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“A richly drawn love story and riveting romantic suspense!”
“A magical tale of romance and intrigue. I couldn’t put it down! Loucinda McGary is a talent to watch.”
—Karin Tabke, author of What You Can’t See
The
Wild Sight
He was cursed with a “gift” Born with the clairvoyance known to the Irish as “The Sight,” Donovan O’Shea fled to America to escape his visions. On a return trip to Ireland to see his ailing father, staggering family secrets threaten to turn his world upside down. And then beautiful, sensual Rylie Powell shows up, claiming to be his half-sister . . .
She’s just looking for the family she never knew . . . After her mother’s death, Rylie finds tantalizing clues that send her off to Ireland to find the man listed on her birth certificate as her father. She needs the truth—but how can she and Donovan be brother and sister when the chemistry between them is nearly irresistible? Uncovering the past leads them dangerously close to madness . . .
—Sandy Blair, author of A Highlander for Christmas $6.99 U.S./$7.99 CAN/£3.99 UK
WWW.SOURCEBOOKS.COM WWW.SOURCEBOOKSCASABLANCA.COM
S
EAN
Romance
ISBN-13: 978-1-4022-1394-6 ISBN-10: 1-4022-1394-8
w ild sight The
an irish tale of deadly deeds and forbidden love
mloucinda cgary
“A fascinating tale that kept me spellbound.”
—Pamela Palmer, author of Dark Deceiver and The Dark Gate
loucinda mcgary
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The Wild Sight an irish tale of deadly deeds and forbidden love Loucinda M C Gary
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Copyright © 2008 by Loucinda McGary Cover and internal design © 2008 by Sourcebooks, Inc. Cover photos © Dreamstime.com/SophieLouise, Jupiter Images Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc. P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410 (630) 961-3900 FAX: (630) 961-2168 www.sourcebooks.com Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data McGary, Loucinda. The wild sight : an Irish tale of deadly deeds and forbidden love / Loucinda McGary. p. cm. ISBN-13: 978-1-4022-2090-6 ISBN-10: 1-4022-2090-1 1. Time travel—Fiction. 2. Celts—Fiction. 3. Ireland—Fiction. I. Title. PS3613.C4523W55 2008 813’.6—dc22 2008013765 Printed and bound in the United States of America DR 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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Chapter 1 DONOVAN O’SHEA STRODE ACROSS THE DRIED GRASS behind the ramshackle cottage that had been in his family for at least five generations. The odor of freshly dug earth and the unique miasma arising from the nearby fens filled his nostrils. Nothing in America smelled remotely the same. And breathing it in evoked memories, none too pleasant. The leaden October sky promised rain before the day was done, and Donovan picked up his pace, anxious to get this visit behind him. His light American running shoes made no noise, but he could hear the faint scraping sounds of a shovel in the otherwise still air. Up ahead of him heavy twine stretched between small wooden stakes, and two neat mounds of earth marked the area of activity. “Hello? Professor McRory?” he called out to herald his own arrival. Nobody else would be out here. Heaven knew, he didn’t want to be. Aongus McRory’s head and shoulders appeared above the lip of the trench he’d been digging. A half-second later, the head of his assistant, Sybil Gallagher, popped up beside him. The two reminded Donovan of a pair of prairie dogs he’d once seen on a holiday to Yellowstone Park. “O’Shea!” McRory’s deep baritone quavered with the same eagerness as it had on the phone twenty minutes ago. “Thank you for coming out here straight away.” He
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pitched his small spade next to the mound of dirt and clambered out of the hole. Reluctance took a firm grip of Donovan’s subconscious, and he slowed his approach. “So you’ve found another pit?” The professor wiped his hand on the leg of his canvas trousers then extended it to help his assistant. “Indeed we have! And this one, ah, this one is a beauty!” “No more dog bones?” The hair on the back of Donovan’s neck prickled, as he remembered how he’d stumbled on the first storage pit a fortnight ago. The air going into his lungs felt inexplicably heavy, and he stopped walking. The other man rushed on, “Much more exciting! Wait ’til you see.” Shoving his fair hair from his eyes with the back of his hand, McRory rummaged in a box on the ground with the other. “Have a look.” He thrust a dark, metal object in Donovan’s direction. “’Tis a torc, late Bronze Age, I’m almost certain.” Donovan stared at the circular neck ornament in the professor’s hand and the breath caught in his throat. A loud noise buzzed inside his head, a sound he recognized though he’d not experienced it for many years. He knew what was about to happen, but was helpless to stop it. A moment later, his vision blurred into a spiraling mass of green, brown, and gray. The buzz faded, and in its place arose a harsh cacophony, the guttural blast of a war trumpet, the pounding of sword hilts against shields, and the strident shouts of men. Then the stench of the battlefield enveloped him.
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Sweat, blood, and trampled earth. The whirling shapes coalesced into men, bearded warriors with long, flowing hair. They brandished broadswords and carried oblong shields, but wore nothing except close-fitting helmets on their heads, torcs around their necks, and leather sword belts encircling their hips. Donovan stared at the heavy sword clenched in his right hand and the shield in his left and realized he was part of this battle too. Splotches of red and ochre paint swirled down his arms and across his bare chest. The blaring of more war trumpets set his teeth on edge, while the men around him surged forward. He jostled the man next to him, a hulking giant, even taller than Donovan and half again as broad, though not an ounce was fat. Dark, tangled hair streamed from beneath the warrior’s helmet past his heavily muscled shoulders, and a bristly black beard obscured the lower half of his face. Still, something in the depths of his bright blue eyes and in the tilt of his head sparked a long-ago memory in the back of Donovan’s disoriented mind. “Ro?” His own voice sounded strange inside his head. Somehow, through the din, the warrior heard him. His eyes skimmed Donovan’s features. Then his black eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Dony?” The pet name his mother, Moira, had given him. In her soft countrified accent, it rhymed with Tony. No one had called Donovan that since he was seven years old. “Dony,” the enormous man repeated in the same accent. “So you’re all grown-up as well.” Donovan had no time to answer or voice the thousand questions that leapt into his mind, for the enemy was
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upon them. A half-dozen similarly armed men charged at him. Ro and the other warrior beside him lunged forward and Donovan felt his own sword rise as he blocked first one blow then another. The shock of metal crashing against metal coursed down his arm, while more warriors from both factions joined in the fray. Screams of pain and rage rang in his ears. The man battling Ro crumpled in wordless agony, bright red blood gushing onto the ground under him, even as another sprang to take his place. The enormous warrior dispatched his second opponent with even greater speed, blood spattering his shield and helmet. Donovan was not so skilled. Sweat stung his eyes as he struggled to block and parry the blows his adversary rained down upon him, and he was forced to give ground. But when the man advanced to renew his attack, his foot slipped on the blood-soaked grass, and he staggered. Donovan lunged, and pulled his sword back. Gore dripped from the blade. As the man fell to his knees with a shuddering groan, Donovan realized that Ro and his companions had turned the attack into a rout. Their enemy fled toward the fens, defenders roaring in victory on their heels. Then the man in front of Donovan fell over, writhing in agony. “Take his head!” Ro shouted. Donovan jerked his gaze up and saw two severed heads tied by their hair at his friend’s sword belt. Bile rushed from Donovan’s stomach to his throat. “’Tis your war prize, man!” Ro shouted again. Blood glistened on his forearms and thighs. He reached down and grabbed the man’s hair, pulling his exposed throat toward Donovan. “Take it!”
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The stench of death and the overwhelming urge to vomit swamped Donovan. Swaying, he squeezed his eyes shut, and drew in a deep breath of fetid air. A flash of white light exploded behind his eyelids and his pulse pounded loud in his ears. The smell receded. From a great distance, he could just make out a woman’s voice calling, “Mr. O’Shea? Mr. O’Shea!” Then a man’s voice, more distinctive, cried, “Donovan!” Fingers gripped his arm and shook. “Jaysus, man! Are you all right?” Donovan opened his eyes into the worried gaze of Professor McRory. The noise, the stench, the battlefield had disappeared. But not his urge to vomit. He flung off McRory’s hand, stumbled a few steps away, then doubled over and retched into a clump of weeds. Coughing, he gripped his jean-clad thighs to steady himself. “Sybil, get that stool!” McRory barked out the command, and rested his hand on Donovan’s shoulder. “All right, then?” Awash in humiliation, he straightened and wiped his mouth across his sleeve. The professor guided him backward to a three-legged canvas stool and Donovan sunk down onto it, consciously steadying his breathing. “Here’s water, Mr. O’Shea.” Pale blue eyes completely round with alarm, McRory’s assistant handed Donovan a clear plastic bottle. “Thanks.” He swirled the first gulp around inside his mouth and spat it out. The second swallow felt cool and fortifying as it slid down his throat. The third was almost as good.
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Taking a deep breath, he stood, his mother’s long ago admonition ringing inside his head, “Never talk about your gift, Dony. People don’t understand.” Some gift. Curse, more like. He gave McRory and Sybil a wan smile. “So sorry. Must have been bad pub grub. But I’m all right now.” Though Sybil’s expression remained uneasy, McRory clapped him on the shoulder. “Ah, right nasty stuff it must have been. I thought you were falling over there for a moment.” Still feeling self-conscious, Donovan switched subjects. “About the new pit . . . ” A spark of excitement ignited in the professor’s eyes. “I’ve already contacted my department chair at Queen’s. If this Bronze Age site follows true to form, there are more storage pits. The Celts laid them out in semi-circles.” “This could be the find of a career!” Sybil broke in, enthusiasm turning her mousy features almost attractive. “Certainly significant enough to send a proper team out here to the site, not just Syb and me.” McRory clapped Donovan on the shoulder like his new comradein-arms. “And maybe enough to convince the government to buy your family’s property. Exactly how far into the fens does it go?” “I don’t know,” Donovan admitted. “The fens have shifted even since I lived here as a child. And my mother’s family has been here at least since the Hunger.” The professor warmed to his subject, all but rubbing his hands together in anticipatory glee. “You’ll need to search the property records then.” Sybil nodded in eager agreement, while McRory continued, “And with your
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consent, I’ll contact a journalist friend of mine in Belfast. A blurb on one of the wire services might give just the extra nudge some official needs to expedite purchase.” An expedited purchase was exactly what Donovan wanted, and he didn’t particularly care by whom. The sooner he left County Armagh and all of Ireland, the better. “All right, if you think that’s the best course. You’re far more familiar with this sort of thing than I’ll ever be.” The pair seemed to have forgotten his momentary “illness,” but for how long? Donovan intended to avoid the dig site as much as possible, avoid contact with anything that might trigger his “gift” again. Just get himself back to America, where he never experienced anything remotely like visions. Until his father’s stroke four months ago, he’d come home exactly once since he emigrated at age seventeen. That had been nine years ago for his sister’s wedding, and he stayed far away from the deserted homestead. Too bad he couldn’t do the same this time. The physicians seemed pleased with his father’s progress, and with the proceeds from the sale of the pub and the property, Donovan and his sister could get the old man into the best private rehab program in Northern Ireland. He drained the remaining water in one long guzzle, and handed the empty bottle to Sybil Gallagher. “Thanks, I’ll be in touch.” “Likewise,” McRory affirmed.
Rylie Powell parked her rented car in front of a store with a chipped sign that proclaimed “Dry Goods and Hardware.”
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She stared across the street at the window illuminated by two neon signs. The yellow one featured a stylized Irish harp with the word “Harp” written below. The dark blue one simply said “Guinness.” No other distinguishing signs hung on the door or window, but none was needed. The manager of her B&B in Dungannon hadn’t been kidding when she said the village of Ballyneagh was small. The long wooden structures on either side of the badly paved road were divided into four businesses. The pub was one of the center stores across the street, situated between a nameless barbershop and Brigit’s Bakery. She had passed a scattering of a dozen stone cottages right before the line of shops, and through the growing twilight, she could see four more houses beyond the bakery. Snagging her purse off the floor in front of the passenger’s seat, Rylie shoved the car key into one purse pocket and pulled her lipstick from another. Three weeks ago, she’d never heard of this place, never guessed that it existed. Two days ago, she’d flown across an entire continent and an ocean to get here. Yesterday, she’d struggled to drive on the wrong side of the roadway over endless wet miles of country lanes in search of this little scrap of a burg and its no-name pub. All this effort so she could confront the man who had walked away from her and her mother almost twenty-five years ago. The owner of the pub, her father, Dermot O’Shea. She peered into the rearview mirror to apply her lipstick and gave an inward sigh. Why the hell was she worried about how she looked? She wasn’t here to seek
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his approval. More like, to rub his nose in the fact that by shirking his responsibilities as a father, he’d missed out. But that wasn’t really the reason either. For as long as Rylie could remember, there had been a gap in her identity that went far beyond using her stepfather’s last name. In the six months since losing her mother to cancer, she had become consumed with unraveling the riddles of who she really was and where her roots lay. Riddles, she grew convinced, only her biological father could answer. Ghosts only he could put to rest. At least the rain had dissipated to a drizzle. She flipped up the hood of her neon yellow windbreaker, the one she wore when jogging, and got out of the car. Dashing across the two-lane road, she pulled open the heavy door and stepped inside the pub. She folded back her hood and pulled her long hair free while her eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Slowly, the large room came into focus. A long, gleaming, wooden bar hugged the wall closest to the front door and a dartboard hung in the far corner. The opposite wall had four high-backed booths built into it, three of them currently occupied. A half-dozen round tables were arranged in the center of the room, all empty. Unlike the bars Rylie had ventured into in California, this place had a surprisingly homey atmosphere in spite of a lingering odor of cigarette smoke. Eyes now accustomed to the gloom, she consciously straightened into her “walking tall” posture, though at five-foot two-and-a-half inches tall was a relative term. She approached the bar. The two elderly men lounging against the polished wood, glasses of dark brew in
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hand, gave her openly appreciative looks, which she patently ignored. The bartender bustled over, a gap-toothed grin on his ruddy face. “What’ll it be, darlin’?” Rylie studied his middle-aged countenance for a moment before she answered, “A Coke.” Then, when he picked up a glass she added, “With ice.” “To be sure,” the man said in the musical brogue that Rylie’s ears were still not quite attuned to. “’Tis how all you Yanks like it. Right enough?” He didn’t wait for her reply, but continued with a steady stream of talk that most everyone she had encountered in the past two days seemed adept at doing. “So what part of the States are you from, luv?” Rylie could feel every eye in the place staring as the bartender plunked the fizzy beverage in front of her. “And what would bring a pretty wan such as you to the middle of bloody nowhere such as this?” The bartender chuckled at his own wit while Rylie sipped through the thin red straw and studied him. Short and paunchy, with thinning red hair faded to gray around his temples, he looked nothing like the few aged snapshots she had of her father. “I’m from California,” she said, taking another sip of soda. “And I’m looking for someone.” “I’d have guessed California.” The bartender spoke the name in five syllables, his blue eyes sparkling flirtatiously. “For you look just like a movie star, don’t ya know. And as for lookin’ for someone, you’ve come to the right man. I know everybody round these parts.” “I’m not a movie star,” Rylie demurred. The skycap at the Belfast airport had said the same thing. She hadn’t
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cut him any slack either, and he was much younger and better looking than the bartender. “And I’m looking for the owner of this place.” “Well, then, ’tis indeed my lucky day!” The chunky man exclaimed. “For I’m the owner of this fine establishment.” He made a courtly little bow. “Gerry Partlan at your service.” A panicky spurt of disappointment shot through Rylie’s veins. “I thought Dermot O’Shea owned this bar.” Gerry Partlan’s smile dimmed just a little. “Yes, Dermot did own the place until a couple of months ago, though he’d taken sick back in June. When it came clear that he couldn’t work any more, his son and daughter and I took over as partners. We did a fair amount of sprucin’ the place up, and we’ve only just reopened at the start of this month.” The glut of information made Rylie’s head spin, but when the man paused for breath, she jumped in with the first question she could form. “Dermot O’Shea’s son and daughter live here?” Her interruption of his narrative brought a small crease between Gerry Partlan’s bushy red eyebrows. “Not exactly, no. His daughter, Doreen lives over in Armagh City, and Donovan claims to be here only long enough to settle Dermot’s affairs, though it’s taken him all the summer and now most of the fall. That’s himself sittin’ over in the corner just there.” Aware that she continued to be the center of attention, Rylie shifted her gaze in the direction the bartender indicated. In the far corner at a table she hadn’t noticed before, a figure sat shrouded in shadows.
