Dark Enchantment (12 page)

Naturally, he ignored her, the stubborn man. As he eased the boot off her foot, she stiffened and jammed her knuckles against her mouth to stifle a moan.

He gave her a benign glance. “Fine, is it?” He gently rolled her sock down, and removed it from her foot. His tight-lipped expression had her peering at the angry, bluish-black lump. “C’mere to me.” Handing her the boot and sock, he slid one arm under her thighs, the other around her back and picked her back up. He expended no more energy than if he were lifting a three-year-old. “We’re going to the A&E.”

“If you mean the
emergency room
, think again.” He stopped walking, and looked down at her. “It’s only a little sprain, Caleb.
For real.
I’d know if it was anything worse. And besides, I’m half-starved. I want to eat.”

“Trust me in this, Arianna,” he said, moving again toward the parking lot. “There’s no way you’ll be putting any weight on that foot tonight. Nor any time soon, I’d reckon, with the looks of it. I’ll stop at a takeaway on the way to hospital and pick you up a burger and chips.”

“I don’t want to go to the hospital.” Fine, so she sounded like a whiny brat. But first Da, and then Granny? Two trips to the E.R. in a under a month? She just couldn’t deal with anymore.

Caleb’s longsuffering sigh was like air rushing from a deflating beach ball. Arianna jumped on his hesitation and began to plead her case. “I’ve had bad sprains like this before while doing katas. Once, I even thought I’d broken my ankle.”

“Katas, is it?” He muttered something under his breath that Arianna could not make out. Aloud, he said, “Lets give it another look.”

Lowering her body onto another section of wall, he squatted in front of her and cradled her heel in his palm. He made communicative noises as Arianna tried to distract herself from the throbbing pain with chatter about karate classes with her two friends back home.

Caleb seemed oddly focused on the injury. Eyelids lowered, he was gently massaging the sore area beneath her ankle when waves of heat began to radiate from the pad of his thumb. Friction from the rubbing, she told herself, although she couldn’t feel any pressure from his touch. As her flesh grew warmer, the intensifying heat seemed to absorb the dull ache beneath his artful hands.

After a minute or two, she felt the warmth of his touch drain away. He pulled the sock from her boot and slipped it over her foot. “Sorry? You were saying?”

“Oh, um…I…I was just asking what form of martial arts you study.”

“It’s...em...an ancient form.” He proceeded to fit the boot back onto her foot. “A sort of mixed martial arts discipline. Our children…em…children in my family begin training almost before they’re old enough to walk.” Tying the boot, he helped her slide off the wall. “There now. Feel better?”

Arianna gingerly applied weight to the injured foot, her eyes wide with wonder. “Wow. It doesn’t hurt at all.” After a few hesitant steps, she raised her good foot off the ground and balanced all her weight on the other one. “To be honest, I really thought I’d done a number on it.” Taking a little hop, she smiled up at him. “Good as new. I can’t believe it. You really ought to have those healing hands of yours insured.” Stretching onto her tiptoes, she brushed a grateful kiss across his cheek….

Completely missing, in the process, the way her teasing remark had made him flinch.

Chapter Thirteen

T
he maitre d’ was a tall, cadaverous man. Lurch, Arianna dubbed him as he greeted them. “Mr. MacNamara, you’re very welcome, sir, yourself and the lady. Sorry, but if you’ll excuse me, Mr. O’Donnell wished to be informed of your arrival.”

Arianna took in the reception area with an appreciative eye. Lighting subdued. Décor rich and plush. A shelf carved into the stone wall beside the front entrance displayed a selection of antique bric-a-brac, old copper kettles and crockery.

Caleb had told her to dress casual. But her black designer jeans and leather jacket made her feel more than a tad underdressed in these elegant surroundings. When she voiced her misgivings, her date inclined his head toward a sign posted behind the Maitre d’ station.
CASUAL ATTIRE IS REQUIRED
, it read tongue-in-cheek.

