King of the Castle

by Heather Graham

  “Justin! What do you think you’re doing?”

  He didn’t glance her way. “You can’t stay here alone.”

  Instinctively she fought him, taking the things from the suitcase and shoving them back into the dresser. He moved to the closet. She followed suit.

  “Justin, I’m not leaving! I have to stay. Don’t you see? I don’t understand what happened to Michael, and I don’t understand what happened…between us. I have to find the answer. Can’t you try to understand that?”

  She grabbed his arm, forcing him to pay attention.

  “I understand,” he said briefly, and then he returned to his task.

  “Justin, stop it! I’m staying.”

  “Fine.”

  “Then what—”

  “Kit, you’re coming to the castle.”

  She stepped back, gasping. “I can’t!”

  “You have to.”

  “What would people—”

  “What would people say? Is that it? Has that been the crux of all this? What would people say if they learned that precious Katherine McHennessy had a child by the O’Niall?”

  She opened her mouth and stared at him, then shoved hard against his chest, sending him backward into the closet. “No! No!” she shrieked furiously. “That isn’t it—not this time, Mr. O’Niall. You’re the one accused of murder! And by your own admission, you’ve already had police and private investigators crawling down your throat! I was thinking of you, you stupid idiot!”

  Surprised, he stepped out of the closet. He tried to put his hands on her shoulders, but she shook him off.

  “Kit! I didn’t kill her, and, no, I don’t give a damn what people say, because I know the truth!”

  Kit shook her head. “I don’t want to come with you, Justin.”

  He backed her against the wall. His voice was soft, though his face seemed ravaged, taut, a pulse beating heatedly in his throat.

  “You said you love me, Kit.”

  “I do.”

  “Then…?” He whispered the word tensely, bitterly.

  “This! This packing! One minute you don’t believe me, but the next you’re dragging me around, supposedly to save my life.”

  “Good God, girl, I’m worried about you!”

  She lowered her head. She wanted to touch him, but she was too miserable to reach out. I’m afraid, she wanted to shout. I’m afraid of what I don’t understand. I’m afraid that you’ll take my son away, prove me a liar in his eyes. I’m afraid that I love you too much, that our passions run too deep, that there’s no way to cross the distance between us….

  “What is it, Kit? For the love of God, what is it?”

  She couldn’t speak, and when she finally reached out to touch him, he was gone.

  CHAPTER 9

  The air in the pub was stuffy with smoke, but it was warm inside and full of laughter. A dart game heavy with friendly competition was taking place in one corner of the room, and two of the old-timers were deep in a game of chess.

  As he watched the action surrounding him, Justin brooded ruefully about his home. He loved it. He knew that he came from a clannish people—any Irishman was passionate, opinionated and clannish—but this went deeper than just being Irish. This place was special. A man never had to lock his car in Shallywae; the elderly were never left to struggle along on pensions, nor were they ever sent to institutions. A man loved and respected his parents and his grandparents here. And a man, any man, was loved for the simple fact that he was one of God’s creatures. No hungry traveler was ever turned away; the hospitality of the ancient kings lived on.

  But now murder had darkened the air for the second time in eight years. And both murders involved him.

  “Think, man, think it over again.”

  Justin leaned back and took a long swallow of his beer, shaking his head and running his fingers through his hair. “There’s no one who knows,” he told Barney at last, lifting his hands helplessly.

  Barney sighed. “I canna be wrong.”

  Justin leaned forward across the table again, a shock of dark hair falling across his forehead. “I don’t think you are, but, Barney, think about it—it’s frightening. Day by day, all our lives, we’ve been living with a—a madman. Someone who walks and talks and smiles, someone who acts like a friend. Someone psychotic enough to murder innocent women. And we don’t know who! Damn it, we don’t know who!”

  Barney drew a finger up and down his nearly empty glass, looking warningly over Justin’s shoulder. Matthew O’Hara and Timothy Dalton, a couple of local farmers, were coming in. They both tipped their hats respectfully to Justin, who smiled and waved in return.

