Just Believe (26 page)

Their eyes met for an instant before he
looked away.

She grabbed her overnight bag and a set
of clean bath linens neatly folded on the oak dresser. Without a
word, she dashed out of the room to the bathroom across the dark,
narrow hallway.

She brushed her teeth and tried to wash
away the fatigue of the long flight and her worry about Erin. And
her sudden tension. Tension that made her tight as a guitar
string.

Leaning against the sink, Annabelle
thought about where she'd been--had it only been yesterday?--with
her sister in a hospital being treated for a mental problem. Now
she was in Ireland with a man who claimed to be a fairy. She stared
into the mirror at herself, disbelief suddenly crowding her
mind.

Why the heck had she bought that
ridiculous story? A fairy, for Pete's sake.

"Pete. Peter."

Peter Pan. Where all this nonsense had
started. Fairies and pixies and Irish tales. That's all this was.
And she'd fallen for it.

She straightened up from the sink to
march back across the room, preparing what she'd say to Doctor
Riley for making a fool of her...and froze with her fingers wrapped
around the doorknob.

What stopped her was the memory of the
horror of looking at the hospital bed where Erin lay. No, not Erin,
but some thing pretending to be Erin. And Gaelen's urgency that she
had to believe him and his story. And the way he'd made her hand
disappear. And how she'd screamed.

She tried to ignore the memory of the
kiss he'd used to effectively shut her up. It hadn't meant anything
to him. Not a thing at all.

But, and she was sure of this, Gaelen
had been lying in that bed with her this morning, molded along her
back and legs as closely as her shadow. She was also sure she could
trust him. He'd told her the truth and he'd save Erin.

He'd promised.

Hanging onto his promise like a
mountain climber hanging onto the last strand of a fraying rope,
she gathered her things and crossed the hallway.

She hadn't seen where they'd stopped
last night, and expecting a hotel, she was surprised by the homey
feel. Then she realized it was somebody's private home.

A woman's voice trilled a mournful,
wordless tune, seeming to call out to her. A need drew her to see
the person who owned the voice. She descended the stairs halfway
and peeked around the wall.

Her gasp escaped before she could stop
it. The small pixyish figure jerked and turned from the
fireplace.

Annabelle ducked around the corner,
catching her breath, not daring to even whisper the words on her
lips.

Linette Duncan. What was she doing
here? Why would Gaelen bring her to the woman who'd taken Erin?
Annabelle shook away the vision of the hunk of wood in her sister's
place. It still unsettled her that she hadn't seen the truth for
herself.

"My dear?" The voice wasn't Dr.
Duncan's, but the scratchy squawk of an old woman.

She heard the shuffle of feet in soft
slippers coming closer and in a panic dashed back up the stairs to
the bedroom. Ducking in, she slammed the door and leaned up against
it.

"What is it?" Gaelen asked, his brow
furrowed.

"It's her," Annabelle
whispered.

"Who?"

"Dr. Duncan."

"What?" Gaelen took two steps and was
standing before her. He grabbed her shoulders and shook, not
gently. "Where is she?"

"Downstairs, by the fire."

He pushed her aside and jerked the door
open, stomping across the threshold and out into the
hallway.

"Gaelen, stop," she called after
him.

He headed down the stairs. Annabelle
became frantic, thinking of the two large orderlies who'd followed
Dr. Duncan around like Rotweilers. How could she and Gaelen help
Erin if they were taken prisoner?

She dashed out behind him.

Gaelen had already reached the foot of
the stairs and was talking to an old lady. He glared up at
Annabelle.

"Come down, dearest, and meet our
hostess." He reached for her hand and jerked her down the stairs.
"Annabelle," he said with a pointed look, "this is Mrs.
O'Hara."

"A pleasure, my dear." The old woman
offered her gnarled hand to Annabelle.

Gaelen squeezed Annabelle's hand. She
got the warning.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. O'Hara."
Annabelle took the gnarled hand in hers.

