Celtic Evil: A Fitzgerald Brother Novel: Roarke (10 page)

His eyes shot to Jessica’s
and saw her lips thin but remain silent as he carefully moved to
lift his brother’s t-shirt up, and a streak of lightning ran across
the clear night sky.

“What in Finn’s name
happened to him?” his voice had gone flat and cold upon lifting the
shirt and seeing the many old scars that littered the younger man’s
back as far as he could see.

Some looked to have come from a hand or belt
while others he didn’t want to define yet what had caused them.

“Your grandmother’s good
friends, the Walshes, used Roarke as slave labor for the two years
he was there.” Her tone, while still exhausted, was also cool as
she spoke distinctly to make sure he understood every word. “Their
four ugly little demon brats didn’t have to lift a finger but
Roarke did chores from five a.m. until well past ten p.m. He often
ate little to nothing if they thought to feed him at all, and was
punished for the smallest mistake.”

This time, Kerry began
scanning his brother even though he had to work through the fear
and tension of his whole life. As he did this, he also looked at
the other scars and saw what his brother was hiding.

“Cam and I were in Ireland
one day checking on the local companies and decided to drop in
unannounced to see Roarke since getting him by phone was a huge
effort,” Jessica went on softly, her pain evident as she remembered
that day. “He was thirteen, had been sending you secret letters or
notes the whole time begging you to make the horrors stop, to come
get him, but you never answered him.

“That day, when we got to
the Walsh farm things felt odd. Their oldest son was doing his
usual swaggering until Cam put a gun in his face, but wouldn’t say
where Roarke was. I found Roarke laying in the barn where they had
tied him and he’d been beaten to a raw bloody pulp. His back, legs,
chest, anything exposed was just raw and bloody and that’s when I
learned they’d also been selling him.”

Her fingers stilled in his
hair as another streak of lightning flashed and Kerry’s eyes
started to smoke. “They…”

“The Walshes, their kids,
used him as a toy, a slave and they raped him from eleven to
thirteen, and Cam and I took him from there with the threat that if
they even tried to touch him again Cam would cause so much
trouble,” she slowly met his eyes and debated on telling him this
next part. “I told them we’d tell you but the old woman just
laughed and said it wouldn’t matter since your grandmother already
knew what they were doing. In fact, she had told them to make him
suffer. That she wanted him to pay for what he’d caused to
happen.”

This time, the whole clear
night sky just lit up as his temper lit, but his brother’s soft
whimper brought him back slowly to some calmness. Several deep
breaths and finally Kerry could find his voice. “Kathleen knew they
were doing this to him?”

The pain in his chest was
bad enough but this was making his stomach turn as he laid a gentle
hand on the boy’s face and looked, wishing he hadn’t as the images
flew to meet him until finally he jerked back, but was careful to
stop them from going any further.

“Sleep, Roarke,” he
whispered, fingers brushing across a scar on his neck, but didn’t
want to focus on those he couldn’t see yet. “Sleep, little boy, as
your dreams won’t be touched tonight and neither will
you.”

Kerry’s promise went
unheard as his brother’s body seemed to relax and he looked up to
see that this had taken what strength Jessica had. “Sleep, darling.
You don’t need to protect him tonight. You both sleep.”

Jessica started to object
but the older man shook his head, reaching for the handmade quilt
from the bottom of the bed to lay over them.

As he waited to be certain
the spell would hold, he crossed to the window and lit the candle
on the sill, silently whispering the protection spell he’d heard
his mother use before.

“Moonlight, starlight, I
ask thee to protect these I seek to shield this night.” The candle
sparked blue flame and he left a low light on before easing from
the room to see Cameron Young in the hall.

“She swore to him we
wouldn’t tell you and considering your grandmother’s involvement, I
wasn’t sure he’d be safe in Ireland.” The merc leader could read
the silent fury. “The only way we could save him was to get him
outta here and help him to forget.”

