The Summer King (20 page)

“She’s not here.”

Laurel’s voice rang with dismay.

“This was her home,” Ian said, mystified.

“Her home,” Laurel repeated. Then she shook her head. “Was it really? She was a pirate, not a housewife. Her home was—”

“—the sea!”

They raced out of the castle. Too late! Gracie’s boat had already disappeared around the headland. Laurel let out a groan. How else could they search the bay?

“She’ll be back by midday,” Ian said, with a shrug. “That still gives us plenty of time. We’ll just have to wait for her.”

Laurel sighed in agreement. They had no other choice.

“What will we do till then? Too bad we didn’t bring swimsuits.”

She looked over at the beach. The white sand curved around a sheet of green water. No crowds. No noise. A holiday dream.

Pulling off her shoes and socks, she let out a cry.

“Last one in’s an eejit!”

As she raced for the sea, she could hear him running behind her but he hadn’t a hope of catching up. She was too fast. Splashing into the water, she let out a whoop. It was so shockingly cold, it cut off her breath. She plunged in regardless. Her brain froze. Her skin burned. Screeching and spluttering, she surfaced in an explosion of spray. Only then did she see that he had stopped at the shore.

His grin was triumphant.

“It’s the Atlantic for godsakes.
You’re
the eejit.”

Her lips were purple, and she was shivering uncontrollably as she waded out of the water.

He started to strip off his T-shirt to offer it as a towel, when he caught the look on her face.

“No way!” he said, and turned and ran.

With the head start, he managed to reach the top of the dunes before she closed in on him. Then she made a flying tackle. In a flurry of arms and legs and sand, they went rolling down the hill. When they hit the bottom, Laurel was winded, and Ian was on top.

He didn’t move.

“Get off me!”

“Nope.” He pinned her arms and leaned over her, grinning. “I will not be thrashed by a girl again. I’ll let you up when you calm down.”

“I am calm!” she said, glaring at him.

He snorted.

“Get off me!” she repeated, but less furiously now as the startling eyes watched her like a hawk. A blue-eyed hawk.

“In a minute,” he said, and he laughed.

Her own laughter rose up. She could feel the warm sand against her back, and the warmth of his body pressing against hers.

“Come on, get off me,” she said, one more time, but her tone was mild and all the insistence had gone.

They both stopped laughing and stared at each other. What was this moment? Who could name it? It was so easy to put their arms around each other. So easy to kiss. Two who had suffered alone for so long, caught off guard by inevitable happiness.

hey crossed the beach in their bare feet, carrying their shoes. The clarity of the light was almost blinding. The scene was a blur of white sand, green sea, blue sky. Ian stopped to turn his face to the sun.

“I don’t remember ever feeling this good,” he murmured.

He let out a low laugh, and regarded her quizzically.

She looked away. Her feelings were scattered. She didn’t really know what to say or think.

He offered his hand.

After a pause, she took it.

“I’m hungry,” she said.

“Me too. Let’s eat.”

Beyond the beach, a little road led up to the buildings they had seen from the boat. There was a cluster of houses and a small hotel. The Granuaile House glared white in the sunlight, but it was cool and dim inside. A spacious lounge overlooked the bay.

After ordering her food, Laurel looked around for the restrooms. Her clothes had dried out for the second time, but they were stiff with salt from the sea. She frowned at the two doors on the far side of the room. One said
Mná
, the other
Fir
.

When she asked Ian for help, his face flickered with mischief.

“Right,” he said. “You’ve a fifty-fifty chance. Let’s see how the average tourist does. Which would you go for?”

She studied the sign that said
Mná
.

“Well, that looks like ‘man.’ Sort of. And the other starts with ‘f’ like ‘female’.”

As she headed toward the door marked
Fir
, she heard him chuckle behind her even as a man came out. Without slowing her stride, she veered to the left and entered
Mná
.

When she returned, Ian was already eating his toasted cheese sandwich with fries, while a big bowl of steamed mussels waited for her.

“Yum. Squidgy,” she said, as she made her way through them. “It’s like eating bits of the sea.”

“Once
living
bits,” he said pointedly.

“Don’t start.” But then she reconsidered and answered seriously. “Everything on this planet eats something else, not just humans. That’s the way it is here. The worms will get me one day.”

“Yeah, but first you’ll live out your life span.”

“Maybe,” she said softly.

He blanched as he realized what he had said and began to apologize.

“Don’t. It’s okay.”

They finished their lunch without speaking. Laurel could see he was upset, and searched for something to ease the awkwardness.

“Laheen was right about one thing. Granuaile haunts this place. Her name is everywhere. Like this hotel. And Gracie’s boat. Didn’t the guidebook say ‘the Dark Lady of Doona’ was one of her titles?”

Ian looked startled, then groaned.

“God, how did I miss it?”

“What?” said Laurel. “What did we miss?”

“Not
we
. Me. You couldn’t have known. You have no Irish. But I … Jesus, I’m as thick as two bricks!”

She nearly lost her temper.

“Tell me! What did you miss?”

“Our skipper,” he swore. “That’s her name in English. Granuaile translates to
Grace O’Malley
.”

Laurel frowned. “So it’s a coincidence, or she’s a descendant, but Gracie’s a real person, not a ghost. The man in the post office knows her. She ‘fishes for Ireland,’ whatever that means. And she’s very solid. Remember that handshake?”

