Haunting Warrior (10 page)

He drank way more than he should have, but only managed to feel stupid instead of numb. And then morning came, greeting him with a hellacious headache and a queasy stomach.

He’d almost lost what little he’d eaten for breakfast when he’d learned the price he was expected to pay for the pendant. With Nana, nothing came without strings attached, so he should have expected it. But still, her decree that Rory would be one of her pallbearers caught him like a blade to the throat. Nana knew better than anyone what it cost him to enter the house of God, a place he’d been forced to spend many hours as a child and a repenting adolescent. Undoubtedly she was in heaven—or hell, knowing Colleen Ballagh as he did—laughing her fool head off.

The sermon went on for eternity, moving some in the congregation to tears, sobs even, and others to stifled yawns and a deep desire for drink. The entire ceremony left Rory feeling like a tightrope walker balanced over razors. When at last he stood with Sean, Niall, and Ronan McCourt, who’d always been sweet on Nana, he felt the weight of finality that lodged between his heart and throat. He put his shoulder to the task of hefting the coffin, grateful to be exiting the church, even with death on his shoulder. The casket felt unbearably heavy, her remains somehow larger than life itself. Nana in a nutshell.

In small groups they followed the hearse to the gravesite where Nana would be buried next to her late husband. It was a silent time for reflection. Rory didn’t want to think, but he was thankful he wasn’t expected to talk instead. Now he stood awkwardly away from the others, outside the shade cast by the canopy sheltering his family from the relentless sunshine.

He’d forgotten there were days like this in Ireland. Days when the sun brought a vengeance with it, turning the humidity into baked wool that weighted his steps and chaffed his skin. Morning had dawned with bright rays and wispy clouds, and he’d hoped for rain—prayed for rain that would bring relief to the sullen heat, but the gray cast had merely gathered like a gang over the choppy seas and waited for a better opportunity to bully.

A storm would have been fitting weather for Nana’s funeral. She herself had been a tempestuous woman—a microburst of allegiance and fervor. Small and spry, never above spite, never below malice. He’d loved her, more than anyone else. She’d understood him in a way that mystified him, even now.

He shifted his weight, glad he’d spurned decorum in favor of a simple button-down shirt and his best jeans. Niall wore a suit that must feel like a fur blanket about now. His mother, stepfather, sisters, and brother-in-law sat in the front row, only moderately cooler in the shade provided by the canopy. His mother wept uncontrollably, though Nana had been Niall’s parent, not hers. Niall stared at the small black coffin impassively, but Rory saw the tick in his cheek and the burning red rimming his eyes. Meaghan’s grief mirrored her father’s with uncanny accuracy. Beside them Danni and Sean held one another, quiet in their sorrow as both said good-bye to the woman who’d been so much to all of them. Father Lawlor picked up where he’d left off in the church and droned on about the virtues of Colleen Ballagh and the waiting arms of Jesus, the Lord.

Rory wanted to laugh. She’d been many things, but Nana had never been virtuous. And never without motive. In one of his earliest memories, he’d had a dawning awareness of being a pawn in a great, but gentle manipulation only Nana understood.

He reached in his pocket and felt the pendant he’d stuffed there this morning. Older than anything he could imagine, the charm was probably worth thousands—maybe more. He rubbed his fingers over the jeweled face, the leather thong it dangled from. The desire to pull it out, to put it on here and now was nearly overwhelming. He looked back at the casket, knowing she’d intended that. Even from the grave, she manipulated.

Father Lawlor began his closing prayer. Soon there would be doves bursting from their cages, and the mourners would adjourn to the castle to eat and drink and carry over the celebration of Colleen Ballagh’s life and death that they’d begun last night. Rory’s gaze traveled over his family again. Niall’s solemn calm had crumbled and now he wept. He turned into his wife, holding her tightly as they grieved. Sean passed a tissue to Danni, and as she wiped her tears, she glanced up and her eyes met Rory’s. For a moment—a flashing instant—Rory felt the soft brush of her thoughts against his once more. Her need for him to move into the circle of family. Her wish for him to belong again.

