by JoAnn Ross
“I’m not—” She paused. “If I’m to request honesty from you, the least I can do is return it. In truth, I suppose I am a wee bit irritated with your behavior.”
“Only a wee bit?”
“All right.” She tossed her head on a flare of frustration. “Perhaps more than that.” Her gaze slid back to the castle. Toward the plump and seemingly contented mare. Then, finally up at him again. “I’m not exactly what you were expecting, am I, Mr. MacKenna?”
A bark of a laugh escaped at what had to be the understatement of all time. “No, Mrs. O’Sullivan, you definitely are not.”
“You believe that I’m fey.”
“I believe that you believe you are,” he corrected. “Since you stated that fact for yourself out on the cliff.”
“Aye. I did. And, since it appears that, like it or not, we’re destined to work together, you may as well know from the start that I am fey. I see things, Mr. MacKenna, before they happen.”
He folded his arms. “What sort of things?”
“Random events. Some good, some bad. Before I’d even begun first form at Holy Child School in the village, I saw a black wreath on Mrs. Callahan’s door. Two months later she dropped dead of a heart attack while weeding her cabbage patch.”
“Was she old?”
“She was. In her nineties.”
“Hell, then her death couldn’t have been that much of a surprise to anyone. You would have been at the age when you probably first began to ponder the concept of death. It’s not so farfetched that you’d put those feelings onto an elderly person you knew.”
“I admire your argument, Mr. MacKenna, since it was the same one me own father made at the time. Though I am surprised you’d claim to be knowing anything about childhood development.”
“Zoe and her mother lived with me from the time she was four years old until she was nine. We had a barn cat—an orange tabby she named Marmalade—die when she was about the age you would have been when you imagined—”
“I did not imagine. I saw.”
“Whatever,” he said with blatant disbelief. “We had a proper funeral for the cat. I made a small wooden coffin with wood milled on our property, Zoe and her mother made a small headstone and we buried him in the MacKenna family cemetery.” He smiled a bit at the memory. “Then we all sang ‘Amazing Grace.’”
“It sounds like a lovely funeral. That was very kind of you.”
“It wasn’t that big a deal.”
“I suspect it was to your stepdaughter.”
“The point I’m trying to make is that for a week after the cat’s funeral, Zoe kept insisting that Marmalade came in her window every night to sleep with her.”
“Perhaps he did.”
“Perhaps you weren’t paying close attention, Mrs. O’Sullivan. The cat was dead.”
“Its body was dead. But not its spirit. Isn’t death merely a shadow we pass through on our circular journey from the Unknown to this world, then back again? An incident—even a miracle—in the midst of our never-ending lives?”
Damn. And here he’d begun to think that she was a reasonably sensible person. A bit quirky, perhaps. But not mad. Once again Alec worried about the wisdom of trusting Winnie’s horse—the Thoroughbred in which he had a potential fifty-percent stake—over to this retro Irish flower child.
“I didn’t think pagans believed in miracles.”
“I’m reminded of their existence on a daily basis, whenever I look at my own children and realize that they, like all children of this world, were born of a man and a woman coming together, minds, hearts and bodies joined as one, allowing life to flow through them and in them. And from this passion, nine months later, another child arrives from the Unknown. What could be more miracle than that?”
“Childbirth is special,” he allowed. “But when you die, you become nothing but dust. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. You live, you die, then it’s over.”
“Did it ever occur to you that perhaps you’ve gotten the message wrong? That the reason for burial is to allow the discarded body that has hosted the spirit to return to the earth, the Mother from whom that flesh was born?”
Alec raked a hand through his hair. “Look, if it makes all you New Agers happy to think that—”
“There is nothing new about my beliefs, Mr. MacKenna.” Both her back and her tone had turned to steel. “Indeed, my Celtic religion, which teaches us that time is a curve, a continuous link without beginning or end, goes back three millennia here in Ireland.” When she absently ran a fingertip around the curving symbols etched into the silver oval she wore on a ribbon around her neck, his attention was drawn to her long slender throat.
