by Lena Loneson
“Mrs. Connelly?” he asked.
“Ms. Connelly,” she corrected. “Widowed.” Her eyes blazed an accusation, as if he’d had something to do with her marital status.
“My apologies.” He pulled out the small talk. “This is a beautiful home you have. Are these roses?” He pointed at the thorns.
She nodded. “Thanks.” Her expression softened a little. Her dark eyes were unlike Nora’s, but not as unfriendly as he’d originally thought. “But you didn’t come to chat about my garden, now did ye?”
“That’s correct. I met your daughter, Nora.”
Surprise flickered over her eyes. Her nose twitched.
“She’s a lovely young woman,” he continued.
“That she is. Kind of you to notice.”
“Is she home? I’d like to see her.” He fingered the strap of his satchel. “I have something of hers to return.”
“She’s not. What is it?”
He reached into the bag, intending to pull out both the dress and the musical instrument. But if he gave them both to her mother, would he see Nora again? He was loath to give up everything he had of hers.
She’d want the pennywhistle back more than the dress. He should do the right thing and hand it over.
But it wasn’t as if he were stealing it. He would give it back. Eventually. Into her tiny, white hands and no one else’s.
He pulled out the white dress. The shock on the woman’s face surprised him.
“Where did you get that?” She snatched it from his hands. Her fingers felt the tears in the fabric. The unfriendly look fell away from her face as her wrinkles deepened in worry for her daughter. She was a mother, he realized, like any other, not some creature guarding the gates to hell.
“Nothing happened,” he said. “It ripped while I was pulling her from the water.”
Mary Catherine stared at him, eyes wide with horror. “What do you mean?”
“When she was struggling in the water, her dress was tangled around her. I had to tear it to get her settled against me. The waves were so strong.”
Her face was a rictus of fear. Her hands twisted the white fabric between them. How had he thought her merely unfriendly? This woman was terrified for her daughter. Because of him? No, he realized, thinking back to the conversation at the pub about Nora’s father’s drowning. Perhaps it hadn’t been idle gossip. “She didn’t tell you, did she?”
Nora’s mother shook her head.
“I’m sorry, I made it sound worse than it was. It was just a small accident in the water. Nothing to worry about.” Not a suicide attempt, he wanted to tell her. Not a curse. Just a young woman who had waded in too deeply one night during a bad current.
But the words, spoken aloud, would sound like a lie.
“She’s well?” Mary Catherine asked.
He nodded. “Very well. She’s a strong girl. Got a mind of her own.”
“I heard her come in late last night, the wind howling when she opened the door, but figured it was just another last-minute gig. I saw her this morning for breakfast as usual. She seemed tired, but otherwise…nothing.” Mary Catherine’s fingers shook. She bundled the dress into a ball and tucked it under one arm. Eamon reached for her hands with one of his own, stroking hers gently. Her hands were normal, he noticed, long nimble fingers with only human webbing between them. Not like Nora’s at all.
“Will you be okay?” he asked. She nodded. “Can I do anything for you?”
“Nay. Unless you see my daughter. Tell her to come home early tonight.”
“I will. You’ll give her the dress?”
“Yes.”
“Tell her I stopped by?”
“Indeed.” Then she paused and withdrew her hands from his. “Your accent—what is it?”
An odd change of subject, but he answered. “Irish, originally, by way of Canada. I’ve lived there for the past twenty years. It’s my home now, though I still love the old country.”
Her faced closed off again. Their shared moment of worry over Nora had been erased. She raised her chin, staring at him with those dark eyes. “Don’t you be taking my daughter from me, now,” the woman said. “She’s all I have left.”
He nodded, because he didn’t know what else to do, and said goodbye before turning away. As he walked down the front steps he heard the door close lightly behind him. Though he didn’t understand why, Eamon knew that Mary Catherine wouldn’t be telling Nora about his visit.