It was warm, alive, and it felt real
enough.

"You gave me quite a fright, my dear. I
was thinkin' there be spirits hauntin' my attic."

The woman's eyes glittered as she
spoke, and Annabelle didn't trust her at all. This old crone was
Linette Duncan in disguise, she was certain of it.

"I apologize for giving you a start,
Mrs. O'Hara. I think I must be more tired than I
thought."

Mrs. O'Hara waved away the apology.
"Dinna give it another thought, dear." She tottered back to the
fire and reached for a huge wooden spoon in a kettle hanging over
the flames. "Now, some breakfast is what you'll be
wantin'."

Annabelle was about to declare her lack
of appetite when Gaelen grabbed her elbow and nearly dragged her to
the trestle table and plunked her down on the bench. She favored
him with a glare, only to have hers rendered useless by his
glower.

So a glower trumps a glare.

"Ah, some porridge would be the thing
for certain." Gaelen cheerfully plopped down beside Annabelle, his
arm easily going around her waist. He pulled her closer and leaned
to her ear. "Be nice."

She turned to him, only the warning in
his eyes making her keep her resentment to herself.

"Here you be, sir." Mrs. O'Hara placed
a wooden bowl full of steaming gray paste in front of Gaelen, "and
for you, Missus." She set a similar bowl in front of
Annabelle.

"Ah, this smells wonderful," Gaelen
said, taking a big spoonful of the stuff and shoving it into his
mouth.

Annabelle thought he was a bit too
effusive. Besides, she never under any circumstances ate oatmeal.
Especially oatmeal that reminded her of school paste gone
bad.

"Annabelle, dear, try the oatmeal."
Gaelen took another spoonful, unbelievably smiling around the
mess.

She opened her mouth to explain how
much she detested oatmeal in any form when he glared at her
again.

She may as well accept her fate. "Thank
you." She tried to smile.

Raising a spoonful of the stuff,
Annabelle touched it to her lips, wondering why Gaelen thought it
so important for her to eat the damned oatmeal. Was he just
humoring their hostess? So why make Annabelle suffer in the
meanwhile?

The pasty goop sat on her tongue,
refusing to be swallowed. She glanced aside at Gaelen shoving in
another huge mouthful and sending it down with apparent
gusto.

Refusing to be defeated by a grain,
Annabelle raised her teacup and drank some full-bodied, Irish
breakfast tea. It softened the oatmeal grapeshot and allowed her to
squash it enough to send it down her gullet.

Gaelen's bowl was nearly empty, giving
Annabelle a wonderful idea. While Mrs. O'Hara's back was turned,
she upended her bowl over Gaelen's.

"Um-umm." Annabelle pushed her empty
bowl away with great drama. "That was the best oatmeal I ever ate,
Mrs. O'Hara." She turned to Gaelen, eyes wide. "Darling, I thought
you loved oatmeal. Why aren't you eating yours?" She placed her
palm against Gaelen's forehead. "Aren't you feeling well,
sweetums?"

"I'm fine," he replied. She fancied she
could actually see his words, marching out of his mouth dark and
menacing. "Thank you for your concern, lamb-cakes."

"I'm so glad, snookie-bear. I'd hate
for you to miss all this beautiful Irish countryside. Are you sure
you feel well enough to go sightseeing, poopsie?"

"Yes, angel smacks, I'm sure." He
dabbed a linen napkin at his mouth and rose from the trestle table.
"Mrs. O'Hara, thank you for your hospitality."

"It's my pleasure, sir. Will you be
back for supper, then?"

"I don't know."

"No," Annabelle answered at the same
time. She smiled to take the edge off her refusal. "That is, we
wouldn't want you to wait supper for us."

"'Twould be no trouble
a'tall."

"In fact, Gaelen, dear, why don't we
check out now?" She nudged his arm. "Just in case we find ourselves
in another town tonight?"

"Our business is right here in Killis,
Annabelle." He turned back to Mrs. O'Hara. "We'll be back tonight,
ma'am, but we probably won't be here for supper."