“Maybe she’s a reincarnation,” he suggested. “It’s too big a coincidence, the boat and her name.”

“Laheen says she’s a spirit,” Laurel continued to argue. “How can she be both at the same time?”

“We’re looking for a ghost and you want logic?”

In the end they agreed there was only one way to know for sure: confront the skipper. They were no longer willing to wait for her return. Gracie or Granuaile, they were going after her.

Their efforts to hire another boat soon proved futile. The summer season had all on the island employed. Just as Laurel was getting frantic, an old toothless fisherman took pity on them.

“Ye can take your sweetheart out in my
curach
,” he told Ian, with a gummy grin. “Mind ye don’t upset her.”

“The boat or my sweetheart?” said Ian, grinning back.

The old man cackled. Laurel ignored them both.

The old fisherman’s currach lay with several others upturned on the sand like great black beetles. The boat was made of wood covered with tarred canvas, ideal for inshore fishing as well as travel between the islands. The stern was square while the bow pointed upwards. It had no keel, and the narrow oars were fixed to the gunwales.

Laurel stared dubiously at the antiquated craft. It was unlike any canoe or kayak she had ever handled. Ian drew her aside.

“This feels right,” he said. “Currachs have been used for thousands of years. They belong here. Like Grace.”

“You’d get in one of these?” she said, surprised.

He shrugged. “I’m not thrilled about it, but do we have a choice?”

That settled the matter. With the old man cackling and chortling behind them, they hoisted the boat over their shoulders and took it to the water. It was unexpectedly light, far more so than a canoe. But what made it easy to carry, made it hard to control. Once they pushed off, the currach rocked wildly, responding to the waves like a living thing. When they grasped the oars and started to row, they spun round in circles.

Onshore, the fisherman continued to screech directions, between fits of coughing and laughing. When they finally gained control of the boat, he waved them off and they set out for Clew Bay. Their plan was simple. They would row in the direction they last saw
The Lady of Doona.

Ian grimaced as the waves rose higher and the cold spray splashed over the bow. They were moving at a terrific speed. The currach rode the rollers like a show horse taking its jumps. But where was Gracie? Had they any chance of finding her?

The pier of Clare Island had fallen far behind when it happened. A fist of wind struck the boat and made it pitch like a rocking horse. Then they saw something moving toward them over the waves. It appeared to be a squall on the ocean. Before they could move, they were engulfed in fog.

The mist was a thick milky gray. They could hardly see each other, let alone beyond the currach. The silence was ominous. There was only the slap of the water against the hull. They both stopped rowing. Laurel bit her lip. Though she didn’t say it out loud, she realized they had charged off recklessly. Without life jackets or provisions, they were in serious danger if they got lost at sea.

Muffled sounds reached them. A ship’s bell clanging. The shouts of men.

“Is it her?” whispered Laurel.

“Let’s hope so,” muttered Ian.

A huge dark shape suddenly emerged from the fog, as if bearing down on them. Now the haze dispersed as swiftly as it had come, and they saw the ship.

Graceful in line, similar to a Spanish galleon but not as cumbersome, it rested on the waves with its sails furled.

“I think …” Laurel began.

She was stunned by the size of the vessel. Their own was like an eggshell beside it.

Some of the crew leaned over the sides to peer down at them. There wasn’t a friendly face to be seen. Rough and weathered, each man seemed to be missing some part of his body, an eye, an ear, a hand, or an arm. Several wore eye patches. These were no ordinary sailors or fishermen. There was no question about it: they were pirates.

A rope ladder came flying through the air and landed in the currach with a thump. Laurel and Ian were already scrambling upward before the threats began. What else could they do? When they reached the top, they were hauled onboard.

The crew were a dirty and disheveled lot, long-haired and unshaven, in baggy trousers with leather vests. Most were barefoot. But it wasn’t at the men that Laurel stared, but the one woman in their midst. Though she wore leggings and boots, with a saffron-colored shirt, she was as wild-looking as the rest, perhaps even wilder. Her features were hard, her eyes piercing. A large knife was tucked into her belt. Yet despite her appearance, she was recognizable. She had the same brown curls framing her face, the same high coloring from wind and sun. She was the image of Gracie, the skipper of
The Lady of Doona
.

Yet she stared at them as if they were strangers.

At a slight nod of her head, one of the men grabbed Ian and put a dagger to his throat.

“An Sasanaigh sibh?”
she demanded.

“Ní hea,”
he answered, with a strangled noise.

“Leave him alone!” Laurel cried.

A grimy hand was clapped over her mouth.

“We are not English,” Ian repeated for Laurel’s sake, then explained hurriedly to the captain, who could be no other than Grace O’Malley. “We are not your enemy. This girl can’t speak Irish. She comes from a land in the west. On the far side of the ocean.”

“I’ve heard of the new world across our sea,” the pirate queen said, nodding curtly. A greedy look crossed her face. She shouted to her men. “More countries, more trade, more ships to plunder!”

They responded with a raucous cheer. There were at least a hundred aboard, all sworn to serve her with their lives. Most came from the two clans the O’Malley’s ruled. Grace would go down in history for having said,
Go mbhfearr léi lán loinge de Chloinn Conroi agus de Chloinn Mic an Allaidh ná lán loinge d’ór.
“I would rather have a shipful of Conroys and McAnallys, than a shipful of gold.”