Haunting Beauty (22 page)

“That it is,” Sean answered. But he was looking at his younger self, wanting to shake him, wanting to tell him not to waste these precious moments with his father, because they would be his last. If Danni was right, only days separated this one from the morning when the Gardai would be waiting in the kitchen. He finished his cup of tea and left Niall at the wheel to wander over and sit beside Michael.

“It was a good day,” Sean said. “You’re a fine fisherman.”

The boy shot him a resentful glare. “I hate fish. I hate the sea.”

Sean stared out at the glittering green waters and could only think how he loved it. Now. With the insight of years and experiences to show him how beautiful and simple life could be on the sea. But he also remembered that tight anger he’d held in his chest when he was young, the feeling that the waters surrounding the Isle of Fennore were a prison.

“Your da has a good setup,” Sean tried again, knowing it was pointless but somehow compelled to at least try to change the tides that would wash this life away.

“It’s a fecking wreck,” Michael said. “One day it’ll end up at the bottom of the ocean, and I’ll be standing on the fecking shore clapping.”

Sean raised his brows. “What will you do then, if not fish?”

“Anything. I’m not a wanker like my da. I can do more than bait a hook and gaff a fish.”

“Like what?” Sean pressed, genuinely curious. He had no recollections of ever dreaming of being . . . anything. He frowned at that, wondering why, wondering how it was that he’d never realized it before.

“Why do you fecking care what I do?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t realize it was a secret.”

Michael shot him a suspicious look but he answered. “I could build things. I’m good with my hands.”

“Are you, now? What kind of things would you be building?”

“Maybe a castle,” Michael said, looking down.

“A castle is it? Will you be king of it?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “I mean make them like they were.”

“You’re talking about restoring them? Rebuilding?”

“One day I want to do that one. The ruins.”

Sean swiveled around and looked at the seawall jutting up in the distance like an illusion . . . like a shadowed memory. The ruins perched on top in a tumbled heap of darkness and light.

“Mum,” Michael began, stopped, took a breath. “Mum used to talk about how it was . . . before.”

Sean faced the boy again, unsettled by both his tone and the words he spoke. “Before?”

Michael nodded and for a moment, Sean found himself staring into his own eyes, falling down a well of his own hopes and dreams, remembering, remembering. . . . His mother had talked about the castle, painted it with her entrancing tone. When he’d been young, her words had guided him through the gatehouse, the bailey, into the great hall, up to the battlements. She’d known so many details, from the lard candles to the smoke-soaked tapestries and greasy shanks spitted over the blazing fires. She’d talked as if she’d been there, walked that drawbridge, woken to the sounds and sights of life in the castle
.

“Where is your mum?” Sean asked casually, knowing he was a fool for going there. Asking the question was like peeling the scab off a festering wound. But he needed to hear what Michael would say. Needed to remember why he’d been so convinced the Gardai were wrong and his father could have prevented the deaths if he’d really wanted to.

“Dead,” Michael said, shooting a glare at Niall.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He’s not—unless boinking Fia MacGrath is the way to grieve, that is.”

Sean tried not to react, but he couldn’t stop it. Staring into his own face, he felt the surge of the boy’s rage rise up, and with it came other memories. His mother had hated Fia MacGrath from the first day Cathán had brought her home. She’d been convinced Niall was in love with her, though Niall denied it. Sean couldn’t remember ever seeing his father in Fia’s presence, didn’t know what had made his mother so certain there was something going on between them. But here was Michael saying it was true.

“How long has your mother been dead?” Sean asked, though he knew the answer.

“Five years.”

“You want your father to mourn her still? Not live his life?”

“Why should he have a life to live? He killed my mother and my brother, both of them.”

Sean looked at him sideways. “How is it he’s not in jail, then?”

“The bloody Gardai called it an accident.”

“But you know different?”

“I fecking saw it. I—”

But whatever he was going to say was cut off when Niall shouted for them to look alive. The shore was dead ahead and Niall was cutting back the engines. Soon the
Guillemot
glided to the dock. Sean and Michael moved to secure the boat while Niall cleared the hold and took his haul to the market.

