The Witch's Journey

by Leigh Ann Edwards

  She walked to the door, shaking with emotion.

  “This is the safest place for you, Angelique.”

  “Maybe, but not for you if I’m here.”

  “So it seems,” he said in a low voice.

  She struggled to control her usually guarded temper.

  “I’ll go to an inn. Danhoul can accompany me.”

  “You’re overreactin’, Angelique.”

  “Did you honestly just tell me I’m overreacting?”

  He seemed uncertain.

  “Wanna tell me to calm down, too?”

  “Clearly, I’d like you to calm down.”

  “You’re a freaking expert lover. You know exactly what to do with a woman’s body, but not so much in defusing a volatile situation. Newt would say it’s an epic fail. So you’d be totally okay watching me screaming out as I orgasm while another man screws me?”

  “By all that’s holy! Of course not! I’d be as furious as you,” he admitted under his breath.

  “I can’t do this, Faolan. I just want to go back to my once boring, predictable life.”

  “As far as you’re concerned our marriage is simply ended then, because you’ve learned of something that happened before we ever met?”

  “You need to sail anyway and I need to go back to my time before I kill someone and really change history.”

  “You believe my past history negates all we’ve shared?”

  “You purposely deceived me saying you didn’t have women in this cabin.”

  “How would telling you that truth have benefitted either of us? Should I bring up your deception in hidin’ the fact you carried my child and intended to send me back in time and never tell me—or is it only my deceptiveness to be addressed?”

  She sighed. “Fine, deception aside—even the possibility of you giving me a freakin’ STD aside, you’re a man of means with half a dozen women hoping to be your wife. I see you’ll get along just fine without me, Captain.”

  “Nothin’ would ever be fine without you, Angelique!”

  He grasped her shoulders, firm enough she knew he was worried by her jealous anger. He looked into her eyes pleadingly.

  “Faolan, I can’t be here,” she repeated. “I’ll need money to stay elsewhere. You said you’d compensate me for everything while you were in my time. Well, it’s payback time.”

  He shook his head in obvious frustration.

  “This is a dangerous place, Angelique, and a perilous time—more than you know.”

  “Especially living my sheltered, luxurious life?”

  “Men are different. Women have few rights. Rape is prevalent.”

  “Danhoul will be with me. I know karate and have my magic.”

  “As a captain’s wife you’d be safe on his ship. To harm you would be a great slight and demand violent retribution. That’s why the men left earlier.”

  “When I walk off this ship, I’m fair game for murder and violation?”

  He didn’t reply. She took the satchel and walked to the door.

  “Danhoul can protect me. He’s a magical Druid with a sword.”

  She slammed the door. Faolan followed her but spoke to Danhoul.

  “Anywhere you go in this village will give credit for whatever my wife might need if you show them this.”

  He passed Danhoul a silver medallion with a triskelion on it, his signature symbol. Faolan finally looked at her.

  “Purchase more garments if you wish. The New Thatch has baths available. It’s the cleanest establishment, likely to meet the least criticism by your high standards.”

  She glowered. “I won’t need more garments. However, a calming bath would be welcome.”

  “Watch over her carefully, Danhoul.”

  “I’m not a stranger to a guardian’s life, Faolan. I’ll keep her safe.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “It won’t look good if the captain can’t control his new wife. The men will judge him harshly on that,” Danhoul said.

  “Perhaps I’ll go back in time to earlier today. They wouldn’t know I’m nothing more than the latest in a long line of women he’s found fetching.”

  “Then what?” Danhoul asked.

  “I’ll go to my time and await instructions as to what the freaking gods want done for this upcoming battle. Maybe someone will explain everything rather than just on a need-to-know basis.”

  “You can’t just leave Faolan without hurting him.”

  “Hurting him! There’s no way we won’t both be hurt—unless I go back and never summon him. Can’t miss someone we’ve never known or something never experienced.”

  “As a witch, you’d keep your memories; therefore, your pain would be very real,” Danhoul said.

  “Maybe I deserve that for creating a spell I had no business doing.”