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“Ho, Donovan, ya lucky stiff!” Gerry Partlan called out before Rylie could stop him. “This lovely lady wants a word with you.” Taking his time, the man rose and walked toward them. Rylie’s first shock was at his height, probably a foot taller than she was. But the second and far bigger shock was his age. He was no boy, and appeared to be in his early thirties, several years older than her. She had expected to learn that she had more half-siblings, but she assumed they would be younger like her two teenaged half-brothers, Jamie and Justin Powell. That her father might have had children before he met her mother had never entered Rylie’s realm of possibilities. Neither had the prospect that her half-brother would be so good-looking. Her eyes bulged and her mouth went cottony at the tall man’s approach. Black jeans and a dark blue sweater emphasized his lean physique. His closely trimmed dark hair and sculpted black brows framed sapphire blue eyes. He had a straight nose and defined cheekbones. A five o’clock shadow darkened his squarish jaw and the lower half of his face. While Rylie gaped, he extended a long-fingered hand with neatly clipped nails. “I’m Donovan O’Shea.” His deep voice contained only the slightest hint of a brogue, the third shock in less than a minute. “Do we know each other?” “I—You’re American?” Rylie gasped. When Donovan O’Shea smiled down at her, twin lines ran from the middle of his cheeks to each side of his chin and made him look even more appealing. “Yes, naturalized eight years ago, though I’ve lived there for fifteen.” Smile fading, he dropped his hand
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back to his side. “I’m sorry, but if we’ve met before, I’m afraid I don’t remember.” “Oh, no!” Rylie felt a blush rising up her neck toward her face. “We haven’t met. I’m Rylie Powell.” Selfconsciously, she stuck out her own hand. “Charmed.” Donovan O’Shea smiled again, his teeth even and white. He clasped Rylie’s hand in his much larger one and gave a single firm shake. Even that brief contact spiked Rylie’s awareness and intensified her blush. Not good. Seriously not good. Such things weren’t supposed to happen between siblings, but then brothers weren’t supposed to have such killer smiles. “I—Can we talk, Mr. O’Shea?” Her voice squeaked in spite of her efforts to control it. “Of course,” he motioned toward the back table. “I was just having a bite. Care to join me?” “Okay, but . . . ” Her stomach knotted at the knowledge of the coming conversation. “I don’t want anything to eat.” “Suit yourself,” he replied and led the way back to the corner. As Rylie trailed after him, she couldn’t help but notice that Donovan O’Shea looked as good from the back as the front. Two middle-aged women seated in the closest booth craned their heads, probably also enjoying the view. Something else brothers were not supposed to have—butts to die for. Mentally chastising herself for her inappropriate thoughts, Rylie set her glass of soda on the table and plunked down into the chair he held for her. This
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encounter was turning out to be even more awkward than she’d imagined, though in an entirely different way. Donovan O’Shea sat down across from her and pulled a half-eaten bowl of stew toward himself. “Sure you don’t want anything?” Though the crusty hunk of bread balanced on the edge of the bowl looked delicious, Rylie shook her head and drew the soda straw into her mouth. Taking his cue, Donovan O’Shea dug in while she studied the wood grain on the table top, then the swirls of texture on the newly painted wall behind him, purposefully avoiding his handsome face. “So what brings you to Ballyneagh, Ms. Powell?” he asked between bites. “It’s not exactly a tourist destination.” From the corner of her eye, Rylie could see the two women in the booth silently leaning in their direction, so she answered in a low tone. “Actually, I came to talk to your father, Dermot O’Shea.” “My father?” Donovan O’Shea looked nonplussed, his spoon poised halfway to his mouth. “How do you know my father?” “I don’t,” Rylie quickly denied. Behind her, she heard the door of the pub open and two male voices called out to Gerry Partlan. “Not exactly, anyway.” She took a big gulp of her soda, then added, “My mother knew him.” Knew him in the biblical sense. The thought made Rylie squirm. Donovan O’Shea chewed his mouthful of food thoughtfully for a moment before he swallowed and said, “So your mother was from Ireland then.”
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“No, Brooklyn. And she was Polish.” Rylie heard the door of the pub open again, and she couldn’t stop herself from glancing over her shoulder at the middle-aged couple who entered and greeted the bartender. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” No trace of a smile etched Donovan O’Shea’s attractive features now. Confusion and maybe a hint of annoyance showed in his blue eyes. Rylie gnawed her bottom lip. “Please, Mr. O’Shea, can we go someplace more private to talk?” She couldn’t exactly blurt out, “I’m your long lost half-sister!” in front of what might be half the town. “Please?” she repeated.
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Chapter 2 WHAT IN THE NAME OF HEAVEN DID SHE WANT? Donovan mopped his bowl with the remaining hunk of bread and shoved it into his mouth, all the while contemplating the girl seated across from him. She must have set a new world’s record for most mixed messages in . . . what? The past five or six minutes? One minute she seemed to be giving him the eye and the next she looked appalled, then bewildered. Now she looked edgy or perhaps ready to weep, he wasn’t sure which. Her healthy glowing tan had gone somewhat sallow, while her storm-cloud eyes pleaded anxiously with him. When Gerry had called him over, Donovan’s first thought was that the girl must be a friend of an acquaintance who had advised her to look him up while she was on holiday. He certainly had no objections to a pretty girl seeking him out. And Rylie Powell was a very pretty girl. Her golden brown hair with the artfully added blonde streaks tumbled over her shoulders in a most appealing way, and her wide, tempting mouth with its faint mauve sheen looked made for kissing. But why was she yammering about his da? Only one way to find out, it seemed. Donovan pushed away from the table. “All right then, come with me.” He led her into the back passageway, past the door to the kitchen and storage room and the twin doors to the WCs tucked under the stairs. Young Brendan Maguire,
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who sometimes bussed the tables, barreled out of the one marked “Gents” and stumbled into him. “Oh, sorry Donovan,” the teen huffed. Then seeing Rylie Powell, he ducked his head. “Beg pardon, miss.” Obviously the vestibule would not provide the privacy she sought. Donovan waited while Brendan backed down the hallway. The lad’s eyes never strayed from the American girl’s slight but alluring figure. When the door finally closed behind the youth, Donovan swung round and motioned for her to precede him up the stairs. At the top, he extracted his keys and unlocked the door to what had once been his home. The place his father had lived for twenty-five years. “Please excuse the mess,” he apologized, swinging open the door. “I’m trying to sort through and pack my father’s things, and I’m afraid the task has nearly gotten the better of me.” He led the way through the stacks of boxes that littered the small sitting room. A battered sofa hugged one wall with a square wooden coffee table in front of it. The little portable telly rested on one corner of the table and one of the straight-backed chairs from the pub sat opposite it. Donovan motioned for her to sit in the chair. Her pretty face serious, Rylie Powell’s gray eyes swept the meager furnishings before she perched on the edge of the chair. “The bartender said your father was sick. So he’s not coming home again? Ever?” The springs in the old sofa groaned as Donovan settled himself into the corner. “My father had a serious stroke, Miss Powell.” Not that it’s any of your business.
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He sighed. Everyone knew everyone else’s business around here. And anyone in Ballyneagh would tell her the details if she so much as asked. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, looking genuinely distressed. “But I really need to see him.” No matter how attractive, she was beginning to vex him. Donovan folded his arms over his chest. “He can’t speak, so what would be the point? Any business you might have with him, I’ll handle.” He could see she didn’t like that idea, for a rebellious look flashed across her face, so he quickly added, “Precisely what is it you want with my father?” She dropped her gaze to her lap and twisted her fingers into a knot. “Your father, Dermot O’Shea?” She paused to clear her throat then looked up at him again. “He’s my father, too.” “What?” He must have misheard. But the set of her jaw and the look in her eyes said otherwise. “No!” His denial was louder than he intended. “That’s not possible.” While his stunned mind grappled to wrap itself around her preposterous claim, Rylie Powell extracted a tattered brown envelope from her purse and spilled the contents onto the tabletop. “Yes, it’s true!” She picked up a folded paper and shoved it toward him, her finger stabbing at words halfway down the page. “This is a copy of my birth certificate. See?” Though the paper shook in her unsteady grasp, Donovan could read the printed words plainly enough— Father’s Name: Dermot Stephen O’Shea. Certainly not the most common Irish name, but not uncommon either.
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O’Sheas could be found most everywhere. And wasn’t there even some Hollywood actor named Dermot? Meeting her gaze again, he shook his head. “Sorry, but you’ve made a mistake.” Her gray eyes looked flinty, “No, I haven’t.” She dropped the birth certificate and picked up a couple of color snapshots from the clutter on the coffee table and thrust them under his nose. “Tell me this isn’t your father.” The grainy images showed a dark haired man holding a blonde toddler in a pink ruffled dress. The focus wasn’t sharp in either photo, but Donovan’s tone was. “No. It isn’t.” “Look again,” she retorted, forcing the pictures into his hand. “He has dark brown hair and blue eyes, just like you.” “So do half the men in Ireland.” He started to toss the photos down, but squinted at them one more time. “Where were these taken? And how old are you anyway?” “I’ll be twenty-six at the end of next month, and these were taken on Coney Island when I was nineteen months old.” Her voice suddenly dropped to a strangled whisper. “A month before he left us.” Rylie Powell tossed her golden hair behind her shoulder and looked away. Donovan pressed his lips into a tight line while he stared at the snapshots for another moment. “Well, that settles it then. My father is sixty-eight years old.” He scooted the pictures back in her direction with dismissive finality. “He’d have been over forty when these photos were made, and this man looks far
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younger than forty.” He paused before he added, “Besides, my father has never been to America.” “Are you sure?” she insisted, that flinty, stubborn look once more hardening her eyes. She wasn’t the only one with an obstinate streak. “Yes,” Donovan replied between clenched teeth. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Powell, but obviously—” “What about Belfast?” she interrupted, pulling a smaller envelope from the larger one. “Has your father been there?” “Of course, he’s been to Belfast. ’Tis less than an hour’s drive.” “Or Liverpool, England?” She extracted a second envelope and waved the pair at him. “Was he ever there?” “As a matter of fact, yes. But that doesn’t—” “You’re the one who’s wrong, Mr. O’Shea. My father, your father came from Liverpool to New York, where he met and married my mother, and they had me.” In spite of her bravado, her bottom lip trembled a little. An unexpected wave of empathy washed over Donovan and made him wish for an instant that it didn’t fall to him to spoil her fanciful longings. But what she believed had no basis in reality. He took a deep breath and spoke as gently as he could, “My father may be many things, Miss Powell. But he is not a bigamist, nor an adulterer.” The fingers of her free hand clenched into a fist and she bit down on her lower lip. During a long, silent moment, she visibly composed herself before she answered. “I understand this is a shock that you don’t want to accept, Mr. O’Shea, but I know I’m right.”
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Before Donovan could protest, she unclenched her hand and held up her palm in a silencing gesture. “The obvious solution is to ask the one person who knows.” He shook his head. “I told you before, my father is very ill. I can’t imagine you showing up with your ridiculous paternity claims would be good for his recovery.” He had to give her points for persistence though. “They aren’t ridiculous—” The sudden ringing of his mobile phone stopped her in mid-protest. “Excuse me,” he leapt to his feet, fishing the phone from his jeans’ pocket. Glad for the momentary reprieve, he turned his back on Rylie Powell and took a couple of steps toward the kitchen before he answered. “O’Shea here.” “’Tis Aongus McRory,” said a familiar voice. “Sorry to bother you, but Syb and I are here in the pub and, well, we’ve more exciting news to share.” For over three weeks, Donovan had studiously avoided McRory and his dig site, though they had spoken a couple of times on the phone and once at the pub. However, this seemed the perfect excuse to terminate an uncomfortable tête-à-tête with the stubborn little American. “No bother at all. I’ll be down in just a moment.” “No, no. We’ll be right up.” McRory insisted, and rang off. When Donovan turned back around, the coffee table was swept clean and Rylie Powell stood watching him with an implacable expression. “May I use your bathroom?” He’d hoped to usher her to the bottom of the stairs and intercept McRory and his assistant. So much for best
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laid plans. He gestured toward the archway on the opposite wall. “Middle door, just through there.” Since there seemed no avoiding being hospitable, he went into the kitchen to plug in the electric teakettle. The annoying Miss Powell re-emerged just as a loud rap sounded on the front door. Donovan had no choice but to admit the professor and his assistant into the boxstrewn apartment. His American guest followed close on his heels. The big sandy-haired man was quick to offer his hand. “Professor Aongus McRory from Queen’s University, and this is my assistant Sybil Gallagher.” “Rylie Powell.” She nodded slightly but didn’t return McRory’s smile. As she shook Sybil’s hand, the professor winked at Donovan. “A friend of yours from the States?” “No.” Rylie and Donovan answered in tandem. Then Rylie added smoothly, “Our parents knew each other.” Donovan was hard-pressed not to censure her with words or looks. Just her appearance here was enough grist for the gossip mill. “’Tis truly a small world,” McRory pronounced as the whistling kettle beckoned from the kitchen. Several minutes later, Donovan returned, balancing four mismatched mugs, milk, and sugar on a tray. The entire time he was in the kitchen, he heard the professor’s steady stream of blather about the Bronze Age site. But his hopes that Rylie Powell would be bored to tears and ready to leave were dashed when he saw her curled on one end of the sofa, listening intently to McRory’s discourse.
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Since the professor occupied the single chair, Donovan was obliged to share the couch with the two women. Looking a bit perplexed, Sybil Gallagher scooted toward the center so that Donovan could sit in the opposite corner from Rylie, who reached for her mug of tea without glancing in his direction. “As I was just explaining to Rylie,” McRory’s voice sounded exceedingly cordial. “Our crew is excavating four different storage pits. But today, Sybil and I ventured farther into the fens and uncovered something different.” “How far in?” Donovan asked sharply. “Those fens can be dangerous, you know.” “Certainly no farther than the documents show that your property extends,” the professor quickly reassured. “And what did you find?” Eagerness tinged Rylie Powell’s voice and made her eyes sparkle. Damn good thing she wasn’t his sister, for the sudden jolt Donovan experienced looking at her felt far from brotherly. He took a big gulp of hot tea to squelch his suddenly attentive libido and concentrated on what Sybil was saying about Lough Neagh and the fens shifting significantly over the centuries. “The pre-Christian Celts made votive offerings into bodies of water—streams, lakes, and the like.” “And we believe we’ve discovered a spot where they made those offerings!” The professor cut in. “Show them your snaps, Syb.” His assistant pulled a digital camera from her purse and leaned over to show Rylie while McRory continued, “This should seal the deal on the sale of your father’s property, O’Shea, the entire parcel.”
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“Happy to hear it.” Donovan replied as Sybil shoved the camera under his nose. The image in front of him looked like wooden pier pilings and seemed familiar somehow. “What kind of stuff did they leave as offerings?” Rylie asked, her enthusiasm still apparent. “Coins, mostly Roman ones, jewelry, weapons. Only stone and metal objects have survived.” McRory reached into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket and withdrew a flat object half the size of his palm, which he extended in Rylie’s direction. “This, for example, was an ornament on a leather scabbard.” The air in the room felt suddenly heavy. While Rylie Powell reached for the metal object, Donovan struggled to pull in a deep breath. A faint buzz whirred inside his head and he raised both hands to his temples in an effort to contain it. He bent to rest his elbows on his knees and pressed harder. But it was too late. The objects and colors in the room swirled together then coalesced into an entirely different scene. A robed man with long dark hair stood on the end of a wooden pier that jutted into a lake. Two others, similarly dressed, stood behind him beating out a hypnotic rhythm on small flat drums. Instinctively, Donovan knew them to be holy men, Druids about to make an offering to the spirits within the water. Shuddering, he shut his eyes, but couldn’t blot out the vision. The man on the pier held a decorated scabbard over his head. Slanting rays from the setting sun twinkled red and gold on its metal adornments and the beads woven into the man’s hair. Chanting in time with the drums, he pulled the
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sword from the scabbard with his right hand, extended it with a sweeping gesture, and flung it into the lake. Murmurs of approval came from the crowd gathered around Donovan, who watched as the man cast the now-empty scabbard off the end of the pier. The drums went silent. Though he could only see the towering Druid in profile, Donovan recognized him immediately. Like the fierce warrior in his previous vision, this man had been his secret childhood playmate. Hain, brother of Ro. The man turned and his intense blue eyes locked with Donovan’s. Recognition flashed across the Druid’s lean face. With a strangled cry, Donovan dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and willed the scene away. Bolts of white light seared across his field of vision and blood roared in his ears, drowning out Hain’s voice, even as he called a warning. A fuzzy darkness began obliterating the images in front of Donovan. Unable to breathe, he felt himself being pulled away. Then the tug on his arm became real and from close at hand, a woman’s voice asked, “Is something wrong, Mr. O’Shea?” Sudden excruciating pain made Donovan gasp. The incoming air burned his lungs. Leaning back, his hands fell into his lap and the room swam back into view. Sybil Gallagher’s blunt, uneven fingernails clutched his sweater sleeve. He drew in another ragged breath and tried to force words from his parched throat. “S-sorry,” he managed to croak, and reached for his mug of tea. His hand shook when he lifted it. Blushing, Sybil jerked her fingers away. Professor McRory and Rylie Powell both stared, concern visible
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on their faces. Donovan averted his eyes a moment and fought to steady both his hands and his breathing. The tepid liquid lubricated his vocal cords enough for him to murmur, “Bloody bad headache.” “Migraine?” asked McRory, tucking the scabbard ornament back into his pocket. Donovan shook his head then took another sip of tea. “Comes and goes, but hurts like the devil.” “So sorry to have disturbed you,” the professor apologized. “No, no. I was happy to hear your news.” And even more happy that his voice and breathing had returned to normal. “We’ll not disturb you further then.” McRory rose to his feet, motioning to his assistant. “I know you’re anxious to complete the sale, but you really should come out to the site again. Maybe tomorrow? You can bring Rylie, show her the old homestead and all.” Before Donovan could decline, Rylie clapped her hands together and exclaimed, “I’d love to see it!” She cast a devastating thousand-watt beam of a smile in his direction, thoroughly rattling him. “Tomorrow morning? I can be here at nine.” “Grand,” McRory pronounced while Donovan floundered for words. “We’ll see you then.” “Thank you for the tea,” Sybil Gallagher murmured with a decided lack of enthusiasm. So Donovan wasn’t the only one less than pleased with the sudden plans. He stood and escorted his unexpected guests to the door. Rylie Powell trailed behind the other two.
