The Irish Castle: Ghosts

by Lila Dubois

  He shouted as he came, his teeth closing around her shoulder. Sorcha didn’t mind the little stab of pain. She liked it.

  He shuddered, his hips slowing and then stopping. He released her and her legs slid from around his waist, though she was still pinned to the wall by his body. His shuddering breath rattled in her ear. Sorcha ran her hands lazily over his back, wincing when she felt the raised lines of welts her nails had made.

  “Sorcha.” There was a note of concern in his voice. He eased back just enough to look at her.

  “Séan.” She took his face in her hands and placed a light kiss on his lips. A lump rose in her throat and her eyes prickled with tears. She willed them away, forcing a smile as she said, “That was amazing.”

  He tucked her hair behind her ear. “Yes, it was.”

  They stayed that way for a moment, hands cradling one another’s faces, gazes locked. “You’re not what I expected,” she said.

  He frowned. “I didn’t mean to hurt you or scare you.”

  “You didn’t. I liked it…very much.”

  And then her kind and thorough lover who was so much more lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed, where he lay down beside her.

  “Next time I’m going to touch you everywhere.” He pressed his hand to her belly, his fingers long enough to span the space between the lower swell of her breasts and the upper curls of her sex.

  She wanted to say, next time? But she bit the comment back, not wanting to introduce any awkwardness. Instead she drew him down for a gentle kiss and then let him tuck her up against his side before he drew the covers over them.

  Chapter 4

  An Old Trouble

  She was late to work the next morning. She wasn’t set to start until nine, but she’d been wakened at eight by a sexy man, and something that good shouldn’t be rushed. It wasn’t until she was jumping out of the shower after a very pleasurable thirty minutes in Séan’s arms that she realized he’d been up for hours.

  She looked at his clothes as he pulled them on, puzzlement knitting her brow. “That’s not what you were wearing yesterday.”

  “I got up to go do the morning milking.” He looked around uncertainly, then sat on the small dressing chair in her room. He seemed relieved when it held his weight.

  “You got up, went to milk cows and then came back.”

  “I showered.” He looked up, eyes wide. “I promise you, I showered.”

  “That’s not what I’m worrying about. I just can’t believe you came back.”

  His fingers stilled on his laces. “I should have asked. I’m sorry.”

  Sorcha chewed her lower lip. Normally she hustled men out the next morning with a smile and a wink. She didn’t want to do that to Séan. He was too kind, too good.

  “I’m glad,” she said, a little scared at how true it was.

  He stood from the chair, now fully dressed, and started to awkwardly make her bed. All his surety from last night was gone. Now he seemed wary of her feminine room and furnishings. She hadn’t bothered with much, since the cottage was not a permanent home. She’d settled for nice carpets to keep her feet warm, a few pretty pastorals and paintings depicting the strength of women in past times. Her dressing table had her make-up and perfume bottles, while a lace runner covered the top of her chest of drawers. Remembering what they’d done there last night brought a blush to her face.

  She opened the armoire and pulled out a dress, slipping it on. Before she could do it herself, Séan was at her back, tugging the zipper up. He was slower than she would have been, and his presence made her want to give up on work for the day and crawl back into bed.

  He brushed her hair aside and kissed the back of her neck. Sorcha closed her eyes for one indulgent moment, then spun away.

  “Enough of that now,” she scolded him, pulling on the jacket that matched the dress. She’d do without stockings. She slipped her bare feet into her flowered rubber boots and picked out a pair of black heels to carry with her.

  Séan looked at her feet. “Those aren’t proper boots.”

  “They’re just to keep my feet dry from the morning dew.”

  Séan shook his head. “A bit of wet never hurt a body.”

  “It does hurt €200 leather shoes.” She winked at him and left the bedroom.

  “Jaysus, that’s how much shoes cost? Now I know why my sister is always saying she’s no money when she makes plenty up in Dublin.”

  Sorcha took her nametag from the counter and clipped it on. She checked her watch and winced. If she was smart, she’d say goodbye to Séan and run for it.

  Apparently she wasn’t that smart, because she said, “You’ve a sister in Dublin?”

  Séan must have seen her check her watch because he grabbed his wallet and keys from the table, stuffing them quickly into a pocket and holding the door open for her. “Yes, she’s a therapist in Dublin.”

  They spoke of his sister as they walked briskly towards the castle. As they approached, Sorcha found her steps slowing. She was reluctant to leave him.

  “And your mother, she’s well?” she asked.

  He seemed to blush at that, and she imagined it was because the woman he’d just well and thoroughly fucked was asking him about his mammy.

  “She is, thank you for asking.”

  “She’s in the village, isn’t she?”

  “Aye, living in our family house.”

  She’d heard that his family owned what had once been the parochial house. It was a beautiful old stone building that sat alone in the fields, with all but the roof of the barn hidden by high trees and wild bushes. Though it wasn’t on the way into town, she’d driven out that way a time or two, curious.

  He lived there…with his mother.

  “Your mother won’t be missing you for breakfast?”