Chapter Eight
Back at the hotel, Eamon dejectedly wandered through the gardens, dictating short, halfhearted notes to his voice recorder and snapping photos with his cell. These were memory aids—The Antitourist would either fly in a photographer or hire someone local to get the shots later. It was a bit unusual, but the Icelandic volcano had messed up their plans.
“A hedge maze. Is that new or do I just not remember it from last time? Check notes from previous article.” Surely Keelin would have made him run through the maze with her if it had existed back then. It was exactly the sort of thing that would have suited her sense of whimsy. But then, they hadn’t been at the castle for long enough to discover everything. The twisted twigs of the maze cast sinister shadows. “Could be a setting for possible paranormal activity not covered in original piece? Ask around.”
He thought about wandering into the maze, but that might not be the best idea with the sun going down. He snapped another photo of the sun settling behind the maze walls. “Use the maze symbolically? Could be a framing point for the article. Tullamore’s hallways are mazelike as well, and there are rumors of a secret passage. Check into it. Maze equals ability to lose yourself, particularly if marketing to couples. Lose yourself and emerge anew at Tullamore? Rediscover your love?”
Could he cover the paranormal adventure aspect and the romantic getaway notion in the same article?
The place did an have eerily romantic feel about it. He stopped outside the maze and looked back at it. How deep did it go? It could be a great place for a couple to get lost intentionally. Find a private corner of the maze. Were the hedges prickly or soft? He’d like to back Nora up against one, press her into the leaves and take her mouth with his.
He shouldn’t be thinking of Nora.
How would he find her again? Skulk around outside her mother’s cottage until he caught Nora exiting? He didn’t think Mary Catherine would take it well if she caught him. She’d already basically accused him of wanting to abduct her daughter and take her back to Canada.
The beach was promising. He could go for a walk there again tonight. See if she came back for the pennywhistle. Where was the line between charmingly forward and stalker?
His thumb flicked over the voice recorder, turning it off. He pocketed the recorder and his cell. He wasn’t going to get any more work done this evening, at least not by himself. And his feet were seriously starting to ache. He couldn’t ignore them any longer.
Eamon took the winding garden path back to the hotel once more. He was becoming far too familiar with the various plants and stonework in this area of the grounds. Instead of entering through the back of the castle, this time he made his way through to the front lobby. He needed some human contact to jolt him out of his mood, even if it was just a smile and nod at the evening check-in clerk.
The lobby was bustling with noise. He’d forgotten it was Friday evening—a much more popular check-in time than when he’d arrived the day before. A starry-eyed couple in casual clothing handed over a wheeled suitcase to a bellhop, and another couple in cocktail attire rifled through brochures of local restaurants. Three businessmen in suits waited in line, and behind them was a woman he thought might be an American actress and a couple with a preteen daughter. The girl’s eyes were wide as she stared around from one detail to the next—the opulent chandeliers, the original castle stonework surrounding the doorways and the incredibly detailed stone and metal sculptures from a traveling art exhibit that were scattered across end tables. Eamon’s face, twenty years ago, had
probably looked the same as the girl’s when he’d first walked into Tullamore with his new wife on his arm.
Just what he needed—more nostalgia. He picked up his pace. Time to get back to his room.
A loud crash behind him jolted Eamon out of his reverie. He spun around to see one of those sculptures hit the ground, the bronze creation landing sideways on the plush rug. There was no one within three meters of the table. What had knocked it?
Didn’t matter—not his concern. He had started walking again when a cold wind blew across his face. What the hell?
He looked back at the sculpture. The closest people were the cocktail-attired couple. He met the woman’s eyes to see if she knew what had happened. She shook her head, baffled, her meticulously wavy hair swaying over her shoulders. Her husband moved forward to examine the statue. It wasn’t broken, so he set it back on the table. As he moved, a breeze ruffled the brochure in his hands, drawing Eamon’s attention. He looked more closely at the brochure.
