The Fire and the Earth: Glenncailty Castle, Book 2 (25 page)

“You bloody witch!”

They leapt at each other, all remnants of civility gone. His fists landed hard and heavy, dropping her to the floor. She kicked at him and he stomped on her leg. She curled into a ball, hissing. Pain exploded in her sides as his boot connected with her ribs. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up, slapping her across the face with his other hand.

“You murdering Irish whore.”

Her head hit the floor as he threw her down.

Murderer. He called her a murderer, and God and the saints forgiver her, it was the truth. But her sins were nothing to his.

She pushed to her hands and knees, wanting to rise up and look at him, but she couldn’t. Her leg was broken and now that her crimes were done, her strength was gone.

“I’ll burn in Satan’s Hell for my sins,” she said, “and I’ll see you there beside me.”

“Sorcha!”

He picked her up, and she struggled, laughing all the while. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to see his face.

“Sorcha, Sorcha.”

“No, don’t come out here! He’s waiting for you. Give her to me.”

There were more hands, other people touching her. It must be his man of affairs, the other Englishman he’d brought with him. Or maybe it was the head of the garrison. Maybe he’d turn her over to his soldiers to be used as a whore. He’d threatened it before. She wouldn’t fight anymore, she deserved—no, wanted—to die, so she could go to Hell to pay for her sins.

A hard pinch to the soft skin on the inside of her arm made her eyes pop open. Sorcha stared at the ceiling and for one terrifying moment didn’t know who she was. In that second, before the lingering spirit of Mary let go, she was both people—Sorcha Kerrigan, who’d loved a man who would never marry her and born a child that didn’t survive, and Mary O’Donnabhain, who’d turned her back on everything and everyone to be mistress to the Lord of Glenncailty, giving herself to a man who’d killed her family and their oldest child, committing terrible sins to hurt the man she’d once loved.

She drew in a great shuddering breath. Melissa was kneeling at her side, one hand on her head, the other on her arm. “Hold still,” Melissa said.

Sorcha ignored her, rolling her head to the side, looking for Séan. She was lying on the floor in the hall, Melissa beside her. Tristan stood in the nursery doorway with his back to them. The silvery-gray outline of a man stood just behind Tristan, between him and the hall. She could see through the figure, pick out the details of Tristan’s clothing on the other side.

There was a second, paler ghost standing at the door. It was a man, and though he seemed to waver in and out of focus, she could see that he wore a cap and a simple shirt and pants. He was moving, raising his fists in the air and bringing them down towards the open doorway. His hands stopped midair, as if they’d hit the door, but it was open. The movements were creeping, as if the figure were playing in slow motion.

Séan was standing just inside the doorway, still in the nursery, and when she looked at him, he started forward. The hatted man’s head came up and swiveled to look at Séan, transparent gray hands reaching for him. She sucked in a breath to warn Séan, but before she could, Tristan shoved him back.

“They’re here,” Sorcha said.

“What? Who?”

“The ghosts.” Sorcha pushed herself up on one elbow so she could see into the nursery. Ghosts filled the room. There were five, six, maybe seven. “God protect us.”

There was a woman in a long dress with her hair up sitting in a chair with a boy on her lap. As she watched, the woman stroked the boy’s hair, then put her hands on his neck.

“No, no, don’t,” Sorcha whispered, but it was too late. She watched the silvery tableau as the mother strangled her child, holding him tight as he thrashed. Then the mother and child faded away…only to reappear again.

Each moment played over and over on some horrible endless loop. She watched the same woman lift a baby from the crib, rocking him and talking to him before strangling the infant.

In the center of the room were the ghostly images of a man and woman. It was the same women, her ghostly form repeated, so there were many versions of her—rocking the older child, lifting the baby, and standing toe to toe with the man.

Her hair was no longer up—it streamed around her shoulders. It took only moments for him to overpower her, and then he beat her with a savagery that was terrifying to see. When the man walked away, the woman dragged herself across the floor, to the place where she’d laid her children.

Sorcha blinked and the ghosts faded until she couldn’t see them anymore. They were gone.

And yet Tristan’s shoulders were still set, and he still held Séan back.

Sorcha pushed to her feet. “Tristan, can you still see them?”

He looked over his shoulder at her and his face was grim, deep furrows bracketing his mouth. “
Oui
. You see them?”

“I did. Now I can’t.”

“Sorcha, are you all right?” Séan asked.

“Yes.” She took a breath. “I think I was inside her, the mother, or she was inside me.”

“We know,” Séan’s gaze searched her. “You were…talking.”

“Did you understand her?” Melissa said. “I didn’t get it all.”

“Some of it was Irish.”

“What did I say?”

“You said…that you had to kill them, your children, to hurt him.”

Tears filled her eyes and she nodded. “He—the father—killed the oldest boy because he looked and acted Irish.”

“Ah, this is why she’s killing them?” Tristan asked. His voice was tight, and Sorcha could only imagine what he was going through watching the horror over and over.

“Yes. She was angry, so angry.” Sorcha rubbed her arms.

“He kills at least one child, she kills two, and then he kills her.” Tristan shook his head. “That pain, that rage… They are not ghosts.”

“What are you talking about?” Sorcha whispered, “I saw them, I felt them. So did Séan.”

“The man beside me wants Séan. He is trying to get in, but he cannot.”

“But we did what he wanted?” Séan said. “I took down the wall, we opened the door.”

“It doesn’t matter, these aren’t ghosts.”

“What are they then?” Sorcha asked desperately.

“Memories.” Tristan took a half step back and shook his head. “They are memories so strong that they left a mark. Ghosts are souls, left wandering because they cannot leave. These are not true ghosts, they are moments of history that even time cannot erase.”

