A Celtic Witch (A Modern Witch Series: Book 6)

by Debora Geary

  His daughter grinned and beelined the newcomer’s direction, still dressed in her winter woolies. Marcus would have grabbed her—except he could barely breathe.

  The new arrival wasn’t quite as shell-shocked. “I’ve taken your chair, have I? Come on up, then.” With competent hands, the woman began peeling Morgan out of her jacket and heavy sweater.

  The ease was leaking back into her mind.

  Morgan reached out for the curls framing her new friend’s face. “Pwetty.”

  “As are yours, little one.” A gentle hand touched Morgan’s frizz of red, and then green eyes looked up at Marcus. “She’s lovely.”

  He dug his voice out of eternity’s trashcan. “Her name is Morgan.”

  “Ah, that’s a big name to live up to.” The stranger smiled down at his girl and then glanced up again. “I’m Cassidy Farrell. Most people call me Cass.”

  His ears listened through a thick fog.

  Moira chuckled quietly from the couch. “The big oaf there who’s lost his voice is my nephew Marcus.”

  Even embarrassment leaked only slowly through the fog.

  Small fingers slid into his. “Come sit down, Uncle Marcus. As soon as Aaron gets back, we get to have some scones. Is Morgan big enough to try one yet? Pretty please?”

  Fog vanished as parental responsibility crash-landed. Rescued by a seven-year-old. Marcus clutched Lizzie’s hand, holding tight to his portal back to reality. “She can have a little nibble of yours. Just a small one.” A boon for his savior.

  Morgan would survive a small dose of sugar. Probably.

  Lizzie’s eyes opened wide. “Yay! C’mon, Morgan. Let’s go find Uncle Aaron!”

  His daughter agreeably hopped down from the stranger’s lap and followed her surrogate sister down the hall. Marcus watched them leave, bereft.

  Nothing to shield him from green eyes now.

  “Come have some tea.” Sophie spoke from the old writing desk, mind full of quiet sympathy. “I have chamomile or one of Aunt Moira’s special blends.”

  He always had chamomile. Simple tea for a simple man. “I’ll have the blend.” Today didn’t feel simple.

  Sophie poured from a bright green teapot and glanced over at her books. “I’m tracing the lineage of mugwort healing, if you want a research project.”

  Not a trace of the laughter in her mind appeared in her voice. He reached for the mug she offered. “I’m sure Kevin would be delighted to help.” His tone wasn’t quite as dry as he’d meant it to be. He was pretty sure she sought clues to help her boy. And if she truly wanted his help, he’d make the time.

  There were rules to belonging.

  A soft Irish lilt shaded the conversation coming from over by the fire. Moira, entertaining their guest. Something akin to gratitude tickled at Marcus’s ribs. In their easy, competent way, they’d slid him out of the limelight and into a corner where he could watch.

  They understood him very well.

  Marcus sank into a chair, feeling comforted. And vulnerable. And a whole host of other things that hadn’t been part of his life until very recently.

  He glanced over at their visitor, echoes of her mental signature still reverberating in his head. He’d never felt someone so… alive.

  It called to him. And it terrified.

  He took a shaky breath and lifted the mug to his lips, hoping it was one of his aunt’s calming blends. And then set it down again. The patter of feet in the hallway signaled the return of two small girls.

  The precipice that was Cassidy Farrell would have to wait—he had a daughter to tend to first.

  -o0o-

  She was getting her feet back under her. Literally. Cass sat cross-legged, tucking bare toes under her balls of yarn, and tried to fight the universal Irish fondness for a good bout with destiny.

  She was here to relax, not to dance with a difficult man the rocks thought she should fancy.

  And most certainly not to topple head-over-heels in love with his child.

  She glanced his direction, her fingers working their way into the soft yarn. Seeking comfort.

  He’d taken off his enormous winter coat and left an impressive pile of black wool in the corner behind him. The sweater underneath was positively cheerful by comparison—a lovely teal blue that looked knit by very talented hands. Moira’s work, perhaps. Celtic knots, a beautiful tangle of them.

  Somehow, the black had suited him more.

