The Selkie Spell (Seal Island Trilogy)

by Sophie Moss

“She’s a right to know.”

  Caitlin shifted, uneasily. “It’s a story for the tourists.”

  “Then why have you been avoiding it?”

  “I haven’t been avoiding it,” Caitlin argued. “It just hasn’t come up.”

  “It hasn’t come up because you’ve been avoiding it.”

  “Come on, Glenna.” Caitlin scrubbed her hands over her face. She was bone tired and all she wanted was to go home and fall face first into her bed. Tonight had been another disastrous evening in the kitchen, but Tara was determined to learn and refused to give up. She respected and admired that, and much as she’d like to know why their newcomer was so guarded about her past, it was Tara’s life and Tara’s business and she’d share it with them when she was ready. Just because the woman had a few things to hide, didn’t suddenly make her the missing piece in their unfinished legend.

  Shaking her head, Caitlin stood. “What you’re saying is crazy.”

  “You know what the legend says.”

  “I don’t care what the legend says.” Caitlin picked up the bottle of wine and jammed the cork back into the top. “I’m going home now, and I’m taking this with me.” She stalked to the door, but paused when her friend said nothing, instead continuing to stand in the center of the room, worry etched into the lines of her face. “Look,” Caitlin said, turning. “I understand that whatever you saw this afternoon upset you. It must have if you haven’t left this room all night. But I need her.” She held up her bandaged hand as proof.

  “You won’t when Fiona gets back.”

  Fiona. Caitlin let out a breath. She’d already thought of that. Fiona would be back next week and then the college kids would start arriving. They wouldn’t need Tara to stay on past the end of the month. But there was something nagging her, a feeling deep in her gut since she first set eyes on that skittish woman. “The thing is, Glenna, we may not need her. But I think she needs us.”

  Glenna looked back at the last dying flames of the fire, the embers shooting strange shadows across the dark room. “She brings trouble.”

  Caitlin’s hand rested on the doorknob. “Everyone’s got a past.”

  Glenna shook her head. “Not like hers.”

  Chapter 4

  Dawn broke cerulean blue over the horizon as Tara ducked under the canopy of roses. Skimming a finger over one of the stems, she marveled at the way the thorns moved soft and flexible under her touch. She could close her whole fist around the stem and the thorns wouldn’t even scrape her flesh. Remembering the way Glenna yelped yesterday when she pricked her finger, Tara ignored the uneasy stir in her gut and slipped a handful of petals into her backpack.

  The village was still asleep, save a few early morning fisherman down at the docks. The air was cool and salty and she breathed it in, picking her way along a thin path over the mossy hills. She recognized the first shoots of lavender forcing their way out of the hard earth, the early buds of thyme hugging the base of the crumbling stone walls, the wild hedges of rosemary skirting the village.

  Picking handfuls of the fragrant herbs and slipping them into her pack, she crossed to the eastern side of the island, thinking about what Glenna told her yesterday—how she had come here for a weekend away and never left. What would it be like to have that freedom? To know that she could pick up and start over? A seagull soared overhead and she followed it toward a lone cottage badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. When a stream of oaths drifted out of the neighboring shed, she headed toward the sound. “Hello?”

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Tara,” she called, picking her way over the sandy soil to the shed. “From the pub.”

  Sticking his head out from behind a rusted tractor, Brennan Lockley eyed her warily. “Are you lost?”

  “No.” Tara took in the wrench lying out of reach under the tractor, the way he flexed his hand, forcing each finger to uncurl until it was straight. “Are you alright?”

  Rubbing his fingers over his sore hand, Brennan sat back. “It’s just a little stiffness,” he answered, gruffly. “Part of growing old.”

  “Or it might be arthritis,” Tara suggested, picking up the wrench and handing it to him.

  “It’s nothing” Brennan insisted, reaching for the wrench.

  Tara settled a hip against the tractor, gazing down at Brennan. “Are you taking anything for the pain?”

  “Like I said, it’s nothing.”

