by Lila Dubois
Personally, Séan liked beef better and thought sheep were stupid. When Tristan arrived from Paris with expectations that he’d turn the restaurant into a major culinary destination, the chef had approached Séan about supplying meat.
Séan was a dairy farmer. His creamery had been in his family for over one hundred years, and he had seventy-five pedigree dairy cows. He’d always done a bit of beef, since there wasn’t use for bulls in the milking parlor, and he had the land. He also kept non-pedigree suckler cows, and all their offspring were reared for beef. He, like his father before him, sold the animals to Ruins’ butcher shop, where James butchered them and sold them to local markets. He’d never planned to raise animals for meat in a more serious way, but Tristan had changed that with his request. He and Tristan had struck a bargain and he now had more beef than dairy cows. He was raising and feeding the beef cattle organically and providing the meat—butchered by James—to the castle.
“You’ll have the first lamb in a few weeks. The ones born in January will be ready soon.”
“And the mutton?” Tristan asked. “It will make stew.”
At Tristan’s request, Séan now also had a small flock of sheep and two rams. He hadn’t sponged them—artificially inseminating them—so rather than having all the sheep pregnant and lambing at the same time, he’d had lambs born New Year’s Day and some born only a few weeks ago in the traditional spring lambing.
“I won’t butcher them until the summer. There’s only a few that are too old to get pregnant again.”
“Good, good.” Tristan wasn’t really listening. He’d taken the top off the cooler and pulled out the first of the vacuum-packed bags. There were the best cuts off two sides of beef in the cooler. The lesser cuts were back at James’s waiting to be sold if Tristan didn’t want them, though they’d dry-aged long enough that they’d be more tender than most.
“Beautiful, beautiful.” Tristan crooned at each piece as he pulled it out. When all the packs were laid out, Tristan shook his head. “How can an animal so big make so little meat?”
Séan raised his eyebrows. “There’d be more meat if you’d take it all.”
“I need more steaks, not flank meat. I want to have steak on the menu, not only as a special.” Tristan sighed, picking up the porterhouse and examining it. Tristan had demanded that James hang his meat for at least two weeks, and the dry-aging time showed in the color.
“You’ve said that before. Several times. You could get meat from one of the big—”
“No. No.” Tristan motioned to the meat and a flurry of chefs descended and began hauling the packs away. “I’m fine with my eight steaks per cow. Steak will be a special only for now. I have roast on the menu, and that’s all you Irish people seem to want. We are not open enough to need more. Plus, what is most important is that I know where my food comes from, that I can touch the cow that I will cook if I wish.”
Séan had no idea what was wrong with a nice roast and still didn’t understand the “local sourcing” Tristan was always going on about, but so far he’d made good money selling his beef to Glenncailty, so he hadn’t argued.
“I have something I want you to taste,” Tristan said, herding Séan out of the way of his chefs.
“I don’t go in for fancy—”
“It’s not fancy, I promise you. It’s an Irish curry. You are the simplest man I know, and I want your opinion.”
Séan looked at Tristan. The chef was a few years younger than him, and his glossy dark hair, perpetual tan and dark eyes made him seem as foreign and European as he sounded. Séan wasn’t sure if Tristan had meant to insult him or if it had been a translation issue, so he let it slide.
“Come into the dining room and try it. If you like it, I will use the lesser beef and make it a special tomorrow.”
Séan hadn’t eaten anything since he’d gone home for tea after the morning milking, and his stomach was letting him know that bread, butter and an extra strong two-teabag cup of Barry’s Irish Breakfast were not enough to hold him until dinner. A nice, hot curry did sound good.
He followed Séan through the maze of the kitchen to the swinging doors that led onto the dining room.
The Restaurant—Séan thought it was stupid that it didn’t have a proper name, but no one asked him—took up almost a third of the main floor of the castle. The large space was divided up by little half walls, and there was a bar toward the front, though he’d never heard of anyone popping in here for a pint, when the pub, with its relaxed atmosphere, was only a few steps away.
The muted colors and sparkle of glass and silver made Séan nervous. He rarely went someplace as nice as this. The last time he’d put on a tie had been for a wedding, and the time before that to take his mother to dinner for her birthday because his sister, a successful therapist in Dublin, had been out of the country, leaving it to Séan to make their mother feel special. He could have brought her here, but he’d gone to Navan instead.
As they entered the dining room, the muscles in Séan’s back and shoulders went tense. He could feel the darkness that clung to the walls, despite the impressive chandeliers overhead. It happened every time he entered the castle proper and was a constant reminder that under the polish and success of the hotel lay something unholy that no one would acknowledge.
He’d tried to protect everyone by shutting the place down. He’d failed, and looked like a fool doing it. He’d even convinced himself that he hadn’t seen the ghost, but the impression of darkness lingered. The tragedy he’d been prepared for—sure that something bad would happen—still hadn’t come. In his optimistic moments, Séan imagined that meant that the castle wasn’t haunted, but then he’d step inside. As soon as he did, the feelings of dread crept over him, and he knew that someday this house of cards would fall.
“Sit there,” Tristan ordered. “Give me only a moment and we will be ready.”