  His blush deepened and Sorcha bit the inside of her cheek. It was common enough for people to stay with their parents until they married, allowing them to save up enough money to buy a house or land when they were ready. But the stereotype of the bachelor farmer living with his mother was a long-running joke that usually painted the boy as either too lazy to leave the comfort of his home or too awkward to find a girl. Séan was neither of those things.

  “Your mother’s lovely,” Sorcha said, smiling up at him. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting her a time or two.”

  He just nodded, a blush still on his face. They’d reached the east wing. Sorcha planned to slip in through the pub. She stopped at the door and looked at Séan. It was time to say goodbye.

  She put her key in the lock, then turned back to Séan. “Thank you, for everything.”

  He studied her for a moment. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Don’t you have to go home?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll go back when I need to, but I’m not leaving until we talk to Seamus about…” He jerked his head toward the main wing.

  “Oh, of course.” After the pleasure of last night and then again this morning, she’d forgotten the reason she’d broken her own rule and let Séan into her bed. The residual pleasure she carried from his touch, as well as the momentary assumption that he’d been staying for her, withered up and died. “I’ll check in with Elizabeth. You’re welcome to wait in one of the rooms off the lobby. We’ve never had any problems there.”

  “I’ll go to the kitchen, see if there’s anyone willing to feed me.”

  Sorcha smiled her greet-the-guests smile. “Of course. I’ll look for you there as soon as I have an answer.” She unlocked the pub door.

  “Sorcha, wait.” He mounted the steps in two long strides. He took hold of her arms, forcing him to face her. “I said I was sorry last night, about what has to happen, and I am.”

  “It’s hardly your fault.”

  He shook his head. “There’s no pleasure in being the one to bear bad tidings. But I don’t want that to come between us.”

  “Us?” There was a flare of something—some emotion—in Sorcha that she stamped down. “I’m
so sorry, but there is no us.”

  Séan took a step back and she could see the hurt in his eyes. “I know you’ll leave when Glenncailty closes…”

  “This has nothing to do with that. I enjoyed your company and you enjoyed mine. Let’s part as friends and remain friends.”

  His gaze pierced her. “I don’t feel friendly toward you. I feel like I could take you in that pub and fuck you for hours.”

  Sorcha licked her lips. His words were hot, erotic and indecent in the sunny morning light. “Please watch your language. This is my place of business.”

  “You’re right, and I’m sorry, but I won’t let you walk away.”

  “Glenncailty is closing.”

  “That won’t happen in a day.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, desperate to escape before she gave in. “I’m not interested in a relationship.”

  “I’ve heard.” He looked away. “I’ve heard that every man who enters wants you and that some of them you take to bed, but never for more than a night.”

  Shame dropped over her like a wet, dirty cloak. “How did you…it’s none of your business.”

  “Isn’t it? Because every time I saw a man looking at you I wanted to tear him limb from limb.”

  Sorcha caught her breath. He’d said last night he’d wanted her ever since they met, but she’d had no idea how deep his feelings ran.

  All the more reason to get away.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She jerked open the door and slipped inside, pulling it closed and locking it behind her.

  * * * *

  Séan scrubbed his fingers through his beard. He’d trimmed it, and his face felt lighter and cooler. That was probably good since it was hot as Hell’s waiting room in the kitchen. They were prepping for lunch in the pub and dinner in the restaurant. Tristan had a black bandana wrapped around his head and he barked out orders like a general. Occasionally he’d lapse in to French and start gesticulating with a knife, which was alarming.

  Séan had been relegated to a corner of the kitchen, where he was sitting quietly and trying not to think about Sorcha. So far he’d failed miserably.

  He had no idea how this morning had gone so wrong. Last night was amazing, and this morning he’d sped through the milking to get back to her. She’d been so beautiful sleeping in the dawn light, her hair all the colors of sunset, her skin like fresh milk.

  “Séan, move.”

  He jerked back as two men hustled past him. Another of the chefs, a girl he’d gone to primary school with, leaned over and said, “Séan, you’d best go into the pub for now.”

  “Right then.”

  Feeling like a lumbering fool, he took the stairs down to the underground hallway that led to the pub. He climbed the stairs on the other side, emerging in the stockroom surrounded by shelves of bottles and rows of kegs. He slipped through the door and ducked under the bar, waving at the bartender. He took a seat at his normal stool. The bartender paused in prepping the bar back to pour him a cup of tea. Séan nodded his thanks. He avoided the castle as much as he could and when working kept to the kitchen, but he’d spent many a night in the pub.

  Thinking about that led him back to thinking about Sorcha. He sipped his tea and tried not to remember the feel of her breasts in his hands or the sounds of her quick breaths and moans as she came.

  He stared down in his tea, oblivious to the sounds of prep going on around him. It wasn’t that he wanted Glenncailty to close, but there was no choice. He’d always known the castle was a dangerous place. Seamus’s exorcism hadn’t changed his mind about that.

  But there was something he needed to do before the castle closed. It was something he’d needed to do for a long time. He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about it until just now.

  Séan set his empty mug down, not noticing the clack and rattle as it tipped over. He left the pub, headed into the castle. Passing through the covered hallway that connected the east to main wing, he kept going, pushing open doors with a determined air. His boots thumped over the black and white stone blocks of the foyer as he went through the lobby. He sped up as he passed the parlors and library on the west side of the main castle, following the hall that led to the west wing.