  They approached a beautiful church, the outside walls green with moss. Angelique started up the uneven stone walkway.

  “I need to sit awhile, maybe find solace.”

  Danhoul went inside, too, but stood near the back while Angelique sat staring at the elaborate stained glass windows. She’s sat in this very spot during her time, awed knowing this church was over a thousand years old then. She inhaled the scent of the ancient building, wanting to weep endlessly. A priest eyed her but thankfully didn’t approach.

  A while later, she stood and went to Danhoul.

  “Feel any better?”

  “It might take a visitation from Christ himself to comfort me. I’ve never known what belief system to maintain. After actually seeing a Celtic god, I definitely won’t be worshipping them.”

  They walked toward The New Thatch. Angelique understood why it was called that. She’d been to The Old Thatch in Cork city during her time. The appearance was similar. This building was likely built not long after the original, which was early sixteen hundreds.

  “Do you get tired of being a guardian, Danhoul?”

  He shrugged but gave her a reassuring smile.

  “Do you tire of being a witch?”

  “I don’t have a choice, but mostly I decide when or if I use magic. You seem to comply readily with the gods’ wishes in protecting witches.”

  “I’ve always known being a guardian was my fate—well since I was approached by the gods as a young lad. I even lived and trained in their realm. That might’ve been the best place to instruct you, too. I didn’t approve of waiting so long to tell you what you need to know, but Ainsley was insistent you live as normal a life as possible. Aine mentioned your birth mother wanted that, too.”

  They walked into the dimly lit pub with rooms above it. Angelique tried to gauge how clean it might be. By this century’s standards, it was likely good; by her own, questionable.

  A few men stared. Two other women were here; one sat with a man, likely her husband. The other was probably a prostitute.

  “We require two rooms, one beside the other,” Danhoul said. “Doors must have working locks and the lady wishes to bathe.”

  He showed the innkeeper the coin Faolan gave him. The friendly, portly fellow introduced himself as Conor and called to the back.

  “Martha, show these people upstairs. Prepare a bath for Mrs. Mahoney.”

  Word had clearly spread through the village. Martha, a plump, pleasant-looking woman with a bonnet that looked like something Angelique imagined Ma from the poem, “The Night Before Christmas” might wear, hurried to greet them and took two keys from the publican.

  Martha spoke English with a thick Irish accent and used the occasional Gaelic word. The woman seemed surprised when she replied in Gaelic.

  “You’ve the look of an Irishwoman, the sound of those from the Americas and the understanding of our Gaelic?”

  “My mother was Irish,” Angelique explained, though the Gaelic class she’d taken was why she understood some.

  “You’re Captain Mahoney’s new bride?”

  Angelique fought the sneer, clearly losing that battle.

  “I am.”

  “Y
ou don’t find Captain Mahoney’s ship’s cabin agreeable?” Martha asked.

  “I don’t find the captain particularly agreeable at the moment,” Angelique candidly replied.

  Martha smirked.

  “Sure a bath’ll calm your temper, milady.”

  Martha showed Angelique an upstairs room with one tiny window, a double bed, a small desk and a stand with pitcher and basin.

  “Rest, milady. I’ll come for ye when your bath’s prepared.”

  “Call me Angelique.”

  “I couldn’t, milady,” Martha said as she left.

  Danhoul stood at the door.

  “I’ll be in the next room. Call if you need me, although you could likely use telepathy.”

  She nodded. Having heard his thoughts on occasion, she supposed they could communicate that way.

  *

  The bath was hotter than Angelique expected. She attempted not to feel guilty Martha had to carry pails of hot water to fill the tub. Angelique pushed away the desire to be in her own large bathtub with lovely scented oils. She used the soap—not as strong-smelling as at the inn in Wyndham Village. She liked the hint of heather. She washed and rinsed her hair, then dried off using the rough towel.

  As she dressed, pulling on the corset, layers of underskirts, pantaloons and gown, she was tempted to employ magic to launder them. Not wanting to draw Aine or other Celtic gods’ attention, she didn’t.