  Morgan toddled over and held out her hands, offering up some unseen treasure. The big man leaned over, his smile cracking a face clearly not used to happiness.

  If she’d had her fiddle in her hands, Cass would have played the melancholy dark sounds that told of the unsmiling man in black. And Rosie would have insisted on adding the odd, jarring notes of teal wool and smiles at small-girl treasures.

  And the way all of them tugged on Cassidy Farrell’s soul.

  She turned her back on Marcus and his daughter. Ignored the steady, insistent singing of the rocks and her own traitorous Irish heart. Men with babies weren’t casual stops on the road. And anything more wasn’t possible.

  Cass leaned over to the plate beside Lizzie and picked up a scone. She was here for rest and relaxation, nothing more. Three weeks of doing exactly what she wanted. A little music, simple pleasures, and wandering where she willed.

  A refueling before she gave her life back to the music.

  She bit into the flaky goodness in her hand and closed her eyes in worshipful silence.

  A very good start.

  Chapter 6

  “Well, now, and isn’t that interesting.”

  Sophie shut her herbals logbook—clearly she wasn’t supposed to be getting any work done this day. Not that she was surprised. Cassidy had just left with Aaron to choose herself a room, and Marcus had taken Lizzie and Morgan over to the church to pick new library books.

  She’d never seen a man quite so happy to be going to the library.

  Sophie hid a smile and glanced casually at their beloved and very nosy elder witch. “What’s up?”

  Moira picked up her knitting, a very satisfied smile on her face. “Perhaps you might drop a wee note to Nell on that laptop of yours. Save an old lady needing to trundle out into the cold to do it.”

  They’d given Moira a laptop for Christmas—and she steadfastly refused to carry it anywhere. “And what is it that Nell needs to know so urgently?”

  Green eyes twinkled enough to blanket the night sky. “That we’ve fetched our witch, of course.”

  Sophie stared. “Witch? You scanned her?”

  “Of course not.” Moira raised an eyebrow. “You think I need such a thing to tell when one of my own has power running in her veins?”

  It would be a waste of air to point out that not all the Irish were related. Moira adopted people with relish and little regard for pesky things like genetics. “You’re sure?”

  “Can’t you feel it? The rightness of it?” Moira’s knitting needles clacked meditatively, her voice the soft, lilting one of her girlhood. “And didn’t you see her eyes when she saw our Marcus?”

  Ooooh, boy. Getting left in the dust by an old witch again. Either that, or Irish mysticism was running amok this afternoon. That had been known to happen too.

  Sophie squinted at the happily knitting witch on the couch and tried to catch up. She’d mostly been watching Marcus, and that had been plenty fascinating. “Wait. You think we’ve fetched an Irish witch, and you already have her snuggled up with the grumpiest bachelor on the planet?” Which wasn’t an entirely fair description of Marcus these days, but still—the mind boggled.

  And wasn’t entirely impossible, given his reaction to the lovely Cassidy.

  “Aye.” Moira’s smile was positively dreamy.

  Sophie teetered between dismay and laughter.

  Green eyes sharpened her direction. “What, an old woman can’t enjoy thoughts of romance now and again?”

  It wasn’t the thoughts that worried Sophie. Certain old women were
known to be inveterate meddlers. “I don’t know about Cassidy Farrell, but Marcus will spit nails if you try to interfere.”

  “There’s no need.” Moira was back to gazing mistily at her knitting. “The fates are working now, and I don’t think they’ve any need of help at the moment.”

  Sophie wasn’t as convinced of the fates as their resident mystic—but she didn’t entirely discount them, either. “For now, she’s only a guest at the inn.” Her witchy status and future love life were entirely hypothetical.

  And yet oddly appealing.

  “Ah, now you’re seeing it, aren’t you?”

  In her romantic teenager heart, yes. The adult healer still thought this was insane. “He practically ignored her.” In between occasional growls.

  “Indeed.” Moira’s needles were speeding up now. “But his eyes drifted her way often.”

  It chagrined Sophie to realize she’d missed that—after giving Marcus a graceful way to hide in the corner, her attention had largely been for their intriguing guest. She traced the rich old letters on the front of her herbals log. “Really.”