  Tara watched him struggling to get a grip on the tool. “Is it affecting your work?”

  “No more than usual.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  Brennan’s eyes snapped up to her face. “What have you heard?”

  “That you’ve been needing more help on the farm lately.”

  Brennan looked taken aback. “Did O’Sullivan tell you that?”

  “Not exactly,” Tara admitted. “I overheard Dominic talking with Caitlin about it.”

  “What did he say?” Brennan asked.

  “I think he’s worried about you.”

  “Because I’ve asked him for a few favors lately?” Brennan twisted the wrench over a screw, cursing when it fell out of his hands with a clatter. “I’ve run this farm my whole life, all by myself. Lockley’s don’t rely on other people to do their work.”

  “I don’t think he’s worried about helping you with the work,” Tara said gently, picking up the wrench again and putting it back in his hands. “He’s worried about you. That you might be in pain. He doesn’t want you to be in any pain.”

  A barn cat mewed and rubbed up against Brennan. He brushed his good hand idly over its soft fur. “Did he tell you to come over here and talk to me?”

  “No,” Tara assured him. “In fact, I think he’d be pretty upset if he found out.”

  “Why?”

  “I get the feeling Dominic doesn’t like people meddling.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  “I want to help you.”

  Brennan glanced up suspiciously. “How?”

  “Why don’t we go inside where it’s warm and I’ll explain.”

  “Are you inviting yourself into my house?”

  “Yes. I think I am.”

  “Being that it’s my house. And my farm. I’ll be the one doing the inviting.” Brennan studied her from his spot on the ground. “And right now I don’t have the time to entertain a guest.” Picking up the wrench, he took another try at the screw, twisting with all his might. “God damn it!” he cursed as it fell out of his hands.

  Tara dropped to her knees, concern knitting her brow. “Mr. Lockley?”

  “What?”

  “How much pain are you in?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, gruffly, trying to push to his feet. But the weight shifted into his bad hand and he staggered. Tara reached for his arm, but he jerked away from her, pulling himself up by the seat of the tractor. Brushing the dirt from his palms onto his pants, he turned and glared at her.

  Tara stepped back, studied the older man’s scowling face. “You didn’t want me to see that, did you?”

  “You didn’t see anything,” Brennan countered, taking a step back and wincing when his knee wobbled.

  Tara watched him struggle, but when he tried to put weight on his foot and it wouldn’t hold, she caught his big arm in hers, and helped him into the house despite his protests.

  “I didn’t invite you in here, you know,” Brennan muttered, as she helped him into a rickety chair at the wooden table.

  “I know,” Tara said. “But now that I’m here, why don’t you tell me how bad it really is?”

  Brennan folded his calloused hands on the table, regarded her silently.

  “Does it hurt this much all the time?”

  “No.”

  “Just in the morning?”

  He was silent for a long time, then answered finally. “Sometimes it hurts a little at night.”

  “Sometimes?”

  “Sometimes,” he repeated, stubbornly.

  S
he’d be willing to bet he hurt every night. Filling a glass with water, she brought it over to him and then walked back to the stove. “How long has this been going on?”

  He took a swallow of the water. “Can’t remember.”

  Tara glanced over her shoulder.

  “Okay,” he grumbled at her raised eyebrow. “A couple years.”

  “I thought as much,” Tara said, unzipping her pack and crumbling petals into a large pot, filling it with water and setting it on the heat to boil.

  “What are you doing?” Brennan asked, suspiciously.

  “Making tea.”

  “What kind of tea?”

  “Herbal tea.”

  “Were those rose petals you just pulled out of that bag?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never heard of putting rose petals in tea before,” Brennan muttered.

  “Trust me,” Tara said, rustling around in Brennan’s cupboards and pulling out a bottle of cooking oil. Pouring it into a mug she crumbled burdock and lavender leaves into the mixture and swirled it around until the herbs floated to the bottom, filling the room with their scent.