  Looking in the small mirror, she brushed and knotted her hair in a respectable bun, used her toothbrush, making a mental note to ask Martha for baking soda. She hoped the water wasn’t rife with bacteria when she rinsed her mouth and spat in the basin. Now Martha would be made to empty the bath. Angelique wouldn’t make a good lady feeling uncomfortable having people wait on her.

  Danhoul opened his door as she walked to her room.

  “Feel revived?”

  “Marginally,” she said, forcing a smile.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “It does smell good,” Angelique said.

  “Shall we go down then?”

  “Okay.”

  They found a table in the now crowded pub. She’d barely sampled the stew and bit into the thick soda bread, attempting not to think about the likelihood of the cook washing his hands or the kitchen being sanitary, when the large-breasted Sinead sexily walked to the front of the pub. Angelique tried not to reenvision the echoes she’d seen. Accompanied by a man with a fiddle, Sinead began to sing. Several more men came in. Obviously she drew a crowd. Her singing wasn’t terrible, but certainly not worthy of a recording deal.

  “She’s obviously better in bed than on stage,” Angelique cattily said and Danhoul smirked.

  When the slice on her palm began to sting, which apparently now alerted her to Faolan’s presence, she wasn’t surprised to hear his voice.

  “May I join you?”

  The noisy pub was nearly bursting with men now.

  “Take my chair. I’ve lost my appetite anyway,” she said, now standing. “I’ll just go to bed.”

  “Sit down, Angelique!” he exactingly ordered, then softened his voice. “Please.”

  She complied and he sat beside her. His eyes appeared tormented. Evidently brooding made him look even sexier, which only annoyed her more.

  “You can control weather and the sea. Create a storm that prevents us from sailin’ for a day or two till we decide what’s to be done about…everythin’.”

  “I could cause a storm; controlling it would be more challenging.”

  “A fog then?”

  “There’s nothing we can do about our situation, Faolan. You want to be here—don’t wish to be in my time and…”

  “You won’t stay in mine,” he said looking at her food barely touched.

  “Go ahead and gloat, Captain—about my need for luxury or my fear of deadly bacteria or…”

  “I’ve no intention of gloatin’, Angelique.”

  “I’ll go for a walk,” Danhoul said.

  “It must be awkward listening to us bickering?” she said.

  “I’ve listened to all the other witches and their men bicker. I’ve come to expect it. You can’t share uncommon passion without expecting some stormy seas,” Danhoul said with a wink.

  “I suppose not,” Angelique replied.

  While Danhoul moved through the crowd, Faolan took her hand and sat closer.

  “I miss you, Angel,” he said.

  “Miss me? We had heated sex just hours ago. If you’re horny, I’m certain your voluptuous songstress or any number of whores, widows and pre-pubescent virgins alike would be glad to be introduced or reintroduced to your mighty galleon.”

  He squeezed her arm a little tighter and placed his face closer.

  “I’m not just talkin’ about sex. I miss everything about you. I don’t want her, them or anyone but you, Angelique. Tell me you know that.”

  “How the fu…?” She tried to calm herself. “How would I know that? How could I feel confident in anything when half of what you’ve told me wasn’t true?”

  “If we remained here, I intended to tell you about Sinead and also of the others hoping for marriage. That wouldn’t have been the way I’d want you to learn it.”

  “I’m weary, Faolan. I need to sleep—if I can sleep with her unpleasant screechy singing.”

  Angelique stood. Faolan did, too, and pulled her to him.

  “Come back to my ship. Sleep beside me as my wife.”

  “So I can see another freaking echo? No way! I’m angry, hurt and jealous—and I have a headache.”

  “You think that flat excuse is limited to your century?”

  “Probably not.”

  “If you do have a headache, sure it’s because you’ve barely eaten or drank since we left your time.”

  “I’m not enthused about getting cholera, salmonella or dysentery. Imagine puking and shitting in a chamber pot that hasn’t been washed for God knows how long or that reeking, filthy, germ-infested outhouse?”

  “You’re being very dramatic, which isn’t like you.”