  “Aye. She’s a woman used to having an audience, that one is.” The words were pensive, thoughtful. “Used to being looked at.” A tiny smile lit Moira’s face. “But I think perhaps she’s not used to being seen.”

  The mystic was in full dudgeon today. But that didn’t mean she was wrong. Sophie considered the words carefully. If Moira was right, the next few days could get rather interesting.

  Fisher’s Cove was very good at seeing people exactly as they were.

  -o0o-

  The inn might be in the middle of nowhere, but Cass knew a world-class innkeeper when she met one.

  Aaron qualified. Outgoing, easy welcome, and laidback competence. And if the scones were any indication, Dave’s rival in the kitchen.

  She might leave that last part out of her report back to Margaree. Or not—the Scots always appreciated a little friendly competition.

  Aaron pulled out a couple of forms from behind a gorgeous vase of flowers, eyes twinkling. “I can offer you pretty much any room in the house. Will anyone be joining you while you’re here?”

  Cass lifted her violin case. “Nope, just me and my fiddle. Will it be a problem if I practice in my room? I can keep it to standard daylight hours if I might disturb anyone else.”

  Aaron’s eyes lit. “You play?”

  “A little.” Her automatic answers kicked in as she leaned over to fill out the guest card. “You listen?”

  “Yeah.” He shuffled papers behind the desk. “My grandparents live just outside of Margaree on Cape Breton. I spent summers with them as a boy. If you haven’t been out that way, some of the best fiddling in the world happens in that town.”

  She looked up, intrigued by the connections. “I just came from there. Dave at the Normaway Inn sent me your direction.”

  “Wow.” Aaron grinned, clearly honored. “I’ll see if I can whip up something for breakfast tomorrow that can hold a candle to his porridge bread.”

  She’d landed in the right place—her certainty was increasing by the minute. “Don’t worry, I’m not a picky eater. Just a hungry one.”

  “Noted.” He took her guest card, glancing at the details. And then his jaw dropped. “Oh, my God. You’re Cassidy Farrell.”

  Okay, maybe this wasn’t quite the end of the earth. He most definitely knew who she was. “Yeah.”

  “I knew I’d seen your face somewhere.” He took in her battered violin case with new eyes. “And that’s Rosie.”

  Shoot, the last thing she needed was some innkeeper fretting about keeping her instrument safe. One too many articles about her million-dollar fiddle. The last guy in Maine had nearly driven her to drink. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep her close by. She’s my responsibility.”

  He looked at her blankly.

  Damn, she was getting paranoid in her old age. “Sorry. Some people seem to think she’s the queen’s jewels or something.”

  “Ah.” He smiled and handed her a room key. “Those would be perfectly safe here too. Everything will be, whether you choose to lock your door or not.”

  She grinned. “I usually forget.” The Irish were not big on locks and keys.

  “Then you’ll be right at home here.” Aaron came around the desk and picked up her bag. “Your room’s on the second floor. It’s one of our smaller ones, but very cozy, and the best view in the house.” He headed up the stairs. “And it’s right above the desk here, so I might catch a few notes if you decide to do some practicing.”

  He meant it. No stars in his eyes—just easy appreciation. The kind of fan she found in Margaree and not nearly often enough anywhere else. “That sounds perfect, thanks.”

  His smile was growing on her already. “There’s nobody else here right now and we live in the cottage beside the inn, so feel free to play at whatever hours move you.” He took the stairs two at a time, just like her brother Rory.

  Cass picked up Rosie and followed him. “I might take you up on that—I’m a bit of a night owl.”

  He turned around on the top landing, eyes twinkling. “Well, you might find my wife or me wandering around then too. One or the other of our twins is often up in the wee hours.”

  She never minded company. “If you’d enjoy it, I’ll bring my fiddle down to the kitchen later.”

  The quick pleasure in his eyes told her what she needed to know. She’d be spending a lot of time in the kitchen.

  It wouldn’t be a hardship.

  She stepped through the door of the room he indicated and realized that it wouldn’t be a hardship either. Fluffy white sheets and colorful hand-knit throws pulled her, body and soul, toward a bed that was a tired musician’s dream.

