Lady of Seduction (10 page)

And she had no regrets. Last night was a great revelation.
Now
she understood the terrible pull of desire, the way passion could drive people to do insane things. The way it caused so
much havoc in the old myths, even starting wars and crusades. She had completely lost herself in Grant’s arms. For one night,
she forgot all the mystery and distrust that lay between them.

But today was a new start. She had to step very carefully.

She hurried up the hill to Grant’s side. Since today’s walk
was a long one in rough weather, she had left behind her dresses and petticoats and borrowed some old breeches and boots from
one of the younger footmen, along with a shirt of Grant’s. She thought she might wear such clothes all the time since there
was such a marvelous freedom about them. She could walk faster and move easier.

And the look on Grant’s face when he first glimpsed her in the foyer, dark and intense, was most gratifying. He hadn’t forgotten
last night any more than she had. Not a single moment was lost in a wine haze; every touch, every kiss, every hot movement
of his body against hers was vividly remembered.

But all he had said was, “We need to go before it starts to rain again.”

“Are we almost there?” she asked now. Caroline had to lengthen her strides to keep up with his fast pace.

He glanced down at her, his brows arched as if he was surprised to see her still there. Surely he knew by now that she would
never give up so easily.

Or perhaps he was preoccupied by other matters.

“Not far,” Grant said. He kept walking quickly, but he reached out and caught her hand in his.

“This path seems like a well-trod one,” she said, glancing back at the narrow trail behind them. “Not overgrown like the others.”

“It was a pilgrimage site for many years,” Grant answered. “People would land their boats on the main beach and come up this
path to the monastery. It boasted a reliquary containing the little finger of St. Ceolach, who helped the souls of those who
died at sea since he drowned himself at the hands of his Anglo enemies. The relic was said to cure—well, many things.”

“Things like what?” Caroline asked curiously. “It seems like he’d be no help with seasickness or shipwrecks if he himself
drowned.”

Grant laughed ruefully. “It was said to be an excellent cure for infertility or, er, sexual deficiencies. Things of that sort.
He was very popular among pilgrims.”

“I would imagine so.” Caroline felt her cheeks grow hot even in the cool breeze, and she turned her face away so he couldn’t
see her silly blush. It was ridiculous after the things she had done with him last night.

And it seemed that St. Ceolach’s influence lingered on the island, if Grant’s performance was any indication. She only hoped
the fertility would not take hold. Not that it was very likely—she had never conceived at all during her marriage, even though
Hartley had three healthy children with his first wife. That at least was one thing she didn’t have to worry about now.

“Do people still come here on pilgrimage?” she asked.

“Not really. The monastery was disbanded by the men of Henry the Eighth and mostly destroyed in the sixteenth century, and
St. Ceolach’s finger disappeared. What they didn’t accomplish, Cromwell’s soldiers did a hundred years later, when they used
the castle and the ruins to watch for Royalist ships from France. Many of the islanders were unable to find work after that,
as they mostly served at the monastery or ran shops and inns catering to the pilgrims. They say a few people, stubbornly faithful,
snuck onto the island to pray over the years. They probably take this path sometimes.”

“And you don’t mind?”

“Mind? Why would I?”

“Well,” Caroline said carefully. “St. Ceolach is an Irish
saint, yes? His shrine would be important to Irish Catholics. And I remember they said you invoked the old Penal Laws against
Catholics to try and take Adair Court from Conlan.”

Grant snorted. “I didn’t hate my cousin for his religion. I have no real faith myself any longer but I don’t care if anyone
else does. That was only a convenient excuse. And I’m sure you also remember it didn’t work.”

“Yes, I do remember.”

“I don’t care if someone wants to come all this way to say a prayer. I only own the castle, not the monastery. I only hope
they put a few coins in the villagers’ pockets while they’re at it.” Grant stepped on the crest of the hill and pointed. “There
it is, the monastery of St. Ceolach. What’s left of it anyway.”