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“I’d better go too, since I’m afraid my visit has aggravated your headache,” she said with a faint arch of her eyebrows. “But we can finish our discussion tomorrow, Mr. O’Shea.” Her emphasis on his name was not lost on him. “Indeed we can, Miss Powell, though I don’t suppose you’ll be happy with the outcome.” She gave him a smug look, “Or maybe you won’t.” Then she turned and exchanged leave-taking pleasantries with the professor and his assistant. Trying not to glower, Donovan did the same. As he ushered his guests down the stairs, he placed his hand low against Rylie Powell’s back. His fingers brushed close to her hip. This time, the sudden spark of sexual awareness didn’t catch him off guard as it had when she’d smiled at him. The tiniest jerk of her head told him she felt it too, and when they reached the foot of the staircase, she quickly shied away to break contact. Good, let her try to explain that away as brotherly love. She didn’t say good night and neither did he. Back inside the apartment, he refilled the teakettle and found aspirin to relieve the pounding inside his skull. A half-hour passed before the pain finally lessened. After another fifteen minutes of indecision, he picked up his mobile and rang his sister Doreen. She too was glad to hear about McRory’s latest finds because they would expedite the sale. The rundown cottage needed major repairs and she, her husband Sean, and Donovan needed to decide whether or not to raze the structure. Doreen had fretted over losing part of their
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family history, but with the university taking possession, the decision now became a moot point. “Ancient Celtic history is certainly more important than ours,” she said with a firm note of resolve in her voice. “While we’re on the subject of family history,” Donovan tried to sound more casual than he felt. “When we were little and Da worked in Liverpool, do you remember how long a time he used to be gone for?” “Three or four months at a stretch, to be sure,” his sister answered, her voice softening with recall. “And when he came home, ’twas always like Christmas because he brought us presents. Sweets and such, surely you remember those?” “Not very well,” Donovan answered with perfect honesty. “I was only five or six and it seemed he was gone a lot. I know he worked on the Liverpool docks, but did he ever go any place else?” “Not that I ever knew.” Then his sister’s tone changed. “Times were hard here, that’s why he went. Lots of other men went too. Besides, where else would he go?” She sounded defensive, as if he had insulted her. “I don’t know, but you’re older so I thought you might.” “Don’t be daft, Donovan. You know as well as I that Da wasn’t some gadabout.” She was dismissive now, the superior older sister who wouldn’t put up with his juvenile queries. “And what possible difference could it make? That was all a very long time ago.” Twenty-five years. Not since their mother had gone missing. Neither of them said it, but Donovan knew they both shared the same thoughts.
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“I’m afraid I must run.” Doreen’s voice held a strained undertone. “There’s a special candlelight mass at the cathedral tonight.” His sister had always been far more devout than him or Dermot. Prayer continued to be one of her chief preoccupations. For awhile, she’d talked about becoming a nun. No doubt to compensate for their father being a purveyor of liquor. How fittingly ironic that she was now part-owner of the pub, as was he. And the pair of them never touched so much as a drop, thanks to all those years they’d dragged their father’s drunken carcass up the stairs after he passed out behind the bar. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Donovan rang off and set the mobile on the coffee table. A nagging pain still pulsated behind his eyeballs, so he went into the kitchen and brewed himself another cuppa. Back home in New Jersey, he seldom drank tea, but finding a decent cup of coffee outside of Belfast was impossible. All the pub served was instant. In fact, he doubted anyone in Ballyneagh even owned a coffeepot. He turned on the telly, but the unsettling events of the evening kept replaying through his mind. There was no way on God’s green earth Rylie Powell could be his halfsister. Of that he was certain. So why had he felt compelled to ring Doreen and ask about their father’s time in Liverpool? And why had she been so defensive about answering his questions? If he didn’t know better, he might think there was something she didn’t want to tell him. In her room at the bed and breakfast, Rylie lay on her stomach on top of the down comforter, photos spread in
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front of her. Besides the two of her and her father, there was another taken at the same time of Rylie and her mother, and one of the three of them snapped by a passerby. Her fingertip traced the smiling image of her mother Jennifer in yet another snapshot. This was one of Rylie’s favorites, taken six years ago on her mom’s fortieth birthday, and the way she liked to remember her. Before the chemo had destroyed her hair and the cancer had decimated her body, eventually killing her at age forty-five. Life sucked, then you died. Rylie knuckled away the tears in her eyes and fingered the gold ring dangling from a chain around her neck. Her mother would not have approved of her coming here. In fact, Jennifer had openly discouraged her daughter from trying to find Dermot O’Shea. Ten years ago, during her rebellious teens, Rylie started using O’Shea as her last name and angrily chastised her mother for not locating her father. “People who disappear, like your father did, have good reasons why,” Jennifer counseled Rylie on more than one occasion. Young and headstrong, Rylie demanded “Like what?” “Things you might be better off not knowing,” her mother replied and refused to elaborate. At first, Rylie had been too angry and naïve to think of anything. Then one of her friends, whose parents were in the middle of an ugly custody battle, asked Rylie why she would want to use the name of a deadbeat who’d never seen, much less supported her for most of her life. The words forced Rylie to consider a different
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perspective. Some of her anger shifted to her father, who she realized could have contacted her if he’d truly wanted. Her friend was right. Dermot O’Shea was a deadbeat, maybe even a criminal. But secretly she never quite believed he was genuinely bad. Nevertheless, Rylie went back to using her stepfather’s last name and didn’t make good on her vow of going to Ireland and seeking her father. Until her mother died. Already devastated by a doomed love affair, losing her mother had cast Rylie adrift in a sea of doubt and uncertainty. Two weeks after her mother’s funeral, Rylie’s stepfather gave her the brown envelope. “Your mother intended to give you these herself,” Jim Powell explained hesitantly. “She didn’t realize . . . her time was so short.” “None of us realized,” Rylie whispered. While her stepfather fought to compose himself, she examined the handful of photos, the returned letters, and the plain gold ring. “Did she ever tell you about him, my biological father?” Jim shook his head, “I don’t know any more about him than you do.” Unexpectedly, he reached over and patted her hand. His voice remained unsteady. “I guess she thought it was being disloyal to me, but she should have talked to you about him, Rylie. She should have helped you try to contact him.” “It wasn’t your fault, Jim.” She might not have always felt that way, but she knew the anguish her stepfather had endured in the last few months. He looked old and broken beyond fixing, and she pitied him.
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“It’s not too late, you know.” He reached inside his jacket and passed a cashier’s check to her. “This is your share of her life insurance. You can use it to find him.” Rylie looked at the check, more than she would earn at her dental assistant’s job in six months. Plenty to pay off her credit cards and even take a vacation. She could already imagine her brothers Jamie and Justin headed for the auto dealer with their shares. “I’ll think about it.” She stopped by the bank and deposited the check on her way back to her apartment. The next morning, she hired a private investigator to search for her father. That had been the middle of May. She’d suffered through four frustrating months of tiny trickles of information, dead ends, and finally progress. It was now the end of October, and here she was in Ireland. She’d found her father. Or had she? The investigator was certain that Mr. Dermot O’Shea of Ballyneagh was the same man, who twenty-seven years ago had sailed from Liverpool to New York, married Jennifer Laski and fathered a daughter, Rylie Marie. But tonight, Donovan O’Shea—he of the dazzling smile and the great butt—adamantly disagreed that the man in the photos and named on her birth certificate was the same Dermot O’Shea. That smooth, resonant voice echoed inside her head, “My father may be many things, Miss Powell. But he is not a bigamist, nor an adulterer.” Okay, maybe he wasn’t now . . . Donovan O’Shea was wallowing in the midst of a serious case of denial. Either that, or he was a liar.
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The archeologist, Professor McRory, had mentioned selling the family property. Maybe Donovan O’Shea feared she might claim a share of the proceeds. So what if he didn’t look like a greedy money-grubber? He still could be. Men were so often not what they seemed. And one thing was certain, she hadn’t traveled all the way to Ireland and then not see her father, whether he was ill or not. After all, she might never get another chance. Tomorrow, she would find out what nursing facility Dermot O’Shea was in. If her half-brother wouldn’t tell her, then maybe the professor or his assistant knew. Or she could ask the bartender, Gerry Partlan, who by his own admission knew everyone and their business. A determined expression tightened Rylie’s jaw. As soon as she learned where her father was, she would pay him a visit. And Donovan O’Shea couldn’t stop her. She picked up the pictures and slid them back inside the envelope, her eyes lingering over the image of her mother’s smiling face. “You were right, Mom,” she whispered. “He did have good reasons.”
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Chapter 3 AT QUARTER TO NINE THE NEXT MORNING, RYLIE PULLED on the back door of the pub and found it locked, same as the front door. Seeing no bell or knocker, she rapped with her knuckles and waited. Had Donovan O’Shea stood her up? After several moments and no response, she pounded with her fist, and vowed to kick his gorgeous butt if he had. A long minute later, she switched to her other fist. At last, her thumping roused someone. “Hallo?” called out a reedy voice. Hand flattened against the heavy door, Rylie looked up and saw a wizened little man leaning out the secondstory window above the barbershop next door. Before she could answer his query, the man trumpeted out, “Donovan! Ho! Donovan, lad! Ye’ve company!” Rattling noises sounded somewhere overhead, then the faint but distinctive tread of someone hurrying down the creaky stairs. The door twitched and Rylie dropped her hand just as it opened. Donovan O’Shea stood there, a mug in his hand and a perturbed scowl on his handsome face. “You’re early.” She glanced at her wristwatch, “Only ten minutes.” When she looked back up, he’d already whirled around and headed for the stairs. She followed. He seemed even taller this morning as he climbed in front of her. His brown corduroys made soft shushing
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sounds, and his great looking behind was practically at eye level. Ugh! Snap out of it, Rylie! She dropped her gaze to her feet, and wrestled her suddenly alert libido back into line. What a sad commentary on the state of her love life. Her body was lusting after her newly discovered half-brother. She trailed behind him through the box-strewn living room and into the kitchen. He wolfed down a half-piece of toast and took a huge gulp from the mug before rinsing it under the tap. Rylie had learned from Mrs. Cooke, the manager of the B&B, that it was Irish tradition to offer tea if a guest was welcome. Donovan O’Shea unplugged the electric teakettle and poured the remaining water down the drain, leaving no doubt as to her status. “I’ll just get my coat,” he muttered, eyeing her hooded sweatshirt. “It’s a nice sunny morning,” Rylie observed, but he turned and stalked away without reply. So much for small talk. She walked back into the living room and stood near the door next to three stacked boxes. Since the flaps on the top box were open, Rylie peered inside. A framed wedding photograph lay on top. The dark-haired bride wore a white, long-sleeved gown with a short veil. Her ruddy faced groom looked decidedly uncomfortable in his tuxedo. Neither smiled. The photo didn’t look very old; therefore this must be Dermot O’Shea’s daughter, Doreen. Donovan’s sister. Her sister. Breath catching, Rylie looked away fast and just in time. Donovan O’Shea—her brother—walked into the room, shrugging on a black suede jacket. Wordlessly, she
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preceded him out the door and down the stairs. While he locked the back door from the outside, she glanced at the window over the barbershop to see if the little man watched them. The curtains fluttered. “Ready then?” her handsome half-brother inquired. Without waiting for her to answer, he approached a dilapidated Morris Minor parked near the pub door. “Does that thing even run?” Rylie couldn’t stop herself from asking. “It’s got to be twenty years old.” “Twenty-two, actually,” he replied stiffly. “And it runs sufficiently well. People don’t drive that much round here.” She eyed the numerous rusty spots on the exterior and the disintegrating interior with distaste. “I think we better take my car.” “Fine.” He held out his hand for the keys. She hesitated. “I should probably drive. The clerk at the car rental office was pretty insistent about me being the only driver.” “I’ll spare you my opinion of the car hire clerk,” he huffed out, then rolled his eyes. His hand remained extended. Rylie slapped the keys into his palm with a frustrated sigh. They hadn’t gone far down the main road toward Dungannon when Donovan turned right onto a country lane. The paving was all but nonexistent, grass grew thick between the numerous cracks, and tall hedges lined either side. Rylie wondered whether, if they met another vehicle, there’d be room for them to pass. That must be why he drove so slowly. Through an approaching gap in the hedge, she could see a whitewashed cottage surrounded by trees loaded
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with golden leaves. In front of the cottage, the lawn shined so green she had to squint. She’d never appreciated the description of “Emerald Isle” until she saw it for herself three days ago. “I’ll bet your family has lived here for generations, haven’t they?” she asked as they passed by the charming house. “Since the mid-1800s at least,” he replied, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “Probably longer. Records weren’t terribly clear during the Hunger, what you’d call the Potato Famine.” “I can’t imagine how great it must be to have that much family history all around you.” She didn’t bother trying to disguise the envy in her voice. When he didn’t answer, she studied him for a moment. Even in profile he looked handsome, his features just rugged enough, without being rough or coarse. If he resembled his father—her father—then she understood why her mother had fallen in love so fast, so completely. She cleared her throat. “Don’t you miss Ireland?” “No, not really.” He turned the car down another lane, this one unpaved and deeply rutted so that the car bounced and scraped a couple of times. The hedge fences on one side turned into low walls of stacked stones. A halfdozen curly-horned sheep grazed in the middle of the field in a scene that could have been lifted from a tourist brochure. As if he read her thoughts, he shot her an exasperated glance. “In spite of how picturesque this all looks, Miss Powell, the day-to-day reality isn’t nearly so grand.”
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“So that’s why you moved to America? And please, call me Rylie.” She paused for a beat before adding, “Donovan.” His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel but his voice remained impassive. “Americans don’t appreciate how good they have it. Trust me, you wouldn’t really want to be my sister, Rylie.” The inflection he put on her name raised her ire. “Well, neither of us had any say in that, did we?” She hated how petty she sounded. Her aggravating half-brother gave her another annoyed look. “No, indeed,” he stated, then turned the car through a gap in the stone wall. They bounced even more over the rough track toward a ramshackle house with peeling white paint and a rusty tin roof. Two Range Rovers and a jeep sat in the yard. Beyond the house Rylie could see a canvas canopy and several people moving about. Donovan pulled the car between the Range Rovers and cut the engine. “So here we are then.” Sybil Gallagher emerged from the house and waved in greeting. “Morning Miss Powell, Mr. O’Shea.” “Rylie, please.” She extended her hand to the other woman. “I hope we’re not too early.” “Oh, not at’all.” Sybil ran her palm down the leg of her pants before shaking hands. “We start working when the sun comes up, because we have to quit when it gets dark or starts raining, whichever comes first.” She bobbed her head at Donovan, but continued speaking to Rylie. “You’ll want to see inside the cottage then?” “Yes, please.”
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“Not much to see,” Donovan muttered as they stepped over the raised threshold into the shadowy interior. “I’ll just put on the kettle, then go and fetch Aongus.” Sybil fluttered over to a camp stove, the anxious hostess. She cast a worried look at Donovan. “The lads have taken over down here, and I’m afraid they’re not much for housekeeping. Aongus and I have moved up to the loft.” Donovan waved a dismissive hand at the clothes and other items scattered over and around a couple of camp cots set against the far wall. “Doesn’t matter. This place has been vacant for years. You’re really roughing it.” Blushing, Sybil nodded in acknowledgment before dashing out the door. Rylie looked around the room, which was dominated by an enormous stone fireplace that had once served for both cooking and warmth. She peeked through the open doorway into the adjoining room, where the same fireplace had a second hearth. Two additional camp cots and more masculine paraphernalia littered the area. Cold seeped from the flat gray stones of the floor through the rubber soles of her sneakers, a testament to the uncomfortable reality Donovan had mentioned earlier. “How long did you live here?” she asked. “My first seven years.” He motioned to a steep set of stairs built into the wall behind the front door. “My sister and I slept in the loft, same as my mother and her sister had done.” His tone and expression softened, no doubt with memories. “The roof was thatch when my mum and Aunt Fee were little, but my grandfather replaced it with tin.” He looked over his shoulder at the door in the end
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wall. “He also added the wash room and loo onto the back, along with electricity.” Rylie searched her mind to recall where she had lived at the same age. They had moved to California when she was five, so she didn’t remember much about New York. A year later, her mother had married Jim Powell and they moved from their two-bedroom apartment to a house in the L.A. suburbs. Four years after that, they moved into a bigger house with a pool. Her step-dad and halfbrothers still lived there. She had never seen where her mother grew up in Brooklyn, but she knew for sure it had running water and electricity. Donovan O’Shea stood with one foot resting on the bottom step, gazing up into the attic space that had once been his shared bedroom. Guilt washed over Rylie at the recollection of how she’d questioned him about moving to America. But she would be damned before she gave him the satisfaction of admitting he was right.