Then her gaze shifted to something just over his shoulder, and the connection was lost. He saw her eyes widen and the blood drain from her face. All the hair stood at the back of his neck, and slowly he turned to see what had put that fear in his sister’s eyes.

The woman of his dream was standing in the meadow beyond the family cemetery. Still dressed in the white cotton shift that whipped about her legs, she could have been the infamous white ghost of the valley that Ballyfionúir was named after. But there was nothing ethereal about her. She was too solid for that.

He cut his eyes to Danni, grappling with the fact that she saw the woman, too. There was no mistaking her fixed attention.

He looked again, expecting his dream-woman to have vanished. But still she stood, her long, dark hair making a gossamer frame of her pale oval face. She lifted an impatient hand and pushed the heavy weight of it back before gesturing to Rory.

From the corner of his eye he saw Danni start, her head shaking as she turned a panicked gaze on him and reached out in a gesture opposite of the dream-woman’s.
Don’t go.

But he was too far away to touch, and nothing his sister or anyone else could say or do could stop the step he took toward the woman. Who was she? Was he about to finally find out?

He heard a rustle come from the mourners as he started down the hill. Father Lawlor paused, and his mother called out Rory’s name. He didn’t stop. He didn’t answer. The woman moved faster and so did he.

A strong wind had stirred up from nowhere and now gusted over the swaying emerald grasses and shushed the leaves in the ancient alders and sagging yews. Rory gratefully turned his face into its coolness, letting it dry the sweat on his brow as he followed the woman across the meadow toward the castle. Behind him, Father Lawlor’s commanding voice faded and disappeared altogether.

She’d reached the jagged edge of the cliff that dangled above the sea. To his left the castle stood whole and strong, lording over the island. It was like an optical illusion, seeing it there now when it had always been just a crumpled and desecrated ruin before. The woman up ahead paused and stared at the structure with wonder. She glanced at Rory then back to the castle before turning to navigate the eroding stairs leading down to the cove. Either Sean hadn’t gotten around to repairing them, or they were meant to disintegrate like the stones and gnarled driftwood on the beach.

If he had to guess, Rory would say it was the latter. The stairway led to a place that should have been sealed up long ago. A place he remembered with trepidation. With icy dread.

The woman gave no quarter to caution as she descended, and he struggled to keep up, his larger feet finding only treacherous footholds leading down. He slipped several times and almost made the journey ass over elbow. At last he reached the shell-strewn bottom, crunching the broken fragments beneath his shoes. If he’d harbored a hope that she was headed anywhere but the cavern, he gave it up.

The air carried a heavy scent here, seasoned with fish and salt and the cold depths of mystery that were the sea itself. The tide thundered in and out, spewing white foam and mist that clung to the shoreline. Lithe and agile, the woman moved through it undeterred, unconcerned with the danger inherent in this place. People had died here, Rory knew. Sometimes he suspected he was one of them.

“Wait,” he shouted over the crash and crescendo of the waves.

Without even hesitating she hiked up her shift and climbed past the rounded boulders that blocked the entrance to the cavern. Cursing under his breath, Rory scrambled after her.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior of the cavern beneath the fortress. The tide was high and the surging sea swelled up, nearly blotting out the entrance, but once it reached inside, the waves were subdued by massive boulders until they lapped against the stone basin, black as obsidian and glittering from the thin shaft of sunlight that followed them in. On every wall the same triple spiral that locked the Book of Fennore was carved into the stone. It was everywhere, the designs as ancient as the waters that lapped at the edge of the pool.

He knew on the far side of the cavern there was a doorway to stairs that spiraled up into the castle. At least that’s where they’d led when he was a boy, but Sean may have had them sealed off. Rory certainly would have. Enormous rocks made irregular sentries around the tide pool, some set back against the jagged walls, others teetering close to the edge. The woman hovered beside one, watching him now as she had in the dream.

Her dark hair gleamed like the sparkling water, alive with light and energy. It fell in a shining curtain around her shoulders and down her back. He imagined it would feel like silk against his fingers. Her dusky skin, long slender throat, and the bare expanse of chest that showed above the line of her shift seemed luminescent in the darkness. As always, he wanted to touch her. To pull some of that radiance into the black of his soul.