Caroline shielded her eyes from the gray glare of the sky and peered down into the valley. The ruins were sheltered in the
bowl-like space, scattered across the green meadow like an old, insistent whisper that would not completely fade away. She
could see the two standing walls of the church, including the nave with its blank geometric pattern where once there must
have been an elaborate stained-glass window. Trees towered over it now, their branches tangled on the jagged, broken stones
of the walls. Thick grass, matted down by the rains, lay over the old aisles. Moss carpeted the standing tombs.

She could see the lines of the old outbuildings, the cloister with its long gallery walks, the chapter house, the kitchens
and enclosed gardens. Once this place had been its own world, self-sufficient and bustling with people and activity. For an
instant, she could see it as it once was, whole and new, with monks making their serene way
about their tasks and pilgrims filing into the church. She could hear their voices and the tolling of the bells.

In a strange way, it reminded her of Grant himself, still handsome despite the vast changes and the vanishing of the past.

“I told you there was not much left,” he said.

“It’s beautiful,” Caroline answered. She hurried down the winding path into the valley. She climbed over the remains of the
outer wall and went past the tangled old kitchen gardens. A few herb plants remained there. The scents of mint and rosemary,
crushed by the rains, were sweet in the fresh air.

She passed the arched colonnades of the cloister and the old well, now a deep, echoing pit in the center of the courtyard.
She had a glimpse beyond of the roofless chapter house, where once monks had illuminated manuscripts like
The Chronicle.
She peered inside and thought of the knowledge their hours of labor helped preserve, knowledge she treasured now so many
years later.

She tried to step up on a low wall to get a better view, but the crumbling rock gave way beneath her. She tumbled toward the
ground, her stomach lurching in panic, but Grant caught her around the waist and held her high up off the ground.

“I told you that you needed someone to keep you safe here,” he said, his voice low and deep, echoing through her. He held
on to her easily, as if she weighed no more than a feather.

Caroline braced her hands on his shoulders and stared down at him, entranced by his austere face in the hazy light. “You always
seem to catch me when I need you.”

He lowered her back to the grass and stepped back. “I won’t always be able to catch you, Caroline.”

Reminded that this moment was only a fleeting one, this island an enchanted place out of time, Caroline felt cold again. Soon
she would leave Muirin Inish and probably never again see Grant Dunmore. She had somehow thought that if she came here to
find
The Chronicle,
she would also find Grant again and put the past to rest. But she had only made things more complicated.

How could matters between them ever be put to rest now? Especially when they had so little time together, and she didn’t even
know what she really wanted to say to him.

“We should stop by the village before we return to the castle,” he said abruptly. “I have some errands there. And then you
can see life here is not so entirely solitary.”

Caroline nodded. It seemed she would get no more confidences out of Grant today. They climbed out of the sacred valley and
back to the crest of the hill on the other side. A wider road, rutted with mud and straw, led to the shoreline where a tiny
village waited.

It was only one lane, lined with whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs and green-painted shutters as well as a few larger
stone structures. There were two or three shops and a tavern, where a sign painted with the words “The Blue Mermaid” and the
image of a crude, fish-tailed woman with long hair swung in the breeze. Even at that afternoon hour, the tavern looked full.
Caroline could hear laughter spilling from its open door.

“That must be the tavern of Maeve’s mother,” she said.

“Maeve?”

“Your housemaid, of course. She said her mother owned the tavern in the village.” She gave it a wistful glance. It would be
nice to see someone besides Grant with all his
complexities and the castle’s dour servants for a few minutes. “Shall we go in for a quick ale? I never get to visit such
places at home.”

Grant frowned as he studied the doorway. “I don’t usually go there.”

“Then surely it’s about time you did. Just for a moment, before we walk back?”

He gave her a stern look as if he was about to refuse her, but then he nodded. “Just for a moment.”

When they stepped through the open door, Caroline had to pause to let her eyes adjust to the sudden dimness after the daylight.
She heard the low hum of talk and laughter fade away as they saw Grant standing there. It seemed he was right—he didn’t visit
the tavern very often. But one of the men stopped him to ask a question about the harvest, and Caroline went to sit at the
polished wooden bar where Maeve’s mother, the proprietor Mrs. Kinley, was serving. It seemed Maeve had already told her all
about Grant’s new visitor.