Kerry knew that was true
but he was still feeling his brother’s pain, the shame, and above
all the absolute abandonment. “Stay close to them and if either of
them wakes up, call me or Mac.”

“Are you going to tell the
others?” Cam wasn’t sure that would be good, especially if one
considered how Roarke and Ryan got along.

“I don’t know,” the eldest
brother admitted as he headed downstairs, his temper beginning to
spark as he again thought of what he’d been told, what he’d seen,
what he’d felt and above all, what all he hadn’t been told these
past fifteen years.

In the kitchen of the Fitzgerald manor,
Deirdre O’Connor served strong Irish coffee, tea and bottled water
with her famous cookies and cakes as she hovered over Mac.

“Even as a lad you were
always taking on too much,” she admonished, pleased with the way
Maggie had taken to rubbing the spots on Mac’s neck the way she’d
showed her.

“Saint Mac,” Ryan threw out
a phrase he’d used when they’d been boys and was pleased when his
brother lifted his head from the table enough to shoot him a hard
look.

Maggie just gently pushed
his head back down, clucking her tongue. “I see we have typical
brothers,” she chided.

“Got many of those do ye,
Miss?” Deirdre asked while placing dishes away as sudden noise came
from outside.

“I have nine of them to be
exact,” Maggie returned, hearing Ian choke and Mac tried to twist
his head. “What? A girl can’t have brothers?”

“Are they older or
younger?” Ryan asked, reaching for the whiskey bottle in the
cabinet.

“All older, I fear,” the
red-haired reporter replied, surprised to see lightning flash. “I’m
the youngest of ten.”

A smack to the hand had
Ryan jerking away from the bottle. “Damn it, Deirdre,” he
complained wincing as another slap came to his head.

“You’ll watch your mouth in
your mother’s house, Ryan Fitzgerald, and you don’t need whiskey at
this hour,” the housekeeper returned firmly, turning as the sky
outside lit up with lightning and Mac raised his head.

“Kerry’s ticked about
something,” he sighed, reaching for a cookie and meeting Ryan’s
gaze. “It takes a lot to cause his temper to make
lightning.”

Ryan knew this and
remembered the times when breaking up fights between them had
caused that reaction, though the final time he’d felt that reaction
had been the day of the funeral when his brother and grandmother
exchanged words.

Maggie had sat down to sip
her tea, tapping a cookie on the rim of the china cup. “Your
brother causes lightning?”

“Aye, when his temper is up
he certainly can,” Deirdre again slapped Ryan’s hand away from the
bottle. “Lad, you were an obstinate child but you don’t need
whiskey at this hour and not in my kitchen.”

“What’s the use of having
Irish coffee without the whiskey to put in it?” Ryan grumbled,
seeing Mac grin. “Shut it,” he warned, knowing what he was
thinking.

Mac smiled innocently,
taking another cookie then handing the tin to Ian, who seemed to be
having mixed feelings on taking another one. “You can’t handle
whiskey, Ry,” he reminded him gravely. “Hell, you couldn’t even
handle Da’s Rum the day you got into it and were sick for the next
two days.”

“I was eight years old that
time and have learned to handle my liquor a little better,” his
brother countered, giving up on the whiskey so he laced the coffee
with sugar.

Ian was frowning. “The
house is tense,” he spoke quietly, but both his brothers seemed to
feel it.

Maggie was still having
trouble believing she was sitting in the same room with three of
the famous singing Fitzgerald brothers and mentioned it, narrowing
her eyes in annoyance as Mac nearly choked and Ryan lifted dark
eyebrows.

“Been awhile since anyone
remembered us that way,” he lifted his cup to her in mild salute
and smiled at her; also not missing the look Mac gave him at this
and catching the underlying meaning to this. ‘Well, well, this is
new,’ he thought.

“My Gran was a huge fan,”
the reporter replied looking out the kitchen window as the whole
sky lit up. “Had a book of clippings, all your albums,
everything.”

Mac’s eyes narrowed at the
lightning but caught Ian’s look. “What’s up, lad?”