“I’ve nothing against any organized religion. Heaven knows, my own faith carries its own rules and prohibitions. What bothers me about modern beliefs is that so many of them require us to believe that this one, fleeting lifetime is all we’re given. Which, in my view, tends to make people more inclined to grasp all they can, while they can, even at the expense of others.”
When her words had him thinking of Wellesley’s abuse of Lady Justice, Alec forced the bitter memory down. The early morning hours, when most of the world was still asleep, had always been Alec’s favorite time of day. A time when he could enjoy the sight of horses running in the misty air and not have to exchange small talk with anyone. Morning conversation was definitely not on his hit parade of favorite things to do. As for discussing religion at any time of day, forget it.
“Did it ever occur to you that just as the human race has given up living in caves and hunting woolly mammoths, we’ve moved past worshiping trees?”
“Druids do not worship trees. We worship amidst trees. There is a difference. Indeed, the very word druid translates to ‘having the wisdom of the oaks.’” She paused when he didn’t respond to that claim. “I can see that you’re not believing me.”
Alec figured that it didn’t exactly take a druid seer to read the skepticism on his face.
“While I don’t usually share my experiences with those not close to me, and I certainly don’t concern myself with attempting to convince skeptics that their views are narrow and shortsighted, let me tell you another story,” she suggested.
“Isn’t that what the Irish do best? Tell stories,” he elaborated at her questioning look.
“Yet another tradition that goes back to the Celts,” she agreed pointedly, refusing to smile. “When I was a teenager, the same age as your Zoe is now, Nora Gallagher—she was Nora Joyce then—and I were picnicking on the beach with Devlin Monohan and Peter Quinlan one lovely summer afternoon.
“Peter was as handsome as an ancient king, and the lad all the girls attending Holy Child School daydreamed about when we should have been keeping our minds on studies. As the sun sank into the sea, I could sense that he was about to kiss me. A kiss I had, in truth, been waiting all day to give him.”
“And then he keeled over and died?”
She frowned. “Here I am, sharing the most private part of myself, and you refuse to take it seriously.”
“Sorry.” He gave her a go-ahead gesture. “Please continue.”
She nodded. “I will … Just when Peter’s lips were a mere breath from mine, I viewed, in my mind’s eye, little Kevin Noonan floating facedown in the surf. I’d just managed to call out a warning to his mother, who was packing their dinner things away into a wicker basket, when a white-crested wave swept the toddler off his feet and began pulling him back out to sea.
“Fortunately, Mr. Noonan, who was closer to the surf, was able to get to him in time, and except for swallowing a bit of salt water, the child was fine.”
It was, Alec allowed, an interesting anecdote. But he didn’t believe there was anything psychic about it.
“Peter was getting ready to kiss you. You glanced out of the corner of your eye to see if anyone was watching. Perhaps because you didn’t want the townspeople to see you kissing a boy and tell your parents.”
“My parents would hardly have
been surprised by that, Mr. MacKenna. Seeing as they’d certainly been young themselves and undoubtedly had stolen kisses on that selfsame beach.”
“Ok, perhaps you did want people to see you.”
“Why would I be wanting people to see so personal a thing as a kiss?”
“If you’re looking for privacy, a public beach sure isn’t the place to find it. If Peter was as good-looking as you say—”
“He was, indeed. The most handsome boy in Holy Child School.”
“At that age, it stands to reason that you’d like to show off a little. To let everyone see that of all the girls in Castlelough, you were the one who’d managed to land the hunk.”
The quick flush of color in her cheeks suggested he wasn’t far off the mark. “Wouldn’t that make me very shallow?”
“It’d make you a kid. You’re supposed to be shallow when you’re fifteen.”
“I should have realized that you’re an expert on teenage girls. Seeing how your own relationship with your stepdaughter appears to be going along so splendidly.”