“I imagine you’ll be going back to the mainland as soon as you’re able,” Mrs. Kinley said as she placed a beaker of ale before
Caroline. “This is a rough sort of place for a lady to land in.”

Caroline glanced over at Grant where he talked with the men. He was listening to them carefully, nodding, with a solemn expression
on his face. She thought of their touch among the ruins, and the way he held on to her as if he was hungry for her. As if
he needed her.

“It has its own charms,” Caroline said. “I like to study Irish history, and there is much of that to be found on Muirin Inish.”

“A history of death and battle,” Mrs. Kinley said with a
shiver. She tucked a lock of graying red hair back into her cap. “I never go out to the ruins myself, and I always warned
my children to stay away from them, too. They’re cursed.”

Caroline sipped at her ale. She often had such feelings when she visited old sites. It was one of the reasons she liked them.
“You are Maeve’s mother, are you not?” Caroline said.

“Aye. She’s my oldest, or next to. My first born died as a wee one. I hope she’s not given you trouble.”

“On the contrary, she’s an excellent maid. She’s helped me a great deal.” Caroline lowered her voice. “She’s told me such
interesting tales of the castle, that it is haunted, too.”

Mrs. Kinley glanced at Grant, who was still conversing with the men at the other end of the room. “The castle’s always been
a strange place. No one lived there for years before Sir Grant came. It was left to the birds and the rot. But the fishermen
always said they could see lights in the tower windows when they brought in their boats at night, despite the fact that it’s
been deserted for years.”

“Maeve told me about poor Bessie. I think Maeve believes her ghost is still there, searching for the truth of what happened
to her.”

Mrs. Kinley went very still. Then her lips tightened, and she turned away to wipe at some glasses on the counter. “My Maeve
was always a fanciful girl. What happened to Bessie was a terrible accident, nothing more. I didn’t want Maeve to take the
job, but we needed the money. I warned her to stay with her duties and not go wandering about. You should do the same, my
lady.”

Caroline nodded thoughtfully. It was too late for her—she had already succumbed to curiosity and gone tumbling down into the
depths. But maybe there was still
hope for Maeve. “Perhaps when I leave here, Maeve could go with me, and I could find her a position in Dublin or at my sister’s
estate. If she would like to try a new place.”

A smile lit Mrs. Kinley’s weathered face. “Would you do that, my lady? That would be a real blessing for my girl! God knows,
there’s no prospects here. No real work or anything else.”

“No suitors? Maeve said Bessie had a beau.”

A shadow flickered over Mrs. Kinley’s smile. “Aye, Mick O’Shea. For what he’s worth. I heard tell he’s come back to Muirin
Inish after losing his job on the mainland. I just hope he ceases his drunken ravings. I refused to serve him here anymore
after Bessie died. It’s not safe to say such things, not here on this island.”

Caroline was intrigued. Dublin gossip had nothing on the tales of Muirin Inish. “What did he say?” she whispered.

At first Mrs. Kinley looked like she wouldn’t answer. But she shook her head and went on wiping the glasses. “He was just
grieving, the poor young sot. He was sure Bessie was killed there in the castle, but no one listened.”

“Killed by who?”

Mrs. Kinley shook her head harder. “I don’t repeat drunken gossip, not even in this tavern.” She hurried away to tend to another
customer.

Caroline finished her ale, thinking of ghosts and murders. She couldn’t help but imagine poor Bessie atop that rainswept tower,
running in terror, her feet slipping on the wet, worn stairs as something bore down on her…

“Are you ready to leave?” Grant suddenly said behind her.

Caroline jumped, startled, and spun around to face him. “Grant!”

He frowned. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t. I was just daydreaming I suppose. I didn’t hear you.”

“Have you finished your ale? I have work to do at the castle, and it’s a long walk back.”

“Yes, of course.” Caroline glanced past his shoulder to see the men he had been talking to, clustered now at their table in
the corner. “Have you finished your conversation?”