The Fire and the Earth: Glenncailty Castle, Book 2 (26 page)

He smiled, a true, full smile, turned, and was gone.

Sorcha took a deep breath, let it out, and headed back into the castle.

An endless day.

Sorcha couldn’t believe that sneaking into the kitchen for breakfast food had been only this morning. It seemed like it was a lifetime ago. She’d spent the past few hours reassuring guests, apologizing for the “construction accident” that had set off an alarm and finally sitting down with Melissa and Tristan to explain everything to Elizabeth.

It must have been nearing midnight, though she’d decided to stop checking the time, since it made her more tired. She hadn’t seen Séan since that brief, and very hot, interlude in the rain. She knew he’d been back because Kristina had been holding a skirt and sweater for her at the front desk. They were horribly mismatched—a thick, gray knit sweater that was pilled and had holes, worn only on winter mornings when she curled up with a mug of tea and a book. To go with that he’d brought her an elegant satin pencil skirt. Along with her wild hair, hastily pulled up into the bun, she looked a bit mad.

Considering the time, she could only hope Séan had gone home. She’d done a quick walk through of the first floor to see if he was in the restaurant or any of the other public rooms. When she didn’t find him, she gave in and headed back to her cottage.

She opened the door and there he was. He rose from her kitchen table, rubbing his hands on his thighs as he stood. He looked large in her little kitchen. His hair fell over his forehead and his eyes were intense.

Sorcha closed the door behind her, leaning back against it. “You’re here.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t be?”

She smiled. “No, I knew you would.” The sight of him, the memory of the way they’d had each other—hard, fast and desperate—had her blood humming. She wanted his hands on her again, but this time she wanted a bed and for them to take their time.

“Tea?”

“I had something else in mind,” she said with a smile, reaching for the hem of her sweater.

“And I’m of a mind to talk to you.”

Sorcha considered his words. She was sure that she could make him forget about talking. She could strip off this sweater, then his pants. In no time he’d have her bent over the table, fucking her until she couldn’t feel or think about anything else. She wanted to do that, not only because she wanted him but because she didn’t want to talk. She was terrified of what might come out of any conversation they had.

She wavered on that point between choosing what was easy and pleasurable and choosing what was hard and scary.

“Tea would be lovely,” she said.

While he filled the kettle, she went to the bedroom. Leaving on the sweater, she changed her pencil skirt for a pair of comfortable lounging pants. When she returned to the kitchen, there was a cup of tea waiting for her. She sank into a chair and smiled at Séan, picking up her cup.

“Thank you for this.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And thank you, for earlier, you…brought me out of it.”

“You did the same for me. Are you all right, after that?”

Sorcha had been trying not to think about it. “I felt that baby die in my hands,
by
my hands.”

“It wasn’t you.”

“I can’t really imagine a rage so deep, so powerful that a mother would kill her own child.”

“She’d already lost a child. Maybe she went mad.”

“Two parents, both of whom were willing to kill their own children.”

“A terrible inheritance.”

They sipped tea in silence. Sorcha found herself clenching and unclenching her fingers. That woman had taken her child, her beautiful, healthy child, and killed him, while Sorcha had held a fragile little thing, turned too quickly to corpse.

Séan’s hand covered hers, stopping her restless motion. “Sorcha, look at me.”

She smiled, but it was watery. He looked so very handsome, and she loved him so much.

“I love you.”

“Séan, don’t say that.”

“I will say it, because it’s true. This afternoon, out in the rain, you finally stopped thinking, stopped worrying. You love me.”

She should deny it, but it seemed pointless. “I do, but that changes nothing.”

“You think that because you can’t have children we cannot be together.”

“Séan, I already told you, I know that it might not sound like a problem, but I would rather be alone than come to be hated because I couldn’t bear children.” She looked down into her teacup. “I know I’d think differently if I hadn’t had a child. When I was pregnant, I felt connected, part of something greater than myself, felt that my life was worth something more than just my own happiness and wants. It was a feeling…a feeling I’d never deny someone else.”

Séan nodded slowly, as if he agreed or understood. He pulled something from his pocket and unfolded a few sheets of paper. He put his hand on them, as if they were some sort of talisman.

“If I were sterile would you leave me?”

“Séan, that’s not fair.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t know that you’re sterile. I know, I’ve been through it once, and I can’t do it again.”

“But if I was, if I’d been married before and there were no children, and I knew I couldn’t have children, would you walk away?”

“Of course not.”

“Why?”

Tears filled her eyes. “Because I love you.”

“Love me enough that it wouldn’t matter?”

“Of course.”

Séan rose out of his chair, came around to her side of the table. He dropped to his knees beside her. Taking her hands in his, he kissed her knuckles, then turned her hands over and kissed her palms.

“Then believe me when I tell you that I love you.” He brought her hands to his chest, folding them over his heart. “I do not love you because I want children, but because when you smile I want to smile too, when you laugh the world seems good, and when I touch you I believe that there is something more to this life than the worry and sorrow of each day.”

Sorcha pulled one hand free and covered her face as she started to cry.

“Do not cry, my love.”

