Selkie's Song (Fado Trilogy)

by Clare Austin

Granted a few hours would be more her style.

  Chapter Eight

  The crystalline air, cool and clear, awakened Muireann’s senses with every breath.

  The bump of her bicycle wheels accompanied her pounding heart as she pedaled the rutted path toward the cliffs.

  Locals claimed this had once been part of a road built by the Viking invaders as they raped their way inland from their landing spot below the cliffs. True or tale, Muireann knew farmer and bard, soldier and seaman had trod this track from centuries past right up until today. This land had seen its share of troubles and they weren’t over yet.

  The few remaining blossoms on the lone whitethorn were brilliant in the mid-morning light. Even from a distance, Muireann could see the objects hanging from its branches hadn’t been disturbed. Most folks, even if they denied the belief in fairies, wouldn’t test the principle or tempt a fate they did not understand. This was one of the few truths Muireann had on her side.

  As summer approached, the white flowers faded and fell…a brief blanket of fragrant memory before traveling on the wind and dispersing like dreams in the sea.

  She pushed the bicycle through the muddy lane leading past the whitethorn tree and stepped off. Ignoring the Private Property, Keep Out sign, she parked her bicycle up against the ruins. Muireann laid her hand against the crumbling surface and closed her eyes. Wishing, willing some voice to speak to her, tell her where her search should begin. She waited. Nothing came but the moan of the wind making its way down to the sea.

  The bracken was knee high and she knew it would top out at her shoulders by the summer solstice. Stepping carefully to avoid the nettles and sheep droppings, she crossed the threshold at the south-facing entrance.

  If the stones could talk, Muireann would like to have known what tales they would tell. Until the famine—the Gorta Mόr—this had been the home of the Ó Máille.

  Rebuilt after Cromwell’s cannons took down the original façade, it had been a rather grand house for the time: two floors, a huge fireplace that warmed a hall vast enough for the entire clan as well as an ox or two.

  In medieval times, the east approach had been protected by a chevaux-de-frise. Now the stones, once sharp and impenetrable, poked benignly from under centuries of turf. The west edge of the land came right up to one of the highest cliffs this region boasted, making an attack from the sea almost impossible.

  Today, only the chimney stones against the morning sky remained of the former glory of the estate, but Muireann had a brilliant picture in her mind, painted by the last of the Ó Máille chieftains, Bertie himself.

  How had this place, which should have been deemed a landmark, fallen by the wayside of popular memory? The bureaucracy had smothered the spirit of more than one Irish person. This was just another example. The economic depression in Ireland and most of Europe had all but shut down the flow of money that could save landmarks like this.

  And though part of her interest was in preserving this place for its intrinsic value, it also stood as a last bastion, a feeble but real barrier, to access the coastal cliffs. If she would protect her seals, this nearly forgotten few hectares made the best deterrent.

  However, the current downturn in the economy also had an upside. Bertie’s land was just another patch of real estate in a market saturated with unsold parcels. Muireann doubted anyone would even care to come up with the back taxes, except herself. She would have to save, beg, and scrape together enough cash to put up a No Trespassing sign of her own and the bank be damned.

  “Cú, stay here and warn me if anyone comes by,” she ordered and the hound dropped onto a warm patch of grass in obedience.

  The inside of a derelict building is never silent for long. Voices whispered in the corner by the fireplace, sang in the remains of the kitchen, and the laughter of children rang from the stairs. Muireann did not believe in ghosts. But if stones could tell a tale, these would say more than any library full of volumes.

  She stepped to the south wall where her last search had been interrupted. Near the floor, loose stones had pulled at her curiosity. Bertie had talked about finding proof of the value of this place. Would someone stash a missive or map beneath the feet of everyday activity?

  Muireann knelt and used her fingers to work away at the mortar. She hoped the whole of the wall wouldn’t come down on her head. Wouldn’t that make the regional news? Woman found under rock pile by highway construction crew. Bones may be centuries old. That would make the Office of Public Works stand and salute.

