by Lila Dubois
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Lovers
Blurb
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
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Note from Lila
eBooks by Lila Dubois
Lila recommends … Lexxie Couper
Excerpt
They went to Tara.
The seat of the high kings of Ireland was now no more than grassy hills, but Michael took pictures of Mary that she could send back to her grandparents, then dropped to one knee before her and in his thickest brogue, pledged his honor as a member of the Fianna to her.
She played along, thanking him for his service and then demanding that he go slay her a dragon. Tutting at her lack of education, he explained that a proper member of the Fianna would be hunting Fomorians, not dragons. Those were just big snakes that lived in England and didn’t she know St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland?
“The timeline seems a little muddled.” She plucked tatty postcards from a rack in the small gift shop. “You’re saying that St. Patrick was a contemporary of the Fomorians and dragons?”
“You’ll ruin it if you insist on accuracy.” He shook his head in mock sadness.
“My apologies. Facts? Useless things.”
“You did say you worked in television, didn’t you?”
“Oh, that’s cold, Michael Baker. That’s cold, especially coming from someone who worked in real estate. Didn’t you and your friends break the whole world?”
“Fair enough.”
The next day they went to Trim Castle, which was now famous for having been used as most of the castles in most of the movies which needed imposing castles. The view from the top was unparalleled, and they stayed there long after the rest of the tour group had left, examining the landscape.
“And what’s that?” She pointed, dark hair whipping around her face despite the band she’d used to try to contain it.
“That’s a river.”
She rolled her eyes, then shivered as a particularly strong gust of wind ripped over the stone rampart.
Michael wrapped an arm around her. “That’s the River Boyne. It runs from its source in County Kildare and enters the Irish Sea near Drogheda.”
A day after that they toured graveyards and old stone churches in Kells. Once they’d studied the past, they wallowed in the present, eating a dinner of fish and chips out of oil stained paper bags, then stopped for a pint in a little country pub half way between the town of Kells and Glenncailty.
Mary set down the glass with a grimace. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
“Give it time, give it time.” The bartender leaned over. “Too long in America and your blood forgot.”
Mary eyed the pint of Guinness Michael had ordered her. “It’s so thick.”
“Well of course it is. And it used to be that even doctors would tell you it’s good for you, back before they got so fancy with their city ways.”
“Good for you? Really? It’s beer.”
Michael put a hand on his chest in shock. “Beer? That’s sacrilege.”
The bartender shook his head mournfully.
“It’s not beer?” She looked around, confused.
“Of course it’s not beer. It’s Guinness.” At her disgruntled expression, Michael took pity on her and ordered her a pint of Bulmer’s cider and took her Guinness for himself.
He dropped her off at Glenncailty Castle a few hours, and a second pint, later. The castle was cold and imposing, but Mary didn’t seem to care. Michael kissed her goodnight in the foyer, every ounce of willpower he possessed in use to ensure that he didn’t follow her to her room. As he turned to leave, he caught sight of one of the staff on the stairs. He paused, ready to say hello to Liam’s wife Kristina, but the figure wavered. What he’d thought was Kristina’s pale skin and hair was really silvery mist. The pattern of the carpet runner was visible though the translucent outline of the woman.
Michael’s heart leapt into his throat. It was one of the Glenncailty ghosts.
The woman’s head turned, gaze fixing on the east wall of the foyer. Michael shivered as a wave of anger and sadness washed over him. He realized they weren’t his feelings, they were coming from her. He’d seen things science wouldn’t explain before, but this was the first time he’d ever experienced anything this vivid. Looking at the hallway Mary had disappeared down, he wondered if he should go after her. If the ghosts were out, he didn’t want to leave her alone, and he had an eerie feeling the woman on the stairs was staring through the solid stone walls at Mary.
When he looked back the ghost was gone. Warily, he made his way to the second floor of the east wing. There were no ghosts lurking. He crept down the hall until he was just outside Mary’s room. Feeling like a fool—if a ghost came what could he do?—he positioned himself against the wall and stood guard throughout the night. His eyes were gritty and his feet aching before the first hints of light showed through the window at the end of the hall. Silent and weary, he finally left, sure the daylight would protect her. A few hours of sleep and then more then a few cups of tea should have him up in time to answer emails and do enough work that he didn’t need to return to Dublin. He could always cancel today’s date with Mary, but he’d rather suffer from lack of sleep than miss even one moment of her company.
* * * *
The woman watched the man standing guard over his beloved. Once a man had tried his best to protect and guard her. He was dead now, as was she. And like her, this woman would push her love away.
Prideful, foolish girl.
The woman had paid for her pride, her foolishness, with her life. Anger rose in the woman, anger and fear and sorrow choked her, a chain wrapping around her and binding her to this place.
My foolish little girl.
Lovers
The Irish Castle
The Glenncailty Ghosts, Book 2
Lila Dubois
Published 2017 by Book Boutiques.
