“The motor coach? Yer saw it?”
“Aye. Went up to see if someone was about so I could tell ‘em to get their feckin’ toxic fumes out of me forest. Just then the motor died, and she,” I jut a thumb in her direction, “was inside, frettin’ her knickers off. Said her driver had gone off on foot to get help. I sat with her for a bit, but ‘twas getting’ dark.” I shrug like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I offered to get her to town but couldn’t manage ‘til this mornin’ with the snow.”
“Yer took her to yer cottage? Overnight?” Caris eyes grow like an owl’s in her face. “Yer shag her? Please tell me yer aren’t up to yer old tricks?”
I scoff. Of course, I’m not going to admit to making Savannah scream out her pleasure into the cold, frosty air. No cock in pussy, sister dear. No midnight confessions to one’s overbearing family.
“Comfortin’ to know yer ‘av such a low opinion of me, sis. No, I did not. Not that I could get within a cat swing of her. She’s a right pill, that one. Not enough ale in the land to swallow her.” I ignore my pulsing cock and brandish my near-empty glass. “In fact, I might need another.”
Caris takes another long gander across the room, then straightens as though I’ve poked her with a stick. She looks down at the newspaper I’ve laid on the bar and twists it toward her.
She gasps, her fingers pressing against her lips. “Feckin’ ‘ell. Yer great lunkhead. Don’t yer know who that is?” Her voice comes out in a hiss as she points at the paper’s headline and photo. “That’s Savannah Starr. She did a concert in Waterford day afore last. See here. Sold out within minutes, it did.”
I glance at the paper. Starr Quality, reads the headline, and beneath it is a photo of a woman at the microphone with her bonny mouth wide open. Yeah, that part’s certainly a coincidental similarity. Those pleasantly rounded tits also look familiar, clad in a revealing, halter type shirt molded to them like a second skin. So does the dark hair and green eyes. No getting around the name, however. It’s her all right, gracing the daily edition in living color.
“Could be. Said she was a singer-songwriter, so she did. Yer heard of her?”
“Heard of…?” Caris sputters, her azure blue eyes flashing fire. “She’s as famous as Taylor Swift, yer eejit. And she stayed at yer cottage? Jaysus, lunkhead, yer had a brush with fame and yer didn’t even know it!”
“Careful, sis, yer don’t hit the floor with yer jaw,” I say, bemused at the gaping round ‘O’ her lips have formed. Slowly, they transform into a gleeful smile. That gleam that I’ve come to know means ‘head for the hills’ light up in her piercing orbs. It’s never bad, exactly, just always foreshadows some deep, inextricable involvement on my part. It makes me nervous more than anything else.
“Blessed be,” she says, her hair flopping forward as she bows her head, then turns the full force of her machinating gaze on me. “She’s the one, Rone. The one yer saw at Samhuin. The one the Cailleach saw in yer stone. Feckin’ ‘ell. Savannah Starr is yer soul mate! ‘Tis come to pass. I knew it would, I did.”
“Shite the bed, yer off yer nut, yer nilly. I’d nay touch that one with a barge pole. Clean mad, she is. And so are yer, if yer fancy me and her in the same sentence.” A part of my brain recognizes that I’m protesting too much, but I can’t seem to stop. “Egads, I thought yer loved me like a brother. Yer only brother.”
Caris looks insulted. “Why not? Yer both musicians. Yer both smashin’-lookin’, though who would know that about yer with all that fur, yer muck savage. Why, I’m surprised Cos hasn’t already sauntered in here just to call yer a muckshite. Are yer sayin’ yer doubt the Cailleach Beare’s word?”
He has sauntered in here. Taking shite about Savannah.
“No,” I say, measuring my response. “But I’m certain she meant some fair, agreeable lass from the next county, who already knows our ways and her place in both the rituals and in the house. How to plough and sow, know thistle from yarrow, and to bend over whenever the wind blows my flute to attention.”
My sister jams her hands on her hips. “Ronan O’Farrell, I’m surprised at yer. Is that the kind of role yer wish on me if I were married?”
“Ah, but yer not married, are yer? Except to this fine establishment.” I say gesturing with my pint mug. “Which is a fortuitous circumstance, being my sister and all. Keeps me in cups, so it does.”