  She sat back on her haunches and looked at the grime under her fingernails. One of these days, she’d drop in to Anya’s Cut and Curl and have a real manicure. If pretty nails could be the solution to her confusing life, it would be worth the money.

  Why did it seem so easy for other women? Grow up, have a career or get married, make a houseful of babies, and get your nails painted once a week.

  ****

  Tynan drove with one eye on the map, following the sketchy directions given him by the bank receptionist. He was eager to take a look at the land of which he was lord.

  The road seemed familiar—this was the same route he had taken last night to Muireann’s cottage. Muireann. His pulse jumped. Perhaps he’d let business wait. Ty forced his thoughts elsewhere. He really had no time for physical attraction to blur his vision of himself behind the bar of O’Fallon’s.

  Over a slight rise, he could see the remnants of two chimneys, the same skeletal remains visible from his room at Mary’s. Tynan folded the map and tucked it into the pocket in the car door. He stepped out into the sunshine, paused to breathe in the scents of grass, mud, and stone before continuing toward a large whitethorn tree bedecked with trinkets. He reached for a particularly lovely ceramic piece. The colors were reminiscent of the pots he had seen in Muireann’s cottage. Ty ran his thumb over the spiral pressed into the surface and wondered if there was some connection.

  “You like that little piece?”

  At the sultry voice, Ty spun around so fast a branch smacked him on the face. He reached up and touched his cheek to check for blood where he felt a thorn graze his skin.

  “Muireann?”

  “The youngest thorns are the sharpest,” she said from the entrance of the ruined house, the late morning sun full on her face, a half smile on her lips. She wore jeans and a tight black fitted T-shirt emblazoned with a band logo. Her feet were in work boots and her hair in a thick braid that had come half undone.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  Muireann licked her lips, and a spark in Ty’s gut threatened to become a wildfire. He took a few steps in her direction and tried to remember why, indeed, he was there.

  She pushed her hair out of her eyes and tossed her head. “You have an interest in our fairy tree?” Muireann asked as she bent to pick up a knitted bootie that had fallen to the ground. She turned her back to Tynan and tied the woollen back onto a branch.

  “Fairy tree?” Was he about to hear another version of local lore?

  “Sure now. Watch where you step,” she added with a grin. “You don’t want to stir the wrath of the daoine sidhe.”

  “Are you saying we’re standing over a thin place, then?” he asked in a whisper.

  “The thinnest,” she said with a sly smile. “Hey, you hungry?”

  He was startled at how quickly she could change a line of conversation when the subject turned to one she chose not to pursue. “Sure, let’s go get a bite in the village.”

  “I’ve got Cú with me.”

  “He’ll fit. We can drop him at your place on the way in to town.”

  Muireann reached for a bicycle that rested against the stone wall. “And what will I do with my push-bike?”

  “Okay, you pedal home. Cú can go with you. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.” It sounded like a plan to him.

  “Sure. Ten. I’ll give you a tour of the neighborhood.” She guided the bike over the rough ground out to the road. “Come on, Cú.” She signaled, an
d he ran toward her as she lifted her leg over the bar of the bicycle and wheeled off.

  Tynan watched her go, enjoying the way her jeans hugged her backside.

  When she was out of sight over the small rise, he looked around the property. His two hectares.

  He felt like an invader, an intruder on a site where, for centuries, souls now passed on had lived, sung songs, told stories, fought for freedom, and made love. Now, only these stones and that whitethorn tree remained.

  Muireann had a special fondness for this spot. He could see that in her eyes when she spoke of it. Pity the only interested buyer was a man she detested. Perhaps they would work out an amiable compromise.

  Let it be. He didn’t really want to think about business now. Tomorrow was soon enough to ring his attorney, run the details past, and get his advice.

  There was no rush.

  Today he had a lunch date with a selkie.

  ****

  Muireann tossed the bicycle against the side of her cottage. “Cú, yer gonna stay here now.” The hound looked at her with a wounded expression in his eyes. “I promise I won’t get into any trouble.” And she didn’t need him confusing passion with distress should she and Tynan happen to attempt a replay of their past enthusiasm.