How much would it take before Rylie Powell had a sufficient dose of quaint, rural Ireland? Donovan sought to distract himself with speculation rather than worry about the uncomfortable tightening in his gut caused by being here in his childhood home. Time and the elements had reduced the place to little more than a hovel. Not that it had been much better when he and his family lived here, but he’d been too young to know any different. The living quarters over the pub were posh in comparison. From the corner of his eye, he watched Rylie survey the stark, chilly room, her attractive mouth pressed into a thin
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line. She obviously wasn’t finding this realism too pleasant. A little nudge of self-satisfaction tugged at his own lips. The reappearance of Sybil Gallagher with Professor McRory in tow broke the awkward silence. Sybil rushed to fill the teapot with water from the kettle while McRory stood outside the open door and shed his mudcaked boots and waterproof coveralls. “We’ve started a new trench out in the fens,” the professor explained. “’Tis nasty going at the moment.” He stepped carefully over the threshold and walked in stocking feet to the back room. Donovan didn’t envy him washing up, for the hot water heater hadn’t been connected in years. As if to confirm his thoughts, he saw Sybil pour hot water from the kettle into the sink to wash the dishes stacked there. “Let me help,” Rylie offered, picking up a tea towel. To keep out of the way, Donovan settled himself on the stairs and rested his elbows on his knees. By the time McRory rejoined them, Sybil was pouring tea into four cups. “I’m sorry, all we have is powdered milk,” she apologized as she reached for a covered tin. “That’s okay, I take mine plain.” Rylie took the offered cup. “As do I,” Donovan remarked. He watched McRory snag a three-legged stool and offer it to Rylie as Sybil passed him a mug. “And here’s two sugars for you, Aongus,” The sudden look of censure McRory shot his assistant left her mouth agape for a moment before she murmured, “I . . . I mean, Professor.”
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Donovan narrowed his eyes; so much for the cozy little domestic scene. He happened to know McRory was married. And apparently McRory was aware that he knew. A fleeting look in Rylie’s eyes as she hastily lifted her mug told Donovan that she had put it together as well. He wondered if she shared his same disgust for infidelity. The professor sat on one of the cots and spoke quickly to cover the silence. “I’m afraid we’ve all the artifacts bundled and boxed up for Brian to take back to Queen’s this afternoon, but I can fetch the carton from the Land Rover if you’d like.” “No!” Donovan felt all eyes jump at his sharp tone, but the last thing he wanted nearby was a passel of items that could trigger his “gift.” “That is,” he fumbled, “I don’t want you to go to any trouble.” “No, please don’t,” Rylie agreed, flashing a demure smile. “Donovan and I probably wouldn’t recognize, much less appreciate, what any of those things were.” For an uncomfortable moment, Donovan gawked, not sure which had surprised him more, her sudden support or the easy way she uttered his name. Realizing his mouth was open, he snapped it shut and nodded in agreement, then quickly gulped some tea. McRory looked ready to protest, but Rylie spoke again before he could. “I’d like to see your dig site though, if that’s all right.” She took a sip from her cup then added, “And I’m afraid I don’t really know what a fen is.” Donovan suspected her of being disingenuous, but the ploy worked. He could see McRory switch into professorial mode.
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“Most people will tell you that a fen is nothing but a patch of marshy ground, but that’s not entirely true. Point of fact is that Irish fens are unique.” A ruckus from outside interrupted the lecture. Someone shouted for McRory and a moment later, a young man burst into the cottage. “Professor!” His breathless cry halted upon seeing the four of them. “So sorry, but—you—we—” “Slow down, Johnny, and catch your breath,” McRory admonished. He rose to his feet and hurried to the young man’s side. “’Tis an emergency?” “No . . . ” Resting his hands on his thighs, the lad Johnny took a deep breath. “Well, maybe yes. The thing is, we’ve found a body . . . in the fens.” “A bog body?” Sybil gasped in excitement, while Rylie gasped in alarm. Johnny shook his head. “He’s been dead awhile, but he’s twenty-first century, or twentieth at least. I could tell by his shoes.” “Are you sure it’s a man?” Donovan demanded, a terrible fear gripping him. Giving him a quizzical look, Johnny nodded then turned to McRory. “Please, Professor, will you come take a look?” “Straight away,” McRory answered, face grim. “Syb, you’d best call the authorities.” He stepped over the threshold and pulled on his rubber boots. Donovan plunked his cup into the sink. “I’d better come with you.” “Me too,” Rylie quickly chimed in. With a firm expression, McRory shook his head. “’Til we see what’s out there, you ladies need to stay here.”
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Sybil, who stood with her mobile phone in hand, gave a humph of dissatisfaction and turned away. Rylie glared but muttered, “Fine,” between her teeth. Not pausing for further discussion, they left the two unhappy women behind in the cottage. Donovan strode rapidly across the yard while McRory and Johnny kept pace with him. “We were taking the top layer off the new trench when Michael’s spade struck something,” Johnny babbled as they approached the canopied area where work tables and benches were set up. “’Twas a boot, but when he called me over to help unearth it, we saw ’twas a pair of boots, and the feet still in ’em!” Two men stood murmuring over one of the tables, but McRory waved them away when they moved to join the trio. Donovan was glad to give the work area a wide berth, in case there might be an artifact or something to trigger one of his visions. Tuning out Johnny’s nervous chatter, Donovan recalled how he stumbled upon the original dig site over two months ago. He’d been clearing dried grass and brush in the corner of the yard when he thought he heard a dog barking. He searched, but hadn’t found the source of the elusive sound. Frustrated, he whacked at a dead bush and when he uprooted the thing, beneath the shallow root system lay a purposefully constructed pit. Seeing the carefully arranged bones had triggered the first vision Donovan had experienced in over fifteen years. Amid the painful buzzing in his ears, he’d watched a Druid sacrifice the dog and place its body along with the foreleg bones of a horse into the pit to appease their
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gods. Though the images had faded quickly, Donovan felt sick and frightened in their aftermath. His worst fear had come to pass. Coming back to his boyhood home had precipitated the return of the “gift” he’d never been able to control. When he was a young child, he saw and heard things that no one else did. Except his mother. He was loath to say “things that weren’t there” for they always felt very much there, as real as anything else within his childish realm of experiences. However, once he realized no one else saw or heard what he did, he never admitted anything to anyone. His mother had been right, people didn’t understand. Heaven knew, he didn’t understand it himself. The unique smell of dampness and decay hit Donovan’s nostrils at the same time the earth grew spongy beneath his feet. The three of them had reached the edge of the fens. He banished all thoughts of his “gift” and the people and things he saw. He needed to concentrate on the present and keep everything else away from his consciousness. McRory and the young man were still talking, and he focused hard on their words. “. . . no reason to suspect foul play,” McRory was saying. “But what else could it be?” Johnny insisted. “The fens have always been dangerous,” the professor pointed out. “People lose their way.” Not this close in. Donovan kept his agreement with the lad to himself as they negotiated single file between a thick clump of bushes and a tangle of thorny vines. The moist ground sucked at the soles of his sneakers. A dead beech tree ahead on their right looked vaguely familiar.
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Blackened scars on the trunk teased at the edge of his memory. He shook his head to clear it. “Ho! Michael!” Johnny shouted. Ahead, past another thicket of brush, a figure in a red cap waved. “I’ve nearly uncovered him,” the second young man called back. “No! Stop!” McRory ordered. “Leave that for the police.” When Johnny shot him a perturbed look, he added, “In case there might be something to investigate.” Still silent, Donovan sidestepped the professor’s twine markers. From the corner of his eye, he saw two trenches similar to the ones McRory’s team had dug in the cottage yard. The second youth, Michael, stood down a slope in the midst of more twine and a muddy pile of earth. “’Tis sorry I am, Professor,” he rushed to apologize. “I didn’t mean . . . ” McRory held up his hand for silence. “No matter, Michael. What is it we’ve got then?” “A feckin’ mess!” The young man blurted, then he eyed Donovan with dismay. “Bollocks! I suppose you’re the Yank who owns all this. Sorry. I’m Michael Carmody.” “Close enough, my father owns it.” Donovan forced a smile as he extended his hand. “Donovan O’Shea, and I agree, looks to be a feckin’ mess, right enough.” He craned his neck to gaze around Michael Carmody into the hole, which was about a half meter deep. The body lay face down, long legs and half the torso uncovered. Much too large to be a woman, at least the woman Donovan had feared it might be.
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Before the wave of relief washed over him, a blinding light flashed in front of his eyes. In the next instant, the wavering image of a big man appeared in front of him. A hand gripping a butcher knife plunged the blade into the man’s belly. Once. Twice. Stunned, Donovan gasped and stumbled. The vision disappeared as quickly as it had materialized. Michael Carmody stuck out his arm and prevented Donovan from toppling into the hole. “Must . . . sit,” Donovan wheezed and staggered backward. His visions had never been like this! Next thing he knew, McRory had a canvas campstool under him. With a shuddering breath, Donovan sat and dropped his head between his knees. “Do you know who ’tis?” the professor demanded. “N—no,” Donovan stuttered, but when he raised his eyes in the direction of the body, the light and the terrible image struck him again. Groaning, he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Donovan!” McRory’s large hand gripped his shoulder, fingers digging through his jacket and sweater. “Christ Jaysus, man! What’s wrong?” He bit back the urge to reveal what he knew. “My head,” he panted, then truthfully added, “It’s never been like this before.” McRory’s grip relaxed a fraction. Eyes squeezed shut, Donovan pivoted around on the stool so that he faced away from the body. Very carefully, he opened his eyes and looked into Professor McRory’s worried face. He drew in a deep breath. “I’m all right now.” The professor’s expression shifted from concern to
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conjecture. “I’ll be the judge of that. Michael, Johnny, help me get him back to the cottage.” He motioned in the direction of the body. “That knacker won’t be going anywhere before the PSNI arrives.” To Donovan’s dismay, the two young men were staring goggle-eyed at him. He shook off McRory’s hand and got to his feet. “I really am all right.” “Be that as it may,” McRory insisted and turned to walk back up the slope. “There’s aspirin and what-not back at the cottage, and I for one, could do with a shot of Bushmills.”
Rylie slammed her half-empty mug of tea in the sink and stuck her head out the open cottage door to stare at the disappearing figures of the three men. She was debating whether or not to follow them when Sybil flipped her cell phone closed and stood next to her. “Police are on their way.” She confirmed. Then she muttered under her breath, “Shite! Shite! Shite! This’ll make a right hames of everything!” “Excuse me?” Rylie turned to see the other woman sink onto the closest camp cot, toss the phone aside, and bury her face in her hands. Draped in an oversized green sweater, Sybil’s thin shoulders shuddered in a silent sob. “Sorry,” she mumbled between her fingers. Then she raked her sweater sleeve across her eyes. “Things were going so well ’til now. This was turning out to be the find of Aongus’s career.” Her voice turned sullen. “But now the police will shut us down whilst they investigate. And who knows how long that’ll take?” Rylie pulled a clean tissue from her pocket and
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offered it to Sybil. “I suppose that’s time you and Aongus can’t be together?” The other woman nodded and wiped her nose while Rylie pulled over the stool and sat opposite her. “Because of his wife?” “Bloody hell!” Sybil moaned. “Am I that bleedin’ obvious?” “Only because I’ve been there and done that,” Rylie admitted, surprising herself as well as Sybil, but some part of her wanted to spare another woman needless pain and betrayal. Sybil rolled her eyes and snorted. “I’m finding this hard to believe, Miss . . . Rylie. ’Tis plain that you fancy Mr. O’Shea, and he you, and I know for a fact he’s single.” “It happened a long time ago.” Actually less than a year, but it felt like another lifetime. Then the impact of Sybil’s second statement hit, and Rylie looked askance. “Trust me, I’m the last person Donovan O’Shea is interested in.” She touched the other woman’s hand and held her gaze. “But you must believe me, Sybil, an affair with your married boss will end badly. It always does.” “No, Aongus is different.” She threw off Rylie’s hand and jerked her head aside to break eye contact. “He only married herself because of her position at Queen’s. This find will secure his career, and he won’t need herself any more. Besides, he—” Sybil’s words stopped suddenly and Rylie noticed a shadow flickering across the open door. She craned her neck and saw two men approaching, one with a wild mane of carrot-red curls, the other a typical Irish brunet with his hair clubbed back in a ponytail. Giving one last swipe to her nose, Sybil met them at the door.
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“What’ve that pair of gobshites done now, Syb?” the redhead demanded, then seeing Rylie, he flushed in embarrassment. “Pardon. Brian Finlay, and this is Frank Casey.” “Rylie Powell.” Rylie stood and shook the brunet’s extended hand. Both men looked older than their colleague Johnny, though several years younger than Professor McRory. “A Yank,” Frank Casey observed, looking at her sneakers. “You must be with O’Shea.” Before Rylie could answer Brian Finlay spoke again, his green eyes sparkling amid his mass of freckles, “I meant to ask if Johnny and Michael have stirred up trouble.” “This time ’tis not their fault,” Sybil’s voice sounded tightly restrained. “They’ve uncovered a body, a recent one.” “Shite!” Frank muttered what Rylie guessed was the most common word in the Irish lexicon. “The PSNI buggers will shut us down for sure.” Brian agreed, the sparkle extinguished from his eyes. “I’ve already called, and they’re on their way.” Sybil sunk back onto the camp cot with a ragged sigh. Her pale blue eyes welled with fresh tears. Brian gave her shoulder a hesitant pat. “Sorry, Syb. I know how much this meant to you.” “Cuppa?” asked Frank, reaching for the undisputed Irish cure-all, the teakettle.
Forced to fall into step behind the professor, Donovan and his companions carefully made their way out of the
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fens and back across the yard. While he walked, Donovan replayed the two brief, horrific flashes in his mind. His visions had never gone on and off like a strobe, and they were always rooted in Celtic antiquity, never recent. What this new variation might mean made his stomach roil. He really must get out of here! Just before they reached the now empty work area, a black sedan pulled into the yard. Behind it rumbled a black and white van. The Police Service of Northern Ireland had arrived. McRory broke into a jog, but Donovan maintained his slower pace, with Michael and Johnny on either side of him. The two either weren’t anxious to face the PSNI, or they wanted to make sure he wasn’t too gee-eyed to walk on his own. Or both. Sybil and a young man with red hair emerged from the cottage as a man in a trench coat got out of the sedan. The officer and the professor were talking when Donovan, Michael, and Johnny approached. “These are my two associates who found the body, Michael Carmody and Johnny Byrne.” McRory waved his hand by way of introduction. “And this is the property owner’s son, Donovan O’Shea. Inspector Colm Lynch.” Lynch offered his gloved hand to each of them in turn, but after he shook Donovan’s, his eyes narrowed. “You’ve grown considerably since the last time we met.” He paused to look him over from top to toe before he continued. “’Tis no surprise you don’t remember. I was new to the force then, and we called ourselves the Royal Ulster Constabulary rather than the PSNI. I investigated the disappearance of your mother, Moira Mullins O’Shea.”
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“I . . . I don’t remember much. I was only seven.” For a disconcerting moment, Donovan imagined everyone leaned forward in eager anticipation. Other than his visions, this was the last topic he wanted to discuss. But the PSNI inspector wasn’t inclined to let the subject drop. “Passing strange how no trace of her was ever found,” Lynch said, playing to his audience. “For good or ill.”
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Chapter 4 “READY WHEN YOU ARE, INSPECTOR,” CALLED ONE OF THE men standing at the rear of the police van. “Carmody and Byrne, is it?” Lynch nodded at the professor’s two protégés. “Let’s go then.” As the police inspector, Johnny, and Michael tramped off toward the fens, McRory herded everyone else back inside the cottage. Donovan supposed he was obliged to stay, though he would’ve much rather hopped into Rylie Powell’s hired car and headed straight back to Ballyneagh. Or better yet, gone right on to the Belfast airport and the first flight home. Unfortunately, the vexing Miss Powell sidled up to him and cast a worried glance into his face. “You don’t look so good.” She wrapped her delicate fingers around his forearm and guided him to one of the camp cots against the far wall. Donovan eased himself down and she plopped next to him. “Do you want some tea?” “Grand idea,” McRory said, then turned and disappeared up the stairs into the loft. While Sybil and the red-haired man bustled about looking for extra cups, the other man added more tea and hot water to the teapot. If Donovan remembered correctly, his name was Frank Casey. “I’m really sorry about your mother.” The soft whisper near his ear startled Donovan. Then Rylie laid
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her small hand on his arm again. “But at least the body wasn’t her.” “N—no,” he managed to choke out. Though her touch was meant in sympathy, the heat from her palm burned through his jacket and sweater like a live coal. He pulled his arm away and put some space between the two of them. “Right nasty business, whomever ’twas,” Frank muttered to no one in particular as he re-lit the burner and put more water in the kettle. “Yes, indeed!” seconded McRory, hustling back down the stairs with a flat whiskey bottle in one hand. “’Twas murder most foul.” He poured tea into the cup Sybil offered then splashed in a generous portion of the whiskey. “Isn’t that right, Donovan?” Donovan shifted under the questioning gazes of everyone in the crowded room. “I wouldn’t know.” “Wouldn’t you now?” McRory poised the whiskey bottle over another cup Sybil had just poured. “A wee nip? Good for what ails you.” “No, thank you.” His tone came out sharper than he intended. Sybil shot a surprised glance at him and he could feel Rylie doing the same, so he added apologetically, “I don’t drink.” The professor’s eyebrows shot up in mock dismay. “A bit like the cobbler’s children who have no shoes, is it?” “I suppose so.” Donovan tipped up his cup of tea to drink, thereby ending the uncomfortable conversation. He hoped. “C’mon, Brian,” Frank motioned to the redhead. “Might as well load up everything else before they shut
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us down. Maybe we’ll have enough to keep us occupied until the PSNI lets us come back.” “’Twill be the middle of bloody freezing winter by then,” Brian grumbled as the two walked out the door. After the two men left, Rylie spoke again, this time to the professor. “Why do you think the man was murdered?” Her voice squeaked on the last word. Leaning against the kitchen counter, McRory took a swig of his fortified tea, then answered. “Because our Donovan nearly took a header into the hole after one look.” His shrewd gaze pinned Donovan before he could protest. “And don’t go prattling about headaches, food poisoning and such. ’Tis plain to me that you have The Sight, boyo.” Though Rylie looked confused, recognition spread over Sybil’s face. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Donovan scoffed. “Only women have The Sight.” “Not necessarily,” Sybil contradicted him. “Evidence suggests that some of the ancient Druids may have actually been clairvoyant. And they were males.” Crossing his arms, Donovan scowled at all three of them. “Trust me, if I could foresee the future, I’d have won the Irish Sweepstakes long ago.” McRory chuckled, “If only ’twere that simple, eh?” He took another slow sip of his whiskey-laced beverage. “But the truth is that The Sight can manifest in a hundred different ways and degrees. Some people call it intuition or a hunch. Surely you’ve had those.” “I have,” Rylie spoke up and giggled. “But I’m wrong more often than I’m right. Does that mean my Sight is defective?”
