She turned away. Too strange, this feeling of attraction to a dead man. “Go ahead, but we need to keep walking. I’m trespassing here and don’t want to get caught.”
“If we must, but I won’t be able to do justice to the recitation.”
“Oh?” He was funny, charming and somehow vulnerable. Add to that his breathtaking good looks, and she could see why a fae princess might want to crawl between the furs with him. “I know how difficult it can be to walk and talk at the same time, but I trust you’ll do the best you can,” she teased, earning her another disgruntled look from her ghostly companion. “You remember the curse word for word after all this time?”
“Of course.” His shoulders squared. “I had to commit to memory all the verses of poetry about our people’s history, and I recited every last word to Fionn without error afore I could be ordained into the Fianna. I also proved myself a poet in my own right.”
“Boasty ghosty,” she muttered.
“Cursed,” he snapped back, just as they reached the wooden fence separating the heritage land from the fields beyond. “I’d lend ye a hand, lassie, but I fear I cannot. I exist in the void, whilst ye reside in the earthly realm. We cannot touch.”
More likely, if he tried, her hand would go right through his. “It’s all right. I can manage.” She climbed over the fence, only to find him already on the other side by the time both her feet hit the ground. “So, the curse?” She set off across the field.
Fáelán cleared his throat, shook out his arms and huffed out a breath. He began, in a rich baritone, projecting his voice from his ghostly diaphragm . . . in Irish.
She hated to admit it, but her curiosity had been piqued. “Wait. My Irish isn’t good enough to get much out of what you just said. Can you translate the curse into modern-day English for me?”
“Of course. I’ve had centuries aplenty to learn all forms of English, French and German. I suspect ye might be from the Americas, but your accent is none too familiar. Where are ye from, Álainn?”
“Tennessee. The curse? Please continue.”
He cleared his throat again and seemed to ponder for a few moments. Finally, he began.
“Foolish, fickle human,
’tis a royal covenant ye have broken.
Harken well to my edict,
for ’tis your penance now spoken.
By wind, water, earth and fire I vow,
’til blood of sidhe in a mortal will tell,
’twixt here and shadow shall ye dwell.
Not without mercy, a daughter of Danu be,
I grant ye one path by which ye might be free.
During the interludes when the realms collide,
in the earthly world may ye bide.
Seek she who sees ye, and woo her well.
For once your heart is fully given,
when your life for hers ye’d gladly give,
in the earthly realm may ye once again live.”
“Impressive.” He truly was a poet if he could spew out something like that at a moment’s notice. “What does the curse refer to when it mentions realms colliding?”
“During solstices and equinoxes, the veil between the worlds lifts, and the realms merge. I know of only three: the shadow realm where the dead go to be judged afore rebirth, the void realm where the fae make their home and the earthly realm where we humans are meant to dwell.”
She’d read the Celts believed there were different realms, and building his fantasy upon what was culturally relevant to him made sense. Besides, ghosts had to go somewhere when they stepped into the light, and she’d often wondered where that might be. Who was she to say there weren’t other dimensions? “When did this happen, Fáelán?”
“Mid-third century.”
Getting a ghost to think about time’s passage was the first step in a multistep process for helping them accept they were dead. She should write a manual for ghost whisperers, a twelve-step program for helping spirits depart. Once she found a way to rid herself of her gift, she could pass the manual along to some other unfortunate soul who’d been born with the sight. Perhaps she would write that book. Now that she’d sold her chain of yoga studios, she had the time. Step two: confront the ghost with empirical evidence of their demise—or at least the implausibility of their continued existence. Regan glanced at her ghostly companion. “How do you explain not aging or dying after all this time?”
“I cannot, for I do not understand the reasons myself. ’Tis said the Tuatha Dé Danann, the children of the goddess Danu, partake of the Elixir of Life, which is the source of their immortality. Morrigan may have slipped a drop or two of the elixir into the food I am provided with in my captivity.”