"As you will, sir. Good luck with your
business." Mrs. O'Hara tottered around the table picking up dishes
and paid no mind to Gaelen dragging Annabelle out the
door.

"Will you tell me what the hell's the
matter with you?" he yelled in a whisper.

"What's wrong with me?" Annabelle
yanked her arm from his grip and stopped, forcing him to stop as
well. "That woman is Linette Duncan and you didn't see through her
disguise!"

"Who said I didn't see?" he replied, as
he resumed walking away from the house.

Annabelle trotted to catch up, nearly
running to keep up with his long-legged stride.

"You mean you saw her?"

"Of course."

"When did you see her?"

"Well, I didn't actually see her, but I
knew there was something up as soon as I set foot inside the house.
She was sitting there like Sarah Bernhardt, thinking to fool me
with her lame-brained attempt at putting glamour over on me." He
spit a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a curse. "Of
course she had some help. No pixie is going to be able to do
anything like that by herself. No sir. That was fairy work, that
was." He stopped and grabbed her arm again.

Annabelle yelped. "Let me go! That
hurts." She wrenched her arm free.

Gaelen ignored her complaint. He stared
at her. "When did you see her?"

"This morning. When I came out of the
bathroom, I heard a woman humming and I wanted to see who it
was."

"Did she talk to you?"

"No. I ducked back when she looked up."
Annabelle got uncomfortable under his steady gaze. "What are you
looking at?"

He ignored the question and started
down the street again. Annabelle dashed after him and followed as
he cut into a shop.

"Good mornin' t' ya, sir." The
shopkeeper stepped from behind the counter, obviously drawn to the
rich tourists who'd just entered his establishment. "What can I
help you find?" He glanced around Gaelen's bulk and smiled at
Annabelle.

"I need a box of salt and an iron
knife."

The shopkeeper tilted his head,
studying Gaelen closely. "Iron, is it? Well, sir, the most
reasonable priced knives I have are stainless steel."

"Price isn't a problem. Iron,
please."

The shopkeeper returned behind his
counter and opened a case. Annabelle watched as the man reached
into the display case from the back and set his fingers around
dagger that had the appearance of age. The six-inch blade was of a
dull metal, rusted around the edges.

"Will this do, sir?" The shopkeeper
held it toward Gaelen, who stepped back from it.

"Yes. Wrap it, please."

The shopkeeper turned away without a
word and wrapped the dagger in butcher paper. When he brought it to
them, he handed the dagger to Annabelle.

"Salt," the shopkeeper muttered as he
pulled down a box from an upper shelf. He turned back to Gaelen.
"Anything else, sir?"

"No, that'll be all."

"Who you be huntin', sir?"

"I'm not huntin' anyone. I know where
they are."

The shopkeeper grinned. "Aye. I thought
so." He totaled their purchases and set them on top of the counter.
"Seven pound fifty."

As Gaelen pulled the cash from his
wallet to pay, Annabelle took the items.

"You don't have a shopping bag, Miss?"
the shopkeeper asked.

Annabelle shrugged. "No."

"Here," he said, pulling a sack from
behind the counter. "You Yanks never have a shopping bag." He
packed their purchases in the bag and handed it to Annabelle. "Good
luck, sir. It's been a long time since we've had such goings-on.
'Twill be good for the tourists."

Gaelen grimaced and turned without
another word. Annabelle took her cue from him, but did give the
helpful shopkeeper a small smile.

Once on the street, Gaelen
sighed.

"Will you talk to me?" Annabelle
said.

"Didn't you hear him? He's hoping for a
tourist attraction. Damn. Just what we don't need." He strode on,
muttering under his breath. "I'll kill my little brother for
bringin' this on."

"Why?"

"I already explained this to you.
Disbelief is deadly to us." Gaelen glanced around, lowering his
voice as they were approached by other shoppers this bright Irish
morning. "Imagine how much damage could be done."