Wild Irish Grace: The Mystic Cove Series, Book 7

by O'Malley, Tricia

  “You lived it. With losing John so young. How did it not break you?” Grace asked, propping her head on her hand as she toyed with a scone she’d put on a plate in front of her.

  “I had Margaret to worry about. As an empath, she was basically a sponge for my emotions. My anguish was killing her. I taught myself to lock it away and to only bring it out in small moments – down in the cove – or when one of the family would take her away. It was a lesson in strength and compartmentalizing.”

  “See? That’s amazing to me. I admire you so much for the hardships you dealt with in your life, and how you turned around and created good for so many people. You helped thousands of people in your lifetime, even through your grief. I come from an incredibly strong line of badass women. And I’m sitting here losing sleep over a man I knew centuries ago in another lifetime? It’s embarrassing, if I’m to be honest,” Grace shrugged, getting to the root of the matter.

  “Even strong women need support. A tree can’t stand without its roots. Your roots are all of us, and you need to lean on us before you topple,” Fiona said, her eyes full of love as she looked at Grace.

  “I’m used to figuring things out on my own.”

  “I know you are, Gracie. Since the moment you were born, you’ve done things your way and your way only. You’ve gotten your way through charm, magick, arguing, and every other tactic in the book. You’re headstrong, brilliant, and have a huge heart. It is no surprise to me that you once ruled the coasts with an iron fist as our famous pirate queen. But have you considered that perhaps you’re being too hard on yourself?”

  “I… I can’t quite say.” Grace shrugged once more.

  “Maybe instead of trying to will the dreams away, you need to learn what the message is. For not everything can bend to your will – not even your own subconscious. I suggest you stop trying to force it and instead go within and ask what the message is.”

  “I suppose…” Grace said, grumpy from lack of sleep and from not having an easy solution to her problem. “Or I could just drink a bit too much of the Irish and sleep peacefully.”

  “That’s an option, but I suspect not the solution to your problem,” Fiona twinkled at her from across the table.

  “Fine. But I’m still having a wee sip before bed because I like the taste and it’s lovely to have by the fire at night,” Grace grumbled.

  Fiona held up her hands in agreement.

  “You’ve no arguments from me on that front.”

  Chapter 3

  The afternoon slipped by in a cozy blur of stories of the past, instructions from Fiona on tweaking a few of her magickal recipes for some of the elixirs Grace was working on, and the warm glow of spending time doing something she loved. She knew she was putting off going to sleep when Rosie nudged her head against Grace’s leg once more.

  The fire had drawn low, and aside from a few candles she had lit, Grace sat in darkness. The darkness never bothered her overmuch. It was hard to surprise her, let alone scare her. Her senses – both physical and psychic – were so heightened that anything that went bump in the night was quickly identifiable.

  “I want the night. Before sleep, Rosie. I must have the night,” Grace said, finishing her single pour of whiskey and standing from the chair to stretch and work the mild aches from her neck and back, the result of hunching over a table all day.

  Stepping from the cottage, Grace inhaled the scents of damp earth and salt carried to her on the breeze. It whipped along the ocean and danced over the cliffs, strong enough to fling her braid back over her shoulder, and causing her to wrap a scarf more firmly over her neck. The moon, a mere crescent of light in the sky, cast a dim pallor across the hills that rolled to the cliff’s edge. Waves crashed far below, the sound of the ocean meeting the stark shoreline as soothing as a lullaby to Grace.

  Oh, but she loved it here. Some would find the silence maddening, or be bored by the lack of things to do, but that wasn’t the case for Grace. Cities could drive her to the brink of sensory overload with their hustle and bustle, their constant noises and annoyances. With her heightened psychic capabilities, car horns and the rush of people’s thoughts and emotions were an attack on her senses that was almost too much to bear. She’d learned, over the years, how to shield herself from the onslaught of stimuli, but it always proved to be exhausting for her.