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For whatever reason, she seemed to be helping defuse the uncomfortable situation. Grateful for her unexpected aid, Donovan was taken aback nonetheless. “Ah, darlin’ girl,” drawled McRory. “There’s nothing defective about you that I can see.” That remark didn’t sit any better with Donovan than it did with Sybil, whose pale eyes snapped between Rylie and the professor. A tawny blush stained Rylie’s cheeks. “I always know when a family member isn’t well,” Sybil offered a bit defensively. “I suppose that counts as a wee bit of The Sight.” “So do I,” Donovan added with complete honesty. “When my sister called in June, I knew as soon as she spoke that my father was ill, though I suppose that could have been because of the way she said my name.” Then another memory assailed him and he heard himself murmur, “And I was sick for a fortnight when my mother went missing.” Unsure what had prompted that confession, Donovan quickly took a drink of tea to moisten his parched throat. “Then perhaps the body in the fens is a relation of yours,” McRory concluded. “I don’t see how,” Donovan replied, rising to his feet. He placed his mug in the sink. “Please excuse me a moment.” Then he headed for the loo, for a moment’s well-deserved reprieve. With Donovan ensconced in the bathroom, Rylie moved to the sink to wash out the used cups. Sybil rushed to help her, while Professor McRory continued to sip from his mug. Rylie had drunk Irish coffee on St. Patrick’s Day once and found the taste repulsive, so she
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couldn’t image gagging down tea mixed with whiskey. She would rather have a frozen margarita any day. Just as she heard Donovan come back into the room, she saw Michael, Johnny, and the police inspector crossing the yard. Sybil saw them too, and put more water in the teakettle to heat. Then all four of them walked outside to meet the three men. Michael and Johnny looked subdued, and both immediately ducked inside the cottage. “Sorry to tell you,” said the beefy police inspector. “But this is now a homicide investigation. The victim sustained multiple stab wounds to the abdomen.” On one side of her, Rylie heard Sybil give a strangled gasp, while on the other side, Donovan’s face blanched. She reached for his hand and was surprised when he didn’t jerk away. His breathing sounded ragged. “Given the amount of decomposition, I’d say he’s been dead at least twenty years,” McRory was saying. “How can you be sure he was stabbed to death?” “Because when we turned him over,” Inspector Lynch fished in the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a clear plastic bag with a large rusty kitchen knife inside. “This was still imbedded in one of his ribs.” Rylie’s horrified gasp echoed with Sybil’s and the other woman quickly crossed herself. Even McRory flinched. Rylie felt Donovan’s fingers tighten over her own, and from the corner of her eye, his handsome face looked even more white, cold and hard as polished marble. But he didn’t appear all that shocked, almost as if he’d anticipated the knife. Could the professor be right? Did her half-brother really possess the extra sensory perception they called
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The Sight? She certainly didn’t have it, so he must have inherited it from his mother. The police inspector shoved the plastic bag back into his pocket. “Sorry Professor, but since this is now a crime scene, I can’t allow you and your crew to stay here and continue your dig.” “I expected as much,” McRory murmured while Sybil’s head drooped in dejected defeat. “I’ll need contact information from all of you,” Lynch’s sweeping gaze included the four of them as he extracted a small notebook from his inside jacket pocket. He fumbled with the pen in his gloved fingers. “Probably nothing more than a few routine questions, since I doubt my superiors will want to commit much time or manpower to a case this old.” “My wife is a geneticist at Queen’s, who works exclusively with DNA,” Professor McRory said while beside him Sybil’s head snapped up and color flooded her face. “If you need help in identifying the remains, I’m sure she’d oblige.” “Appreciate the offer,” Lynch replied. “We’ll be transporting the body to Armagh City and I’ll let the county coroner know.” Seemingly oblivious of his assistant’s mortification, McRory gave the inspector copious phone numbers and addresses for himself and his wife. Poor Sybil squirmed like she was enduring medieval torture. So much for her claim about Aongus being different. Rylie had to cover her derisive snort with a cough. As soon as she did, Donovan seemed to realize they were still holding hands, and he jerked his fingers away. She cleared her throat and the inspector diverted his attention to her.
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“Sorry, but I’ll only be here eleven more days,” she babbled into the awkward silence. “I’m staying in Cavanagh House B & B in Dungannon. Do you want my American address and phone number too?” “I don’t expect we’ll need it,” Lynch answered. Then he turned to Donovan. “However, I may need to question your father, since he is the legal property owner and likely was at the time of the murder.” A muscle in Donovan’s jaw twitched. “I’d rather you didn’t. My father is very ill and unable to speak. Undue stress could be harmful to him.” “Can he communicate at all?” the inspector asked, eyes narrowed. When Donovan gave a slight nod, he added, “Then I’ll try to be brief.” Still looking mutinous, Donovan gave only the name of a care facility. Then he gave his own address and phone number and the name and phone number of his sister, Doreen Sullivan. Lynch turned to Sybil, and Donovan pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “Excuse me a moment,” he murmured, then walked toward the parked vehicles and out of earshot. As Rylie looked at his broad back, phone pressed to his ear, she suddenly realized she now had the information she needed to see her father. A smug grin tugged at one corner of her mouth; Donovan would probably spit nails when the same thing occurred to him. A flurry of movement drew her eyes away from her half-brother. The other two police officers came into view, carrying a large canvas bag between them. The dead body. She, Sybil, and Professor McRory watched them lug their burden across the yard to the back of
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the van. Lynch closed his notebook and crossed to meet them. While Rylie watched the three policeman conferring together, Brian and Frank rejoined them and drew the professor inside the cottage for their own conference. She glanced at Sybil, who stood still as a stone. Then Rylie looked back at Donovan. Something definitely was not right. His tall frame slumped against the hood of the car, arms cradling his head. Her feet and legs operated independently from her conscious mind, for the next thing she knew she stood beside him. His cell phone lay in the dirt next to the car’s front tire. What she could see of his face glistened with a sheen of perspiration and his breath sounded as rapid as if he’d jogged a brisk mile. “Donovan?” she queried, her hand poised above his shaking shoulder. With a startled gasp, he turned and knocked against her, only a tiny rim of blue visible around his wide black pupils. With sudden certainty, Rylie knew McRory was right. Donovan O’Shea saw things. He had The Sight. “Are you—” Her tongue stuck to the roof of her dry mouth and she struggled to get words out. “—okay?” The jangling of his cell caused lucidity to leap back into his eyes. They both dived for the ringing phone and bumped their heads together. Rylie almost toppled over, but managed to remain upright, hand clutching her temple. “Sorry, I . . . I dropped the mobile,” Donovan mumbled into the device. He turned aside and took a step away.
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Someone touched her arm, and Rylie jerked around to find Sybil standing next to her. Behind her, Donovan carried on a low but intense discussion. “Appears the two of you are leaving.” Sybil inclined her head in Donovan’s direction. “I guess so,” Rylie acknowledged, listening to another few terse comments of Donovan’s one-sided conversation. “Can you give the others our apologies?” Sybil nodded, then shifting her weight from foot to foot, she stuck out her hand. “If I don’t see you again, safe journey Miss . . . Rylie.” Rylie bit her bottom lip as she exchanged an awkward handshake with the other woman. “Thanks, and I’m sorry about what I said.” “’Tis no matter,” Sybil intervened a little too quickly. “You were only trying to help.” Then she looked over Rylie’s shoulder and nodded. “Mr. O’Shea.” Without waiting for any replies, she turned and hurried back toward the cottage. Rylie regarded her halfbrother, who still looked pale and tense. “That was my sister,” he explained, tight lines bracketing his mouth. “She’s very upset, and I promised her I would talk to our father before the police show up.” Our father. Rylie was certain he didn’t mean to include her in that phrase. Nonetheless, she was included, whether Donovan and his sister liked it or not. He pulled the keys from his pants pocket and she held out her hand. “Let me. You’re in no shape to drive.” Then before he could refuse, she added, “This is my car. Don’t make me throw a fit in front of our buddies over
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there.” She nodded toward the two police officers getting into their van. Smart guy. He believed her threat, for he tossed the keys at her and muttered, “Fine.” While he slumped in the passenger’s seat, she adjusted the driver’s seat and rear view mirror. “Do you remember how to get back to the pub?” he asked sulkily. “Drop me there and I’ll take the Morris.” The police van pulled out of the yard and down the dirt driveway. Rylie started the car, put it in gear, and followed. “You can probably walk faster than that old heap can run. I’ll just take you to the care facility.” “Absolutely not!” Outrage flooded his voice and face. “Look, Donovan,” she cut in. “I already know the name of the place, so I’m going to find it anyway. Do yourself a favor and chill out.” He spluttered helplessly for a moment, and then shot her an atomic fusion glare. However, his voice had all the warmth of nuclear winter as he spoke between clenched teeth. “Fine and dandy.” He fumed for several long moments while Rylie steered the car along the rutted track. Finally, he spoke again. “When you reach the main road, turn toward Dungannon.” Crossing his arms, he slouched down and stared stonily ahead. If he wanted to give her the silent treatment, Rylie didn’t care. She was on her way to see her biological father face-to-face. She might not confront him, but at least she would see him. The enormity of the situation was beyond her ability to process, much less put into words.
ttt
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Most annoying little git he’d ever had the misfortune to encounter. Rylie Powell won the prize, hands down. So why did one touch from her get him all hot and bothered? A right feckin’ mess, to borrow Michael Carmody’s phrase. And the longer he stayed in Ireland, the worse everything grew. Now this latest, a dead man with a kitchen knife still in him, and his own mother’s kitchen the only one within miles. It didn’t take The Sight to put that one together. The last thing Donovan needed was Rylie and her outrageous paternity claims added to the mix, but here she was. After almost an hour of driving, the city came into view and he directed her to follow the signs to the hospital. “I don’t expect there’s any chance you’ll wait outside, so I’ll tell you this only once,” he ground out. “You shall be seen and not heard.” She shot him a sidelong glare. “I’m not a child.” “Then don’t behave like one. Or I’ll bodily remove you and have you barred from seeing my father. And don’t think I won’t.” “Why are you acting like this?” she demanded, equal amounts of indignation and hurt in her tone. Then her voice dropped, “Do you think Dermot killed that man?” “No.” His denial sounded too quick for even him to believe. He took a deep breath, “But if the news upsets him half as much as I suspect, then I’ll not have you heap one more thing on him.” A string of conflicting emotions crossed her pretty face. Pain lingered in her voice, “Look Donovan, I didn’t
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come here to hurt anybody. I just want to see Dermot O’Shea, talk to him, ask him why.” The hospital looming ahead on their left stopped him from replying. She turned the car, and he directed her down two streets and over one more. “Holy Family Board and Care” proclaimed the black letters on the side of the single-story building. She eased the car into a parking space opposite the front door. Feeling guilty, Donovan cleared his throat, “I’m sorry. I’m only trying to protect my father.” “I understand.” Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper. She got out of the car and followed him inside. Perhaps when she saw what a nasty old bugger Dermot could be, she wouldn’t be so insistent. The thought cheered Donovan as he strode down the hall, the everpresent smell of disinfectant and urine assailing his nostrils. His father’s room was the third on the left, facing the parking lot. At the moment, he had no roommate, one small thing for which Donovan could be grateful. One of the nurses gave him a nod of recognition. “He’s just finished his lunch,” she said. Rapping on the door, he shot Rylie one final warning glance. She looked tense, both hands clenched around the strap of her purse. “Da,” he called, and poked his head in the door. Dressed in blue and white striped pajamas and a beige robe, Dermot sat in the half-upholstered chair beside his bed. His eyes widened in surprise as Donovan stepped into the room, and he struggled to purse his lips. “Boy?” he questioned, using his abbreviated name for Donovan. However, since the right side of his lips didn’t
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coordinate well with the left, it came out more like “boh.” With his good left hand, he grappled to pull his tray table closer and reached for the spelling device he used to communicate. His right arm hung limply at his side as he manipulated the stylus on the device with his left. By the time Donovan reached him, the screen read, “Wrong?” “Yes,” Donovan confirmed. “I’m afraid something is wrong.” Before he finished speaking, the word “who?” flashed on the screen. “Don’t worry, it’s not Doreen.” “Nuh.” His father grunted and shook his unruly head of white hair at the same time. Then he pointed the plastic stylus at Rylie, who stood motionless beside the door. “She’s just a friend who drove me here.” Donovan positioned himself so that he blocked his father’s view of Rylie and vice versa. “Listen to me, Da. You remember the archeologists who were digging on the old place? Today, they found a dead body in the fens.” The old man’s eyes widened in horror and Donovan quickly added, “A man’s body, dead for at least twenty years.” Though the look in his eyes lessened, Dermot’s grip on the plastic stylus remained tight. The image of a hand plunging a knife into the man’s stomach flashed through Donovan’s mind. Donovan took a deep breath, “He was stabbed to death. There was a knife still sticking in his ribs, a kitchen knife.” He saw the knuckles on his father’s left hand whiten. “The PSNI are investigating, of course, and they want to talk to you.” “Nuh!” Dermot spat, the left side of his face twitching in agitation. He made a series of grunting and gurgling
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sounds while he punched at the communication board. “FECK PSNI” flashed on the screen. Dropping his voice low, Donovan urged, “Da, if you know anything about this, you’d better tell me or Doreen straight away. Seems to me that knife probably came from Mum’s kitchen, and the police are likely thinking the same.” Visibly more distressed by the moment, Dermot’s grunts grew louder and red splotches mottled his features. “DONT SPEAK UR MUM” flashed on the screen, followed by “U DONT NO.” Shaken with memories, Donovan felt his own face heating up. “Just because you never told me doesn’t mean I don’t know.” He bent down nose to nose with his father and uttered what he’d never dared before. “People whispered for years that she ran off with another man.” “Nuh!” Dermot cried, rearing backward in his chair, his mouth twitching with fury. “Eee-jit!” he finally managed to fling out, then another string of nonsense syllables. “Donovan!” He jerked around at the sound of his name, wiping his father’s spittle from the side of his face. He’d forgotten all about Rylie, who had witnessed the whole unpleasant scene. She took a step toward him, her gray eyes wide in her tense face. “Boh!” Dermot shouted at him, and took a swipe at his arm. “WHO?” demanded the screen, then “OUT.” Close enough to read the angry demands on the communication device, Rylie extended an unsteady hand toward the old man. “I’m Rylie, Jennifer’s daughter . . . ”
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“Ow!” Dermot shouted, a vein throbbing in his forehead. Before anyone could react, the door of the room flew open and a stout, middle-aged nurse bustled inside. “What’s all this then?” she demanded, her eyes raking over the three of them. She stepped between Donovan and Dermot and laid a firm hand on the old man’s left arm. “Calm yourself now, Dermot.” She cast a stern glance at Donovan. “Mr. O’Shea, I’ll not have you upsetting your father, so I must ask you to leave.” Dermot shook off the nurse’s hand and launched out a string of unintelligible sounds. His father’s verbal abuse was nothing new, and Donovan had more than a fair guess at what he was saying. Old anger thrummed inside him. “There’ll be a sight more than me here disturbing him,” he retorted, hands clenched tightly at his sides. “Not today, there won’t,” the nurse declared. “Now out with the pair of you.” “Please, ma’am,” Rylie’s voice squeaked like a small child’s. “May I have just a minute with Mr. O’Shea— Dermot O’Shea?” The nurse gave her a skeptical look. “Are you a relation?” Rylie drew in a deep breath and her chin jutted out in defiance. “I’m his daughter.” “Nuh!” shouted Dermot while the nurse’s eyes went round with surprise. “Nuh! Nuh! Nuh!” “Is this true, Mr. O’Shea?” the nurse gasped at Donovan, ignoring Dermot’s protests. “So she claims,” Donovan’s tone sounded harsh to his own ears. “Though I can’t imagine why.” His father
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never failed to push his buttons, make him lose his hard fought control, lash back. He couldn’t stop from adding, “But why don’t you ask him? He ought to know his own flesh and blood.” More half-comprehensible invectives came from Dermot. “That will be enough!” The nurse had evidently reached her own boiling point and shook her finger first at her patient, then his son. “Come back tomorrow, if you can behave better than a pair of snarling beasts.” She herded Donovan and Rylie to the door and bellowed, “Tommy! Put Mr. O’Shea back in bed whilst I get him a sedative.” Awash in guilt and self-loathing, Donovan stumbled down the hall and out to the car. Behind him, Rylie fumbled with the keys and dropped them on the ground. Instinctively, he bent to retrieve them, and so did she. As they both reached, he saw that her hand still trembled. Looking up, he saw her eyes brimming with tears, and felt even more despicable. “I’ll drive,” he said, pulling the keys from her grasp. She didn’t protest, just shuffled to the passenger door and got in. He slid into the driver’s seat. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. He was truly sorry he’d let her come along. Sorry she’d heard those ugly family secrets. Sorry she’d seen him provoked and losing control. But he wasn’t about to try and tell her any of that, so he just repeated, “Sorry.” Rather than going back the same way and having to backtrack through Dungannon, Donovan took the road
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east toward Portadown. Rylie didn’t question him. In fact, she hardly seemed to notice anything. The few glances he stole in her direction, she was wiping her eyes with a tissue, or staring mutely at nothing. He only hoped that once they reached Ballyneagh, she would be sufficiently recovered to drive herself back to her B&B. When he turned off the main road to head north, it started to rain. While Donovan mused on the uncanny parallels of weather and mood, the large intermittent drops increased to a downpour. Soon, he was forced to slow the car to a crawl over the pothole filled country lane. Then a loose flock of sheep forced him to stop altogether. As he fumbled with the windscreen defroster, Rylie spoke at last. “Why did you lie?” She was peering out the fogged window, not at him. “Dermot did kill that man, and you know because you have The Sight.” Donovan took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before he replied. “No, The Sight or whatever ’tis I have doesn’t work that way.” She turned and looked at him. Her eyes, red from crying, searched his face for answers. Reluctantly, Donovan continued, “I know the man was stabbed, but I don’t know who he was, or who killed him.” With a little nod of acknowledgment, she accepted his explanation, but she wasn’t finished questioning him, even though she glanced nervously away. Donovan beeped the car horn to urge the last of the sheep off the roadway. Clearing her throat, Rylie spoke again, “Do you think your mother left because she found out about my mother and me?”