Séan dropped into a seat, fidgeting a little as he looked at the elaborate spread of silverware in front of him. He went to rest his arms on the table, but then thought better of it. He’d gone right from the barn to James’s butcher shop in town and then out here. He’d washed his hands somewhere along the way, but that didn’t mean the rest of him was clean. He could only imagine what Tristan would say if he got blood or manure on the starched white tablecloth.
“Hello, Séan.”
Sorcha approached, stopping on the other side of the table, hands resting on the back of the chair. She wore a black blazer with a small gold nametag on one lapel. Under that she wore a trim dress of spring green with a black belt. The dress made her hair seem redder, her eyes bluer. Séan rose, nodding slightly, but didn’t offer his hand.
His heart leapt at the sight of her. It always did, and he suspected always would.
*
Sorcha smiled her greet-the-guests smile. It was easy to hide behind.
Séan was standing awkwardly by the chair he’d risen from. He was rumpled, his shirt, pants and jumper showing signs of wear and even some old washed-in stains. There was a piece of grass stuck to the wool on his shoulder, his hair was a mess and his beard needed to be trimmed. He was out of place in the elegant and polished dining room, like he should be out in a field, green at his feet and blue sky above.
He looked good enough to eat.
Sorcha’s smile wavered, but she held it in place. She wanted those rough, work-worn hands on her skin. Wanted to rip the clothes from his body and feel the muscles beneath. With any other man, she’d take him home, get what she wanted and then walk away. But with Séan, she wouldn’t, couldn’t do that.
Her gaze traveled up to his face. His hazel eyes were flecked with green and when his gaze met hers, Sorcha felt it all through her body, as if he’d touched her.
“Good, good.” Tristan bustled back to the table, the maître d’ and a gaggle of servers following him. “We have new servers. Since you are here, they can train on you.”
Sorcha turned to Tristan, paying more attention to what he was saying than was needed, us
ing it as an excuse to stop staring at Séan as if she were going to take a bite out of him.
“Sit, sit.” Tristan waved his hands, then barked something at the maître d’ in French.
The maître d’ and Séan both moved to pull back her chair. The maître d’ made it there first, and Sorcha thought she saw Séan’s hand clench in a fist. At Tristan’s shooing, Séan sat too, looking more uncomfortable by the moment.
Tristan disappeared, and they were introduced to each of the new servers. Sorcha took careful note of their names. As guest services manager, she steered guests to the pub and restaurant when they checked in and more than once had escorted VIP guests to the restaurant, passing them over to the staff there with the care that was the mark of a true hotelier.
As they were introduced to Séan, he shook each person’s hand, giving them a hearty slap on the arm, which made most of them jump. Sorcha chewed the inside of her lip to keep from laughing.
One of the current servers was brought in and the three new staff huddled behind him as he started his introduction. Séan and Sorcha were handed menus and a wine list, though they wouldn’t be using either. Their server recited the special, which they both ordered. When he offered them wine to go with the meal, Sorcha accepted. She’d started work at six that morning and her shift was done. She was never really off the clock, especially since she lived on the Glenncailty grounds, but after this she planned to go back to her little cottage, make a nice cup of tea and put her feet up.
Nothing said she couldn’t have a glass of wine first, though it was only half-four.
“None for me, thank you,” Séan said. “But if you’ve a cup of tea, I’d have that.”
The server’s eyes widened in what Sorcha recognized as horror.
“He’ll have a bottle of water, sparkling,” Sorcha interjected.
Séan sighed. “No, I’ll have wine, then.”
The server nodded and shooed the trainees away, talking under his breath about what they were going to do next.
“Made a hash of that, did I?” Séan sighed, rubbing his whiskered chin. His eyebrows were drawn together, his mouth turned down.
Sorcha realized that she’d made him feel bad by correcting his order. “No, not at all,” she half-lied. “But normally people have tea or coffee at the end of a meal, not with.”
“People.” Séan crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. He was looking everywhere but at her.
She could have smacked herself. She was saying everything wrong—she, who normally never said anything wrong. “I mean, the people who normally come to The Restaurant.”
“So, not people like me.”
“Séan, I’m sorry, clearly I’m making you uncomfortable. Perhaps it would be best if I wasn’t here.” She set her napkin on the table, ready to leave.
Séan reached across the table. His palm hovered over her hand, and for a moment she held her breath, wondering if he’d touch her, but he didn’t.
“I’m being rude. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not, truly.”
“I am.” He sighed. “I hadn’t planned on this today, and I was thinking about the work I’ve yet to do.” He sat back, and for the first time seemed to really relax. “James will be sad he missed a fancy dinner with a beautiful woman.”
A little thrill went through her that he’d called her beautiful. “You mean James, the butcher’s son?”
Séan smiled and Sorcha almost fell out of her chair. He was a good-looking man when his face was set in its normal stony expression. When he smiled, he was magnificent—his eyes sparkled, his whole face coming to life.
“James is the butcher and has been for years, and he’s plenty angry that no one calls him that.”
“Ah, I didn’t realize, I’ll change—”
“No, don’t. It’s good craic to watch him grumble.”
“You must be friends, or enemies.”