  But not in this space. Letting her shields down, Grace danced her way across the dark field, allowing herself to feel the fabric of the universe around her. Even at night, the colors popped to her: The green of fresh spring grass, the budding of a bloom on a bush, the velvet blue of the night sky all created a lush painting worthy of the masters. Music –to her at least – came on the brush of the wind on her face, the singing of leaves fluttering in the breeze, the percussion of the waves crashing on the rocks, the humming of insects at night, all creating nature’s most beautiful symphony. Grace loved the night, for she could see and feel what others could not – and it sang to her soul in ways that nothing else could.

  Grace found herself standing on the edge of the cliffs that hugged the cove in an almost perfect half-circle, irresistibly drawn there as she had been so many centuries before. Though she lived in the now, her memory of a past time was stronger here, at the edge of the cove that she had made her own and had protected with her very own blood magick.

  She could still feel that day – that moment – when she’d enchanted the cove. Using a strong ritual that required her to give up her life in exchange for the greater good, she’d blessed her bloodline with powerful magick and had protected her final resting place. At least, she’d thought it was final at the time.

  Grace smiled down at the dark waters, the moonlight unable to reflect there, and shook her head at her silliness. Even as powerful as she was, Grace still had to admit that she didn’t know – hadn’t known – it all. It appeared that ‘final’ was never really final; Fiona’s continued presence in Grace’s life was a testament to that fact.

  Closing her eyes, Grace let herself feel the hum of the universe. She allowed its energy to flow into her and took a deep breath.

  “My angels, my Goddess, I ask you for your help in showing me the meaning of the dream I continue to have. I understand that I’m missing a message. Please guide me this night, as I walk through my dreams and visit lovers of centuries past.”

  That would have to do, Grace thought. Opening her eyes, she blew a kiss to the cove and sauntered back to where her cottage stood, the dim light from the candles still lit inside beckoning to her from across the hills. She whistled to Rosie – who loved to race across the grass, but loved bedtime even more – and laughed as the dog beat her to the door, tail wagging in delight.

  “Yes, you’ve earned yourself a biscuit before bed,” Grace said, going to the cheerful blue ceramic treat jar with dogs painted on it and pulling out a treat. Rosie’s eyes never left the treat as Grace held it in front of her.

  “Lock up,” Grace ordered and Rosie raced to the door and pulled the rope Grace had attached to the latch so that the dog could lock the door each night. Once she’d pulled it closed, Rosie ran to each candle and carefully huffed out a breath which sounded almost like a sneeze to put the candles out. The dog stopped in front of the stove and cocked her head, her signal that she’d stay there until Grace came to inspect that the coals were down and there was no chance of fire.

  “Good girl,” Grace said, and gave an overjoyed Rosie the treat while she made sure the stove was secure. It was a silly little routine they had at bedtime, but when Grace had discovered just how smart Rosie was, she’d learned quickly that the dog liked having little tasks to accomplish through the day. She supposed she was a working dog, as Irish setters were known to be. Sometimes Grace sent her across the fields to Grace’s childhood home, to go along with Flynn on a fishing outing or to visit the animals in the stables. It wasn’t a bad life for a dog, Grace mused.

  Nor for herself, either, she thought as she readied herself for bed. Her work fulfilled
her, she had a lovely family, if she was bored she had but to nip into the village and have a pint at the pub with friends, and she always had books for company on stormy nights. Or Fiona would drop in to check on her.

  So why was she feeling so lonely these days? Grace hugged her arms around herself after she climbed into bed, smiling as Rosie propped her paws at the end of the bed and looked at her.

  “Go on then, you know you want to come up.” Grace smiled and Rosie hopped up, circling three times before curling into a ball at the foot of the bed, always close by if needed.

