“Whatever.”
She watched him grab the mouse and give the final click. Her stomach twisted in knots.
He stared at her devilishly. “It’s done. You leave tomorrow.”
Chapter Two
“Who’s there?” Lorraine asked, peering into a dense row of hedges. She could’ve sworn she heard something, but no one answered. The cold hand of an innate fear grasped her. She didn’t have reason to be frightened, but she was. As she looked around, it only escalated. Her surroundings seemed familiar, but she knew she’d never stepped foot in this place before.
In front of her stood a thick forest of hardwoods and behind her ran a long winding river between miles of lush green meadows. Where am I?
Suddenly, a man leaped out of the bushes and pulled her to the ground. Without much effort, he stifled her screams with a simple hardened hand to her mouth, while his other hand matched her frantic squirming. His legs pushed hers to the ground and held them there like they were nothing but the meager limbs of a child.
Lorraine’s heart jumped in her throat, panic ensuing her every thought. She had no idea why this man grabbed her and held her down, but she refused to give in, to cower like a frail female and allow him to take advantage of her. She threw wide her mouth and bit the bulge of skin on his palm that lay across her lips.
He retracted his hand from her vengeful jaws and, in an instant, she catapulted her forehead into his nose, a maneuver she didn’t expect him to anticipate from a woman. He dropped his head, giving way to the blood that started to flow from both nostrils and down around his mouth.
Collapsing upon her, she cringed at the grotesqueness of his weight on her body and the stringing of his hair in her face. She thrashed beneath him, trying to slip away, but he was too heavy. He tightened his hold on her, grasping for strength as if his will to stay coherent were cinched around her very wrists.
He moaned and when she turned her head to avoid his bloody face, she saw an incredible sight—an accumulation of men, dressed in conical helmets and drab, woolen period clothing, with swords in their hands descending from dragon-prowed longships with red and white sails. For a second, she forgot about the man lying atop her, and gawked at the men—could she dare say Vikings—gathering on the shore of the river.
They looked menacing, to say the least, and the sheer sight of their immense numbers was enough to make her believe she was going to die at the hands of these men.
Where the hell was she that Viking warriors still existed? She had seen plenty of historical reenactments from various Renaissance festivals in Ohio, but these guys looked and behaved far too real to be actors.
Finally, the man lying upon her lifted his head and regained her full attention. The severity of his pain still afflicted him and his nose continued to spew in rivers. She could only guess he was trying to be considerate, for he wiped his upper lip on the bear cloak that hung from his shoulders.
He spoke to her. “I know you are frightened. But say not a word. Those men will hear you and they will kill us both.”
She looked at him, bewildered by his warning.
“I will not hurt you,” he whispered again, his beautiful blue eyes fixed on hers. For a moment, time stood still.
Though her body still trembled from his harrowing presence upon her, he looked as if he were remorseful for holding her down like some belligerent thug about to take his pleasures. With kinder eyes, he attempted to comfort her. “You must believe me. I will not hurt you. I give you my word.”
Lorraine was utterly confused by the viciousness of his actions and the contradiction of his noble words. She knew nothing about this man, nor did his pledge mean anything to her. She wanted to get away from him, no matter the cost.
Realizing he had loosened his hold, she threw her right elbow up to his nose again and hit it with such force that he yelled out.
Without delay, she pushed him off of her and plummeted…
****
Lorraine let out a scream as she hit solid ground, her head bouncing off the hardwood floor of her bedroom. Stunned, she looked around from her sprawled position. There was no one holding her down, no Vikings surrounding her, no blood on her clothes…just Captain, who had padded into her room and began licking her face.
She pushed him away and sat up, her mind still hung up on the man who had pulled her to the ground and lain on top of her. Though some things were a little fuzzy, one thing was for certain—he was the same ruggedly handsome, blond man who’d been visiting her in her dreams and leaving her with an unforgettable kiss. So, why did her dreams suddenly change? Why had he not gently kissed her, like she always enjoyed, and instead, resorted to man-handling her?
Not quite a fair trade, she thought.
“Are you all right?”
Lorraine looked up from the floor just as Patrick came in, his strong arms already helping her to her feet.
“I heard you yell,” he explained. “Did you actually fall out of bed?”
Lorraine heard the subtle implication of disbelief in Patrick’s question. “Yes, I fell out of bed,” she admitted, rubbing her sore temple.
“You need bed rails now? That must have been some kiss.”
“He didn’t kiss me this time…”
Patrick looked at her askance. “He’s progressed to doing other things? I’d rather you skip those details.”
“It wasn’t like that. I was standing in a meadow, near a river. He came out of the bushes and pulled me to the ground. I tried to get away, but he was so strong. And then he spoke to me.”
Held by the facets of her peculiar dream, Patrick inquired further. “What did he say?”
Lorraine swallowed hard, reliving the terrifying moment beneath the man’s heavy weight. “He said for me to keep quiet…else the men would see us and kill us both.”
Patrick’s eyes widened in disbelief. “What men? I thought whenever he kissed you, you were alone.”