  Muireann gave only a moment to scold herself for being too eager to find out if he would live up to her fantasies. Truth be told, Muireann had never been one to see the virtue in delayed gratification.

  As she headed into the cottage to freshen up, the little red compact pulled into her yard. One long leg and then another appeared at the open car door, and her heart gave an extra thump.

  “Fancy a picnic?” She gave him what she considered her best smile. “If you’re not in a big hurry to get started, I think I can accommodate your needs.” Oh, yeah. “I can throw some sandwiches and biscuits in a hamper. I’ve got a bottle of wine.” A loaf of bread, a jug of wine…Muireann gave herself a mental yellow light. Slow down. You’ll scare the man off.

  “Sounds grand.” He followed her to the back door and opened it for her. “You sure it wouldn’t be easier if we went to a pub in town?”

  She shook her head and a hank of hair pulled loose from its constraint. “I’d rather not go to Ballinacurragh.” Tilly would be sitting outside the post office. She’d be on her mobile in a flash, spreading the news throughout the county that Muireann O’Malley was seen stepping out with the tourist from Boston.

  Since the cinema closed, gossip was the main entertainment in the village, and the O’Malleys provided most of the plot and all the characters for the recent drama.

  Tales of today, embellished by curious and creative minds, could wait. Muireann wanted Tynan to herself for a few hours. She needed to figure him.

  He smelled wonderful. Like he had just come out of the shower. A hint of some men’s cologne tempted her to bite his neck. He was wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, crisp as if fresh from the laundry. Maybe Mary had pressed it for him. His trousers were quality, no cheap jeans for this man. She felt manky in comparison.

  “I should clean up a bit,” she said, but stood rooted to a spot.

  He reached out and brushed a bit of dirt from her sleeve. “You look lovely just the way you are.” His hand stayed lightly on her shoulder.

  She did a quick survey of her person. Do my armpits stink? Is my hair full of weeds? Am I wearing clean knickers? Am I wearing knickers at all? She couldn’t remember. “I’ll just grab a fresh shirt. You know where to find the kettle. Make yourself a cuppa. I’ll be back in a flash.”

  Clothes flew in every direction. She kicked off her old jeans, pulled off her plain cotton undies, shirt, and bra. An armpit sniff assured her she needn’t take another shower, and in five minutes Muireann presented herself in designer jeans that fit like a second skin, a silk blouse the color of Irish whiskey, and hair brushed to a polish of silken waves over her shoulders.

  In the kitchen, she found her mother’s old picnic hamper and dusted it with a tea towel. She grabbed a blanket from the hot press, packed it along with a bottle of merlot she had been saving for a cold night. Rummaging the cupboard produced two clean but not quite matching wine glasses and her emergency biscuits. Her mam had baked and left a fresh wheaten loaf in the bread box. Cheddar from the fridge, a couple of apples, and some kiwi fruits were added to her portable larder. All they needed now was a cake of some kind to finish the feast. It all sounded delicious, but the twinges in her tummy were not heralding hunger.

  It had been a good long while since she’d had a real date. She was overdue and her appetite was craving beefcake, not sweet cake.

  Tynan sat, feet propped up on her ottoman, sipping his tea. He looked up and she enjoyed the appreciative look in his eyes as he scanned her from toes to the top of her head. “That was quick.” He stood, set the cup down, and reached for her hand. “Gotta respect a woman who can go from mud splattered to glorious in five minutes.” As though dancing, he spun her around. “Just as good from the back. Okay, I’ll hire you as my tour guide.”

  “I didn’t think I had to pass a test. Aren’t you interested in whether I can drive safely, find my way around—that sort of thing?”

  “I already know how you drive. That’s why we’re taking my car. I have a GPS, so we won’t get lost.”

  She gave him a smile with the full intention and purpose of raising his blood pressure. “I could find my way around this county blindfolded, in the dark, without stubbing my toe on a rock.”

  “Or falling off a cliff?”