A booming male voice had Arianna spinning around. “Caleb, how’s things, mate?” A handsome mountain of a man, with hair the color of red-hot embers, pulled Caleb into a bear hug. They traded slaps on the back in that hetero-male greeting ritual. “Welcome, my friend.”

With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he took Arianna’s hand and raised it gallantly to his lips. “And yourself, pretty lady. Tell me, have we not met somewhere before?”

She felt Caleb tense beside her. Not much, just an overall tightening of joint and sinew. More obvious was the look of reproach he shot his friend before reclaiming her hand and tucking it possessively into the crook of his arm.
Jealous? Mmm…nice.

“Sure, that chat-up line’s older than the dolmens,” he admonished his friend, referring to the megalithic burial chambers consisting of gigantic upright stone slabs supporting a horizontal capstone or table. “Arianna O’Sullivan, meet Seamus O’Donnell,” he continued. “Mind yourself around this one,
cailín.
He’s always fancied himself a bit of a lady’s man.”

A hearty laugh resounded from the giant’s mouth. “Ach, you’re just jealous. Always have been.” Blue eyes twinkling, his next words were for Arianna. “Sure, I’m not taking the mickey, luv. It’s good with faces I am, and I know I’ve seen yours somewhere before.”

After relieving them of their wraps, Seamus led them down a corridor, past what appeared to be a Da Vinci on the right wall, a Botticelli hanging directly opposite. Stopping at the first door to the left, he stepped aside and bid them to enter.

A private parlor, Arianna thought. It was a veritable paradise of fine antiques set in haphazard elegance on a room-size Oriental rug. Against the far wall a Tiffany bronze lamp sat delicately atop a George IV mahogany table. In a nook to the left a 17
th
century regency oak table held a matching pair of early Victorian brass oil lamps. And on the right side of the room, a George III giltwood mirror occupied pride of place over a gray slate fireplace.

It was then that she noticed it. The Fromanteel and Clarke Dutch longcase clock to the left of the hearth.
Nunh-unh.
Leaving Caleb’s side to investigate her suspicions, she crossed the room. Yes, the identifying mark was there—a faint scratch on the glass covering the dial.

Turning to mention her discovery to Seamus, she caught the two men staring at her, while conversing earnestly in Gaelic. The way their eyes darted away guiltily left no doubt that
she
had been the topic of their conversation.

Caleb left his friend and joined her. “
Gabh mo leithscéal
,” he apologized, smooth as whipped cream. “Sorry,
mo chroi.
‘Twas unforgivably rude, ourselves slipping into a language you don’t understand. I was just telling Seamus that you’re a fellow antique connoisseur yourself.”

Yeah, sure you were.
Deciding to let it pass, she turned to Seamus. “The clock here. You got it at a Christie’s auction, March, a year ago.”

“I did, yes.” He tipped his head, gave her a curious look. And then his eyes lit with recognition. “Ah, that’s it, then. That’s where I saw you. ‘Twas yourself there in New York, the one bidding against me and driving up the final price.”

“I was determined to have that piece for my shop in Maine.”

“As was I myself.” He spread his hands, gesturing widely. “Everything you see here, save a few pieces in my private collection, have been discreetly marked for sale.”

Arianna’s face lit up. “What a unique concept. A restaurant/antique store combination.”

Pleased by her exuberance, Seamus motioned the two of them to settle themselves onto a camel-colored leather loveseat facing a blazing hearth. With an undisguised wink of approval directed at his friend, he turned and left the room.

As if on cue, their waiter appeared, dressed in a period costume from the time the house was built. The 1600s, if Arianna remembered correctly. With great panache, the man flourished a single menu; a scroll made from tan parchment. Caleb untied the piece of twine and unrolled it. The menu offered items both in English and Gaelic with an archaic font.

“Dishes vary from week to week,” Caleb informed her. “Therefore, each menu is drawn by hand, using calligraphy.”