“This was different. We weren’t in the same location this time and there were…” She looked at Patrick, finding it difficult to believe it herself. “There were hundreds of men coming ashore…Vikings.”
Lorraine watched as Patrick regarded the last word, his brow furrowing heavily across his eyes. “Vikings?”
“I know it sounds strange, but the men in my dream were Vikings.”
Patrick attempted to rub the smile from the corners of his mouth. “And was your knight in shining armor also a Viking?”
“I think so.” She pondered for a moment, remembering the beautiful bear cloak hanging across his shoulders. She also vividly recalled the bluish tunic beneath it and the small silver clips in his hair. She knew this without a doubt because of the close proximity he forced upon her. Concluding that no one, in this day and age, wears tablet-woven tunics or bear cloaks as a fashion statement—and that he boasted striking sea-blue eyes and blond hair—there was no other explanation except that he, too, was a Viking.
She glanced at Patrick, seeing him grinning at her expense. “I know it sounds ludicrous, but I know what I saw.”
Patrick wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “You know, maybe you have seen too many epic historical movies.”
Lorraine elbowed him, but he didn’t budge. He led her out of her bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen, going on about the last historical movie they had watched together. But she hardly heard a word he said. Her mind focused on the strange dream and the intimidating man who had looked into her eyes with genuine urgency and concern.
“You hungry?” The smell of goetta and eggs brought her back to reality. “Good grief, Rain!” Patrick gently brushed her hair aside to get a better look at her forehead. “You have a goose egg.”
She touched the painful lump and felt its pang beneath her fingertips. In an instant, Patrick reached into the freezer and pulled out a bag of frozen peas.
“Here, hold this on it.”
Still stunned by her eventful morning, she took the bag and held it on her forehead.
&nb
sp; “What the hell did you hit?”
“I guess the floor, I don’t know.”
Patrick crossed his arms and gave her a sympathetic smile. “Heck of a way to start your morning, Rain. If you were trying to get out of going to Ireland today, you could’ve just faked a stomach virus instead of concussing yourself.”
“Ha-ha,” Lorraine mocked, wincing in pain from her crinkled brow.
“Here, here, just sit down and sip on some coffee. I’ll get your plate ready.”
Lorraine slumped at the head of the large country table, big enough for eight people, with Captain finding his usual spot at her feet. Like a moth to a flame, she went for the coffee mug already waiting for her. Patrick always prepared it the way she liked it: one part French vanilla creamer, three parts coffee and a mountain of whipped cream.
She picked it up and held it to her mouth, the hot brew tasting so divine on her tongue while the melting froth coated her upper lip. She licked the cream away, indulging on the first taste of sweetness in her otherwise unpleasant morning.
“What time is my flight again?”
Patrick divided the scrambled eggs and goetta between two plates and carried them over to the table. “You have an hour and a half before we have to leave for the airport.” He sat down next to her and placed the pepper shaker at the top of her plate before he took a sip of coffee.
Lorraine, smiled inwardly at the gesture. It wasn’t so much that he remembered she loved pepper on her eggs. It was more than that. Patrick had always been attentive to her likes and dislikes and she couldn’t help but feel that once she left for Ireland, there’d be no one there who’d see to them. She’d be solely on her own. While Patrick contended that being single was a great time to pamper herself, she maintained that it was a time to endure the many stages of loneliness.
She adjusted the bag of peas on her now numb forehead and after a few more bites of Patrick’s delectable breakfast, he rose from the table.
“I almost forgot. I have something for you.” He walked over to the counter and grabbed a small box, wrapped in green and silver wrapping paper, complete with a bright orange bow. To most, it would be an unsightly combination of colors, but to her, it was beautiful. No one got her love for Ireland the way Patrick did.
He sat back down and slid it across the table. “Thought you might need this on your trip.”
She looked at him, contemplating the contents of the gift, and then removed the make-shift ice pack from her head.
“It’s not much, but I figured I owed it to you.”
As a small upsurge of excitement bubbled inside her, she pulled off the bow and unwrapped the box. “You didn’t have to do this.”
Patrick laughed as he took another bite of his toast. “Yeah, I did.”
When she opened the box, she found a brand new cell phone. Her recalled the sudden death of her other phone. “Thanks.”
“I’ve already got my number programmed in there for you, so if you feel the need to call me, just press ‘two.’ And don’t even think of using this phone to call ‘dick smack’ because right now the phone is still in my name and if I so much as see his number on your itemized call list, I’m shutting it down.”
Lorraine’s mouth dropped open. “You don’t trust me?”
Patrick stuffed his mouth full with a goetta pattie. “Nope.”
She wasn’t all that shocked. Hell, she didn’t even trust herself at this point. Without Patrick being by her side, she probably would’ve accepted Jack’s call last night and listened to his cheap apology. What’s worse, she feared she might have even believed it.
“So, here are my rules while you’re in Ireland,” Patrick said, swallowing. “No calling Jack. No turning in before the sun sets. No wallowing in self pity. And above all, do something crazy at least twice a week while you’re there.”
“Crazy…in Ireland…”
“I know it’s not exactly Spring Break in Panama, but surely you can do something unexpected on the Emerald Isle. I want a full report the next morning when you do.”