  Grace had taken the same room her mother, Keelin, had slept in when she’d first moved to Ireland from the States, before she’d met Grace’s father. It just felt strange to sleep in Fiona’s room, especially considering the old woman was still virtually living there, and Grace secretly loved the smaller guestroom – hers now – and the way the bed was tucked under the beams directly under the window. She had but to nudge the lace curtains aside in the morning and slide the window open to have what felt like the whole world at her feet. Some days she would kneel there, her body half hanging out the window as she watched the gulls dive far down the cliffs into the waves, or a fat bee buzz lazily by on the quest for its next flower. This room, sparse in decoration but huge in charm, was for dreamers – and above all else, Grace was a dreamer.

  Now if only she could find the answer in one particular dream.

  Sighing, she pulled the covers up and began the process of easing herself into sleep, slowing letting her thoughts go until she moved into the softness of her dreams. There, he waited, as she knew he would, once more laughing to her from the shoreline.

  “Aye, there she is, my pretty Gráinne,” Dillon said, his eyes alight with love and welcome.

  The same feeling of insurmountable love washed over her, staggering her with its welcome, and she found herself once again smiling shyly at the man as he came forward to wrap his arms around her. Like a drug, she needed his kiss and leaned into it, feeling the same rush as she always did. Helpless to stop the dream – nor did she want to – Grace allowed herself to be carried inside, where the lovers rediscovered each other once again. After, instead of looking out to the horizon as she always did, Grace turned to Dillon, pressing her hand to his face.

  “What worries you, my beauty?” Dillon asked, turning his mouth to kiss her palm.

  “Why do I keep having this dream? What is your message for me? I worry for you,” Grace said, changing the script a bit this time to see what he would say.

  Dillon smiled, brushing his lips over hers in a kiss so tender that Grace’s heart ached to hold him – just this once – in real life.

  “You’ll have this moment, forever, here in your heart. Once a love like ours is known, it can never be taken from us, and transcends all barriers – those of mortal law, those of time, and beyond what most can comprehend. It’s an endless love, one that grows through the ages, and we’ll meet, time and time again, our souls knowing each other, our love binding us for centuries. Be it but weeks of time in this lifetime, know that we’re promised for more, Gráinne O’Malley, for it is written in the tapestry of the universe.”

  “I know, Dillon. So you’ve said, many a time. I just… I wish you were near. That you could answer my questions,” Grace said, pouting as the threads of the dream began to unravel and consciousness started to claim her.

  “I’m here, my beautiful Gráinne. I’m here,” Dillon said, his eyes laughing at her as she snapped awake. The dream splintered at her feet and she was left, once again, gasping for breath as sadness washed over her.

  “If only that were true,” Grace said, and wiped away the single tear she had allowed to spill from her cheek. “I so wish you were here.”

  Chapter 4

  There was no way around it. Grace was in a mood and there wasn’t anything to be done about it except try and avoid human interaction. She’d already responded harshly to an email from a blogger who wanted to interview her on the history of Grace’s Cove and had asked if Grace would comment on the rumors of a curse that surrounded the sacred waters.

  “The idiot doesn’t know the first thing about magick. And she’s going to try and write about it? That’s how the wrong information gets spread,” Grace grumbled, slamming her laptop closed and then immediately regretting it when Rosie whined gently at her feet.

  “Sorry, baby,” Grace said, reaching down to scratch Rosie’s ears as she took a few deep breaths and tried to work her way through her funk. She’d been in a huff all morning – whether from the lack of answers or lack of sleep, she wasn’t entirely sure. There was just something about this day that felt bad to her, and she really didn’t want to deal with it. To amuse herself and Rosie, she focused on the dog’s tennis ball, which sat in a basket across the room. With a quick mental shove, she sent the ball hovering into the air, much to the delight of Rosie who raced across the room and leapt to try and nip it from the air. This game never failed to cheer them both up, and it also served to keep Grace’s telekinesis skills sharp.

  Fiona had told her that the first time she’d used this particular skill of hers, she’d been only about six months old and had desperately wanted a stuffed lamb that had been sitting across the room from her crib. Apparently, her mother had been given quite the fright when the lamb had sailed through the air and hit Grace directly in the face. Grace chuckled at the image, glad she’d honed her skills through the years to exert a bit more control over her magick.