ISBN: 978-1-946363-61-9
Copyright © 2017, Lila Dubois.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Book Boutiques.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is wholly coincidental. The names, characters, dialogue, and events in this book are from the author’s imagination and should not to be construed as real.
Manufactured in the USA.
Email [email protected] with questions, or inquiries about Book Boutiques.
Blurb
Mary Callahan doesn’t remember Glenncailty, or the handsome Michael Baker, yet she’s connected to both by a dark and dangerous past.
Returning to Ireland for the first time since she was a baby, Mary sets out to learn more about her parents who died in a car bombing, and the rural Irish town where she was born. Her first night at the Glenncailty Castle hotel is full of magic when she stumbles into the pub and meets Michael.
Wary of her sudden and intense feelings for him, she tries to keep Michael at arm’s length even as he introduces her to people who knew her parents. But there are dark forces at play in the castle, and Mary can’t shake the feeling that she’s being watched by someone…or something. When confronted by the past, she must decide if she’s willing to
risk her heart for a chance at love and a place to call home.
Previously Published
(2013) Farm Boy Press
Acknowledgements
Cover Artist: Valerie Tibbs, Tibbs Design
Prologue
Ghosts come in all forms—memories that linger, déjà vu in a child’s smile, and occasionally, when the combination of death and pain is just right, they appear as human forms made of smoke and shadow that walk among the living.
They wait and watch, looking for themselves in the living. Some mean harm, some want to help—to prevent others from making the mistake that condemned them to roam the earth. The lessons the dead have to teach are not always heard, but those who ignore the ghosts’ warnings do so at their own peril.
Chapter 1
A view like this inspired either romantic longing or bitter loneliness.
For Mary Callahan, it was both.
She rolled down the window of her rental car, letting in the cool, wet Irish air. She’d cranked up the heat when she got in and now the windows were fogged, making the misty morning seem downright gloomy. But the gloom didn’t dampen the romance of the view—rolling emerald green hills dotted with fat white sheep and quaint stone cottages. She took a breath, tasting the loam of the earth. The scents and landscape were foreign to her, and yet felt familiar.
Little by little the windows cleared. Outside, the silvery light fell over the small white flowers that dotted the foliage beside the road. The rain made the land sparkle, as if it weren’t raindrops, but diamonds, that fell from the sky. Resisting the urge to jump out and take yet another photo, Mary keyed her destination into the car’s GPS system.
“Glenncailty.” She keyed in the location, talking to herself to push away the loneliness. “Birthplace of one Mary Callahan.”
She’d been in Ireland a few days and painful experience had taught her that in a country without ZIP codes, and sometimes without street numbers, the best way to get somewhere was to ask, not to rely on a piece of electronic equipment the way she would have at home in Chicago. But on this deserted stretch of road there was no one to ask. And she wasn’t in the mood to approach a stranger and have a ten-minute conversation about the fact she was American—a dead giveaway once she opened her mouth—or where in America she was from. She especially didn’t want to answer questions about whether or not she had family here in Ireland.
With the GPS ready, and more importantly a printed list of directions on the passenger seat, Mary put the car in gear and headed deep into the Irish countryside in search of Glenncailty—the valley of the lost.
With each kilometer she found herself more enchanted by the Irish countryside. But that enchantment brought on melancholy. She was falling in love with something that was a part of her past, not her future.
She’d come to Ireland for The Gathering—the year when the Emerald Isle called all of her children home. And despite her protests that home was, and always would be, Chicago, Mary could not deny that some part of her belonged here. She was an Irish citizen.
Mary and her grandparents had emigrated after the death of Mary’s parents during the Troubles—a kind euphemism for the violence, bombings and murders that rocked the country in the latter decades of the 20th Century. She’d been raised in Chicago since she was two, and until now had never set foot in her native Ireland. When she was younger she hated her homeland, because every time her grandparents talked about it sadness settled over their little house. Mary was a proud American and had never planned to return to this place she didn’t even remember. Now, at her grandparents’ request, she was back, one of the hundreds of thousands of Irish emigrants and descendants who would “come home.”
And here she was, probably lost, looking for the tiny village where her parents had met and married. How appropriate that it was called the valley of the lost. Mary was feeling more than a little lost lately.
* * * *
Michael Baker smiled as the glen came into view. The valley was hidden away out in the Meath countryside, rural as could be despite its location only a few hours from Dublin. Narrow at the far end, it opened like a fan into an area a few miles across. The village of Cailtytown spread across the flat land. From the ridge where the road ran he could see the patchwork of fields with their dry-stack stonewalls, the too-narrow roads that wound through clusters of houses and shops. Farmland surrounded the town, making it seem like a little island of people amid a sea of green. As the glen narrowed, the fields grew wild, and at the narrowest point sat the castle.