On the glossy paper, there was a photo of three women on a stage—a fiddler, a singer and a dark-haired beauty holding a pennywhistle. It was her.
“May I see that?” Eamon asked, striding toward the couple.
“Honey,” the woman said, gesturing for her husband to hand over the brochure. She had a Swedish accent.
“Oh, right,” the man replied. “You been to The Cave yet? We were down there earlier. It’s wicked.” He spoke like someone far younger than his years or his elegant outfit would indicate. Eamon took the brochure in his hands. “Like an old dungeon. Chains everywhere. Awesome.”
“And the food, it is incredible,” the woman said.
There Nora was, right in the photograph. The brochure had pictures of The Cave, which he’d seen before—it was a pub set inside an old dungeon in the castle basement. It served as a restaurant or a place to dance, depending on the night. What caught his eye on the brochure was a list of their current entertainment lineup including, every Saturday, traditional music from theGrainne O’Mailles.
Eamon grinned and waved the brochure at the couple. “She would have a band named after a female pirate.”
“Who?” the woman asked.
“Nora.” He was still grinning like a proud lover, as if she were someone they should know. He glanced down at the brochure again. One of The Cave photos depicted old dungeon elements blended into the décor. Did those shackles still work? Could he clasp them around Nora’s lily-white ankles, crouch between her legs and make her beg for his tongue?
“Well, I hope you enjoy,” the Swedish woman said. “We will see you there tomorrow, perhaps. He still must try the black pudding before we leave.”
“Not a chance,” the man said. “She’s dreaming.”
As they waved goodbye, Eamon continued to smile like a fool. This wasn’t just lust for the near-drowned woman anymore. He was committed now. Maybe it was the challenge. She’d captured him. He couldn’t be in love with a woman he’d just met—he’d known love, with Keelin, as a long-simmering passion, and this was different, something lighter, newer. And this would only be a short fling before he left for Canada when the ash cleared and the planes were ready to fly. But he wanted to see her again more than anything.
The squealing laughter of a preteen girl jolted him out of his musings. Watching the people at the desk checking in, hopeful and eager, made him think back to holding Keelin’s hand as they’d entered the front gate of Tullamore. Her palm had been warm and sweaty on a hot summer day. He’d thought to himself, I’ll never let go. And he’d meant it. At that moment, he’d thought he’d hold her hand until the end of time.
He couldn’t be truly interested in Nora. He’d promised to hold on to Keelin. And he had. No matter how many beds he’d woken up in, how many lips he’d parted with his tongue, no one had ever come close to claiming his heart. It was already spoken for.
It was sex he was after, that was all. If he was drawn to her in particular, it was because of the experience they’d shared when he’d pulled her from the waves. Adrenaline heightened the attraction between two people. He knew that. He’d written an article once about adventure tourism, and seen how many new couples, formerly strangers or friends, hooked up after hang gliding, going on a safari or white-water rafting. It was natural. And she was gorgeous. Any man in his right mind would want those strong, slender legs wrapped around his and would want to stare deeply into her ocean-blue eyes as he thrust into her.
And he planned to do just that tomorrow night.
Chapter Nine
He wouldn’t be there tonight.
Nora wasn’t going to think about him. All she had to do now was chose her outfit for the performance tonight. The task was nothing unusual. No big deal.
She shouldn’t let herself get flustered and excited. She shouldn’t be imagining seeing him in the crowd as she played. She shouldn’t be thinking of how she’d kiss him afterward. Yes, he was staying at Tullamore, but what were the chances he’d happen down to The Cave on the night she was playing? He could be up to anything—at the hotel, in the village, somewhere else entirely. Even if he saw a poster for the concert, the last time he’d seen her, Nora had been wet and bedraggled. He might not even recognize her. And even if he noticed her, he might not come. He might be angry about how she’d run out on him right after their kiss. That had been her goal, after all.
There was no reason to think he’d spend the ensuing two days remembering that kiss, daydreaming about her mouth the way she’d thought about his.