  Brennan eyed her, warily. “Now what are you doing?”

  She turned, setting the mixture on the table. Brennan pushed at it with his finger. “You want me to drink that?”

  “No,” Tara shook her head. “I want you to rub a few drops on your hands and your knees whenever it starts to hurt.”

  “What’s it going to do to me?”

  “It’ll make you feel better.”

  Brennan lifted the mug, tipped it so he could see inside the mixture.

  “It’s just herbs,” Tara assured him.

  “Hmmph,” Brennan grunted and set it back on the table.

  “Will you give it a try for one week and let me know if it makes a difference?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “It would mean a lot to me.”

  “Why do you care, anyway?”

  “I don’t like to see anyone suffer.”

  “And I don’t like foreigners pushing their ways on me.”

  “I understand that—respect that, even. But I promise all I want is to help you.”

  “I’ve heard that one before.”

  “From who?”

  “From another woman. Just like yourself.”

  “What did she do?” Tara asked, slowly.

  “Asked if I’d rent my spare cottage out to a friend of hers—her brother actually. Said he would pay for the place, fix it up even.”

  “And did he?”

  “Aye. He did.”

  “Then… what was the problem?”

  Brennan sat back, studied Tara across the room. “I think I’ll leave the answering of that question to Dominic.”

  ***

  Dominic walked into the kitchen of the pub, glancing around, surprised. “Where’s Tara?”

  “I’m not sure,” Caitlin said, slipping an apron over her head. “I expected her to be here by now.”

  Dominic frowned. “Shift starts in less than an hour.”

  “Give her a break, Dom. She was here until after midnight last night.”

  Reaching under the sink, he grabbed his toolbox. “I’m going up to Brennan’s to finish what I started yesterday. I should be back by the time we open, but can you cover the front for me if I’m not?”

  Caitlin nodded. “If you run into Tara, don’t be too hard on her. She probably just overslept.”

  “We’ll see,” Dom muttered, ducking out the door. The scent of roses, sickeningly sweet, slammed into him. “Jesus,” he breathed, covering his mouth with his shirt. “What the hell is that?” The ground started to spin and he leaned a palm against the wall of the pub. Glancing up and down the empty street to see if anyone else noticed the strange smell, he realized he was alone. He removed his shirt from his mouth and shook his head, trying to clear it.

  He was imagining things, he told himself as he began to walk. He hadn’t slept well since Tara arrived on the island and it was starting to catch up with him. Fighting the urge to glance over his shoulder at her cottage, he lengthened his stride. But the scent of the roses grew stronger the closer he got to Brennan’s. And by the time he knocked on the farmer’s door, he was having trouble breathing.

  He dropped his toolbox, scrubbing his hands over his face as the door swung open and he glanced up, blinking when he saw Tara. He stared at her for several long moments, trying to figure out if she was a vision or for real. Her eyes—the color of Corrigan moss—regarded him warily. But his own gaze drifted down to her unpainted mouth, lingered there, his fingers itching to loosen the tie that bound her hair back, to see that velvety curtain of black dance around her chin. His hand felt heavy and strange as he lifted it, picking a sprig of rosemary from her hair.

  When she went very still, he drew his hand back.

  “Dominic, is that you?” Brennan’s gravelly voice boomed through the tiny cottage.

  “Yes.” Dominic straightened, forcing the stone from his throat. He glanced past Tara to the kitchen, at the steam rising up from the pot on the stove. Shifting his gaze back to Tara’s guilty face, his eyes narrowed. “I thought I told you not to come here without me.”

  “You did.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “You told me not to come here without you because you wanted to see Brennan’s reaction to my attempt to speak with him. You said he wouldn’t let me into his house. As you can see,” she said, stepping back to let him inside, like she had just as much right to be here as he did, “you were wrong.”

  Dominic strode past her to the stove, peering into the pot. He spotted the wilted red petals and he fought back a sudden wave of nausea. This? This was what he’d smelled all the way up at the pub? He turned slowly, catching Tara gathering her things and slipping them into her pack.

