with him, yet I want his soul with me. It makes no sense.”
“It’s human, and I’ve been thinking about it—the question of what exactly the ghosts are. We are complicated, complex creatures. Maybe the soul is that part of us deep inside that we feel only when we’re most afraid, most happy. Maybe that part of us is what moves on, protected and at peace.”
“If that’s true, then what are the ghosts?”
“Intellect, personality, spirit.” She shrugged. “There are a million possibilities, and no matter what, it’s still horrifying that ghosts exist. But maybe, just maybe, they’re not suffering—they exist but don’t suffer. They may remember what happened when they’re alive, remember that pain, but it’s not ongoing.”
Melissa’s gaze met his, and there were tears in her eyes. “Then again maybe I’m deluding myself, trying to make it okay.”
Tristan cupped her cheek. She leaned her head into his hand.
“That feels like truth,” he said. “What I saw in that church today is the closest I’ll ever come to meeting God.”
Tristan grabbed her, pulled her onto his lap. Melissa straddled him, her knees on either side of his hips.
“My brother’s death, and his ghost, taught me hell is real, and it’s here.” He touched his head. “But you…” Tristan examined her face. She was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful person in the world. “You’re teaching me how to hope.”
Melissa wrapped her arms around him. Tristan buried his face in her shoulder.
Feelings welled up in him, so strong that he couldn’t hold still. He needed to touch her.
“Melissa.”
She knew what he needed. He wasn’t sure how she knew, but she did. Melissa kissed him, her fingers soft on his shoulders as she feathered her lips over his. His fingers dug into her hips, and she deepened the kiss.
Her lips, those wonderful lips, were wet against his. She tasted light and rich, like a good white wine. When she whimpered, he cupped her head, holding her still so he could devour her.
“Tristan,” she moaned when they stopped to breathe.
“I love you.”
Her eyes popped open.
“I thought that when you said it earlier you were under stress, but now I understand. I love you. Even if you leave. Even if we never fall in love, I will love you.”
She smiled. “That’s exactly how I feel.”
They held each other for a long time.
Chapter 13
It was near dusk before they raised the first body. Melissa had gotten less than three hours of sleep, and that combined with various delays had left her temper frayed. She’d hoped they would have at least three out of the ground by now.
The area around the cemetery was cluttered with people and equipment. She had four grad students—Susan and Victor from London, Robert and Anna from her alma mater UCD—and one of the archaeologists from the National Museum. Dr. Drummond had arrived full of himself, assuming that he was going to be in charge of the excavation now that he was here. Melissa had shut him down. There were some jurisdictional issues—the Irish government, and therefore the museum—had the right to determine what happened to remains of historical significance. But after everything she’d been through, Melissa wasn’t about to turn the project over to someone else. She let him supervise the digging—he was the archaeologist, after all—but the instant the first rotted casket was lifted out of the ground, she took control.
A workspace had been set up in the church, and that was where she had the students carry it. They’d threaded straps under the box to get it out and then braced it on an acid-free, paper-lined board for transport. The church was full of light now that she’d ripped the boards off the windows. The glass was missing, meaning the building wasn’t wind or rainproof, but she’d tasked Sorcha with doing something about that. The redhead had sputtered for a moment, but then given in.
“Robert, you’re in charge of the video.” Melissa looked at the battered wood box. It was only five feet long. “Anna, you’re in charge of biological sampling and cataloguing any artifacts.”
The wide-eyed students nodded. Tomorrow, when she’d gotten some sleep, she’d be kinder to them, but right now she was in work mode. Dr. Drummond had mentioned that the pace she’d set meant they weren’t being as careful as they should. Melissa had snapped at him that someone had tried to rob the graves last night and that she wasn’t going to let unnecessary protocol stand between her and identifying these poor, abused remains.
After that, no one had protested the speed of the excavation.
Melissa used more straps and thin panels of wood to brace the casket. The top had rotted away, and what remained of it was in pieces inside the cavity of the box. The last thing she wanted was for the sides to collapse and the bones to come tumbling out. Their positioning may have something to tell her.
Leaving Anna scooping dirt out of the casket while Robert filmed, Melissa went back outside.
“What’s happening?” she asked Dr. Drummond.
“You were right. The headstone was knocked off the grave.” He’d excavated the areas at the head and foot of the hole they’d just dug. “We found the marker in D7.” The grid system gave them a way of plotting where each artifact was found—imposing order on what was inherently disorder.
Dr. Drummond, whose first name Melissa couldn’t remember, was in his late fifties. He’d seemed pompous when he showed up, flashing his museum badge. She’d assumed he would back off when she pushed him into getting dirty, but his eyes were bright with interest and his gray slacks were coated in mud, as were his hands.
“This is it?” Melissa asked as they squatted next to a broken chunk of stone. It was about three feet across and made of a fine white marble. Three sides were finished, but the t
op was broken off, making the marker much wider than it was tall. “Where’s the other half?”
“It’s not there. Possibly it was disassociated from the main burial and we’ll find it elsewhere, but look at the text.”
Melissa frowned. “The carvings aren’t very deep, and they aren’t defaced. The first stone I found had the words obliterated.”
“I know, that’s the one we’re working on now. While it’s notable that this text is still legible, look how shallow the carving is, how uneven.”
Melissa wiped her hand on her pants, then ran her fingers over the letters. “‘Tadhg Mac Gabhann. 1672—1682’. He was only ten.”
“Whoever put this marker in place couldn’t afford to have it properly carved, and I think we won’t find another piece of the marker. The text is centered between the broken edge and the bottom.”
“Of course.” Melissa shook her head. It was so obvious. “The stone was unusable for its original purpose because it was broken, so someone took a broken piece to use as a grave marker.” She slipped her bottle of water from her pocket and washed a small corner, examining the stone. “I’ve seen this stone before.”
“Where?”
“The foyer of the castle. It’s black and white marble. The pieces are about this big.”
“Can we corroborate this theory with dated building records?”
“I’ll have someone check. Thank you, Dr. Drummond.”
“I should be thanking you. It’s been too long since I got dirty.”
Melissa narrowed her eyes. “It’s my project.”
He laughed. “I know, and I won’t challenge that. And I have to say, you’re exactly how people describe you.”
“I don’t know what that means. I’m going back to the bones.”
She washed her hands and pulled on gloves when she entered the church. Robert and Anna were standing back, their arms at their sides, strangely grim expressions on their faces.
Melissa’s heart softened. “It’s harder when they’re children,” she said, approaching the casket.
“How did you know?” Anna asked.
“The casket is small, and I just saw the grave marker. His name was Tadhg and he was ten.”
“Ten? He looks so little.”
“Four hundred years ago, children like Tadhg were the strong ones. They survived infancy, but they were still subject to malnutrition and disease, all of which hinder growth.”