“Things have been a little rocky. But we’ll work it out. Somehow … So,” he said, returning to the original topic, “while you were sneaking a look around the beach to make sure you had witnesses to this long-awaited kiss, you caught a glimpse of this kid, whatever his name was—”
“Kevin Noonan.”
“You saw Kevin Noonan toddling down to the sea by himself. Your vivid imagination, along with a natural human instinct to protect a defenseless child, kicked in just before the wave washed him off his feet. That’s all it was.”
She sighed. “You’re a hard man, Mr. MacKenna.”
“So they say.”
Actually, there were a few other names more often used to describe him, not all of them flattering. Believing that being single-minded and competitive were admirable attributes rather than character flaws, Alec had always considered the names used by his detractors a compliment. It was probably good for her to know that if they were to have any working relationship, she couldn’t expect him to stand back and let her cast her spells, or voodoo, or whatever she did on Legends Lake.
“Would they be correct, then?” she asked. “Those people who call you hard?”
“If refusing to accept pretty illusions as reality makes me hard, then I suppose they’re right. If wanting to do anything—short of breaking the rules or endangering a horse—to win makes me hard, yeah. If expecting my horse to be the first across the finish line makes me hard, I damn well wouldn’t want to be any other way.”
“Well, that’s certainly to the point.”
“I don’t believe in dancing around a subject. So, tell me, did you get your kiss?”
“Ah, and isn’t that the regrettable part of my little tale? After actually witnessing the ability that he’d heard rumored about me over the years, Peter—who according to his mother was destined for a life as a cardinal in Rome—feared he might be risking his immortal soul by publicly kissing a girl who possessed such devilish arts…. He did, however, invite me to go down to the caves with him one night the following week.”
“The caves?”
“They’re carved out of the cliff by the sea. In the olden days they were used by smugglers trading French brandy for Irish fish and horses. In more modern time, they’re where boys might be taking girls they don’t want to be seen in public with.”
“Peter may have been a hunk. But he was also a jerk.”
Her lips curved in a faint smile. “He was young, no more than seventeen himself. Afraid, and at the same time intrigued, by the forbidden idea of dating the Castlelough witch.”
“I suppose it would be too much to hope that he’s now a potbellied farmer, saddled with a fat, ill-tempered wife, countless shiftless relatives and a passel of wild kids.”
“As it so happens, he’s a priest in Limerick. I’ve run into him from time to time and he’s apparently become more broad-minded as he’s grown older because while he hasn’t brought up the subject, we’ve shared some lovely chats.”
“That’s real open-minded of him.” For some reason, Alec was really pissed off on her account. Perhaps because she was so damn accepting.
“I’m told the unmarried girls, and not a few of the married women in the parish, refer to him as Father-What-a-Waste.”
As irritated as he was, Alec laughed at this. She smiled in response, a true smile that lit her eyes and turned them the remarkable blue of the lake, whose banks the Joyce castle had been built on.
Her gaze turned earnest. “My purpose in telling you these stories, Mr. MacKenna, is to try to explain that I certainly did not ask for this ability, which, in truth, at times feels a great deal more curse than gift. It was passed down to me by an ancestor on my grandmother’s side, Biddy Early, a healer who practiced white magic for those who came to her with problems.
“Since there’s no way to send back my inheritance, I’ve come to accept it as part of who—and what—I am. It’s no different from my having black hair or blue eyes. Or being left-handed.”
If it were true, he suspected it would be a helluva lot different. But since he refused to believe it was the case, he saw no reason to argue a moot point.
“I’ll accept that you believe this. I’ll also give you points for seeming to be well-grounded, in spite of your belief system.”
“Perhaps because of it,” she murmured.
“Fine. As I said, your beliefs are your own business. But I still have one major problem with your inheritance.”
“Oh? And what would that be?”
“Not that. Who. Zoe. She’s at an impressionable age, admittedly has some problems right now, and I damn well don’t want her glamorizing what you do and—”
“Be swayed over to the dark side?”