“We can’t…we can’t make them go away?” Sorcha asked.

“No.”

“We need to leave, run.”

“I…can’t.” Tristan said.

“What do you mean?”

Melissa, who’d been quiet at Sorcha’s side, went up to Tristan. While the rest of them were frozen in place, afraid to move, she seemed unaffected.

She examined Tristan’s face, took his pulse, then nodded. “All right, I believe you believe there’s something going on here.”

Tristan let out a little puff of air that was almost a laugh. “You don’t trust what you can’t see?”

“I’ve seen more dead bodies, graves and horrifying things than most people. Trust me, if there were ghosts, I’d know about it.”

She stepped back from Tristan and walked into the room. Marching over to the tarp, she crouched at her bag. “Ghosts, or memories or whatever you want to call them, don’t exist, but people’s reactions are very real, and that I can help with.”

She took two flares out of the bag, and a small plastic device.

“Most major religions have exorcism rituals, though they are called a variety of things. There are similar elements used in most.” Melissa spoke calmly and clearly, as if giving a lecture. “The first is fire.”

She popped the caps from the flares. There was a hiss and then red flame shot out of them. She held both in one hand and turned in a circle.

“The second is sound.”

Holding up the little plastic box, she pressed the button in the middle.

A piercing siren ripped through the air. Sorcha clapped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes closed. The scream of the siren set her teeth on edge and made her eyes water. Someone touched her. She opened one eye, looked up at Séan, who was now in the hall with her. Ghost at the threshold or not, she didn’t blame him for getting out of there.

He opened his arms and she slid into them gratefully, hands still pressed over her ears.

The sound stopped, and the silence was almost as deafening as the siren had been. Together she and Séan peered around Tristan at Melissa. She was looking at Tristan.

“They’re gone,” he said. He looked around. “That worked.” He stiffened, then whirled to look behind him. Sorcha remembered the ghost that had been at his back, so much brighter than the others. His shoulders relaxed. “The memories are gone.”

Chapter Sixteen

A Time to Sow

Hand in hand, Sorcha and Séan exited the west wing, using the back door rather than going into the castle. Melissa’s emergency siren had brought people running—Sorcha wasn’t ready to face everyone yet. As the director of guest services, she needed to be in there, helping to restore order and redress any inconvenience.

But right now she was raw and needed to be away from everyone.

Everyone but Séan.

It was raining, and as they stepped out into the night the rain soaked her hair and clothes. It felt good, cleansing.

Séan tipped his head back, let the rain fall on his face. He was a man of the land, meant to be out here, in the rain and wind—strong and gentle and kind. He smiled a little, his lips quirking as the rain plastered his hair to his face and darkened his beard.

“I love you.”

The words were out before she could stop them, before she could remind herself that she couldn’t have him, that what was between them was over, had to be over.

For an eternal moment, he didn’t respond. Then his chin tipped down and he looked at her, his eyes almost gold in the murky light of the stormy afternoon.

“And I love you, Sorcha Kerrigan, and I always will.”

A sob caught in her throat. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. He tasted like rain and man, and something darker that might have been fear.

His wet hands found their way under her clothes, caressing her skin. She shivered, kissing him harder, deeper. Their bodies rocked together and she felt the start of his erection against her hip. They were outside, in the space between the west wing and the mews. Some high shrubs hid them from the first floor windows of the main wing, but anyone on the second floor or walking on the garden path that passed by the rear wall could see them.

They didn’t care. Sorcha toed off her shoes, wishing she was wearing a skirt as she shucked her slacks. Rain and cold air hit her bare legs, but Séan was there, backing her against the wall of the castle, lifting her and wrapping her legs around him. He’d opened his pants, and his cock was hard and ready. He didn’t prepare her, didn’t wait. He thrust in to her, demanding that she accept him. Sorcha was more than ready. She wanted,
needed
the fullness of his sudden invasion.

“I love you, I have since the moment I saw you,” he whispered. “I will always love you.”

“I love you, I love you so much I’m scared to even think the words.” She fisted a hand in his hair as she buried her face against his shoulder while his hips pumped into her in a steady rhythm.

They came together, shuddering and shivering, holding each other as if they’d fall away into the abyss if they let go.

The rain stopped and Séan looked up. He glanced around, then met her gaze. His lips quirked in a smile. “Ah, my Sorcha. You drive me mad.”

“I can’t believe we just had sex against a wall in the rain.”

His semi-erect cock was still inside her. Sorcha started to push him away so she could find her trousers, but the movement was enough stimulation that they both moaned.

“That first time might have been a fluke,” he whispered as he kissed his way down her neck. “Maybe we should try it again.”

“You’re enough to tempt a saint, but I have to go. I have to help.”

“All right.” He pulled back, slowly lowering her legs.

Sorcha picked up her soaked slacks and with a groan pulled those and her equally wet underwear on. “I need dry clothes. I’ll grab a uniform.”

“I’ll get them. Where’s your key?” He zipped his pants.

“You’re wet and cold too.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t help you.”

Sorcha paused, then said, “I didn’t lock the cottage.”

“Where should I meet you?”

“Front desk. If I’m not there, they’ll know where I am.”

He nodded, then turned for the garden path. He could follow it all the way to the west wing and the forest beyond.

“And Séan?”

He looked over his shoulder.

She opened her mouth, but she didn’t know what to say, or rather, didn’t know where to start. So much had happened in the last few hours.

He nodded once, as if he understood. “When you’re done, we’ll talk. There’s time, Sorcha, time for us to figure it all out.”