“I want this, I want you, but I’m scared.” She wiped her tears with her sleeve. “I love you so much I could not bear for you to come to hate me.”

“I would never hate you.”

She wanted to give in, wanted to give herself permission to be happy, permission to believe that love was enough.

Séan’s gaze searched her face. He nodded, then rose, slipping away from her. Sorcha folded her hands on her lap. She’d finally gotten through to him, pushed hard enough that he was leaving.

He resumed his seat and picked up the papers.

“My mother told me that there are many things that can go wrong in life. All you can do is find someone you love and do your best to fight through them together. So that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to help you deal with this problem—we’ll do it together.”

He cleared his throat and looked at the paper. “Hypoplastic left heart syndrome has no known cause. It’s extremely rare. If it’s genetic, then I would have to be a carrier too, which is also very rare. Also, if it’s genetic, there’s testing we could both have, so we’d know.”

He flipped to the second page. “If you want to have children but biological children aren’t an option, then we could adopt. There are—”

“Stop, stop.” Sorcha shook her head. “Séan, I know all this. Why are you doing this?”

He looked up. “I’m trying to explain that whatever happens, if it’s no children or one of us gets sick or if I lose the cows and the farm has to be sold…whatever it is that happens, I’ll love you, and with you by my side I know we can survive it.”

Sorcha let out a sob as she jumped from her chair and threw herself into his arms. He held her, stroking her hair as she cried.

“I love you, I love you,” he whispered over and over.

Sorcha took a deep breath, let it out and gave in. She gave in to the love she felt for him and gave up the fear she’d carried with her since she’d lost her child.

“I’m so sorry, I was such a fool,” she said, cupping his face. “I love you, and I’ll be there with you, no matter what happens.”

He stood with her in his arms and carried her to bed.

Epilogue

Seamus dropped into the chair in his study. The bodies in the nursery were the siblings of George Moriarty. George Moriarty, who’d arrived in England at the age of five, where he’d been named the legal heir to his father, Charles Moriarty, the Earl of Hensley, with holdings in England and Ireland, where he was known as the Lord of Glenncailty.

George Moriarty, his ancestor.

Seamus clenched his fist. There were plenty of skeletons in his family closet, but he hadn’t known about this one. Charles Moriarty had killed those in the glen who he thought were part of an uprising, a movement that would become the failed Fenian Rising. He’d killed anyone he found suspect, including his oldest child and namesake, who’d been with his cousins when the soldiers came. When Charles’ mistress heard what he’d done, she’d killed the youngest two in a fit of rage.

Seamus took a small black book from his desk. It was the journal of young George, started aboard a ship bound for England with one or two small painstakingly written child-like notes. Unlike his siblings, he’d been spared, off at private lessons with the priest. From its pages, it was clear he never knew the truth of what happened to his family. Toward the end, when he returned to Ireland as the Lord of Glenncailty he talked about how he hated the Irish, hated his family there. Someone had filled the boy’s head with lies about how the O’Donnabhains, his mother’s family, and Mac Gearailts, his uncle’s family, had killed his brothers because they were half English.

Séan had read George’s diary many times before, and until now he’d believed the account in the pages. Now he knew the truth. The other boys had been killed by their own parents, before his father killed his mother. His father had turned the boy against his Irish relatives.

And maybe that hatred had been kinder than the truth—that both mother and father were murderers, that he had brothers who hadn’t been given the dignity of graves.

Carrig Mac Gearailt married Carol O’Donnabhain, whose sister, Mary, became mistress to Charles Moriarty. Both Carol and their brother, Aoghan, disowned Mary when she chose to dishonor herself with the Englishman.

Seamus smiled ruefully. He wondered when Séan Donnovan would realize that the ghost who’d possessed him, the brother to Mary and Carol, was that of Aoghan O’Donnabhain. O’Donnabhain…which would later be changed to Donnovan. It seemed that his family was more tangled with Séan’s than he’d ever realized.

The mystery of what was behind the door had been solved.

Seamus turned in his chair, looking out his study window to the unused chapel that sat beside his house, beyond the back wall of the Glenncailty grounds.

He’d turned the castle into a hotel hoping to answer questions, to bring light to some of the secrets, but as he sat there, he wondered if there weren’t some secrets that should be left in the shadows.

About the Author

Lila Dubois is a tech writer by day and a romance writer by night. She’s living her own version of a romance novel with her Irish Farm Boy, who she imported to Los Angeles. Having spent extensive time in France, Egypt, Turkey, Ireland and England, Lila speaks five languages, none of them—including English—fluently.

To learn more about Lila, please visit
www.liladubois.net
or email her at
[email protected]
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The Fire and the Earth

Coming Soon:

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Together they make sweet music…but opening her heart could release the ghosts of her past.

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© 2012 Lila Dubois

Glenncailty Castle, Book 1

Caera Cassidy has spent two years building the historic—and haunted—Glenncailty Castle into one of the most sought-after hotels and performance venues in Ireland. But she can’t say it’s her dream. She lost that years ago when what she thought was love led her to a dark place not even her music could reach.