At the bottom of the scroll was written:
a pledge of cosmopolitan cookery exactingly prepared, using only the finest organically grown herbs and vegetables.
The flourish of Seamus’s bold scrawl sealed the guarantee.

When the waiter requested their drink order, Caleb suggested the house specialty, the mead. “It’s a medieval wine made from apple juice, clover, heather and fermented honey.”

“Clover and heather, huh?” A grimace. “Oh, why not? Let’s live dangerously.”

Caleb nodded at the waiter, who turned and left. With his arm draped casually around her shoulders, the two of them studied the menu. A log and turf fire gave the room a cozy feel. Somewhere off in the distance, a woman’s bewitching voice began to stroke a tragic melody.

Goosebumps popped up on Arianna’s arms. “An angel,” she whispered in awe.

“It’s called
Sean-nos
,” he explained. “Singing in the old style, without accompaniment. Except for the
bodhrán.
”

Arianna heard it then, the poignant double-drumbeat of the traditional Irish drum. The one-two rhythm was so faint the microphone might have been amplifying the gentle pulsing of the singer’s heart. The ancient cadence stirred misty, salt-scented memories….

“Have you decided what you’d like to eat?” Caleb asked.

“Everything looks so good, it’s hard to decide. Suggestions?”

“Lobster brochette’s absolutely gorgeous.”

“Lobster, yuck.”

He gave her a perplexed stare. “Yuck?”

“Well, being from Maine—you know, lobster country and all—I managed to get up close and personal with the pitiful creatures during cook-outs on the beach. I’ve refused to eat the poor things ever since. On principle.”

A smile played around the corners of his lips. “The poor things.”

“Think of the way they’re cooked, Caleb. Now, there’s gotta be something just plain cruel about dumping a living creature into hot, boiling water. And that awful sound they make....” She shuddered. “It’s like they’re screaming in agony.”

Caleb winced. “Now there’s a thing I’ve not considered before.”

“And how about the way they look...claws and antennae. Cockroaches of the sea is what I call them.” She pulled a face. “Why would anyone want to eat a thing like that?”

“Why indeed?” His lips twisted wryly. “Sure, haven’t those astute observations of yours cured
me
of ever having a taste for the sadly mistreated creatures ever again.”

Arianna elbowed him playfully in the ribs for his teasing, then sent the hovering waiter an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry for taking so long to decide.”

”I’ll order for the both of us, will I?” Caleb suggested.

Eyes like polished jade in the firelight, his voice caressed her senses. Now here was a man who could have her agreeing to almost anything.

“Arianna?”

“Um, yes, please. Some kind of seafood. Fresh.”

Caleb acknowledged the waiter. “A warm salad of monkfish, salmon and pine kernels topped with an herbed balsamic vinaigrette for the lady, if you please. For the main course, em… how about giant fresh prawns pan-fried in garlic butter, served with champ.”

“Champ?” Arianna asked.

“Potatoes. Mash with spring onions,” he replied, before turning back to finish the order. “For myself, the fresh prawn cocktail with sauce Marie-Rose and passion-fruit mayo. And chateaubriand, rare.” He finished the order with some exotic-sounding French wine.

The waiter cleared his throat, as if embarrassed. “Will I put the order in now, sir, or...?”

“Now would be grand, thanks.”

Within minutes, they were snuggled together, sipping the sweet, fermented mead, their conversation as intimate as a kiss and punctuated by quiet laughter. Was the warm glow she was feeling the result of the cozy fire, the ancient libation, or being cuddled up beside the man she had longed for her entire adult life? All of the above, she finally decided.

“The parking lot was packed when we got here,” she said. Her skin tingled under the caress of Caleb’s long, tapered fingers trailing absently over the silky gray sleeve of her shirt. “And yet, we scored our own private parlor. Is that an advantage of being personal friends with the proprietor?”

“Actually, the place is known for offering its patrons a romantic…interlude.” His voice dropped an octave, warm satin sliding over heated flesh. “A crackling fire, soft music, candlelight, and certain other...unique...features.”

“Unique? How?”