“Hmm.” Poor guy. Clearly, he was a ghost with a rich imagination, unwilling to accept his own mortality. And why would he? He’d died so young. No wonder he’d stuck around. Acceptance would be difficult for such a strong personality. She’d encountered the same denial many times with accident victims, especially young men. What was it about young males that led them to believe they were immortal?
“Ye see me,” he said, sweeping his arm in a wide arc and turning in a circle. “Seek she who sees ye, and woo her well.” He lowered his chin and winked at her again. “Perhaps you’re the lassie I’m fated to love with all my heart, aye?”
Speaking of hearts, hers broke a tiny bit for him. He was so deep in denial, he’d created an entire fantasy for a way to return to the land of the living. Despite her wish to be done with ghost busting, she was tempted to help this spirit come to grips with his reality.
“’Tis a wonder. Might you be mo a míorúilt lómhar, my precious miracle? I do hope so, for a lovelier miracle I could not have imagined.”
His over-the-top flirty tone didn’t match the desperate hope she glimpsed deep in his eyes. “For a ghost, you certainly are a shameless flirt.” She couldn’t keep from grinning. The notion that she could be anyone’s precious miracle tickled her. “It’s highly doubtful I’m the one destined to win your heart after all these years, but I’ll help you in any way I can.”
Meaning she’d come back to Newgrange a few more times and lead him as gently as possible to the realization that he was no longer of this world. Once he accepted his death, she’d guide him toward the light, and he’d cross over.
A sense of rightness settled over her. For this boasty ghosty, she’d put aside her search for a way to cut herself off from the spirit world. Temporarily. Once he’d departed, she’d take up the search right where she’d left off.
Regan MacCarthy saw him! Thank the gods, both old and new, for it had been centuries since he’d been seen by any but his blood kin. As elated as he was, Fáelán’s strength had begun to wane, and soon he’d be forced to leave his wee miracle. He uttered a few choice curse words under his breath.
Being away from his island prison depleted him, which was one of the reasons he continued to train as hard as he did. If ever he was to gain his freedom, he needed to maintain his strength and his skills. For truth, he could not court a lassie if he couldn’t spend time in her proximity, and being away took all his energy and his strength.
He gazed at the beauty walking beside him. Her shoulder-length hair was the color of nutmeg, and he longed to run his fingers through the lustrous tresses, to feel its softness against his skin. Her eyes were wide set, an enticing bluish-gray fringed with thick dark lashes, and her full lips . . . ah, her full lips were meant for his kisses, ’twas certain. For the first time in more centuries than he cared to count, hope ignited within him, warming him through and through.
He had maybe an hour, two at most, afore he’d be forced to return to his gaol. Best make the most of whatever time he had with the lovely Regan MacCarthy. They marched on through the fields in silence, and he could almost see her mind working through everything he’d told her.
She didn’t believe him, that much was clear, but she would in time. He’d see to it, and the summer solstice would soon be upon them. He’d have five full da
ys of freedom in which to fall in love. Woo her well he would. Why, he’d charm her right into his arms. After all, he was one of the Fianna. How could she not succumb?
Ah, but she didn’t have to love him back for the curse to be broken, did she. Though ’twould be most pleasing if she gave her heart as well. Regardless, once free of his curse, he’d work most diligently to win her heart. After all these long centuries alone, he was more than willing to take a chance and pledge his troth. God willing, she would prove herself worthy of a Fiann such as himself. The thought of touching Regan, of holding her sweet, womanly curves against him, sinking into her welcoming heat—
“So, let me get this straight,” she said, stepping from the field through a narrow gap in the hedgerow and onto the lane where a single car had been parked. “To be free of the curse, you must first find a woman who can see you while you’re . . . ’twixt here and there, and then you must give her your heart. You have to fall desperately in love to the point where you’d lay down your life for hers, but the object of your affection doesn’t have to return the favor?”