  “I just realized what time it was,” she said. “I should be getting to the pub.”

  “It can wait,” Dominic said, crossing the kitchen to stand between her and the door. His eyes fell to the half-empty mugs sitting on the table. “What’s this?”

  “It’s just tea.”

  He picked up one of the mugs and sniffed at the foul mixture. “What kind of tea?”

  “Rose tea.”

  His eyes cut to her face. “How do you know it’s not poisonous?”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  Tara took the mug from his hand and drank deeply. Setting it back down on the table, she leveled her gaze at him. “Satisfied?”

  “I am,” Brennan said, speaking up for the first time. “I drank a cup of this tea less than an hour ago and I’m starting to feel better already.” He flexed his fingers, marveling at the lack of pain and ease of movement. “Maybe you should take a mug over to Sarah Dooley. She’s been having a hard time with that cough all winter.”

  Tara turned. “Where does she live?”

  “In the village. She’s the second house on the—”

  “I’ll show you,” Dominic cut in.

  “I’m sure I can find it,” Tara argued.

  “I’m sure you can, too,” Dominic said, tightly. “But you and I are going to have a little chat.” His hand cupped her elbow, steering her toward the door.

  Tara forced a cheerful wave to Brennan and then walked out the door with Dominic on her heels.

  “What kind of a game do you think you’re playing?” he demanded as soon as the door shut behind them.

  Tara jerked her elbow out of his grip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

  “Come on, Tara. You arrive on this island out of nowhere looking for a job in my pub with nothing but the clothes on your back, but you know how to fix a broken hand and now you’re making strange brews of witch tea for old men suffering from arthritis? It doesn’t add up.”

  Tara turned, starting up the path toward the village. “My mother grew herbs and flowers. She used to sell them at the local farmers market. She taught me their
medicinal properties.”

  “Give me a break,” Dominic scoffed.

  “It’s the truth,” Tara said, as she stopped, turning back to face him. “But so what if it isn’t? What does it matter where I learned what I know if I’m only trying to help someone?”

  “I’m not convinced you are helping anyone.”

  Tara stared at him. “You watched me reset Caitlin’s hand. You heard Brennan just a second ago say that he’s feeling better already. What more proof do you need?”

  Dominic gazed into her eyes, green as the ocean, green as the moss at their feet. “It’s too fast.”

  “What’s too fast?” Tara asked, impatiently.

  “What you’re doing here. Butting into people’s lives. Pushing your remedies on them.”

  “I’m trying to help them feel better.”

  “Your actions might be honest. But your words are coated with lies. That makes it impossible for me to trust you.”

  “I’m not asking for your trust. I’m only asking for you to give me a break. What does it matter how I answer your questions if I do my job and help a few people along the way?”

  “This island is my home. These people are my friends and my family. I don’t want them getting hurt.”

  “Who do you think I’m going to hurt?” Tara asked, exasperated, and then suddenly it clicked. ‘You remind him of her.’ “Wait,” she said, brushing the hair out of her face. “It’s her, isn’t it? It’s Kelsey’s mother?”

  When Dominic turned, started walking away from her, Tara followed him, matching him stride for stride. “Caitlin told me I reminded you of her. Is that why you can’t trust me?”

  “This has nothing to do with her.” And what the hell was Caitlin thinking telling Tara about Rachel?

  “If I don’t look like her,” Tara pressed, “then it must be the fact that you think I’m lying. Did she lie to you? Did she hurt you and others on this island?”

  “What she did is none of your business.”

  “Did she convince Brennan to rent out his cottage?”

  “What?” Dominic’s eyes flashed as he glanced over his shoulder at Tara.

  “He told me a woman convinced him to rent out his cottage to a friend, or a brother, or someone.” She had to practically run to keep up with him. “He said it didn’t turn out well. But he wouldn’t tell me why. He said I should ask you. Was it Kelsey’s mother who convinced him to rent it out? What happened?”