And if he was there, why should she care? She was going to stay away from him. She didn’t need a fling this week, not when she was so confused about her own actions, throwing herself into the water. Not when her dreams of the watery depths got more intense, night after night.
So she didn’t care if he was there. Right? Absolutely. She wouldn’t even scan the audience for his face.
What should she wear?
It was her regular Saturday night gig at The Cave, where she made excellent tips from the foreign travelers who stayed in luxury hotels like Tullamore. Nora could dress herself for this in her sleep. She should look sexy and energetic, for the upbeat jigs that got the lads drunk and made them open to tipping, but also look sweet for the laments that set her apart from the other performers, that brought tears to the sea of eyes in the audience and, of course, more tips. Her look was wild, with her hair loose, but also tamable. Something that spun when she twirled. She knew the drill.
But tonight she was having more difficulty.
Would he be there? The man from the sea?
Did she want him to be?
No, of course not. She wouldn’t even think his name, let alone say it out loud. He was banished from her brain.
Eamon.
Well. That hadn’t lasted long.
It was that blasted dream from last night. Normally the man in her dream was a shadow. This time, the man in the sea had a face. It was strong-boned and half-unshaven, red stubble scraping against her skin. They floated in the water, waves pushing them lightly back and forth, entwined in each other’s arms. Every so often, she’d move a leg or an arm to keep them afloat, or he would do the same. They were both naked, and she ran fingers down his chest, delighting in the red curls of hair scattered over his strong pectorals. He whispered in her ear, his breath hot and fast. He liked the way her hands and feet were built for floating like this, scooping the water in their webs of skin. His stomach pressed into hers and they dived together, down into the depths of the sea, where they would make love against the sandy bottom…
At least until her mother had woken her up with a shout from the kitchen, for bacon rashers, eggs and toast.
Nora closed her armoire. She could decide on clothing for the evening’s performance later.
Mary Catherine was normally jovial in the mornings. She was a much earlier riser than Nora, who couldn’t deal until she’d had her cup of tea with milk. The kitchen echoed Mary Catherine’s cheerfulness—it was painted bright yell
ow. Nora would prefer something more subtle, but she had to admit it made her smile.
This morning, she was the only one smiling. When she entered the kitchen, Nora saw that Mary Catherine was a storm cloud, moving fast between the fridge and the stovetop.
“Morning, Ma,” Nora greeted her. She rubbed at her eyes as her stomach rumbled.
Mary Catherine dropped an egg on the floor and swore in Gaelic.
“Well, you’re in a mood, aren’t you, Ma?” What could have set her off? Nora had stumbled in late the night before from a night of practice with the Grainne O’Mailles. The women were working out a new arrangements of traditional jigs to keep their set from getting stale. After her near-drowning adventure on Thursday, Nora hadn’t been able to sleep, so getting through the practice had been torture. At one point she’d nearly jabbed herself in the eye with one of her whistles.
What had happened to her D whistle? It hadn’t been anywhere on the beach that she could see when she’d gone back for it. Swept out to sea, perhaps. She was sorry to have lost that one. It had been custom-made and plated with silver.
Mary Catherine wordlessly flipped bacon in the cast-iron frying pan. “Ma, really now, what’s got into you? Too much whiskey with the boys last night?” Her Ma hated whiskey, which was why Nora loved to tease her about that.
Mary Catherine stopped cooking and turned. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes were red from crying. Nora’s lips lost their smile. “What is it?”
“What do you think?” the older woman said, her voice quavering.
“I truly don’t know, Ma. Please tell me.” Nora moved forward but her mother dodged the hug. Mary Catherine pointed at the kitchen table. The walnut surface was bare of anything except placemats, dishes and a teapot. No, she wasn’t pointing at the table—the white dress hanging on a chair by the table.
Well, shit.
“I can explain—”
“Nora, how can I protect you if you won’t tell me what’s going on in your life?”
