The Rousing: A Celtic in the Blood Novella (5 page)

“I haven't done anything like this in a long time,” Jack said, hunkered down as he prised the shellfish from the rocks.

“Me neither,” I replied. “My parents used to bring me here sometimes, when I was a kid.”

“Darcy. That’s an interesting name, for a girl. Your mother named you?

“Yeah.”

“Let me guess, she’s a Jane Austen fan?”

“The only Mr. Darcy I’m named after is John Patrick Darcy, my grandfather.”

“I see.”

“But yes, as it happens, my mother was an Austen fan,” I said, emphasis on the past tense.

"She passed?"

I nodded.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It was a long time ago,” I shrugged and smiled sadly. “I’m sorry for yours.”

He stared at his bare feet and for a long time said nothing. I filled the silence by filling the pot with more mussels.

“After my father left us,” he said, eventually, “she sent me away to boarding school.”

“How old were you?”

“Six years old.”

“God, that’s so young. I’m sorry.”

“She wasn’t right in the head after he left. She took me out of school, told the headmaster I was sick. I still remember her, dousing the house with holy water and hanging all these bundles of strange-smelling herbs from the windows. She said they were to ward off the evil spirits. Then one day, she dragged me out of bed early and told me I had to go away, or they’d be coming back for me.”

“They? The evil spirits?”

He nodded. “I was just a kid, you know? I didn’t understand that she was sick. All I knew was that the rug was being pulled out from under my entire life. I look back on it now, I think maybe my mother thought he’d left her for another woman, and she was afraid he was going to come back and take me away from her.”

“You think that’s what really happened?”

He shook his head and took a deep breath. “No. If he were still alive, he’d have shown up somehow, eventually. None of his bank accounts or assets were ever touched. It was a real stormy night, like you said. You ask me, I’d say my father took a tumble off the cliffs and his body got swept out to sea.”

“That’s terrible.” A shiver crawled up my spine and I tried really hard not to think of John-Joe’s body lying dead on the other side of the rocks. “Is this your first time back to Ireland?” I asked.

“Yeah. My mother forbade me to ever return here.” The tightness in his words betrayed the emotions he tried to suppress. “Not even for her funeral.”

So that was why he hadn’t shown. Damn. I couldn’t imagine how that kind of rejection must have hurt him. I’d lost my mother to cancer when I was just fifteen, but even at the bitter end, when the pain was unbearable, I knew she’d have suffered anything just to stay with us. I felt like a bitch for having prejudged him.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, and I meant it.

“She was sick in the head. Delusional. I can’t blame her.”

“And you never tried to come back?”

“She didn’t want me here. She made that abundantly clear. The doctors said it would probably be for the best if I stayed away.”

He moved to another rock pool and got busy harvesting a fresh crop of shellfish. His damp hair fell across his eyes as he bent forward, shielding his expression. The thin gold band on the ring-finger of his right hand glinted in the moonlight. It was the wrong hand, but curiosity got the better of me.

"You have somebody, back in New York?"

He shook his head and threw me a quick smile. "Married to the job," he said.

Yeah, parental rejection at that tender an age was sure to leave you with some kind of attachment issues.

“You're really going to sell the house?” I asked. “Given that it’s been in your family for so many generations.”

“There's nothing here for me,” he said, “only bad memories.”

“You could make new ones,” I suggested.

“You don’t think I should sell?” he asked, finally looking up at me with those piercing green eyes.

“No, I … Obviously, it’s your choice. It’s just that this house, it’s your heritage, and this place is so beautiful. The view alone is priceless. With a little love and attention, I believe Bronach could rival any of the big country estates. You don’t know how lucky you are to have such a treasure in your possession. You sell Bronach to some big-city developer, they’ll rip the soul out of her.”

“You’re very good at your job, Miss McShane,” Jack said, and his eyes creased into a twinkling smile. “What would a city-slicker publisher like me do in a big old place like this? The house doesn't even have phone signal, let alone broadband.”

“We're not stuck in the Middle Ages here,” I said, unable to disguise the note of bitterness that slipped into my words.

“I’m sorry if I offended your home-town,” he said.

“Technically it’s your home-town too. We may not be bright lights and big city here, but Crooke has a lot going for it.”

“Such as?”

“Just look around you, it’s wild, and beautiful.”

“Yes, wild and beautiful, for sure,” he said, looking right at me with those smouldering green eyes.

I felt something clench, low in my belly. My body wanted to believe he was telling me I was beautiful. Pathetic. I felt the heat creep over my cheeks. My lips parted, but I had no words.

“Is your mother the reason you stayed?” he asked.

“Sorry?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I can’t imagine a charming, intelligent, funny girl like you being happy to spend her entire life in such a small place.”

I wanted to deny it, but I couldn’t, any more than I could deny that his inane flattery affected me. “No,” I said. “My mother died of breast cancer when I was a teenager. I stayed for my father’s sake. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s right before my then fiancé and I were due to emigrate to Australia.”

“That’s rough," he said, frowning. "I’m sorry. How’s your father now?”

“He’s end-stage, in a care-home. Liam and I managed to keep him home until three months ago, but now he doesn’t even know us anymore.”