He’d grown hard as wood thinking about making love with Regan, and she believed he was a ghost. He did naught to hide the effect she had on him. Ghosts didn’t stiffen with want of a woman, did they? Proof he was no scáil.
“’Tis true. The object of my affection does not need to return the favor, as ye say, but ’tis my deepest longing that she will. Like most young men, I had hoped to marry one day, sire a passel of children and grow old with my beloved.” He cast her a sideways look. Had she noticed the proof of his desire for her?
“Doesn’t that strike you as odd?” She used a button on a key fob to unlock the doors and walked toward her car, keeping her eyes on the vehicle and away from his crotch.
Either she’d noticed and was pretending not to, or she really hadn’t. At any rate, without encouragement, his proof of life deflated. He blamed it on his weakening state.
“In most faerie tales, isn’t it true love between both parties that breaks a curse or a spell?” she continued.
“I’ve not made a study of such things, lassie, and I doubt the Tuatha have either. Morrigan fancied herself in love with me, whilst I felt naught but a fleeting attraction in return. I’m guessing she intended me to suffer the same unrequited misery she imagined she suffered.”
Regan opened the back door of the car and tossed her belongings onto the seat. “You use words like fancied and imagined when you speak of Morrigan’s feelings. Why is that? Isn’t it possible she really had fallen for you?”
She’d drive away soon, and he’d not be able to find her again if she did. He couldn’t lose her, yet how might he convince her to spend more time with him? “Morrigan is fae, immortal and magical in the very worst sense of the word. For her own gratification, she came to me pretending to be an ordinary mortal woman. We spent a se’nnight together, no more, and our brief union had naught to do with love. We did very little talking, if ye catch my meanin’.”
He shook his head. “Nay, Álainn. Morrigan did not fall for me. She’s a demigoddess with a reputation. Morrigan has a knack for stirrin’ trouble. She’s known well for starting wars, she is, and for creatin’ drama where there’s no need for such. I’m but a mouse, and she the cat, and naught else.”
He let loose a weary sigh and rubbed his temples. The pull from the void grew stronger by the minute. “’Tis truth, I fear she’s forgotten all about me over the centuries, though time to the fae is not the same as it is for us. I haven’t seen her since the first weeks of my captivity, when she tried to persuade me to become her consort.”
“You refused?”
“I did, and I’d refuse her again today if given the choice.”
“And then she killed you.” Regan nodded to herself, as if she’d worked it all out for herself.
“Nay. She cursed me.” Clearly, his fated one had a stubborn streak. “Where might ye be off to, lassie?”
“I have a town house in Howth. I’m going there to have breakfast and change my clothes, and then I’m off to explore Dublin. I think I’ll visit the National Museum of Ireland today, the archaeology branch.”
“Hmph.” He shifted his stance, bracing himself against the growing tug from his island prison. “I lived much of the history on exhibit there. In fact, the museum has an armband of gold belonging to me. I’d very much like to have it back, truth be told.”
“I’m sure.” Regan’s expression turned to one of pity.
“I could tell ye all ye wish to know about such things. Might I join ye for a bit longer? I’ve not spoken to a soul other than my kin for so long, and—”
“Your kin see you? They talk to you?”
Regan’s lovely eyes lit with interest, and he grasped at that wee bit of straw with both greedy hands—anything to entice her into willingly spending time with him. “Aye. Some of them can see me whilst I’m in the void, but not all.”
His chest tightened at the memory of his poor mam’s tears the day he’d returned that first equinox, and the way his da had scolded him for a fool after Fáelán explained how he’d been tricked and cursed. His da always scolded when he wished to cover strong feelings. Fáelán had learned to see through the bluster when he was still a wee laddie, and he never doubted his parents’ love and pride for their only surviving son.
His four sisters had also grieved that day, their husbands, his nieces and nephews, cousins, uncles and aunts as well. Hell’s fire, his entire clan had lamented his loss, for he likely would have become their chieftain once he’d left the Fianna. By then, his da would have been ready to retire the position. Fáelán would have done his best by his clan too. He’d let everyone down, disappointed his da and broken his mam’s heart, and all for lust.