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He paused for a heartbeat before he said, “No, because my father is not the same Dermot O’Shea as your father.” She moistened her lips, “Did The Sight tell you that?” “No, but I know it’s true nonetheless.” Then he cut off her protest by adding, “Just like I know my mother is dead. Somewhere in the fens.”
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Chapter 5 THE RAIN DECREASED TO A DRIZZLE BY THE TIME DONOVAN parked the car behind the pub. The remainder of the drive had passed in strained silence, and he was glad it was done. “I need to use the bathroom,” Rylie announced, as he handed her the keys. Together, they dashed the short distance from the car to the back door of the pub and went inside. While Rylie disappeared into the WC marked Ladies, Donovan’s growling stomach reminded him that they’d missed lunch and it was now tea time. He ducked into the pub’s kitchen and grabbed two thick wedges of potato farl from the tray inside the fridge. Gruff laughter from the main room told him that eating there would be far too public. Stacking both hunks on a single plate, he nuked it in the microwave for a minute before he slipped back out to the vestibule. Rylie stood at the foot of the stairs, her hair free from its ponytail and freshly combed. She’d put on some of that mauve lipstick, too. “You must be hungry,” he said, holding up the plate. “Come upstairs and I’ll fix us a cuppa.” The smooth skin around her gray eyes looked a bit puffy, but her wide mouth curved into a half-smile. “Thanks, that’d be great.” However, her voice sounded about as wrung out as he felt. She followed him up and into the kitchen, where
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Donovan placed the plate on the counter, put water in the electric kettle and plugged it in. “I’ll just go and wash up,” he said, shrugging off his jacket. “Turn on the telly if you’d like.” He hit the knob on the radiator as he headed into the loo. This day had been one ordeal after another. And unfortunately, it wasn’t over. Once his sister learned of his row with Dermot, she would be calling to give him a good tongue-lashing. Not that he didn’t deserve it, but he certainly didn’t relish the idea. After washing and drying his face and hands, he went back into the sitting room. Rylie’s purse and hooded sweatshirt lay on the floor beside her, while she lounged on the couch, chewing on a large bite of the potato bread. Two plates and forks sat on the coffee table. She swallowed hastily. “Sorry I didn’t wait, but I was starving.” “Not a problem.” Donovan hadn’t noticed before how the long-sleeved black T-shirt she wore clung to her slim torso and molded around her breasts. His sudden pang of hunger had nothing to do with his stomach. He hurried into the kitchen to brew the tea. By the time he came back, carrying a tray with two mugs, the teapot and some McVities Digestive cookies, he’d reined in his rebellious libido. Rylie, who had polished off her portion of farl, scooted over and patted the sofa cushion beside her. He set the tray down, then seated himself before he filled the mugs. “Here you are, tea straight up.” He reached for his own plate. “Do you take your coffee the same way?”
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“Actually, I like something called a Cappuccino Blaster from this little place down by Santa Monica pier called Jabba’s Java Hut.” Donovan chuckled. “How very Hollywood,” he said between bites. “So you live in Santa Monica. And what is it you do, acting?” She gave him a big eye roll while she chewed a McVitie, then took a gulp of tea before she replied. “I’m a dental assistant.” “Ah, that explains the lovely smile then.” Blushing a bit at his compliment, she finished off her cookie then picked up another. “That and three years of braces, followed by four of retainers. What about you? Where in the States do you live and what do you do?” “First, promise me you won’t laugh.” He shoved the remainder of his food into his mouth while she held up two fingers and murmured, “Scout’s honor.” After he swallowed, he took a sip of tea then admitted, “If you must know, I live in Cherry Hill, New Jersey, and I’m a CPA.” Rylie gave a half-snort and quickly covered her mouth. “You’re kidding, right?” she mumbled behind her fingers. “I’d never kid about something so serious.” Donovan crossed his arms and tried to look severe, but his mouth quirked in spite of his best effort. “No, seriously. My Aunt Fee’s husband, Uncle Isadore, founded one of the biggest accounting firms in Philly and I work for him. Cherry Hill is a nice little bedroom community just across the way in Jersey.” Trying hard to contain her mirth, Rylie snorted again.
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“Stop that. You promised.” “Sorry,” she giggled. “But if all the single women I know thought they could find such a hunky CPA with an adorable accent in New Jersey, there’d be a mass exodus from California.” Donovan took a turn at rolling his eyes. “Very funny. Now I know for certain you’re part Irish with that load of blarney you’re handing me.” Suddenly, her pretty face went serious. “I know you don’t want to believe me, but Dermot is my father. After my mother died, I hired an investigator to find him.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “Your investigator is wrong, Rylie, and so are you. You’re not Dermot’s daughter. You can’t be.” “Why not?” she demanded, clutching his sweater sleeve. “Because I don’t have this Sight thing like you?” “No, because—” His eyes dropped to her hand, now lying flat on his forearm. A jolt of heat seared through him and scrambled his brain. “Because . . . ” He hooked his unencumbered arm around her slim waist and pulled her against him. His lips sought her tempting mouth. Sucking in her breath, she stiffened for a moment and flattened both her palms on his chest. All he could think was how warm she felt. How soft her lips would be. Cradling the back of her head with his free hand, Donovan fitted his mouth over hers. With a long sigh, Rylie moved her hands around his neck and went boneless, her lips parting under his. Pulse pounding loud in his ears, he plunged his tongue into the warm, moist recesses of her mouth. A breathy little moan
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escaped her as her tongue met his, then flicked inside his mouth, hot and sweet. Even through the layers of clothing, the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest sent desire flashing straight into his groin. His fingers encountered bare flesh beneath the hem of her top, and he shoved his hand under her shirt to caress the silky skin of her back. She jerked at the sensual contact, and broke the kiss. “Oh God!” she panted. “Donovan, oh my God!” While Donovan sat momentarily stunned, she flung herself away and leapt to her feet. Snatching up her purse, she darted to the door. He scrambled to stand, banged his shin on the coffee table, and muttered a curse under his breath. “Rylie, wait!” he blurted, but she was already out the door, her shoes clattering on the stairs. “Rylie!” he shouted again, and pounded down after her. But by the time he reached the bottom, she was outside. And when he jerked open the back door, she’d already started her car. Swearing, Donovan smacked his palm on the door frame, then turned and trudged back up the stairs, leaving the back door open. Inside the apartment, Rylie’s red hooded sweatshirt lay in the middle of the sitting room floor. He picked it up. The material still felt damp from the rain and carried a trace of the sweet flowery scent from her hair. Could he have possibly screwed this up any worse? He doubted it. Donovan laid the sweatshirt over the arm of the couch then sank down on the saggy cushion. Resting his head in his hands, he tried to think.
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Several long minutes later, when all his mind kept replaying was the taste and feel of Rylie Powell, his mobile rang. He knew even before he glanced at the number on the screen—his sister, Doreen. Time to take his lumps and do his penance. With a sigh of regret, he answered.
Holy freaking hell! The words screamed inside Rylie’s skull as she careened onto the main roadway, car tires squealing on the wet pavement. She’d kissed her brother! With tongue! Her brother! Except Donovan O’Shea didn’t feel like her brother in any way, shape, or form. And even now, that nasty, dark corner of her mind was shouting for more. What was wrong with her? An oncoming car laid on its horn and she jerked the wheel as she realized she was driving on the wrong side of the road. “Knock it off, Rylie!” she ordered herself aloud. “Get a grip!” Taking several deep breaths, she willed her hands to stop shaking, and she eased up on the accelerator. She needed to wipe every other thought from her mind until she got safely back to her B&B in Dungannon. It didn’t work that way, of course. When she finally dashed inside Cavanagh House, she was still too upset to return the greetings of the manager and two other guests having tea in the parlor. Later, Rylie lay stretched across her bed with her pictures in front of her but not really seeing them when the manager, Mary Cooke knocked on her door.
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“Miss Powell, someone’s calling for you,” the kindly middle-aged woman said through the door. “Sounds like a Yank, but he says his name’s O’Shea.” Panic gripped her. She couldn’t talk to him. Not now. “T-tell him . . . ” she choked back a sob. “Tell him I’m in the tub and can’t talk.” “All right, dear. If that’s what you want.” Rylie listened to the sound of shoes tapping away while she squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the hot prickling tears. What she wanted? How about curl up and die of humiliation? But since that wasn’t going to happen, what she really wanted was to go home. Forget everything that had happened since she’d arrived in Ireland. But that wasn’t going to happen either. She heard the footsteps coming back down the hall and a moment later Mrs. Cooke rapped on her door again. “Miss Powell, he insisted on leaving his number.” Several long seconds ticked by and when Rylie didn’t answer, the woman sighed. “All right then, I’ll just slide it under the door. He asked for you to call him so that he could apologize. He didn’t say for what.” After several more long moments, the woman sighed again and her footsteps receded. The last thing Rylie intended to do was talk to Donovan O’Shea, though she wasn’t going to say that to nosy Mrs. Cooke. Whatever the B&B manager could imagine would pale in comparison to the truth anyway. Still feeling sick and disgusted with herself, she put her pictures and birth certificate away, and studiously avoided looking at the piece of paper lying by the door.
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Instead, she went over to the window and watched the rain drizzle down onto the hedge-lined garden, the pretty little picture of Ireland concocted for tourists. Too bad it wasn’t genuine. In the real Ireland, men left their families and started new ones. Then they left those and went back to the originals. Mothers disappeared and twenty years later, their kitchen knives showed up stuck in long dead corpses. And pub owners who didn’t drink had The Sight, but couldn’t tell you one damn thing of any use. An hour later, Rylie stopped staring into the darkness. She’d made up her mind. The only way to know for sure whether Dermot O’Shea was or was not her biological father was a DNA test. First thing tomorrow morning, she would go back to the facility, talk to the charge nurse, and convince Dermot O’Shea to provide her with the truth. And if he really wasn’t her father, as Donovan insisted, then what? Her disastrous affair with her boss Joel Davis had left her heart and ego so badly battered that in the eight months since she ended it, she’d gone out exactly once. Joel’s betrayal coupled with the grief of losing her mother had left her dazed and numb. Her sudden, unexpected attraction to Donovan had been confusing enough without the added incest factor. She didn’t have the strength to deal with any of it. Rummaging in her cosmetic bag, Rylie found the sleeping tablets the doctor had prescribed for her the week after her mother’s death. She’d brought the halfdozen remaining pills in case she had problems with jet lag. Gulping down two, she put on her pajamas, set her travel alarm for 6 a.m., and crawled into bed.
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A full night’s sleep and a hearty Irish breakfast gave Rylie the strength and purpose she needed to face the man she believed to be her father. At five minutes after eight, she parked her car in the lot of Holy Family Board and Care, got out in the persistent drizzly rain, and hurried inside. The same nurse who’d threatened to bodily toss Donovan and her out was once again in charge. Rylie introduced herself and asked to speak with her privately. Mrs. Kathleen Garvey, as the woman introduced herself, led Rylie to a private office behind the nurses’ station and asked her to wait until they’d finished serving the residents breakfast. Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Garvey reappeared and Rylie told her everything, showed her the photos, her birth certificate, even the gold ring. By the time she finished, a deep furrow creased the skin between the nurse’s pale auburn brows. “’Tis quite a compelling tale, Miss Powell,” she said, steepling her fingers. “And surely as wild as any I’ve heard.” Rylie’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Then you don’t believe me either?” “On the contrary,” the nurse replied. “I do. If you were lyin,’ you’d have picked a far easier mark than Dermot O’Shea. And certainly one with more money.” “Then you’ll let me talk to him?” Sudden hope pumped through Rylie’s veins. Mrs. Garvey gave a resigned sigh. “Yes, but only briefly and I’ll stay in the room. His daughter will be right vexed when she finds out. And as for the son . . . but then, you already know what he’s like.” She shook
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her head and muttered, “Oil and water,” under her breath. Steps light with anticipation, Rylie followed the nurse down the hall. Brown envelope clutched tight in her right hand, she nearly bumped into Mrs. Garvey when the nurse halted and rapped on Dermot O’Shea’s door. “Dermot, ye’ve a visitor,” she called, then after two seconds, she thrust open the door. Dermot O’Shea pinned Rylie with an annoyed stare as soon as she stepped over the threshold. With his bed cranked into a sitting position, he wore the same blue pajamas as yesterday. His pure white hair drooped across one eye and stuck out at odd angles in back. White stubble bristled on his jaw. “Boh?” he grunted and craned his head to see if there was anyone behind her. “No,” the nurse replied. She placed his breakfast tray on top of the nightstand, and pushed the rolling table back within his reach. “But Miss Rylie Powell has come all the way from America to see you.” “Nuh,” Dermot growled like a petulant child and pointed at the door. “Hear her out, Dermot,” Mrs. Garvey scolded, motioning Rylie forward. “’Tis the least you can do.” The scowl on the mobile half of his face reminded Rylie of the expression Donovan had worn yesterday morning when he first saw her. Like father, like son. The nurse plunked the plastic communication device on the tabletop in front of Dermot, gave her a nod, then stepped back. Setting her purse on the floor, Rylie poked
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inside the brown envelope, pulled out the picture of her mother and laid it on Dermot’s tray. “Do you recognize her? That’s my mother, Jennifer Laski.” She took a deep breath then added, “She died of cancer six months ago.” Dermot shook his shaggy head, then reached for the stylus attached to his communication device. “Sorry” flashed across the screen, followed by, “Pretty. Like you.” Breaking eye contact, Rylie pulled out the other photos and placed the one of her as a toddler with her mother in front of him. “Maybe you recognize her here? Twenty-seven years ago, when she was a student at NYU, she married an Irishman, and a year later they had me.” She laid out the photos of her with her father. “I have no memory of my father, and my mother seldom spoke of him. But my birth certificate lists his name as Dermot O’Shea.” “Nuh,” Dermot insisted and tapped out “Not me” on his communication device. She smoothed the copy of her birth certificate on top of the photos and stared unflinchingly into his pale eyes. “Your son told me you spent a lot of time in Liverpool thirty or so years ago. My mother said my father came from Liverpool, and before that Belfast.” The muscles in Dermot’s jaw clenched. He stabbed the stylus at the words “Not me” still on the screen. Then he tapped out, “I luvd Moira.” Donovan’s mother. Tears blurred Rylie’s vision and she squeezed her eyes shut to keep them from spilling out. After taking a couple of deep steadying breaths, she finally dared to open her eyes and speak again.