“A latch on the parlor door, for one thing.” His lips turned up at the corners, giving her a glimpse of the rare smile that made her heart sing. “So that couples can be quite as
private
as they’d like.”

She wasn’t slow, but the concept was so outrageous, it took her a second to catch on. “You can’t mean people actually lock the door and…and....” She took another look at the room, noticing a plush set of drapes, like stage curtains, drawn across one wall. Did it conceal a small alcove? A bed?

An uncomfortable suspicion began to take shape in her mind. “Caleb, I hope I didn’t give you the impression that I...that we—”

“You’re safe,
cailín
,” he assured her softly. “I’ve no plans to be seducing you this evening.”

The word
seduce
coming from that sensual mouth did something twitchy to her stomach, enveloped her in a moist wave of heat. It was their first date. She was relieved that he wasn’t planning to put the make on her, wasn’t she? Why, then, did his assurance make her feel deflated, a helium balloon a week after a kid’s birthday party?

Because he was broodingly handsome, sinfully sensual. And every time those wide, full lips parted, that deep, accented voice of his stroked every erogenous zone on her body. And she wouldn’t be the only one. No doubt, the man had a string of tall, willowy, model-types all falling at his feet.

Kind of makes a girl wonder just how often
he
has availed himself of this restaurant’s
unique
features. How many times—?

“How many times have I what?” Caleb asked.

Oh, Lord, please tell me I didn’t blurt that out.
“Um...eaten here,” she sputtered.

He tipped his head, gave her a long, considering glance. “Now and then, but it is a bit of a journey from Clare.” Then he leaned closer, and whispered in her ear. “To the other question, never.”

He
had
been in her head! How did he
do
that? Plant thoughts, impressions. Read someone’s mind. Well, she had best learn to keep her thoughts to her herself.

Quickly, she changed the subject. “You mentioned traveling abroad for a while. Did you actually live in other countries?”

“I did for a time. But even while away for extended periods, I kept my legal residence in Clare. Upon learning my father’s death was imminent a couple of years ago, I returned from my travels. After he passed, I stayed on, assuming the heir’s responsibility for the property as I’d promised him.” His carved features seemed to evoke regret. Then the moment passed.

“So, the castle…where I saw you the other day? That’s your ancestral home?”

“It is, yes.” Caleb sipped his mead. “Generations of MacNamaras have lived—and died there. My parents are both interred on the grounds in a neo-gothic abbey my father had constructed in my mother’s memory.”

Arianna flashed back to the strange dream she had had the night before. Was it starting all over again? Had she entered an altered state, passed through some obscure gateway into the past, and actually witnessed his mother’s funeral?

God, this was getting way too weird, even for her. Until now, apart from the after-death encounter with Da, the inexplicable dreams, and a touch of sixth sense, she had never experienced anything even remotely metaphysical. “I’m sorry, Caleb. I didn’t realize both your parents were gone, too.”

“’Twas long ago my mother died.” His reply was short, dismissive. “I never knew her.”

“My mother died when I was three,” Arianna said softly. “I never knew her either.” For the next few minutes, they shared a comfortable silence, staring blindly into the flames. Then Arianna shifted, and looked up at him. “Caleb, about that business with the lightning—”

“
No buc leis!
” He gave a short sigh of impatience. Whether at her insistence on bringing up a subject he didn’t wish to discuss, or at having slipped again into his native tongue, she wasn’t sure. “Pay it no mind. ‘Twas nothing,
cailín
. Nothing a’tall.”

“Nothing? I was darn near fried like a chicken nugget. And I keep picturing you—”

“
Leave it
, I said!”

Arianna jumped, startled by the harshness of his tone. How dare he snap at her like that! Whipping around, she gave him a fulminating glare. To no effect, however, as she got only his profile. He hunched forward, his demeanor dark and brooding, hands clasped loosely between his thighs, his jaw muscles working overtime.

“I will not ‘leave it’,” she shot back. “And don’t you ever raise your voice to me.”