  Comfortable furnishings, bright splashes of color and old photographs on the walls, and a squishy round rug under her feet. “Oooh.” She turned back to Aaron. “I’ll be staying a few more days than however long I told you.”

  She hadn’t said, and they both knew it. But she knew her innkeepers—he’d hear it as the compliment she meant it to be.

  He grinned and backed out of the room. “You wouldn’t be the first. There’s food, fire, and curious villagers downstairs any time you want.”

  She laughed. And, indulging her inner six-year-old girl, made a leap for the bed.

  The landing was as soft as she imagined.

  Relaxation in full progress. The man in the teal sweater and the rocks that thought he might be hers would just have to wait.

  She had a nap to take.

  -o0o-

  For the first time in months, Marcus had no idea what to do with himself.

  And a slightly crazed need to do something. He’d grown used to his nice, predictable days. Ones that didn’t involve strangers with green eyes and a mental signature that was still haunting his head.

  He glared at his daughter, sound asleep in the corner. Abandoned in his time of need.

  And then his brain caught up with its own ridiculousness. Morgan was fed and sleeping and his house was mysteriously empty of visitors, swarming children, or little old ladies looking for a cup of sugar or the latest gossip.

  A miracle of major proportions.

  Tiptoeing a tad belatedly, he made his way over to his easy chair and settled in with a very satisfied sigh. Peace. Silence and a new library book.

  And an enormous, flashing icon on his laptop screen. A neon-pink one.

  Marcus groaned—very quietly. It had clearly been too good to be true. He leaned over and squinted at the flashing pink. Urgent! Duel Issued!

  He hadn’t visited Realm in months. Gaming was not designed for people with mobile babies. In the time it would take him to plan a decent invasion, Morgan could probably eat half the plant life in Fisher’s Cove.

  He typed a quick reply. Go away.

  Ginia’s preteen grin popped up on his chat screen. “Can’t. I need you.”

  He hastily turned down the volume. “I don’t have time for duels, Warrior
Girl.” Especially ones with the world’s best ten-year-old programmer. “Isn’t there anyone else left for you to pick on?”

  She snickered. “I don’t want to duel you. I need you to be my partner. Realm’s having a tournament.”

  He knew better than to take innocent looks at face value. “And why exactly would that be happening?”

  “We planned it.” She shrugged. “It’s winter and all. Witches are bored. Besides, you can’t be a parent all the time—Mama says that would make anyone crazy.”

  He wasn’t certain a trip to Realm was the cure for that. And he was most decidedly not bored. “Well then, how about you go find a partner who needs some excitement in their life and let me get back to the only hour of relaxation I will probably get all winter?”

  Her eyes lit up. “You have a whole hour?”

  “You aren’t listening to me, youngling.” He added a growl, expecting it to be entirely ineffectual. Nell Walker’s daughters didn’t scare, any of them. “Go find somebody else.”

  “Can’t.” She tapped the pink spellcube. “We’ve already been challenged.”

  He had no desire to spend his one free hour trampling over some dumb gamer silly enough to challenge Realm’s top two players. “I’m sure you can crush the upstarts without my assistance.”

  “Not a chance.”

  He frowned—Warrior Girl had wicked gaming skills, and she knew it. “Who issued the challenge?”

  “Kevin.”

  The boy was developing a nice game—but he was no idiot. Marcus felt disquiet creep into his gut. “And who’s his partner?”

  She looked at him sideways. “The Wizard.”

  Disquiet landed with both feet. “Your mother’s in the tournament?”

  “Yup.” Ginia grinned and added a shine spell to her sword. “She said Kevin made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. And she has a right to wrong. Something about librarians and bushes.”

  Demon wings and bat dung. “Your father’s playing too?” The Hacker’s exploits were legendary in any gaming era.

  “I told you. Everyone’s playing.” She glared at him down the full length of her sword. “And I don’t intend to lose.”

  He made a brief wish that one day Morgan might have a fraction of Ginia’s confident grace. And then gave in. A duel might even keep his mind off of green Irish eyes.