“Friends it is. With this,” he motioned around the restaurant, “I see him near to every day.”
Sorcha looked around, not sure what he was talking about.
“The meat,” Séan clarified. “I supply beef to Tristan. James’s butchering a cow or two of mine almost every other day.”
“Of course, I’d forgotten.” She’d noticed that she’d started seeing Séan around the castle more but had refused to let herself think too long about why. When she did think about it, all the reasons were elaborate fantasies about him wanting to see her.
Just another reason to keep her distance from this man who enticed her so—she was dreaming about some great love story based on one encounter and one kiss.
A kiss she’d never forgotten.
Sorcha realized they’d fallen into silence while she brooded, so she gave herself a little shake and plastered a smile back on her face.
“And how is your farm?”
“Well enough. I’m raising more beef now, and I’ve brought in some lamb too.”
“Normally you have dairy cows, correct?”
The maître d’ and their server returned, along with their entourage. “My apologies for the delay,” the server said. “Our sommelier did not have time to identify the perfect wine pairing for this dish. We hope you’d be able to help us with that.”
“Of course,” Sorcha answered.
“We have two selections, and we’d like you to identify which you think is the better pairing.”
Sorcha and Séan watched as the server went through the elaborate procedure of opening the bottles. Before Sorcha could stop him, he poured the tasting sip into Séan’s wineglass. She bit her lip, not wanting him to feel out of place again, when he’d only just relaxed, but not sure how to get the wine from him without being rude.
Séan took the glass, swirled the wine, examined the color, smelled and sipped. After a moment, he nodded to the server.
Sorcha blinked. It seemed he didn’t need her help at all.
When they’d each been given two different glasses of wine, the staff melted away.
“You’re just full or surprises, aren’t you?” She motioned to the wineglass.
“Ah, not really. The first time I brought meat out, Tristan cooked up two of the steaks to test the quality. He brought out wine and taught me to taste it while the steaks cooked and then we ate steak and drank French red sitting in the kitchen.”
“That sounds delicious.”
“It was. And damned the man if he wasn’t right about all those flavors he said would be in the wine.” Séan shook his head, making Sorcha smile.
Taking his glass, Séan raised it over the center of the table. “A toast?”
Sorcha raised her own glass. “What are we toasting to?”
“Lady’s choice.”
“Well, then how about to Glenncailty Castle?”
His glass dipped and his face hardened. “I won’t toast to that.”
Sorcha remembered the wild-eyed man he’d been that night as he dragged her away, demanding that she leave because it wasn’t safe.
“To the people who work here,” he said, face still grim. “May God watch over you.”
Sorcha tapped her glass to his, then raised it to her lips and took a long drink, with less appreciation than the fine wine deserved.
The servers appeared with appetizers, though they hadn’t ordered any. Sorcha mulled over Séan’s words as the server taught the new hires how to introduce the dish, serve it and then follow up.
She had a citrus salad with roasted parsnip and Séan had salmon brûlée. He inspected the dish from several angles before shrugging and picking up his dinner fork. After a second, he sighed, put it down and picked up the salad fork.
They ate in silence for a moment before Sorcha cleared her throat.
“There’s something I want to ask you.”
He looked up, gaze a little wary. “Yes?”
“Maybe it’s not a question, but I want to understand something.” She took a moment to gather her thoughts and roll them into a sentence, not sure how to say
what she wanted. “You don’t like this place—the castle, I mean—because you’ve had encounters with the ghosts.”
There was a long silence before he said, “Yes.”
Sorcha waited, but it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything else. She needed to know more—needed to know what he knew.
“I don’t know if you remember, but not long after I moved here, you warned me about being here.” She spoke hesitantly, not sure how to describe their mad flight through the garden or the punishing kiss on the front drive.
“I remember that night.”
The way he looked at her made it clear that he wasn’t talking about his warning, but about the kiss that followed.
She dipped her chin, looked at him through her lashes. “So do I.”
He examined her, his gaze intense and heat-filled. A thrill went through Sorcha.
After she’d run from him, she’d been angry with him—for months, even going so far as to avoid him in town. She’d been angry because he’d swooped in and tried to take her away from something she loved, dared to tell her what to do, then he’d kissed her. She barely knew him, and the idea that he thought he had the right to tell her what to do and then use their attraction to manipulate her pissed her off.
Her feelings about the kiss were mixed. It had been the most intense kiss of her life, coming at a time when she was sure that there was nothing she didn’t know about kisses. She both craved and feared the feelings he’d raised.
But that anger had changed to something else after she met one of Glenncailty’s ghosts.
“I’ve owed you an apology,” he said.
“For what?”
“For that night.”
Sorcha looked away. Was he was apologizing for the kiss? The next thing out of his mouth would probably be an explanation that he’d been drunk or hadn’t been himself.
“It’s grand,” she said, not wanting to hear any more. “I was the one who insisted we dance.”
“Eh?” Now Séan looked confused. “I was apologizing for the way I acted, hauling you along like that.”
“Oh.” Sorcha forked up the last bite of her appetizer, pausing to chew and swallow before saying. “I thought maybe you were apologizing for kissing me.”