It was Michael’s job to scrub the deck and put everything in order for the next day, and he went to it with determination, effectively closing the door on their conversation. Sean understood. It was too painful to dredge up. He’d been a fool to force it.

By the time Niall returned, they were finished with their tasks. “That’s it, then,” Niall called as he came on board. “Check the lines one last time and we’re off.”

In unison, both Sean and Michael moved to obey. When they’d checked that all was secure, they both gave Niall a thumbs-up. Niall stared from one face to another, his eyes shifting back and forth and then widening with something very close to fear.

“Jaysus God,” he murmured and turned abruptly away.

“What the feck is his problem?” Michael muttered.

Sean could only shake his head and wonder.

Chapter Eighteen

“
H
AVE they left you, Danni?” a male voice asked, pulling Danni from the vision and back into the MacGrath kitchen. She gave a yelp of surprise, releasing the stainless steel pot in her slippery hands. It splashed into the sink.

The sink. The dishwater in it was still hot, the suds still fluffy. The pot she’d carried into the vision bobbed, sloshing water over the side.

Disoriented, she spun to find Cathán MacGrath standing at the doorway, staring at her with a humorous expression. But in her mind, she could still hear the echo of Edel’s screams, still see her blackened eyes and the fear on Fia’s face.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” Cathán was saying, tilting his head curiously.

“I guess I was daydreaming,” Danni managed, but her mouth was dry, her throat tight. She blotted the puddled water from the counter and dried her hands on a towel. “I’m not usually so jumpy.”

“Ah well, new place and all that. Do you need to sit down? You look a bit pale.”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you though.”

Cathán smiled again, moving to lean against the counter beside her. His eyes sparkled and there was open friendliness on his handsome face, but there was also something shadowed in it—as if he was presenting a front. She thought of her mother and the hollow ring there’d been to the happy story she’d told of their meeting.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked.

He shook his head, still watching her. “Where are the others?”

“Bronagh went to the market. I think Brenda and Maureen are polishing silver in the dining room.”

His smile took on a devilish quality, and for a moment she thought she must have mistaken that desolation she’d seen lurking in his eyes. He straightened and crossed to the refrigerator. “I’m a lucky shite,” he said, sticking his head inside and rummaging. “I missed lunch, but I’d rather starve to death than battle it out with Bronagh for a snack.”

Danni stared at his bent back with surprise. Her dad was afraid of the cook? She’d never have guessed it.

“I think I saw some lamb chops in the back,” she said.

“Yes!” With a triumphant grin he pulled the container out. “You are an angel, Danni.”

“I didn’t cook them,” she began awkwardly, but he was smiling and shaking his head as he took a bite.

“Doesn’t matter. You guided me to them. Shout a warning if you see Hitler coming though.”

She nodded, gazing at her father, wanting to drink in the sight of his features. This was her dad, a man she’d longed to meet her entire life. And now here he was, striking up a casual conversation with her. Somehow the scenario was nearly as hard to believe as traveling through time.

She forced herself to go back to washing the dishes while he ate. She felt a mess. She was tired, dirty, and probably as ripe as her father had been after his match of hurling, whatever that was. Her ponytail hung loose and lank down her back and her skin felt coated with flour and oils, perspiration and cooking smells. She wanted a shower. A long one.

“You look so familiar, Danni,” he said, making her glance over her shoulder at him. “Is there a chance we’ve met before?”

A small laugh escaped her, reminding her of her mom’s habit of tittering when nervous. “I doubt it, but I’ve heard that I look familiar more than once today,” she said, keeping a smile in place even though her heart was stuttering in her chest. “The general consensus is that I must have ancestors from here.”

“That would be quite a coincidence, wouldn’t it now?” At her frown, he went on. “Meeting a husband in America who is from the very place your people haled.”

Only unbelievable
, she thought. She said, “Not so much. Everyone claims to have some Irish in them.”

“You do have a point.” He’d polished off the first lamb chop and started on a second. “You seem to have made good friends with my wife in a short time.”