  And, oh, what she’d learned through the years! With teachers like Fiona and Keelin to gently curb her enthusiasm, Grace had taken to all things magickal like a fish to water, and had soon eclipsed both her mother’s and great-grandmother’s abilities. Which made things a bit tricky during her rebellious teen years, when she was determined to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. Not that much had changed since those rocky times, but at least she’d learned a touch more decorum in how to go about getting her own way.

  Nonetheless, she still got what she wanted. Grace smiled and let the ball drop so that Rosie could finally reach it. She supposed it was probably her greatest flaw, but she liked to think of it as a strength. There was nothing wrong with being a strongminded woman who knew what she wanted. Assertive, Fiona had called her. Others had suggested she should be less combative, and for them she smiled sweetly and charmed them so completely they forgot they’d ever called her combative and barely noticed that she’d still managed to get her own way.

  Not all charms had to be magickal.

  Fiona had warned her that someday she’d run across someone or something she couldn’t magick or charm her way out of, but she had yet to see it. Until then, she’d continue on her path, following in Fiona’s and Keelin’s footsteps of healing those in the village who needed it and working on an all-natural apothecary line that she’d signed a deal to distribute at a few exclusive natural-health stores in the States. She’d yet to tell anyone of the deal, wanting to get her brand and packaging down first before throwing a little launch party for it at Cait’s pub. Just the thought of her new brand cheered her up and soon she was humming around the cottage as she dug out her folder of logo designs.

  When the knock came at the door, Grace was so deep into her work that it took her a moment to realize that the knocking had persisted for quite a while and that Rosie was frantic with wanting to know who was on the other side of the door.

  “Och, calm down, Rosie. We’ll be seeing who’s behind the door soon enough,” Grace said, glancing down to make sure she was presentable. It wasn’t uncommon for her to wander about the cottage in panties and a tank top, but today she’d pulled on loose jeans and an old jumper the color of moss.

  Pulling the latch, she ordered Rosie to sit and opened the heavy wooden door – worn with age, but sturdy nonetheless – and blinked at the man standing outside with a folder in his hand.

  “Good day, may I help you?” Grace said, and immediately felt the impending wave of doom she’d been fighting off al
l day slam into her. This man was here with anything but good news. Fighting to control her expression, Grace scanned the man – from his expensive loafers, which were entirely unsuitable for the countryside, all the way up his three-piece suit to his shrewd eyes tucked behind wire-framed glasses. His demeanor invited her to trust him. Grace trusted only her instincts.

  “Ms. Grace O’Brien?” the man asked politely.

  “Aye, ’tis myself. And you’d be?” Grace asked, crossing her arms and leaning casually against the doorframe, deliberately drawing out a thicker country accent for him. She wanted to see if he would treat her any differently.

  “Ah, the name is Aiden Doherty. I’ve been employed by DK Sailing Enterprises,” Mr. Doherty cleared his throat and gestured lightly with the papers in his hand.

  “Sure and it’s grand to be employed by a corporation and all, but could you be telling me what for?” Grace said, injecting some sass into her words. She saw the man flush before swallowing audibly once more and raising the papers in his hand. Whatever bad news he was about to drop on her, Grace wanted him to just say it.

  “I’m their solicitor. They’ve requested that I come and serve you these papers formally announcing your eviction from this property, effective immediately. You’ve thirty days to vacate the premises along with all of your belongings.”

  For the first time in her life, Grace was at a complete loss for words. Not even when Fiona had died had Grace been as shocked as she was now, standing there while Mr. Doherty continued to fumble his way through an explanation. His words were lost to the wind that had kicked up in anger from the cove – or perhaps it was her own anger – and he clutched his coat together and bent forward into the wind, his grasp tightening on the folder of papers.

  “If I could just pass this on to you…” Mr. Doherty gasped as a gust of wind ripped the hat from his head and sent it tumbling across the hills, a joyful Rosie racing after it. “All the information you need is here.”