“So you sacrificed your own future for him?”

“I did what any daughter would do.”

“And your boyfriend? Where’s he?”

“My fiancé,” I corrected him. “Ex-fiancé, to be exact. He's in Australia.”

“He went anyway, without you,” Jack concluded.

My silence confirmed it.

“Then he's a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah, well, I guess life isn’t something you can really plan for,” I said, getting back on my feet. “Just when you think you’re headed in one direction, fate jumps out and spins the signpost another way."

There was more I didn’t tell Jack Pembroke. Like how I‘d come home early from the hospital one afternoon and found Alec in bed with my roommate, Sally. At least I’d only got a broken heart. He’d got a killer dose of herpes from Sally, and God help me, but the bitter and twisted part of me hoped it flared up on his wedding day.

An hour later, and a combination of the roaring fire and a huge glass of red wine had put a distinct glow in my cheeks. I sat on the hearth-rug with my legs tucked under me, while Jack took possession of one of the big fireside wing-chairs. A huge mound of empty mussel shells stood testament to the feast we'd just enjoyed. Sated and just a little tipsy, I ventured to ask what had been on my mind these past few hours.

"What do you suppose happened to John-Joe?"

Jack balanced his wine glass on the arm of the chair and swirled its contents, ruby in the firelight. "If I had to guess, I'd say he came up here to drink."

"I saw him at the local pub last night, and he was pretty well-on."

"That fits, then. There was a lot of broken glass around. He could have cut himself, staggered away and lost his footing on the cliff."

"How'd he get here, though? I didn't see any car, did you?"

He shook his head, brows pulled together in thought. "You think he wasn't alone?"

"Somebody messed up the cairn," I said. "I can't imagine John-Joe doing that, even three sheets to the wind drunk. Folks around here are superstitious."

"Teenagers maybe, underage drinking? Sounds like the kind of prank kids would pull. It'd explain all the empty bottles too.” He drank deep, licked his lips, and I was momentarily transfixed by his full, wet mouth. “What's your theory, sleuth?" he drawled.

"My theory?" I laughed. "Somebody disturbed the final resting-place of the Dearg Due, and now she's back from the grave, sucking the lifeblood of poor, unsuspecting men."

"You have a vivid imagination," he said. "I like that. Does the vampire myth excite you?”

“Why? Are you a vampire, Mr. Jack Pembroke?” I teased.

“Would you find me more sexually appealing if I were?”

More sexually appealing?
“You mean if you were a sharp-dressing, powerful, broody, manipulating, bad-boy bloodsucker?”

“Touché, Miss McShane.” His smile was lazy, a gleam of teeth in the firelight.

“What makes you think that’s what women want?”

“I'm a publisher. My desk is strewn daily with female fantasies: every dirty, taboo thought laid bare in print."

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Mr. Big Publisher. Most of us would settle for a man with decent personal hygiene who could make us laugh."

"Why would a woman like you ever settle?"

"Oh you're smooth," I laughed.

"I'm serious. Arrogance. Dominance. Confidence. Power. Danger. How does a flesh and blood man compete with the product of a woman’s secret desires?”

“There is no competition. Vampires don't exist.”

“I disagree. The mind, fantasy, those are very real and powerful things.”

“But they’re just that: a fantasy."

"Why shouldn’t they be reality? If a woman wants to be noticed, to feel attractive, to be desired, if she gets off on the power that comes with feeling she is the sole object of a powerful man's sexual obsession. Is that so wrong?”

“No, I suppose not,” I said. My finger played with the rim of my wine glass. “As long as it’s in the context of a healthy relationship. No girl wants some psycho obsessive stalker, not in real-life."

“Very true, and not all the stalkers are men, believe me,” he said, drinking deep.

“Anyway,” I said, wanting to turn the focus back onto him, “it’s not just us girls. Men have their fantasy women too.”

“True,” he replied. The corners of his mouth curved with a grin that was all wickedness. “And what would a man like me have to do to make a beautiful, intelligent woman like you the object of his fantasies?”

I almost choked on a mouthful of wine.

“You're very direct. Is that an American thing?”

“It's who I am. I'm not afraid to go after what I want in life."

"What is it you want, Jack Pembroke?"

"I want to make love to you. I've wanted it since you first looked up at me from down on your knees in the grass."

I stared at him, open-mouthed. It hadn’t just been me who’d felt that instantaneous, panty-dropping first-sight attraction then. Crikey.

"I'm prepared to do whatever it takes. No apologies,” he said, in a voice that was pure smoke and gravel.

The intensity of his words made me nervous and excited in equal measure. “Whatever it takes? Even if it meant pretending you were a vampire?” I teased, resorting to humour in an attempt to disguise my nerves.

“I’m prepared to play along,” he said, lifting another shell to his lips. The way he sucked the pink morsel into his mouth was borderline indecent. Or maybe that was just my filthy mind.

He eased himself back into the armchair, owning it in that shameless, spread-eagle, loosened-tie sprawl only a man can pull off. His lids were at half-mast, the corners of his mouth lifted in a wicked half-smile when he drawled the words that changed the course of the entire night. “I like to fuck when I feed,” he said.

A jolt of surprise arrowed through my gut.