“Who are you? Why are you here?” he said, meaning it as a demand. But even he didn’t have the stones to make demands of an angel. And that’s what she looked like to him. A dark and iridescent angel.

His voice echoed in the chamber, distorted by the lapping waters and the concave walls until it bounced back at him, a stranger. She gave a small shake of her head, nearly imperceptible but for the movement of her hair. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, didn’t want to look away.

The string that held the front of her shift was loose, making the gown gape. Teasing him with glimpses of the swell of her breasts. The mist from the tide had dampened the fabric and he could see the deep rose of her nipples, the dark shadow of cleavage, the seductive line of her hips and the enthralling vee at the juncture of her thighs. Everything inside him hardened and tightened until he felt like a coil twisted to the point it would spring free.

At last he braved a step closer, watching as she hovered there. Her eyes were huge, deep, and compelling, and he felt himself pulled into the mystery of their swirling depths. He stopped a few feet in front of her, almost close enough to touch. Almost.

“Are you real?” he asked.

She tilted her head, as if trying to hear the words he spoke clearly.

“Of course you’re not real,” he muttered.

She answered with a step forward, shortening the distance between them, stunning him with her closeness. She smelled of the sea and of heather. The scents mingled on her skin and became fresh and exotic, more intoxicating than any drink he’d ever consumed. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, from trailing his fingers through her glossy mane, letting the long strands slip across his palm. It felt like silk, just as he’d imagined. It was warm from her body and alive with color. He stared, fascinated, as the light caught auburn and sable, ebony and russet.

When he looked up, she was watching him, her expression wary and wanting. There was an intensity to her gaze that unnerved, that made him feel as if she was looking deep inside him, shining a light on everything he didn’t want her to see. For a moment he was afraid she’d find him lacking and turn away. Who would blame her? Rory MacGrath was a fuckup. It was no secret. He always had been.

Neither of them moved for several long seconds punctuated by the soft splash of the water and the ragged sound of his breath catching and releasing. He bit his bottom lip, wanting more than anything to make her stay, frustrated by the sense that she never would.

Then suddenly she glanced over her shoulder, as if she’d heard something else, something that frightened her. When she faced him again, her chin was raised. Not in challenge, not in fear, but with pride. Slowly she reached for the neck of her shift, pulling the tie completely free before tugging it over her head, and letting it drop to the rocks at her feet. Rory’s mouth went dry.

He’d seen her perform the same actions in his dreams night after night, in his fantasies day after day. Now he didn’t know which it was—dream, fantasy, or real. It didn’t matter. She stole all ability to breathe, to move, to care.

She was magnificent, burnished satin skin, slender limbed and grace in motion. She was breathing heavier, and her chest rose and fell, drawing his gaze. He couldn’t stop staring at her, drinking in every feature, every dip and valley. Every shadow. He wanted to touch. God help him, he wanted to touch.

Forgotten was the funeral, the reason for his being here, the inky waters that instilled cold terror in him. All he knew stood like an ethereal shaft of clarity in a land of sin and disillusionment.

She took another step closer and her heat reached out like a caress, welcoming, inviting. Torn between his fear that she would vanish and his fear that she might simply realize she had the wrong guy, Rory touched her face, letting his fingers cup the curve of her jaw, the softness of her cheek. Her lashes fluttered for a moment and her lips parted, then she was leaning in, coming up on her toes, resting her hands against the solid wall of his chest. Her mouth was just inches away, and he closed the distance, but not his eyes. He watched her features blur as his mouth settled over hers.

Her lips were soft, sweet like cream, and he shivered at the feel of them against his own. Every muscle in his body clenched with the hot need rising inside him. Slowly he dragged his mouth over hers, reveling in the friction, the small breath she gave and he took. He used his tongue to tease her lips open and let him in. In all his life, nothing had ever felt as stunning as the hot velvet of her mouth, the dark seduction of her kiss. He realized that he was losing something of himself in that intimate touch, something he might miss, something he might never want to find again.