His tone was still casual, barely curious. But her nerves had been stretched too far in the past twenty-four hours. She felt defensive as she said, “She’s very nice.”

“That she is. Too nice, I fear. People take advantage of her.”

Danni looked up to see if he’d meant that to be a warning of some kind. Did he think Danni was going to take advantage of her? But he was focused on his food and didn’t even glance at her. Deciding she was being paranoid, Danni began drying the pots and pans and putting them away.

“I guess I was wondering if you’d known each other before you came here,” Cathán went on. “She’s usually much more reserved with people when she first meets them.”

“Oh,” Danni said, suddenly wondering if her mother had sensed a kinship with Danni on some subconscious level. She felt pleased by the idea of it, no matter how far-fetched it was. “No, we’ve never met before.”

“Of course not . . .” He paused, seemed to consider his next words carefully; the dark look was back in his eyes and Danni could see it was worry by the pull of his brow and the line of his mouth. “This is going to sound a strange thing for me to be asking you under the circumstances, but . . . does she seem . . . all right to you?”

“I’m sorry?”

He shrugged and a flush turned his fair skin red. “I’m not in the habit of grilling the servants about my wife’s well-being, I swear it. It’s just, she . . .” He cursed under his breath. “She was laughing and smiling with you. It’s been forever since I’ve seen her laugh and . . . she’s been so miserable and I don’t know why. I’m at my wits’ end over what to do about it.”

Danni watched him, moved by the distress she saw in his eyes. He must feel desperate to be asking Danni, a kitchen helper he hardly knew.

“She seemed fine to me, Mr. MacGrath,” Danni murmured. “More than fine.”

“Happy?” he asked hopefully.

Danni’s hesitation answered for her. He exhaled and wiped his hands on a paper towel he jerked from the roll. Finished, he looked up, and the pain she’d seen was once more hidden behind a calm mask.

“How long have you been married to Ballagh?” he asked suddenly, catching her off guard yet again.

“Not long.”

“A week? A month? A year?”

“A few weeks.”

“Was it love at first sight?”

“Something like that.”

“Ah,” he said in a knowing tone.

“Ah, what?”

“That was just a telling answer,” he said. “Something
like
love at first sight isn’t exactly one and the same with the real thing. Is it? Did you have to get married?”

Danni frowned at him. “Have to . . . ? No, of course not.”

He held his hands up at her sharp tone. “No offense intended. I’m sorry—I have no tact. Fia is always scolding me for it. I think the circuitry from my brain to my mouth was damaged during birth. It’s always the wrong thing I’m saying.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she mumbled.

“But now you’re irritated with me, and we were getting on so well.”

She glanced at the door leading to the dining room, wondering when the other girls would come back in. But the door remained closed. The kitchen isolated.

“You seem a bit anxious,” he noted. “Am I making you nervous?”

She managed to stop that annoying titter of laughter that wanted to erupt before it reached her lips. But suddenly he
was
making her nervous. She hoped he’d stop with the questions.

He finished his lamb chops, put the leftovers back in the refrigerator, and washed his hands. She dried and put away the last of the pans and turned to find him standing just behind her, boxing her into the corner. For a moment he stared at her, his blue eyes probing. Then he pointed at the necklace Sean had given her last night.

“That’s beautiful,” he said. “It looks very old.”

Her fingers came up to smooth it against her throat. “Thank you.”

“Where did you get it?”

She wanted to sidestep, but unless he moved that would bring her closer to him. It wasn’t that he had her pinned, but she was uncomfortable. He’d stepped into her personal space and now seemed determined to stay there.

“Was it a gift?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered and then pushed forward anyway, forcing him to move back.

“From your husband?”

She frowned at him. “Why do you want to know?”

His smile was guileless, his blue eyes wide. “I’m a collector of sorts. Amateur, of course, though I’m fascinated by the history.” At her blank look, he said, “Celtic spirals. The symbol on your necklace—do you know about them?”

She shook her head, relaxing a little. She wasn’t sure what had made her so uptight. Perhaps her own paranoia. Her own dislike of tight places. He was just being friendly, and she was acting like a woman who had something to hide.
Surprise, surprise.