  She’d say it was because I’m the O’Niall, Justin brooded with a scowl. He didn’t think that was it at all. He’d lived here all his life, and he’d gained a fair amount of recognition as an architect. His name and face had even appeared in several magazines. These were friendly people, and they were pleased when one of their own did well.

  Barney raised his pint glass to the busy barmaid. “Meg, ye lovely peg o’ my heart! May we have another here?”

  Meg Flaherty, fifty-five years young if she was a day, flushed at Barney’s warm words and served their drinks.

  When she was gone, Barney lowered his voice again. “Liam’s watchin’ her now?”

  “He is.”

  Barney chuckled suddenly. “Now, ye know the lass would really be panicked if she thought she was bein’ followed night and day.”

  “Then what are we to do, Barney? I can’t take the chance of not having her watched.”

  He shrugged. “No, that ye can’t. If we could just put our fingers on the truth here…” His voice trailed away, and he cleared his throat. “Who was around back then?”

  Justin arched a brow. “Everyone. Myself, Liam, Doc Conar. Young Doug, Molly.” He paused unhappily. “Old Doug, but he’s always been…”

  “Senile,” Barney supplied dismissively. “And Molly has been working fer ye forever. And—”

  “Young Doug. Douglas Johnston,” Justin murmured, feeling slightly ill. “Mike goes off with him every day.”

  “Justin!” Barney reached forward to shake his arm. “The boy is in no danger. Never has been. The boy is the next O’Niall.”

  Justin exhaled. That was true. If there was something to Kit’s theory, Mike was in no danger.

  He suddenly tightened his fingers around his glass until they turned white. What the hell was going to happen here? He didn’t know how much longer he could stay away from her. Nor did he know how long it would be before he went rushing to the boy—his son—to sweep him into his arms and blurt out the truth.

  A pulse twitched in his chest, and he swallowed quickly, trying to hold down his confusion and despair and anger. What was so wrong between them that it couldn’t be righted? He didn’t want to say anything; he knew that he was dealing with a child’s fragile sensibilities. But she wouldn’t be rational, so what was he to do?

  She couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t let her. Not again. But he was afraid that she would. She liked New York, her work, her independence. Would she ever consent to a life in an isolated backwater like Shallywae, however quaintly attractive it might be?

  Barney smiled. “’Twould make life easier all around if ye could watch the lass yerself, Justin.”

  Dark, angry eyes rose to his. “I told you, Barney—”

  “Well, son, now surely, ye’ve devised buildings that defy the earth and sky. Can ye not devise a way back into her good graces?”

  Justin didn’t answer right away; he leaned back, drumming his fingers against the heavy wooden table. “Am I such an ogre, Barney? Tell me, is it wrong to cherish the life of someone you love?”

  Barney chuckled. “Which do I answer first? All right, Justin O’Niall. You are self-confident, determined—well, pig-headed. And no, ’tis not bad to care. What yer lacking, Mr. O’Niall, is the tact to listen carefully and pretend to agree, then do what you think necessary anyway.”

&n
bsp; “Oh?” Justin arched an imperious brow.

  Barney dared to chuckle again. He noticed that Justin’s glass was nearly empty again. He lifted his hand to Meg, asking the other man, “Do ye need another?”

  “Yes. I’m ‘devising,”’ Justin retorted.

  “And what might ye be devising?”

  “A way back in.” He swallowed a mouthful of beer. “A stab at humility,” he promised solemnly.

  * * *

  The fire crackled in the hearth. Chewing the nub of her pencil, Kit stared into the flames.

  It was an exceptionally windy night. The howling wind seemed to hold the small cottage in a vise, like the mouth of a dragon.

  Mike was upstairs, sleeping. Kit herself was dressed in a warm, belted velour robe and her fuzzy slippers. She didn’t look sexy, she knew. But then, there was nobody to look sexy for.