  “I haven’t yet,” she said, then added, “but I like a man who comes prepared.”

  “I’ve a feeling no one is ever quite prepared for you, Muireann.” He led her toward the door where she grabbed a light jacket and her purse.

  Cú lay in the entry way. “Are we taking the Hound of Chulainn?” Ty asked.

  “Not unless you think I need protection.”

  Muireann reached for Tynan’s hand, wove her fingers through his, and led him out the door.

  Chapter Nine

  “Umm, this is really, really good,” Muireann purred.

  “Yeah, I can tell by the satisfied grin on your face.” Ty raised himself on one elbow as she sipped the last of her wine.

  She set the empty glass in the hamper and stretched herself out on the blanket, arms spread as though she meant to embrace the sky. The scene had been set for the perfect dalliance, in Muireann’s estimation: sea, sand, blue sky, and just enough buzz from the wine to take the edge off inhibitions.

  She turned her head to the side and watched him watch her. Tynan had no need to fill any void in the conversation with mindless chatter. He was the rare man, able to sit silently, listen to the sounds around him, and be completely relaxed.

  If he’d had one of those inscrutable faces so common among American men, she would have difficulty sorting out what was going on in his head. Not so with the Irish. Every nuance of emotion showed immediately in Tynan’s eyes and the set of his jaw.

  Muireann rolled to a sitting position and sat cross legged. “Are you ready?”

  “Always,” he said. “What, exactly, did you have in mind?” His suggestive tone only added to her curiosity about him.

  “Something I want to show you.” Muireann offered her hand. “Ready for a bit of cliff rambling?”

  Ty stood and pulled her to her feet and into his arms. They fit to one another perfectly. Muireann was taller than the average woman. She liked her men with some height, lean, and without extra flesh on them. Ty was slim hipped, long legged and, with her body pressed into him, she had a good indication that he was only bulky in certain indispensable parts of his anatomy.

  She took a step back. “Let me show you something.”

  They walked the short distance to where they had left the car. Ty tossed the picnic paraphernalia in the boot, grabbed his mandolin case and looped the strap over his shoulder.

  They strolled, hand in hand, back toward the cliffs.

  “I can’t r
emember a time I didn’t know this headland.” She stopped perilously close to the edge of the drop. “I’ve even dreamed I was born here, under the sky, rocked to sleep by the music of the sea.”

  She tugged on his hand to draw him close. Ty hesitated.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  Ty blew out a breath, cleared his throat, and gripped tight on her hand. “I’m not all that crazy about precipitous drops onto sharp rocks.”

  Ah, the brave and gallant Celt has an Achilles’ heel.

  “Here,” she encouraged him as she lowered to the turf. “Get down on your stomach.”

  He set the mando down, knelt beside her and then stretched out on his stomach with his chin resting on his hands. “You may as well know I’m not fond of frigid water either.”

  “Are you saying you don’t swim?”

  “I swim…like a rock.” Ty’s smile turned strained.

  She didn’t care. His ability in the water was not her primary interest. Besides, she had once tried to have sex in a tide pool, and there was no denying the deleterious effects of cold water on a man.

  Ty swallowed his trepidation. If hanging off this feckin’ rock meant he was gettin’ lucky tonight, it was well worth the risk.

  Whomp. A virtual slap to the side of his head would have knocked him flat had he not already been prone. He’d rekindled his acquaintance with Muireann less than twenty-four hours ago. He’d either lied to himself or to her about why he was here. A lie by omission, but still not the entire truth.

  Ty had promised himself he wouldn’t deviate from his master plan. That plan, initially, did not include a woman—in his bed or his heart.

  “What am I looking at?” he asked, trying to distract his carnal thoughts.

  “You have to be patient. Watch the water, there, just beyond that solitary rock.” She nodded in the direction of a shallow pool.

  Ty tried not to think of the churning blue water and the three hundred foot drop. He gamely pushed back the memory of being caught in the tide and dragged out to sea, the struggle, and then the giving up. Twenty years had passed, and he still remembered clearly his battle for the surface of the water.