“I came home to my clan during the spring equinox, when I was free to bide in the earthly realm. I explained what had happened. My kin swore to help me in any way possible, and they aid me still to this day.”
For centuries, his relatives had led a string of women known to be gifted afore him while he dwelt in the void, hoping one might prove to be his fated love. Only a few were able to see him, and those few who had . . . fled. They too believed him to be a ghost from the ancient past. Regan hadn’t run away, and she was willing to talk with him. His spirits soared at such an auspicious beginning. Why, he’d already fallen half in love with her for that alone. “Would ye like to meet my kin?”
“I would.”
“Grand. Take me with ye to your dwelling in Howth, so that I might see where ye dwell. That way, I’ll be able to find ye again. I’ll arrange a meeting with my kin ere long.”
“I don’t think so.” Her eyes narrowed as she scrutinized him. “How about I come back and visit you at the passage tomb now and then? We can stay in touch that way, talk some more about your situation, and then maybe we can make plans to visit your family.” She opened the driver’s side of her car and slid in.
Fáelán willed himself into the seat beside hers, and she gave a tiny gasp at finding him there before she’d even settled behind the wheel.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She frowned.
“I think I’m coming with ye to Howth, so that I might be able to find ye again.”
She shook her head but didn’t order him away, and he took that as another good sign. Regan pulled her car away from the hedgerow and started down the lane.
“If you aren’t a ghost, then how do you do that? How do you just . . . pop up wherever it is you want to be?”
Pondering such matters over the centuries always made his temples throb, and thinking about all that fruitless mental effort had him shaking his head. “I cannot explain how I manage to move about. ’Tis another fae aspect of this accursed void realm, I think, and I don’t know the whys and wherefores myself. I can tell ye it took months to figure out how to leave my gaol and elude my fae gaoler. I’ve oft wondered if Morrigan didn’t intend that I learn how to wander about, or she would have put a stop to it, aye? How else
was I to seek she who could see me whilst in the void?” He slanted her a wry look.
“See, I focus all my will upon where I wish to be, and there I am, at the very edge of the boundary betwixt the realms, leastways. Leaving my island takes a great deal of strength.” He met her gaze, unrelenting in his attempt to impress her. “I’m quite strong of mind and body, well able to protect and provide for a wife and children.”
“Said the man who couldn’t lend me a hand to get over a fence.” One side of her mouth quirked up.
He grunted, faced the road and concentrated all his will upon remaining right where he was, at least until he saw where Regan lived. He had to have the location of her dwelling firmly planted in his mind, and he needed to convince her to spend more time with him. Once he’d accomplished those tasks, he’d take his leave with some dignity, afore being dragged back unwilling to his island in the swirling mists. He contented himself with taking note of his surroundings as she drove.
Soon enough, she pulled her car in to a parking spot in front of a nondescript white two-story cottage sharing a wall with an identical dwelling next door, and another beside that one. At least her door boasted a bright and cheery red.
“Here we are,” she told him.
Fáelán peered out of the window. “Ye own this cottage?”
“No. I’m leasing the town house for the year I’ll be in Ireland.”
“A whole year, ye say? Grand.” A spark lit within him. He’d have two equinoxes and two solstices with her, should it take him that long to lose his heart. Twenty days in full in which to touch her. Surely physical intimacy would aid him in falling in love, aye?
Regan nodded. “I want to get to know the land of my ancestors, maybe trace my family tree, see what I can dig up about the MacCarthy branch. I intend to visit every corner of the island, do all the touristy stuff and some of the less touristy things as well.”
“Let me be your guide, Álainn. If ’tis history ye be wantin’, who better than I to teach ye?”
“Sure, why not,” she, murmured, glancing at him for an instant.
Tangled in Time (The McCarthy Sisters) Page 3