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“So if you’re not my father, then you won’t mind taking a DNA test.” She did not make it a question. Dermot gave an unintelligible grunt and another of his half-scowls. For the briefest moment, Rylie thought she saw something flare in the depths of his pale blue eyes. “’Tis a very simple test,” the nurse interceded, patting Dermot’s shoulder. “Just a cotton swab inside your mouth. Doesn’t hurt a bit.” The old man’s gaze moved from Rylie to the nurse and back again. He shoved Rylie’s photos and birth certificate toward her, then tapped out, “Yes.” Giving a nod of approval, Mrs. Garvey patted his shoulder again, “There now, that’s more like it.” Rylie swept her things back into the envelope, careful not to touch Dermot’s gnarled fingers. Instead of feeling triumphant, she felt oddly deflated. “You can pick up a test kit at the hospital,” Mrs. Garvey informed her. “’Tis only three blocks away. I’ll call the lab so’s they can have one ready for you, shall I?” “I’d really appreciate it.” Without looking at Dermot again, Rylie turned and walked with the nurse out into the hall. “Tommy!” the woman bellowed down the corridor. “Help Mr. O’Shea with his bath and change his clothes.” Then she turned to Rylie. “I’ll make that call straight away. Can you find the hospital? The lab’s on the bottom floor at the back.” Nodding, Rylie shuffled out the front door, through the still drizzling rain to her car.
ttt
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The wiper blades on the Morris left more water on the windscreen than they removed. Donovan squinted through the smears as he turned into the parking lot of Holy Family. Just as he suspected, Rylie’s dark blue rental car occupied the same spot as yesterday. Cursing under his breath, he pulled into the empty space next to it. He should have driven straight here and not bothered to stop at her B&B first. But when the manager told him Rylie had left early, he’d known exactly where she went. Heaven knew how long she’d been here and what she’d been doing. This was his punishment for forgetting to set his alarm. After a restless night, he’d finally fallen asleep sometime after one and woke up just before eight. Still muttering curses, he slammed the car door and strode toward the entrance. Inside his jacket pocket, his mobile rang for the third time this morning, and for the third time, he ignored it. Doreen, or whoever was calling, could just wait awhile longer. He shoved through the door, and seeing no one at the front nurses’ station, didn’t slow his pace until he reached his father’s room. Without stopping to knock, he thrust open the door. His father sat in the chair, the nurse on one side of him, and Rylie on the other. “Precisely what do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. Rylie met his gaze then turned and wouldn’t look at him, while the nurse gave him a haughty glare. “Morning, Mr. O’Shea. Your father consented to give a DNA sample for Miss Powell.” She secured the cotton swab she held inside a plastic container and handed it to Rylie. “There ya go, m’dear.”
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Shoving the container into her purse, Rylie finally looked at him again. Her flinty eyes sparked with challenge. Donovan chose to ignore her for the moment and addressed his father instead. “Is this true, Da?” Dermot gave what passed for a nod and a grunt of approval. “Has anyone else been in to see you this morning?” “Nuh,” his father answered. “But the physical therapist is due any minute,” the nurse chimed in at the same time. “He’s working with Mrs. O’Halloran right now. So I’m afraid you can’t stay long.” Donovan gave the nurse an equally frosty glower, then addressed his father in a low, tightly controlled tone. “Remember what I said yesterday about the PSNI, Da. They will find out the truth of it.” “Nuh,” Dermot repeated, then gurgled a half-intelligible obscenity. Donovan could feel his control starting to slip. “Fine, have it your way then.” Before he finished speaking, the old man’s pale eyes moved from him to Rylie and back again. “Boh?” Dermot grunted, glancing sidelong at Rylie once more. A rap on the door prevented Donovan from questioning his father further. The physical therapist stuck his head inside. “Time for your session, Mr. O’Shea.” “Out with the pair of you.” The nurse shooed Rylie and him in front of her as if they were wayward lambs.
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Donovan didn’t bid his father good-bye and he noticed Rylie didn’t either. When they reached the entrance, the nurse bustled off to her office. He positioned himself between Rylie and the front door, blocking her exit. “Why didn’t you call me back last night?” His tone sounded a bit sharper than he’d intended. Her eyes jerked up and confronted him. “I didn’t want to talk to you.” He took a deep breath and unclenched his hands. “Well, I wanted to apologize to you. I lost my head, and I’m very sorry I upset you.” She looked away, dark lashes sweeping down. His fingers twitched, and he battled an unreasoning urge to reach for her. “Are you angry at me for . . . ” She glanced at her purse. “Coming here and . . . you know.” Still trying to control his unruly libido, Donovan shook his head. “Of course not, though I am surprised Dermot agreed.” “Me too,” she said in a distinctly disappointed voice. “They told me at the hospital lab that it could take two or three weeks to get the results.” “And you have to go home before then,” he finished for her. She nodded, shoulders drooping in defeat. Her dejection and vulnerability sent a wave of empathy washing over him. Not knowing your own parentage must be bloody awful. Was that what made him want to comfort Rylie Powell? Put the sparkle back in her eyes?
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Before he could curse himself for a fool, a sudden inspiration struck. “Didn’t Professor McRory say his wife specialized in DNA? Maybe she could do the test more quickly.” Rylie’s head snapped up, and hope colored her cheeks. “Do you think we can talk her into it?” Another recollection made Donovan snort. “I think you’d have no trouble talking the professor into anything.” “Like I would,” Rylie said with an enormous roll of her eyes. “Besides, that won’t score any points with his wife.” “You’re right, I’m afraid.” Seeing her disdain for McRory gave his ego a healthy boost. “So I guess it’s up to me then.” He pulled out his mobile, which showed three voicemail messages. Ignoring them, he found McRory’s number and punched it in, then walked over to a quiet corner of the entrance so that his conversation couldn’t be overheard. Though she shifted her feet in anticipation, Rylie hung back a discrete distance. McRory answered on the second ring, and after exchanging greetings, Donovan came directly to the point. “I need to ask a favor.” When it came down to sharing the details with the professor, Donovan experienced a momentary stab of regret over his hasty decision. Something in him didn’t like McRory, and not just because he was cheating on his wife. But there was no help for it now. Taking a deep breath, he laid out the essentials as briefly as possible. “’Twould be bloody bad luck if the lovely lass turned out to be your sister,” McRory mused with an undertone
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that set Donovan’s teeth on edge. “I can see how you’d want to clear that up soon as you could.” Biting back a pithy retort, Donovan asked, “Since your wife is an expert on DNA, would she be willing to run the tests?” “I expect she would, especially if you and your father were willing to be part of her study. She’s doing extensive research that tracks DNA on the male chromosome.” McRory gave a lecherous chuckle. “She tries to recruit every man she meets. Fortunately, ’tis only a swab of the cheek that she needs.” A true case of the pot and the kettle. “Could we bring the samples to her today?” Donovan asked instead. “That’d be grand. I’ll be working on reports all day and the break will be welcome. Can you get here by tea time?” At Donovan’s affirmative, they settled on a meeting time and place. McRory gave him directions and assured him that his wife would run the tests. Just as Donovan was about to ring off, McRory asked, “Did Inspector Lynch get hold of you yet? Seems they’ve already identified the body from his remaining finger prints.” “Not yet.” One of those missed calls was undoubtedly the inspector. “So the man must have been in one of their databases. Was he some sort of criminal?” “Indeed, a most nasty sort,” the professor replied, sounding a bit smug. “A member of the old IRA splinter group the Provos. Lynch said his name was Malachy Flynn.”
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“Never heard of him or the Provos.” Both mercifully true. But McRory wasn’t quite ready to let it go. “Apparently during the heyday of The Troubles, the Provos were quite active in County Armagh, with a lot of local supporters. Lynch seems to think your father might have been one of them.” “My father was never in the IRA,” Donovan quickly denied. “Well, ’twas all a very long time ago, wasn’t it?” McRory said a bit too smoothly. “See you and the lovely Rylie at four.” And he rang off.
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Chapter 6 BY THE TIME DONOVAN LIMPED UP IN THE MORRIS, RYLIE’S rented car sat at the curb in front of the Ballyneagh pub. He turned beside the bakery and parked around back. Inside the pub, Rylie sat in the snug closest to the window, waiting for him. “Here’s our boyo now!” Gerry Partlan announced to the half-dozen patrons, who all craned their necks in Donovan’s direction. “A spot to eat for you and the pretty wan?” The smell of lentil soup wafting in from the kitchen reminded Donovan that he’d skipped breakfast. Reining in his annoyance he answered, “Fine, Gerry. Thanks.” While the publican scurried into the kitchen, Donovan ducked behind the bar and pulled two bottles of mineral water from the fridge under the counter. He could feel every eye in the place watch his progress as he crossed the floor to join Rylie. Dressed in a purple v-neck sweater and khaki trousers, she sipped from a glass of soda. Back at Holy Family, he hadn’t noticed what she wore, or that several strands of her hair loosely framed her face. His pulse stuttered when she looked up at him. He plunked the bottles of water in the center of the table and slid onto the padded bench across from her. “I thought we should have lunch before we go to Queen’s.”
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“Good idea,” she said, then watched Gerry Partlan wend his way toward them with two bowls of soup, a heap of champ, and soda bread arranged on a tray. The portly bartender set the food down with a flourish, his eyes flicking between them with a speculative gleam. “And what else might the two of you be needin’?” “Nothing else, thanks,” Donovan replied. When Gerry showed no signs of leaving, he added, “But Mrs. Cassidy and Mrs. Sheridan appear to need your assistance.” Taking the hint, Partlan ambled off. Rylie’s stiff posture visibly relaxed. They ate in silence, not looking at one another until their hands knocked together when they both reached for the last piece of bread. “I’ll just split it.” Donovan tore the bread into two roughly equal if ragged hunks. Rylie murmured her thanks, smeared on some butter and quickly finished her potatoes. Momentarily mesmerized by the movement of her alluring mouth, Donovan realized he was staring and gave himself a mental slap. He polished off his own bread in two large bites then gulped down the last of his water. “All set then?” Rylie nodded and he rose and held her bright yellow rain jacket for her. “I have your sweatshirt in the Morris.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, remembering why she’d left it behind. “Shall I go get it?” She shook her head. Her tightly pressed lips told him she was thinking the same thing. “Later,” she murmured, and handed him the keys to her car.
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They reached the front door the same time as Ballyneagh’s two chief matrons. Donovan held the door for Mrs. Cassidy and Mrs. Sheridan. “Going sightseeing, then?” Mrs. Sheridan asked, giving first Rylie and then him a measuring glance. Mustering up his most charming smile, Donovan nodded. “Belfast.” “A pity it’s still raining,” said Mrs. Cassidy, also eyeing both of them. “But you’ll have a splendid time to be sure.” “Splendid,” Donovan repeated with a tad too much enthusiasm. Mrs. Cassidy raised one eyebrow before she and her friend turned and walked toward the grocer’s. As Donovan held the car door for Rylie, he saw the two women pause in front of the barbershop, heads together, twittering. Yet another thing he hated about small town Irish life. Everyone within a ten-kilometer radius would be discussing his and Rylie’s excursion to Belfast by supper. He slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the car door. “Splendid,” Rylie cooed in a perfect echo of him. They both laughed. In spite of the persistent rain, the drive to Belfast passed pleasantly. To Rylie’s relief, Donovan appeared to be unperturbed by her visit to Dermot and the DNA test. He never brought it up, so neither did she. Instead they stayed on neutral, congenial topics. He talked about the culture shock he’d experienced when he first moved to America. Then he did a sidesplitting rendition of his Uncle Izzy’s Jersey accent and contrasted it to Gerry Partlan’s leprechaun brogue.
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When she finally stopped laughing, Rylie took her turn at doing her best gum snapping, Valley girl imitations of her old classmates. Then she entertained him with some gross dentistry stories, and he admitted that being a CPA paled in comparison. By the time the tall brick and stone buildings of Belfast appeared on the horizon, they felt like old friends. At least on the surface. Rylie hadn’t ventured closer than the Belfast airport when she’d arrived, and the city proved to be a noisy maze of winding streets, congested traffic, and Old World architecture. Within a few minutes of entering the city proper, Rylie felt thankful Donovan was driving. No way could she have negotiated her way through the mess. In the rain. And on the wrong side of the road to boot! She readily expressed her gratitude. Donovan flashed one of his dazzling smiles. “I’ll let you reward me with a small libation.” Before she could protest that he didn’t drink, he made an abrupt left turn that robbed her of breath. Then he whipped the car down a narrow side street and nosed it into a parking space. She grabbed her purse and hurried after him. He stood on the corner, pointing across the street. “There it is!” He cried. “Nectar of the gods.” She stared at a familiar green awning. Starbucks. Amid much kidding and laughter, she ordered herself a cappuccino and him the largest cup of dark roast they sold. “Yanks,” muttered the multi-tattooed barista as he gave Rylie her change.
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“Ulster forever, Connacht never,” Donovan retorted in what sounded like only a half-joking tone. When they reached the car, he explained, “Two of the five kingdoms of Ancient Ireland. Deadly enemies.” Rylie decided not to ask how he knew the barista was from Connacht. She’d just finished her cappuccino when they arrived at Queen’s University. Donovan drove around the stately red brick buildings for ten minutes until he found a parking spot. “At least the rain has stopped,” he observed, as they got out of the car and hiked across the wet grass. As they had prearranged, Professor McRory waited for them in the lobby of the building they entered. He clapped Donovan on the back and kissed her on both cheeks in greeting, a gesture she had no intention of returning. The moment she’d realized that McRory was married and also messing around with Sybil Gallagher, all Rylie could see was his smarmy nature. “My wife’s lab is on the second story,” he said, motioning toward the staircase. “She’s expecting us.” With McRory leading the way, Rylie stuck close behind Donovan. If her probable half-brother noticed, he gave no indication. He took a couple more gulps of his coffee, and set the over-sized paper cup on the edge of the ash can next to the door at the top of the stairs. “Hard to believe the two of you are related,” McRory said. “We’re not,” Donovan answered in a tone that dared anyone to disagree. Of course, Rylie couldn’t help but rise to the challenge. “Guess we’ll find out.”
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McRory looked far too pleased at her sassy response as he rapped on a glass-paned door. “Indeed we shall.” He opened the door and called out, “Here we are, darlin’.” Then gestured Rylie and Donovan inside. Dressed in a white lab coat, a tall woman with a single red braid down her back turned to greet them. “I’m Dr. Brenna Murphy McRory.” Laugh lines webbed the corners of her golden brown eyes when she smiled and extended a latex-gloved hand. “Oh, sorry.” She snapped off the glove and offered her hand again. “You must be Rylie and Donovan O’Shea.” “Rylie Powell,” Rylie corrected, shaking her hand. “At least until we find out differently,” McRory interjected. Donovan shot the professor a withering glare, then stuck out his own hand. “Charmed to meet you, Dr. Murphy McRory.” His voice was chilly in its formality. “Brenna, please,” insisted McRory’s wife. She looked five or six years older than her husband, which would put her in her early forties. Roughly twice Sybil Gallagher’s age. Time for a new model? Rylie bit her lower lip to keep from sneering at McRory. “Charmed, Brenna.” Donovan repeated, his tone still bordering on glacial. “I really appreciate you doing this,” Rylie jumped in to avoid an awkward silence. “It’s just that I’m only here for ten more days, and I’d really like to know . . . ” She could feel Donovan’s disapproving gaze and her voice trailed away. Brenna McRory’s golden eyes flicked between Donovan and her. “Yes, Aongus explained your—
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situation.” She cleared her throat. “In spite of what you see on American telly, paternity tests aren’t a simple matter of yes or no. A series of genetic markers must be identified and compared.” Rylie could feel her hopes plummeting as Brenna McRory spoke. “How long does that take?” “Oh, only a day or two,” the older woman reassured. “I’ve all my equipment set up and I was preparing a batch of specimens for my own research project. I’ve isolated a specific genetic marker and tied it back to the Irish High King, Niall of the Nine Hostages.” “He was the original forefather of the O’Neill clan,” the professor interrupted his wife. “And quite a prolific old carouser.” He cast a sly glance at Donovan. “I’d say our Donovan would be a good subject to include in your study, Brenna. With his dark hair and blue eyes, he appears to be the only true Celt amongst us. I don’t have the marker myself.” He brushed at his sandy brown hair and added, “Too much Viking blood.” “I don’t mind being part of your study,” Rylie quickly volunteered. “Even though I know I’m half Polish.” “A most kind offer,” said McRory’s wife. “But I’m afraid this marker is gender specific, found only on the male chromosome.” “I’ll be happy to volunteer.” Donovan’s crossed arms and stiff stance belied his words, but he added, “And since you’ll already be testing my father’s DNA, you might as well include him in your data.” Brenna smiled beatifically. “I’m most appreciative. The more data I collect, the more indisputable my findings.” She pulled on a fresh latex glove and extracted a
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sterile swab from its blister pack. “I just need to swipe the inside of your cheek.” Uncrossing his arms, Donovan leaned down and opened his mouth. As Dr. McRory stuck the swab inside, Rylie experienced an uncomfortable flash from last night, of the feel of Donovan’s tongue, the warm smoothness inside his mouth. Hot blood rising in her face, she turned quickly away and pretended to study the equipment in the lab. The only thing she recognized was a centrifuge. An unexpected tap on her arm startled her. “If you’ll be so kind as to give me the other samples,” Brenna said, an astute gleam in her whiskey-colored eyes. “I shall have all of them prepped in a few minutes. Then we can go to tea.” Feeling foolish, Rylie pulled the plastic bag from her purse and handed it to the other woman. At the same time, Donovan’s cell phone rang. Flipping it open, he frowned. “Sorry, I need to take this,” he apologized, and slipped out the door into the hallway. Rylie fought the urge to follow him. With Donovan out of the room and Brenna engrossed in her DNA samples, she was left alone, facing the professor. His toothy grin looked lecherous. “So tell me about Niall of the Nine Hostages,” she said, seeking a diversion. “Ah, yes, Niall Noigíallach,” the professor pronounced the name with ease. “That’s what he’s called in the mother tongue. He was High King around the middle of the fifth century. Legend says he kept the peace by taking high-born hostages from each of the five king-
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doms of Ireland as well as the Scots, Saxons, Britons, and French.” Obviously enjoying his subject, McRory droned on about Niall’s prowess in battle and the disputed location of his death. Leaning against the nearest counter, Rylie pretended to listen, but her eyes kept flicking to the door in hopes that Donovan would reappear. “Brenna’s studies indicate that as many as fifteen to twenty per cent of all the men in Ireland carry the Niall marker,” the professor continued. “That many descendants puts him second only to Genghis Khan in proliferation.” That explained why McRory admired the guy. Rylie’s sardonic thoughts were interrupted by Donovan’s return. He walked up, scowl firmly in place. At the sight of him, Rylie’s stomach did a funny little flip that felt anything but sisterly. She would soon know for sure. McRory’s eyes narrowed in speculation. “Inspector Lynch?” “My sister,” Donovan replied shortly. “Ready to go?” To Rylie’s relief, he stepped between her and the professor. “I thought we’d take Rylie to tea at the Crown Liquor Saloon,” McRory cut in smoothly before she could answer. “’Tis quite something to see. Brenna will be finished directly and we can all go in the same car.” “I know where it is,” Donovan countered. “We’ll meet you there.” For a brief second, a shadow passed over the professor’s smiling countenance, but he quickly said, “Grand.” Then he called over his shoulder, “Brenna, darlin’, are you ready? We’re all going to the Crown.”