  He paused in the covered hall, his hand on the door to the west wing. What was he doing? Séan pulled his hand back, looking around in confusion. He started to turn, but then he remembered there was something he needed to do, something he’d been waiting to for a long time.

  He entered the west wing. It was a hotel hallway, the same as any other. There was patterned carpet, beige paint and evenly spaced doors. The far end was an exposed stone wall with a glass window that let in the spring sunlight.

  He took the stairs to the second floor. He paused there, looking down the hallway at the far wall. On the second floor the hallway was cut short, ending not in stone and glass, but in another nondescript beige wall.

  Séan’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together. He needed to do this. He’d needed to do this for such a long time—lifetimes, really.

  Hands clenched into fists at his side, he walked down the hall, each step measured and slow. As he got closer he could see it—a darker patch in the paint, a large rectangle roughly the size of a door.

  He put his hands on the door, hidden away but not forgotten. Everyone knew it was there, knew that this part of the castle had been locked away, walled up in an attempt to forget.

  No longer.

  He needed to see for himself, to know. He would bury his dead.

  Blinding rage filled Séan. His muscles and skin burned with it, and his vision tunneled until all he could see was red. He raised his fists and smashed them into the wall. Pain radiated up to his elbows, but he’d punched holes in the plasterboard. He grabbed the ragged edges of the holes he’d made and pulled, ripping the plaster apart with his bare hands. When pulling didn’t work, he raised his arms again, rage fueling him as he slammed his fists through the wall.

  * * * *

  Sorcha frowned as she watched Séan walk through the lobby. He rarely came into the castle. She waited for him to turn and see her, to come up to her and continue the conversation they’d been having this morning, but he did neither. He walked with a quick determined stride, not at all like his normal slow, measured walk. When he went into the west part of the main castle, she frowned, confused. What was he doing in there? He didn’t strike her as a billiards player.

  She finished up with the customer she was checking in. She walked the guest to their room above the pub, then went in search of Séan. He wasn’t in the formal front room, billiards or rose room.

  That only left the west wing itself.

  She opened the door between the covered hall and the west wing and was greeted by the sound of banging and tearing. The worry that she’d been fighting off since she’d seen Séan morphed into alarm. She tore up the stairs, following the sound.

  “Séan!”

  He was at the end of the second-floor hallway. She watched as he raised his fists and brought then down on the wall. His whole body shook from the impact, and when he pulled back he’d punched holes in the already crumbling plaster. There were flecks of blood standing out against the pale paint. She could see the bunched muscles of his shoulders and arms straining at his shirt. Rage radiated off him in a palpable wave. Sorcha caught her breath, and for a moment she wanted to turn and walk away.

  “Séan, what are you doing?”

  He didn’t hear her, or didn’t want to respond. He kept going, tearing at the wall, tossing steering wheel sized pieces onto the ground behind him. He’d created a hole about four feet across. In it she could see wood framing, and behind that stone and brick. Her fingers trembled and she curled her hands together to stop the shaking. The hall was lit by sconces positioned between each door. It was normally plenty of light, but there were shadows where none should be, and the bulbs in the sconces were flickering.

  Her gaze was drawn to what Séan was exposing. Logic said the
re was no way to ignore a whole part of the castle that was simply inaccessible, and yet that’s what they’d done. She’d been here when they’d renovated this building—she knew what the wall covered but didn’t know what lay beyond it.

  All those thoughts whipped through her mind in a matter of seconds. Forcing down her fear, she ran to Séan, her heart thumping so loud it nearly drowned out the sounds of his demolition. “Séan, what are you doing?”

  No response.

  “Séan.” She touched his shoulder.

  He whirled to face her. His chest was heaving and plaster dust covered his shirt and arms, clinging to his sweat damp face. His knuckles were shredded, his hands streaked with blood.

  But it was his eyes that scared her. There were black. It was as if his pupils had dilated so wide that it obscured his irises all together.

  She fell back a step. “Jesus protect us. Séan…your eyes.”

  He didn’t react to her words or her presence. He turned back to the wall. Reaching into the hole he’d made, he took hold of a piece of the wood framing and pulled. The wall groaned, cracks appearing in the paint. He paused for a moment, then heaved, roaring. The lights dimmed and Sorcha feared they go out, but Séan released the wood, panting, and the lights brightened.

  He threw his head back and bellowed, frustration etched in the tense lines of his neck. He slammed his fist into the wall over and over, relentless as a jackhammer.

  Sorcha scrambled back, terrified. She fumbled for her walkie-talkie. “I…I have a problem. West wing, second floor. Get Elizabeth…and get Seamus.”

  He took hold of the wood again. The wall was groaning, bowing out as Séan heaved and pulled. Creeping forward in the flickering light, Sorcha touched his shoulder again and this time when he faced her, his teeth were bared.

  “Ná cur isteach orm.”

  “Ná cur isteach orm.”

  Don’t interfere with me.

  The words scared her as much as the look on his face. This wasn’t Séan, it was almost as if…