  It had been a week—a full week!—since Justin had walked out the door. At first she’d cried, then she’d gotten angry, and finally she’d gone into a deep depression from which she hadn’t yet entirely emerged, though she’d tried.

  She had worked like a maniac for the majority of the time. Thanks to Julie McNamara’s assortment of books, she’d been able to put together a large number of diverse facts and theories, then form her own opinions. She’d made a list of “must have” photographs for her own book, and an outline for combining fact, fiction and current travel information into each chapter. She was pleased with her work, and pleased, at least in that respect, that she had come here. But on the personal side…

  With a sigh, she set down her pencil. She couldn’t work anymore tonight. Work was a balm, but when the restlessness settled over her, she knew she had to give up.

  Honestly, she chided herself in silence, you don’t even have the sense to be afraid! All you do is think about him, not about the murderer who’s still out there somewhere.

  Kit stood up and wandered over to the fire, automatically stretching her hands out to it. She bit her lip against the sudden onslaught of pain that assaulted her. It was awful, she thought miserably. She missed him so badly, and in so many ways. For years she had just waited, almost like a dormant flower. And she had gotten by, day to day. But now…

  She missed him because she wanted to talk to him. To point out something, to ask a question. She missed his slow, lazy—yes, arrogant—smile. She missed his warmth, his fingers curling around hers. She missed his eyes, his voice, the lilt that came back to him in excitement or anger.

  She missed being loved.

  She felt almost immoral for wanting him. She wanted to run her fingertips along his arms and across his chest, wanted to touch the crisp, enchanting darkness of his hair.

  She missed his kiss sliding along her spine…his whisper against her cheeks, his lips covering her breast. She missed him inside in a way that made her ache and yearn, and she marveled at the way that merely thinking about him could make her shiver before a blazing fire.

  How many times had she almost forgotten everything and walked over to the castle? And why hadn’t she? It would be so easy to apologize. So easy…

  And yet…what for? Apologizing couldn’t solve what lay between them. Could anything? At this moment she was desperate. If she saw him, if she just had him before her at this very moment, she might forget that they were from two different worlds, that time would be their enemy if what he really wanted was a woman he could rule and command. That her love for him would die forever if he hurt her son—their son—in any way.

  Her fingers were trembling uncontrollably. She squared her shoulders, thinking that she could fix herself a cup of coffee with brandy and calm down, at least enough to sleep. Enough to make it through another night.

  She didn’t quite make it to the kitchen, though. The moonlight falling on the lawn caught her attention, and she walked over to the window. All Hallows’ Eve was barely a week away. The thought made her shiver, and she wondered again why she didn’t just leave. But she knew why. She had to be here. She had to find out….

  Find out what? she wondered wearily. Nothing had happened since she’d found the doll. And Michael McHennessy had been dead for so long now.

  Kit looked around the room, shaking her head with regret. The room, the cottage, should have reminded her of Michael, but she could barely picture him here. Of course, they had never sat in the parlor together. They’d barely arrived when he’d disappeared.

  She smiled with sweet nostalgia, remembering their few moments upstairs. And then her smile faded painfully, because his words were what she remembered most: the story of the virgin who was given to the priest, to the goat-god.

  And then Molly had told her that the O’Nialls had been the kings, and before that, the priests….

  Kit walked decisively into the kitchen. She poured her coffee, added the brandy, then moved out to the living room again. The coffee was hot, and she drank it quickly. She needed its solace.

  No good. She wanted Justin. Nothing else would do.

  A movement drew her attention to the window. Instantly she tensed, set her cup down beside her and ran over to the window.

  There was nothing outside but the darkness. Bracken and grass lay flat, crushed by the wind, a wind as old as time.

  Kit realized that she was still shivering. She pulled her robe more tightly around her, then closed the drapes and frowned. It wasn’t exactly true that nothing had happened since the incident of the doll.

  She was certain that she was being watched again. Watched and followed. She never left the cottage in the dark, but on Tuesday she had driven to Cork, and she could have sworn she had been followed. She’d tried to convince herself that it wasn’t true. After all, Justin had laughed at the idea.