The boy had been wondering
this for a long time but never had anyone to ask. “I always asked
Sybil if it had been so easy for us to quit being a group, to quit
singing,” he frowned, looking up as he sought to explain. “I mean,
I like to act in school and I can sing pretty well but…”

Deirdre put a loving arm
around his shoulders. “Lad, for three years old when you last sang
with your brothers you sang like an Angel,” she told
him.

“Kerry was the main singer
in the family,” Mac explained, thinking back. “When it became clear
that all of us could sing it made sense to Mum and Da to keep the
family together by making a group. To this day, people still try to
get Kerry to sing at local festivals or the like but… As for what
happened to us singing together…” He could only shrug.

“Your Da’s Mum thought it
best to stop the singing to protect you lads,” Deirdre explained
looking up suddenly as the feel of the whole house seemed to
change.

Maggie had been about to
ask something when she saw Kerry enter the kitchen, and figured it
better to stay silent.

The oldest of the
Fitzgerald brothers had always seemed like he could look colder and
serious to Maggie but as he walked in this time there was no
mistaking the anger radiating off him.

“What else did our
Grandmother think, Deirdre?” he asked; voice cold steel as he
reached in the cabinet for the whiskey and a glass.

“Deirdre says it’s too late
for that, bro,” Ryan grinned but quieted as his brother poured the
amber liquid in a shot glass and drank it in one hiss. “O-kay, your
house so your rules, I suppose.”

Mac looked up and frowned.
“Kerry, what’s wrong?” he asked, starting to stand but a single
look from his brother had him sitting back down.

“What’s wrong with him?” Maggie’s question
was a soft whisper but Mac could only shrug as his brother sat the
glass down on the table with a thump as he pinned the housekeeper
with his eyes.

“I don’t know what you
mean, Kerry,” Deirdre replied, wiping her hands on an apron and
reaching for another mug to pour more coffee.

Usually very careful about his powers, this
night Kerry’s eyes flashed and the mug turned to ash.

“Whoa,” Ian breathed, not
expecting this and clearly by the way both Ryan and Mac looked,
neither were they.

“Kerry!” Mac was on his
feet even as the dust was hitting the floor. “What the bloody
hell’s wrong?”

His brother didn’t shift
his gaze from the older woman. “For so long as I was old enough to
remember, aside from my parents, you’ve had the pulse of this
house, Deirdre. You could always tell what was where before Mum
asked you for it,” he spoke quietly now but his accent was almost
totally gone, which was a sign of his temper.

“You know everything that
goes on in this house, with this house and the people in this
house, so I’m pretty damn sure you know what I’m going to ask you.”
Kerry saw her lower her eyes slightly but she gave no inclination.
“What else did Kathleen say or do those days and weeks after we
buried our folks?”

At his use of the former
matriarch of the family’s first name Deirdre looked up quickly and
pursed her lips. “You shouldn’t be so disrespectful of your
grandmother, lad.”

“That’s not disrespect,”
Kerry corrected evenly. “That’ll come when she shows up and I tell
her to get the hell off my property. Now, did she tell you to do it
or did you just not give them to me?”

Again, the brothers were
exchanging wary looks as Kerry faced off with the
housekeeper.

“I think you better tell
your new girlfriend to split for awhile,” Ryan told Mac softly,
watching this scene with interest but also positioning himself that
he could move quickly if he had to.

Mac hadn’t taken his seat
again but did slide a look at his brother blandly. “She’s not my
girlfriend.”

As Ryan was rolling his
eyes at that, Maggie was watching the kitchen get tenser as Kerry
took two more steps, but halted when Mac just coughed.

“What happened to the
letters Roarke sent to me the two years he was in that hellhole in
Mayo where she put him?” he demanded, slamming a hand on the
butcher block table in a rare form of anger. “Damn it, Deirdre! Did
you know what she did?” Kerry demanded. “Did you know that our
grandmother told those bloody bastards to torture and rape her
eleven year old grandson and destroy the letters he
sent?”