“Ach, think what yer like, yer lunkhead.” In annoyance, she waves a dismissive hand. “But it can’t be coincidence that Savannah Starr broke down here. What are the odds someone so famous would come to be in Wintervale durin’ the Yule interval? And that yer be the one findin’ her? ‘Tis fate, Ronan. ‘Tis what’s meant to be and don’t yer even bother denyin’ it.”
I hold up a hand as if the gesture can stop her words from hitting my ears. “If ‘tis fate yer be wantin’, then don’t be temptin’ it. Let it be. I know yer when yer get fixated on an idea, yer like a dog on a bone. Yer give me head nay peace.”
“I’d not be dissin’ the Samhuin prophecy if I were yer,” Caris practically hisses at me, her eyes narrowed in a combination of disbelief and disgust. “Think of yer community, Rone. They’re countin’ on yer, our Bard, to lead and protect Wintervale. To keep our circle, our very way of life goin’.”
“I—”
She isn’t to be interrupted. “Yer need to believe, ‘av faith in the prophecies, or else nay one will. Because that would mean the end of us, the end of the old, true ways we’ve guarded for centuries. Is that what yer want? To ‘av the seeds of the soulless, greedy, and materialistic world take root here? Crack Wintervale apart as it grows its fruitless, barren tree?”
I’m tempted to argue, to point out all the ways the materialistic world has already infiltrated our wee area of the world. My own sister being one of the most material in the bunch.
But I want this conversation over. “By Jaysus, sis,” I tease. “Perhaps yer should take over. Yer make a terrific Bard, waxin’ philosophic like that.” Humor is my only way of winning any argument with my hard-headed sister.
She yanks my empty mug away. “Yer know that can’t be. ‘Til I am Cailleach, a man has to lead the flock and teach his children how to do the same. So be a man. Heed the prophecy, and mayhap yer ‘av a chance at startin’ a family of yer own. Yer not gettin’ any younger, brother.” She snorts. “Besides, there’s nothin’ wrong with blendin’ two worlds, so it be.”
I thump my fist on the bar, irritation like insects on my skin. “I’m growin’ older by the minute listenin’ to this muck. Pull me another afore yer talk me into me grave while dyin’ of thirst.”
Chapter Ten
Savannah
“I’ll go over and tell Mr. Bleigh what we need off the bus and figure out a way to get it over here,” Mel says, polishing off his coffee and breakfast. “You go up to my room and relax. Here’s my key.”
He produces a real metal key from his pocket and sets it on the table between us.
“I don’t want to kick you out of your room, Mel, and we’ll need extra rooms to hold all our stuff anyway. I’ll get one of my own.”
“Good luck with that. I think I may have gotten the last one. There’s only four to begin with.”
“That’s crazy. This isn’t exactly a tourist destination. You were probably told that just so they could jack up the rate.”
“Well, there’s the owner right there.” He points to the bar and rises to his feet. “Try your luck.”
I lean over to see past him. A tall woman with gorgeous auburn hair stands behind the bar chatting with…guess who. She and Ronan look to be in a heated discussion judging by the way she’s flapping her hands about. His girlfriend? The idea makes me stiffen, thinking about the way he fingered me to an explosion on the ride over here. And I’m still not sure if my sudden bout of nervous energy is because he had the gall to put his hands down my pants or because of the idea that he’s got another woman on the string. I dread walking over there to talk to either one of them
and have the revelation thrown in my face.
I follow Mel across the room as he exits, stopping at the bar to speak to the owner.
“Hello. I understand you have rooms to rent here?” I lift my chin in what I hope is a gesture of confidence.
The woman turns to me with a broad smile and extends her hand. “Aye, Caris O’Farrell. Welcome to Wintervale, Miss Starr. Forgive me, but ‘tis impossible not to know who yer are. For some of us, that is.” She casts a disdainful glance at Ronan. “Such a pleasure to meet yer, miss. I’m a huge fan of yer music. So soulful and from the heart, ‘tis.”
I grasp her offered hand, my practiced public smile wavering the tiniest bit. O’Farrell. I vaguely remember Ronan talking about a sister with a business in town. What I didn’t expect was a sister who looks modern, with shoulder length hair, a bit of makeup, and…holy shit, a radio and television sitting around.