It appeared he was not the only blunt speaker in the barn. “I was attempting to put it a bit more diplomatically, but, well, yeah.”
“You don’t like me very much, do you, Mr. MacKenna?”
“As we’ve already established, I don’t know you. Nor do you know me.”
“Well, that’s certainly true enough. Since my gift is only a part of what I am, let me give you a bit more information about myself: I’m a horse breeder’s daughter who could ride before I could walk. I’ve sat up nights in freezing weather with mares who are about to foal; I’ve had ribs cracked from being kicked by a mare in heat, and before we began padding the breeding stalls, I had my wrist broken when an overeager stallion knocked me against the wall.
“By the time he died seven winters ago, my father had taught me everything he knew about horses. Everything his own da had taught him. During my lifetime, I’ve acquired my own knowledge as well, and although I wouldn’t be one to be heaping pride on myself, there are few in this country, even among those working in the lofty environs of the National Stud, who would be better with horses than I am.
“There are, admittedly, those few gossipy old souls in the village who might warn you against being in the company of a witch. I follow the old ways because they seem more natural to me, but I do not recruit impressionable children into my coven, not that I even belong to one, because I prefer solitary practice.
“Witches are not humpbacked, hooked-nose, wart-faced crones who cackle over cauldrons bubbling with concoctions of dragons’ teeth and eye of newt. I do not dance naked in the moonlight and I’ve never put a spell on any person.
“Though there are a few I can think of who would have only been improved by being turned into toads,” she tacked on as an afterthought.
“Too bad,” he said, when she paused to take a breath. “Oh, not the toad thing,” he elaborated at her questioning look. “Though I can certainly think of a few people myself I wouldn’t mind that happening to.” Wellesley for one. “But it’s a bit disappointing to hear that you don’t dance naked in the moonlight.” He skimmed a quick, but thoroughly masculine look over her. “That would definitely make my time here in Castlelough more … interesting.”
&n
bsp; He’d expected her to blush again. Instead her gaze hardened. Her full, unpainted lips firmed.
“My husband may no longer live here at the farm, Mr. MacKenna. But I am still a married woman. And, since it takes five years to become divorced in Ireland, will remain married for another two years. As Peter learned for himself, simply because I do not happen to be a practicing Catholic like most of the rest in Castlelough, I’m not after romping in caves, or haystacks,” she added with an upward glance, “with any good-looking male in trousers who happens by.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She gave him another long deep look, then nodded. “Fine.”
“Well then, since we have that little matter settled, there’s something else.”
“Oh?”
“Since we’re going to be spending a lot of time together over the next few weeks, it’d probably be easier if we dropped the formalities.” He held out the hand he hadn’t bothered to offer when they’d first met on the cliff. “I’m Alec.”
Unlike her countrymen, whom Alec knew were capable of holding grudges for centuries, Kate didn’t seem to be inclined to stay angry.
“Good day to you, Alec.” Her voice was rich and warm. “And I’d be Kate.”
She slipped her hand into his. Her skin was as soft and smooth as it looked, but his thumb brushed against a ridge of calluses at the base of her fingers. Her bones were slender and felt about as light as a bird’s, yet her breeding work meant that she routinely handled a thousand pounds of aroused stallion. He suspected the slight kink in her wrist came from that time she’d mentioned, when she’d been slammed against the breeding wall.
Kate O’Sullivan might look and smell like some mythical faerie who dwelt in magical Irish hawthorn trees, but there was no denying that she had a close acquaintance with hard physical work. The barns she’d shown off with pride were as up to date as his own. That the modern equipment was housed in century-old barns appealed to the part of him that had insisted on upgrading the Inverness Farms buildings, rather than razing them and building new, which would have been simpler and cheaper. He’d kept those old weather-hewn barns with their stone foundations partly because of a sense of history, continuity and for aesthetic reasons, but also because he’d always been intrigued by contrasts.