Gray shadows fell over the old fortified manor house. Whatever it may have been, it was now and always had been known as Glenncailty Castle. When he was a child, Michael and his mates’ most daring adventures had been sneaking over to the castle and exploring crumbling buildings and peering in broken windows. It wasn’t until he was older that he realized the true danger they’d put themselves in. People, many of them children, had died wandering through Glenncailty Castle. For that reason it had been boarded up, and the fear of God put into the children of Cailtytown so that they wouldn’t go near it—not that it had worked.
All that had changed two years ago when Seamus O’Muircheartaigh, the owner of the castle, reopened it and started turning it into a posh hotel. The old stable had been converted into a nice venue for music and dancing, and there were rumors that the mews would become a spa.
It seemed strange to Michael that Glenncailty Castle might be anything other than an old, haunted ruin, but for the sake of those who lived in the glen he was glad. The recession had hit hard here. Most people in Glenncailty were farmers, and the fluctuating price of milk and grain had cut their incomes, threatening the whole village.
As he was about to turn left onto the road that led down into the valley, he caught sight of the car behind him, which was driving on the wrong side of the road. He honked and the car jerked into the left-hand lane. He turned off, then looked over his shoulder, a little worried about the other driver. He caught sight of a sticker from a rental company in the car window.
Maybe the parish council should put up signs reminding drivers from America and Australia which side of the road they should be on. Cailtytown had seen its share of people leave in the recessions—including the current one—so they were expecting more than a few of the diaspora to return home to their little part of Ireland for The Gathering.
Once he hit the town he waved at nearly every car he passed. Though he’d lived in Dublin since attending Trinity College, Cailtytown would always be home.
Pulling in to a little parking spot behind his family’s house, he took flowers off the seat and headed for the kitchen door.
“Ma, I’m here.” Michael shut the door, wiping his feet.
“Well, Lord love you, there you are.” Rose Baker rose from her seat at the table in the kitchen. It was comforting to see his mother, who was still young and beautiful in the eyes of her son, sitting in the same seat at the kitchen table she’d occupied all his life. “You’ll have a cup of tea, won’t you?”
“I’ll make it.” Michael’s words were brushed aside as she filled a kettle and set it boiling.
“These are for you.” He held out the thing he’d been hiding behind his back.
She accepted the flowers, turning the bouquet in her hands to admire the lilies. “And what are these for?”
“For you, because I love you.”
“Just like your father, a charmer.” She set to cutting the stems under running water and arranging them in a vase. “I’ll trust nothing you say now, as I’m sure you’re up to something.”
“Is that the thanks I get for bringing you flowers?”
“Enough out of you.” Her scolding was softened by a smile. “Do you want me to iron your shirt for the party?”
Tonight was a ceilidh—a party—to raise money for the son of a local family. The boy was in medical school and traveling to Africa to do relief work as a doctor while on holidays. As worthy as the cause was, the anticipated massive turn o
ut had more to do with where the party was being held than its purpose. The ceilidh would take place in Finn’s Stable—the massive stone stable at Glenncailty Castle. Once a haunted ruin, it had been renovated and revamped, becoming a beautiful performance and party space. In the past months it had hosted some very high profile concerts and events. This ceilidh was the first event hosted there by someone from Cailtytown, and it was a fair bet that most of the town would be in attendance.
Michael was going with his mother, at her request, but he had to admit that he might have come back on his own, as curious to see the place as anyone else.
“I was going to wear this.”
His mother cast a critical eye over him. “That’s fine, but I’ve got a shirt for you in the hot press. Let me just give it a quick iron.”
Michael’s lips twitched as he took a seat at the table, cup of tea in hand. There was little point arguing with his mother. Though he was a grown man, certainly capable of dressing himself, he’d never been able to convince his mother of that fact. He’d stopped protesting, knowing that she liked to take care of him, and with his father gone Michael was the only one she had to take care of.
An hour later, after a light supper—to hold them over until they got there, where they’d be eating again—and a change of shirt, Michael cocked his elbow.
“Would you accompany me to a dance, fair maiden?”
His mother scoffed at him, but she was smiling as he led her out the back door to the car.
* * * *
She couldn’t sleep.
Mary rolled over and bunched her pillow under her head. She thought she’d be over her jet lag by now, but it was two in the morning and she was wide-awake. After arriving at Glenncailty Castle—she was staying in a castle!—she’d been too tired to do more than go to her room and crawl into bed. Now she was up and couldn’t get back to sleep.
Part of her wanted to explore the castle—a big, stately structure that was actually three buildings. The main wing was the largest, and according to the website there was a library and billiards room the guests could use. She was staying in the east wing, on the second floor. The main building—or at least the foyer and hallways she’d been in—had been elegant and stately. Her room was a standard hotel room, though everything was of the highest quality. Mary had been somewhat hoping she’d be staying in an old drafty room complete with stonewalls and spooky noises. Her grandmother always teased her about her “American ways” and Mary bet wanting to stay in a ruin instead of a lovely, well-appointed room was her American upbringing coming out. Irish people were famously sentimental, but practical, and a drafty room was one in need of fixing, not a suitable place to spend the night.