“Likewise,” I reply on reflex, eyeing Ronan’s reaction to our exchange. He swills his beer with indifference. I want to reach over and mess up his already wild hair or yank his mountain man beard just to see if I can evoke any normal emotion from him.
“I do hope yer forgive me brother. He’s a brilliant musician, but a bit of a curmudgeon when it comes to current events. Doesn’t get out much, yer know.”
It’s obvious Caris adores her surly brother. I suppress a shiver in spite of the heat warming my face. He really does have exceptional raw musical talent.
“I can see that. I had the pleasure of hearing him play a bit. But I still owe him for his hospitality.”
I dig for my wallet inside my purse. Money always talks. I pull out ten hundred-dollar bills and place them on the bar in front of Ronan. I don’t have any UK currency on me but hope these big fat Benjamins speak a universal language and relay two major points. First, that I refuse to be beholden to anyone, least of all him, and secondly, there’s plenty more where these came from.
“It was kind of him to offer me shelter from that horrible storm, but I trust you have some more appropriate accommodations here? I don’t want to put him out any further than I already have. I’d like to rent an additional room, please. I’d be happy to pay more than your usual rate.”
Caris glances between me, the stack of bills, and Ronan, a pleasant smile still illuminating her lightly freckled face.
When her brother says nothing, she forces an even brighter smile and waves her hand. “Oh, my word, do put yer money away, Miss Starr. Obviously, ‘twas Ronan’s pleasure to ‘av yer as a guest, wasn’t it, Rone?”
She turns her bright smile on her brother, who only grunts in return.
Apparently not one to be discouraged, she goes on, “Not every day a famous singer-songwriter lands in our midst, yer know.” She clucks her tongue and shakes her head, but her expression remains almost gleeful. “And it would be an honor to ‘av yer as me guest, it would. Such an unfortunate bit of luck that I’ve rented the last available room to yer colleague, Mr. Tobin.”
My spirits sag even further, if that’s possible. The last twenty-four hours has presented one disaster after another, and I’m rapidly moving from exasperated to downright pissed. People don’t argue with Savie Starr! They don’t say no, or refuse my money, nor do they scowl at me during the process.
“Yes,” I take a deep breath and muster the most patient tone I can. “But you see, all my personal effects and instruments are on the bus. We’ll need some place to store everything until our new transportation arrives.”
“Oh, well then. I do ‘av a storage room in the cellar that might suit,” Caris says, touching a finger to her chin in thought. “A bit cob-webby, but I can clear that out in two ticks, don’t yer worry.”
The thought of my couture costumes heaped in a dirty, dusty cellar causes my vision to dim for a second.
“Oh…no, I… that’s…not necessary,” I jabber, my mind racing for alternatives. “Perhaps one of your other guests would be so kind as to vacate…for a price?” I move the bills on the bar closer to Caris.
Ronan finishes his pint and sets the mug down with an annoying smack. “Aw, now stop there. Money can’t buy everythin’, yer know. My sister runs an honest business, and I’ll thank yer not to be bribin’ the good people of Wintervale. Folks like us ‘av somethin’ called integrity.”
My nostrils flare at his condescending tone. “I—”
He bulldozes right over me. “A couple of family members who live farther afield ‘av come in for the Yule festival and are stayin’ here. Would yer ‘av her throw ‘em out on their arses into a snowbank?”
Bribery? How dare he? My breath is heavy in my lungs, and my fingers itch to grab his scraggly beard and yank it off his smug face.
“And you’re saying I don’t have integrity, Mr. O’Farrell? I’m simply offering payment for a service. Whether you accept it or not is up to you.” I cast him a poisonous glare before switching my focus back to Caris. “Do you think you can help me out? I’ll only need the room for a few hours.”
Caris seems a little paler than she had been a few minutes ago, her brow wrinkling as though working through a math problem. Maybe the fact that I’m exchanging passive aggressive words with her brother makes her uncomfortable.
“Really? Yer be expectin’ to be leavin’ us so soon?”
“Well, yes. My agent has arranged for a car and driver to pick us up by this evening.”
Caris frowns, but I can practically see the light bulb switching on above her head as her expression brightens.
“I can’t promise any of my guests will be willin’ to move out, but I’ve an idea. Since yer already know each other, why don’t yer be stayin’ with Ronan here for a few extra days…uh, I mean, ‘til yer transportation arrives, of course. Plenty of room at his cottage as yer know, him just by his onesie.”