Lorraine had to laugh. She was never the type to throw caution to the wind and do something out of foolishness. The likelihood of doing it in another country was slim to none.
Instead of dousing Patrick’s high hopes, she went back to drinking her coffee and eating her meal. It was better to let Patrick think she’d be daring, given he was footing the bill for this expensive vacation and wanting the best for her. To do anything less would seem ungrateful.
Patrick was the solid ground beneath her feet, her best friend—her only friend at the moment. No one could boast knowing more about her than he could. They’ve shared so much through the course of their lives and being with him felt as comfortable as breathing. The only aspect of their platonic relationship they hadn’t jumped into was the intimate part. Not that it didn’t ever come up or that they never found themselves staring into each other’s eyes for a few awkward moments before breaking away. It seemed inevitable that those moments would rear up from time to time, especially when two heterosexual friends lived under the same roof. But both of them seemed to be a little hesitant to make that leap for fear of ruining something precious.
Yes, Patrick was precious to her and being away from him for two whole weeks left a hard knot in her stomach.
She took the last bite of her food and leaned back in her chair. Retrieving the cool bag of thawing peas, she pressed it back upon her head and looked at Patrick who smirked like the devil.
“Vikings, huh?”
She scoffed. “You’re finally realizing how absurd that sounds? You’re the one who kept acting as if this guy in my dream was real, not me.”
“You never know…this Scandinavian could actually exist and you might just meet up with him in Ireland. If I remember correctly from all those history courses we had to take in school, the Vikings paid Ireland a visit every now and again.”
Lorraine rose from her chair, planting the bag of peas on top of Patrick’s noggin. “I think you need this more than I do.”
Patrick twisted around in his chair, watching her walk down the hall toward the bathroom. “Never say never, Rain.”
Chapter Three
Never say never…
Those words couldn’t have held more meaning for Lorraine than the day she stepped out the front door of the Man of Aran Cottage on Inis Mór, and looked out over the rugged terrain of the island. Never had she thought this day would come when she’d be standing in the middle of her favorite place, a country towards which she had a strong pull, despite her being born in America. Sure, she had an Irish surname to back up her bizarre fetish, but she hadn’t had the opportunity to get to know her ancestors as she would’ve liked.
Today, none of that seemed to matter. She was right where she had always wanted to be, despite her initial objection to Patrick’s therapeutic idea. Thirty-six hours ago she had dreaded this trip, feeling awful for the call she had to make to her boss at Molly Malone’s, if not being terrified of coming to a foreign country by herself. But now, as she drew in a long breath of fresh, clean, Erin air, laced with a hint of sea salt, she felt free, uninhibited by the stresses of her dull American lifestyle. Patrick would be proud.
Ready to take on whatever Ireland had to throw at her, she checked the belongings she had packed in her backpack; a camera, binoculars, a tourist pamphlet, and a much-needed raincoat in case the weather turned sour.
As far as she was concerned, the heavens could pour down around her and it still wouldn’t deter her from venturing out. This was Ireland and rain came with the territory.
A huge smile split her face and she took her first steps toward the one place she had been dying to see; the remains of the mighty Dún Aonghasa sitting on the daunting cliff’s edge. She had seen many pictures of it garnishing the covers of many Ireland coffee table books she owned, but nothing could compare to seeing it in person.
It took all morning and most of the afternoon to finally get to the prehistoric fort. As she lo
oked out from her perch, high atop the three hundred foot cliff’s edge, a sense of wonder and awe took over. Frozen in her shoes, she felt the cool Erin breeze blow through her hair, the roaring sound of the Atlantic crashing beneath her. She breathed it in, savoring it.
In Kentucky, the smell of clean country air was the highlight of the rural state. The rolling green hills spread out like a rippling blanket of fresh summer pasture. But if one wanted to smell the aroma of rain, sea salt, and dewy grasslands, Inis Mór was the place. There was nothing like it. The fragrance alone could make a person yearn to extend their stay on the isle. The breathtaking sight of the island’s long-standing presence amid the crushing waves of the blue sea and foam would make even the most casual of tourists want to take up residence here.
Yeah, she could live here. She could see herself abandoning her ol’ Kentucky home and starting a new life on the Emerald Isle.
A smile twitched the corners of her lips. Her mind went even further and she could see herself tending flowers in the window boxes of her white-washed stone house complete with red shutters and a thatched roof.
A blustery wind blew passed her, cutting short her idyllic thoughts. A familiar scent caught her attention.
Leather.
No, horse.
Crinkling her nose, she sniffed the air again, hardly expecting to smell it again. This time it was unmistakable. From living on a horse farm, she knew it well and loved that smell—that instantly recognizable aroma of warm, equine hide and soft, worn leather.
But here? On Inis Mór?
She had seen many tourists traveling on bikes, mini taxis, and even by horse-drawn carriages. But there was no possible way for any horse to draw a cart over the rocky terrain of the isle once it left the paved road. There were too many rock walls splitting the land in random quadrilateral sections, not to mention the hit or miss tufts of island horticulture hiding the rest of the islands’ notorious stones.
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