  The smells around her were unpleasant. Odors of bad breath, unwashed hair, clothes and bodies made her feel unwell. She stepped closer to Faolan, inhaling his always appealing masculine scent, reveling in his warmth, almost forgetting her fury. But when Sinead announced in a very sultry voice that the next song was for Captain Mahoney, Angelique pulled away and moved through the crowd of men.

  “You smell nice,” one said. She pushed away his advances.

  “Such lovely hair,” another said, opening his mouth to rotting teeth and foul breath. She fought gagging. When he touched her hair with filthy hands, she shuddered.

  “Can you sing, too?” another asked.

  “I sing and play harpsicord,” she said gesturing to the item though not sure if it was a piano or harpsicord.

  “Can you?” He sounded impressed. “Let’s hear ye then.”

  Faolan finally caught up to her.

  “Perhaps another night,” she said. “I wouldn’t wish to interrupt your entertainer’s stunning repertoire.”

  “Sinead can entertain anytime. We’d like to hear Captain Mahoney’s bride sing.”

  The annoyance on Faolan’s face made Angelique long to sing and play in a fierce way. When Danhoul made his way through the crowd carrying his fiddle case, she eyed him suspiciously.

  “You knew?”

  “I’m a magical Druid, Angelique. My intuition is powerful.”

  “Except for the small matter of not knowing I was a witch,” she sarcastically said and Danhoul smiled.

  The man who insisted she sing called out, silencing the crowd.

  “We’re after havin’ Captain Mahoney’s new wife entertain us, so Sinead, you step away for a time.”

  Angelique caught a glimpse of Sinead’s face. Her eyes flashed angrily as she searched through the crowd for Angelique, then glared. Angelique wasn’t sure if she felt smug or guilty at the woman’s fury.

  “Sit down and play,”
Conor urged.

  “My friend Danhoul will accompany me,” Angelique said.

  She caught the disapproval on Faolan’s face, but he sat at the table beside the piano. A serving girl brought him a tall cup and pitcher of ale.

  “Well, Angelique, what are you intendin’ to play?” Danhoul asked. “Keepin’ in mind we’re not supposed to know anythin’ of the future including music.”

  “Something by Bach, Brahms or Beethoven maybe.”

  “Do they look like the classical kind of crowd?” he asked, humor in his warm blue-grey eyes.

  “The Chieftains or The Irish Rovers are out. The Cranberries, Thin Lizzy or U2 wouldn’t be advisable.”

  “Better play somethin’ soon; the crowd’s gettin’ restless.”

  “How’ll they know if it’s a song from the future?”

  “They wouldn’t, but Aine would.”

  “Screw Aine.”

  “All right then,” Danhoul said.

  “Irishmen in my time are very patriotic and love their mothers. That’s likely true of this century, too, so let’s go with this.”

  She started playing and singing “Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ra”.

  Danhoul gave her an uncertain look but joined with the fiddle. The entire pub went silent as though it was a sacred hymn. Angelique dared to look at Faolan. He wouldn’t have heard her sing except a few muffled songs in the shower or quietly to her tunes. As she didn’t own a piano, he hadn’t heard her play. Danhoul poignantly played his fiddle as she sang.

  “You’ve the voice of an angel!” the priest she’d seen earlier exclaimed and several men agreed.

  “You must sing more,” Conor said with a wink, for the men were drinking heartily. Angelique noticed a few gruff-looking men with tears in their eyes.

  She glanced at Danhoul. “You choose next.”

  “You’ve mellowed the crowd; let’s keep it that way,” he replied playing the first four notes of “Danny-Boy.”

  She smiled. “Okay, Danny-Boy,” she joked, using Tristan’s nickname for Danhoul.

  It was another of her favorites. She sang the words and tender melody with deep emotion. When she reached the part about visiting a grave, she became undeniably sad. When she returned to her time, would she go to Ireland in search of the grave of Captain Faolan Mahoney? He mightn’t even have a gravestone if lost at sea—maybe murdered and buried in an unmarked grave? She couldn’t prevent the tears so Danhoul sang, too; their voices blended well.