Ronan gazes at me over the rim of his mug as he empties it down his throat, his electric blue eyes sparking, taunting me. Daring me. Not a chance in hell, buster. I force a canny smile. The only thing that would come of me staying another day with him is…coming. As wonderful as it is, there can’t be a sequel.
“Like I say, I wouldn’t want to put your brother out any more than I already have. And how would we get there with all my things? I’ll be gone by this evening. You won’t mind if I just wait here? Perhaps someone will check out early.”
“I doubt it seein’ as they’re all distant family.” Caris gives a slight nod of her head, her smile returning. “And a’course, yer may stay here in the pub as long as yer like, love. Let me get yer a pint and somethin’ to fill yer belly, on the house. We make everythin’ right here on the premises from scratch, even our Guinness.” She reaches for another clean mug and puts it to the taps.
“Oh no, I couldn’t drink this early in the day. Not much of a beer drinker anyway.”
“Scaldy, then?”
“Yes, tea is fine. Thank you. Is there somewhere I can charge my phone? I’m behind on my Instagram posts.”
“Just under here, love,” Caris says, gesturing behind the bar. “I’ll plug it in for yer if yer like.”
Let me guess. Only one electrical outlet in the whole place. I’m stuck in a time warp. I dig for the charger in my purse and hand it to Caris along with the phone.
Ronan grunts and shifts his seating position as Caris turns away. “What the feck is this Instagram, woman? Besides, yer should ‘av somethin’ to eat afore yer waste away. Finest meals in town does our Caris serve up.”
“Right-o, I’ve some fresh barmbrack in the kitchen, made special for Yule,” Caris pipes up as she serves my tea in a vintage china cup and saucer. The country roses and gilded rim reminded me of my Nana Aislan’s tea set. It’s a thing of beauty, and I tamp down a sudden rush of homesickness. What I wouldn’t give to be in my own house right now. “I’ll fetch yer a slice.”
She spins away into the back before I can accept or reject the offering. “Barmbrack?” I ask, chewing my bottom lip. I rarely eat local food while on tour. I can’t risk getting
sick and missing a performance, but I’ve already eaten Ronan’s stew without incident. “What’s that?”
He gives me a stupid woman look. “’Tis a cake. We call just about any cake barmbrack, but the Yule one is special. The Yule is special.”
I’ve almost forgotten it’s nearly Christmas. I glance around the quaint establishment as I sip my tea. A number of evergreen swags hang above the windows and along shelves, but there’s something missing. I give a humorous snort.
“It’s not every day I hear someone refer to Christmas as ‘Yule.’ It’s a rather nostalgic term. Kinda medieval, actually.” I chance a look at Ronan, trying to sound aloof and casual. As though the X-rated interlude on the road never happened. “Where’s the Christmas tree?”
Ronan pushes his beer mug aside and leans forward with both arms on the bar. He looks askance for a moment, then turns the full force of his clear azure gaze on me once again. I feel strangely hypnotized, a flash of unsettling recognition rippling through me, like echoes from a dream. I awoke from such a dream this morning, although it already feels light years in my past. I feel like it meant something, but the sensation slips away just as suddenly as it comes.
“Here we are,” Caris’ cheerful voice interrupts as she returns from the kitchen with two plates in hand, setting one in front of each of us. “Holiday barmbrack, still warm from the oven.”
Sweet-smelling steam rises from the golden-topped cake studded through with dried fruit and nuts baked right in. I smile in delight. Of course. It’s a Christmas cake. Not quite as heavy as the dark-fleshed kind I recall from home, and without any marzipan frosting. It doesn’t need it. It looks perfect all by itself. I’m not a fan of frosting anyway. Too much sticky sweetness when the moist cake can stand on its own.
“Oh, my, that looks scrumptious. Did you bake this yourself?”
“A’course, love. Everythin’ here is homemade. Wouldn’t ‘av it any other way, would we, Rone?” She tosses her brother a wink as she dusts her hands on a kitchen towel. “But if yer both be pardonin’ me, I just ‘av to nip across the road. Won’t be two ticks.”
Solstice Song (Pagan Passion Book 1) Page 9