  Damn him anyway! He was supposedly worried about her, but where the hell was he? She had thought that he would come back. She’d hoped; she’d prayed. But there had been no sign of him.

  With a weary sigh, she lay down on the couch and watched the fire. After a while, her eyelids began to droop, and she felt herself slipping into a doze.

  The dream came again.

  She was surrounded by mist, and she could barely see, because it was so thick. The wind was moaning like a hellish chorus, loud and anguished. Beneath that sound, though, she could hear movement: footsteps, coming toward her.

  She couldn’t move. At first she thought she was paralyzed, but then she realized that she was tied. Her wrists and ankles were bound to a slab of stone….

  Just like the doll. The doll with the angry red ribbon of blood around its neck. Like the doll, she was naked and bound on an altar of stone, and someone was coming nearer and nearer….

  She opened her mouth to scream, but her scream never came. It was Justin.

  He, too, was naked. Naked and graceful as he came toward her through the mist. She could see his eyes, see his striking satanic smile.

  He was coming closer, coming to her. She didn’t want to scream anymore. She wanted to reach out to him.

  Then the mist passed between them again, and he wasn’t Justin anymore. He was the creature. The goat-god. The priest in the cape and the mask, with the horns and the evil leer.

  The wind had died, and what she heard now was chanting. She realized that they were all around her; Liam and Barney, Molly and Douglas and Old Doug, Meg from the pub and even Julie McNamara. They were smiling, looking at her, saying words in a language she couldn’t understand, repeating them over and over….

  The god was almost upon her. He towered above her, reaching inside his cape. His arm suddenly rose high into the air, slashing it. She looked up and saw that the moon was glinting on an object. Glinting and glittering…on a knife. A huge broad dagger with a silver edge. A dagger that dripped blood…

  “Ohhh!”

  Instinct brought her awake before the dagger could fall. Shaking, she lowered her legs to the floor and covered her face with her palms. And then, before she could really react to the terror of her dream, she was jolted into full alertness. There w
as someone coming up the walk.

  Kit stiffened, then jumped to her feet. She felt dizzy, and she wished fervently that she hadn’t drunk the spiked coffee. She looked at the clock over the mantel. It was nearly midnight. No one would be coming at this hour to make a social call.

  She brought her knuckles to her lips as the footsteps drew closer. Desperately she looked around the room. The only possible weapon was the poker from the fireplace. She grabbed it hastily and waited, her body strung as tensely as wire.

  There was a soft tapping at the door.

  Compelled, Kit moved toward it, wide-eyed, her fingers wound tightly around the poker.

  The tapping came again. Harder. More insistent.

  She stepped closer to the door, barely breathing. If it was someone on legitimate business, he would go away when she didn’t answer his knock. And if not…

  What if the whole village was in on it? she wondered in wild panic. What if Justin was their goat-god and they were all ready and willing to serve him, eager to cast her into the sea?

  “Kit! Open the bloody door! Let me in!”

  “Oh!” Panic and tension eased out of her. She was relieved, because of course she didn’t really think that…

  “Kit—” he demanded.

  She swung the door open, the poker still at her side. Immediately, she got a potent whiff of him. He smelled of cherry tobacco and the dark beer served in Meg’s pub. His hair was an unruly mess, with one lock of it almost covering his left eye. His smile, crooked and rueful, was devastating, and he wobbled slightly in the doorway.

  “Justin…”

  He bowed. “Excuse me. Mrs. McHennessy, please, may I enter?”

  “Justin, you’ve been—”

  He cut her off, stepping in, eyeing the poker in her hand with an arched brow. “Please?” He reached for the poker. “I haven’t been that rude, have I?”

  Still smiling, he walked—or swayed—over to the fireplace and set the poker back where it belonged. Then he turned to see her staring at him, wide-eyed, wearing a pair of absurd red fuzzy slippers that at least matched the color of her velour robe.