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“Another minute,” she called back. “Meet you at the bar,” Donovan said, and headed for the door. Thankful for the rescue, Rylie broke into a jog to keep up with him. They reached the bottom of the stairs before she finally got a chance to speak. “Was your sister calling about this DNA thing?” Donovan gave a sketchy nod, which didn’t seem like a good sign. “Was she mad—upset, I mean?” “She wasn’t happy, but I expect she’ll get over it.” He held the door and they walked outside. Even though it was still afternoon, the light was fading rapidly. In place of the rain, a heavy mist hung low, and the grounds of the University resembled an old atmospheric movie set. She battled the urge to call her brooding companion Heathcliff. Instead, when they were in the car she asked, “Will I be able to meet your sister?” He pulled the car out of its parking space and onto the road. Still not looking at her, he answered, “I don’t see any reason for you to.” Rylie opened her mouth to make a terse retort, then thought better of it. Tossing her head, she stared out the side window and muttered, “Whatever.” Rylie sulked from the University all the way down the Golden Mile to the Crown. Donovan wanted to tell her it was not an attractive look, but in truth, the way her lips pursed into a pouty frown was actually quite appealing. And the fact that he found it so annoyed him no end. Though his annoyance at himself was nothing compared
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to the slow but deadly burn fueled by every leer McRory cast Rylie’s way. He would be hard-pressed to make it through the evening without boxing the salacious grin off the professor’s face. He circled round for fifteen minutes before he finally found a place to park the car. Rylie’s foul mood disintegrated when they reached the Crown. Donovan had to admit that the glittering tiled exterior was impressive, and the scrolled ceiling and patterned floor inside were even more so. He hadn’t been to the Crown since he was a teenager. Then, he’d been keen on studying art, and the massive Victorian decorations had left him in awe. Now, Rylie seemed to share his youthful enthusiasm, for she kept turning this way and that in an effort to take in everything. Unfortunately, the place was so crowded that she collided with a pair of old geezers on their way back from the bar. For her own protection, he slid his arm loosely around her waist to guide her. So if this was strictly to steer her safely in the right direction, why did sexual attraction zip through him? She didn’t seem to notice, so he kept his arm in place until they reached the long tiled bar. He’d ordered a pot of tea and scones when he spotted McRory and his wife coming through the front door. Gritting his teeth, he waved them over. “What a crush,” complained Brenna. “I’m so sorry Rylie, but I don’t see an empty snug in the place. Perhaps we should have a quick cuppa then go elsewhere for an early supper.” “Grand idea,” seconded McRory. “We can go to Callahan’s just round the corner. They have traditional music and dancing.”
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Rylie nodded in agreement though Donovan thought she looked more dazed than pleased. They sat at the bar, the two women in the middle, with him and McRory on opposite ends, an arrangement that suited Donovan. The noise level in the Crown was roughly the same as a busy railway station, so attempts at conversation were limited to shouts, which suited him as well. After finishing most of their tea and scones, Rylie and Brenna headed off to the ladies’ room. McRory hung across their empty seats and watched them thread their way through the crowd. “Quite a little beauty, she is,” McRory said, gesturing at Rylie’s retreating figure. “Like a Sidhe princess, not much bigger than a child but with looks to drive a man to distraction.” He gave a wicked chuckle. “I’d not object to that one leaving a fairy mark on me.” Donovan was hard-pressed not to say something about her having to take a number and queue up. Instead, he just glared. When he didn’t answer, McRory signaled the barkeep for a Guinness. Once the ladies returned, they left within ten minutes. Outside, along with the dark, the mist had descended and dangled in wet silvery streamers around the buildings. The professor broke into a lecture about the Victorian architecture and recent history of the city, pointing out examples to accompany his spiel. In spite of McRory’s efforts to engage her, Rylie hung back and kept pace with Donovan. Some primitive part of him basked in the triumph, while the more rational part of his brain wondered how this had become a competition. The walk around the block felt as if it took
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forever, but eventually they reached the lighted sign for Callahan’s mounted over a set of stairs. Divided into two large rooms, the pub spread over the basement of a small hotel. One room was for drinking and dining and the other had a dance floor and a small corner stage for entertainment. Since it was early and the music hadn’t started, they settled into a snug on the restaurant half, McRory and his wife on one side of the table, and Donovan and Rylie on the other. Tamping down his primeval urges, Donovan made it a point to be genial. The four of them chatted easily over their meal, with Brenna relating how she’d become interested in genetics and her current project. “And what about you, Rylie?” Brenna asked. “You said you were half Polish. Did your mother emigrate from Poland then?” “No, my grandparents did.” Rylie answered. McRory drained his pint and clanked his glass down on the table. “Now Rylie girl, I’m thinking since ’tis almost Samhain that in truth you’re one of the Sidhe come to take us all back to your fairy mound.” “Aren’t you the fanciful one tonight, Aongus,” Brenna observed. “And after only two pints.” Fanciful was not Donovan’s interpretation at all. From the other room, lively notes from a fiddle and tin whistle filled the air. “Ah, the craic is starting,” McRory exclaimed, and at Rylie’s puzzled look added, “That means a good time, darlin’. Let’s go stake out a place in the other room, Donovan, whilst the ladies finish.” He slid off the bench and rose to his feet. Reluctantly, Donovan followed, feeling as if the competition to win
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Rylie was about to erupt again. They claimed a U-shaped snug in a corner, and when Rylie and Brenna arrived, Donovan got up to let them sit in the center, Brenna beside her husband and Rylie next to him. Point, O’Shea. The musicians played individually and as a group. Besides the fiddler, the fellow with the tin whistle also played a wooden Irish flute and the third member played the uillean pipes, an instrument Donovan hadn’t heard in almost twenty years. McRory, the self-proclaimed expert on everything, explained to Rylie how the piper worked them by pressing a device like a bellows with his elbow. Everyone in the room seemed infected with the lively tempo of the songs. Next to Donovan, Rylie sipped a glass of white wine, her head swaying with the beat. Donovan even found his foot tapping. By the time McRory finished his fourth pint of the evening, he and Brenna got up to dance. They really were a handsome couple. Almost equal in height, they moved easily together through the intricate steps of a spirited jig. Donovan couldn’t help but wonder what McRory saw in mousy Sybil Gallagher. Though he didn’t like it, he could understand why the professor would flirt with Rylie. But to his mind, there was no comparison between Brenna and Sybil. McRory was obviously one of those men who felt the need to possess every woman he met. Probably his self-proclaimed Viking heritage. Donovan took a drink of his carbonated cider to wash down the sour taste that thought created. The couple returned, and Brenna slid into the booth, panting and laughing. Much to Donovan’s chagrin,
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McRory grabbed Rylie’s hand. “On your feet, my wee Sidhe princess and dance with me.” A panicky look flashed across Rylie’s face. “No, please, I . . . I don’t know how to do all those complicated moves.” “Not to worry,” the professor insisted. “I’ll just have a word with the fellas and get them to play a slow song.” Major advantage, McRory. While an ever-increasing burn moved through Donovan’s diaphragm, McRory approached the musicians. Rylie cast a pleading glance at Brenna, who was fanning herself with a napkin. “’Tis all right, give it a go,” the other woman encouraged. McRory strolled back, as a long mournful note sounded from the pipes. He held out his hand. “C’mon, darlin’, what do you say?” Fighting the rising tide of jealousy that he shouldn’t be feeling, Donovan stood to let Rylie out of the booth. For a fleeting instant, he thought he saw the shadow of a fierce Norse warrior settle over the other man’s countenance. He squeezed his eyes shut, and then, much to his surprise, Rylie clasped his hand instead of McRory’s. “I’d rather dance with my brother,” she said pointedly, and towed Donovan toward the middle of the dance floor. Stunned, he let her lead him. From the corner of his eye, he saw McRory standing slack-jawed, the disturbing shadow gone. The fiddle took up the melody of the stirring ballad, and he placed one hand loosely on Rylie’s waist. However, she stepped close enough so that their bodies brushed together, and then she reached up to loop both
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her hands around his neck. The intimate contact shot a bolt of desire straight to his groin. “I swear, if he touches me, I’ll barf,” Rylie murmured as they began swaying with the music. Donovan put his other hand around her waist, then lifted his chin so that her head rested under it. “If he touches you, I’ll break both his arms,” he whispered into her hair. She didn’t reply, just snuggled closer and continued to sway in time with the music. There was no way on God’s green earth she could miss the massive erection growing behind his zipper. Brother indeed! This was far more telling than some stupid DNA test. He struggled to think cold thoughts, as in cold shower. On an iceberg. In a blizzard. But the flowery scent of her hair kept intruding, cranking his desire farther into overdrive. With the modern rational part of his brain smothered, the ancient irrational part urged him to carry her upstairs to one of the rooms in the hotel. Claim her as his. Rylie lowered her arms and Donovan belatedly realized the music had shifted to a faster tune. He let go of her waist and she took a half step backward. “Can we please get out of here?” He nodded and steered her in front of him through the maze of dancers, hoping his arousal wasn’t as blatantly obvious as it felt. When they reached the snug, McRory stood up, but Rylie snagged her purse off the bench and positioned herself so that Donovan stood between her and the professor. He dropped his arm protectively around her shoulders. And match goes to O’Shea.
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“Thank you so much for everything.” Rylie directed her words at Brenna. “But I’ve had a long day and we need to get going.” “’Tis a long way to Ballyneagh,” Brenna answered. “Why don’t you both stay at our place tonight?” “Grand idea,” seconded the professor. “We’ve plenty of room.” “No.” Donovan found himself replying at the same time as Rylie, then he added, “Thank you, and please don’t go leaving on our account.” McRory sat back down, a look of reluctance and something more on his face. Donovan shrugged on his jacket then held Rylie’s for her. “Thank you again,” she said to Brenna. “And can you please call me as soon as you have the test results?” The older woman smiled with genuine warmth. “To be sure. Safe journey, now.” “Safe journey,” echoed the professor, though he sounded considerably less sincere. Donovan kept his hands shoved into his jacket pockets as they hiked the three blocks to the car. Rylie didn’t make it easy for him. She walked so close beside him that they were almost touching. He drew in several deep drafts of the chilly night air to try and cool his pesky libido. Halfway to the car, Rylie exhaled a white puff of a sigh. “Poor Sybil.” “Sybil? You mean Sybil Gallagher?” “Yes.” Rylie shook her head in dismay. “I knew McRory wouldn’t leave his wife for her, but now that I’ve met Brenna, it’s so painfully obvious.”
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Her tenderness and compassion for the other woman surprised Donovan. He would have expected more sympathy for McRory’s wronged wife. That was definitely where his own allegiance lay. Quelling his automatic response to call the professor a choice name, he cleared his throat and spoke carefully. “Not all men are like McRory, you know.” “I know, but enough are.” Her tone sounded flat and her face was unreadable in the dark. “I just feel bad for her . . . for both of them.” They reached the car at last, and he held the passenger door for her. “Do you want to stop at Starbucks again?” she asked. Donovan shook his head. “We really should get going. This fog is likely to get worse before it gets better.” Traffic wasn’t nearly so bad driving out of the city, but his prediction came true far too soon. The mist grew heavier the farther away they got from Belfast. The main motorway was well lighted, but took them by a longer route, and too late, Donovan realized the fuel gauge was dipping toward empty. With a nagging unease gnawing at his subconscious, he turned off the main road onto the country lane that was a shorter way to Ballyneagh. “So tell me about The Sight,” Rylie popped up suddenly, breaking the heavy silence that permeated the car. “I don’t—” “Please?” The sincerity of her tone disarmed him. “I don’t know where to start.” Donovan hedged as he downshifted the car into a lower gear on the bumpy, fogenshrouded road. “Have you always had it?”
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“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “Does your sister have it?” “Not that she ever told me.” And he was quite sure if Doreen had ever experienced one of his visions, she’d have gone straight to a priest to demand an exorcism. “But your mother had it, didn’t she?” When he didn’t answer, she heaved a frustrated sigh, “Please tell me, Donovan. I really want to know, to understand.” Like she could. Still, if she hung around the pub long enough, the oldtimers would tell her tales of crazy Moira Mullins. Maybe she should hear something closer to the truth. He gripped the steering wheel hard and spoke through clenched teeth. “When my mother was fourteen, she was hospitalized for hallucinations. The doctors thought she’d taken drugs, LSD or something, but of course they could find no traces.” Donovan felt his heart accelerate with the bitter memories, but now that he’d started he might as well finish. “They sent her home, but the hallucinations kept coming back, so back to hospital she’d go. This went on until she turned eighteen and moved herself to Belfast, where she met my father.” “But why did they go back to Ballyneagh?” Rylie asked quietly. “They had no choice. My father lost his job and they had nowhere else to go. My sister was an infant, so Mum couldn’t work. Plus The Troubles were bad in Belfast at that point. You know, the IRA and that lot.” Lynch’s voice mail message replayed inside his head, and he wondered what, if anything, his father really knew about the Provos, the Provisional Irish Republican Army.
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Ghosts of old memories played on the edges of his mind, half-remembered arguments between his mother and father. Mum sending him and Doreen off across the fields before someone arrived. “Connacht devil,” his mother had said . . . Something flashed out of the mist directly in front of the car. No ghost or wraith, but a very real sheep. Donovan jerked the wheel sharply to avoid a collision, the heel of his hand hitting the horn. Rylie gave a garbled cry that blended with the squeal of the brakes. The car lurched then pitched to one side, sliding off the pavement and into the ditch.
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Chapter 7 “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” DONOVAN GASPED AS THE CAR engine choked off, and the sheep scampered out of the range of the headlights. “Y-yes,” Rylie shakily replied. “Are you?” “Yes.” Neither airbag had deployed, so that was a good sign. However, the passenger’s side of the car slanted down at a precipitous angle while the driver’s side slanted up. Definitely not good. With a muffled curse, Donovan unbuckled his seat belt and turned off the motor, but kept the headlamps on. Then he wrestled open his door. Both wheels on his side were a good six inches off the ground. Muttering more curses under his breath, he walked in front of the car to survey the scene. Mud sucked at the soles of his shoes and oozed up the sides. The front passenger’s side tire nestled on the bottom of the shallow ditch, muddy water lapping just below the hubcap. Dandy! Just fecking dandy! He tromped around and found the same situation with the back tire. The bloody perfect ending to the day. He knew he wouldn’t be able to budge the vehicle, but he jumped and threw his weight onto the front fender anyway. It sagged down into the wheel-
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well, but nothing more. He cast about for something to wedge under the wheels but could see nothing for the blasted fog. Rylie rolled down her window and called out, “Can I help?” “No, stay put. ’Tis a muddy mess out here.” He tried to stamp the worst of the muck off his shoes, but it stuck stubbornly. She crawled over the console into the driver’s seat and cracked open the door. “Maybe if we both tried?” Donovan shook his head. “Trust me, we need to call a tow truck.” The door clicked shut and he heard her rummaging in the glove box. He stamped his feet again and extracted his mobile phone from his pocket. A moment later, she jumped out of the car and handed him a packet of papers. “Here’s the rental contract and stuff. I think there’s a number for roadside assistance.” He walked up to shuffle through the papers in the glare of the headlights. After a couple of minutes, he located the number and placed the call. Rylie stood beside him, arms wrapped around herself, her breath coming out in little white puffs that matched the surrounding fog. “It’s cold out here!” she exclaimed when he’d rung off. “Let’s get back in the car and run the heat,” Donovan replied. “It’ll take them at least an hour to find us.” They climbed back inside and Donovan started the engine, put on the emergency flashers and the heater. However, ten minutes later, just when the interior had reached a cozy warmth, the fuel light came on. “What is it?” Rylie asked when he muttered a curse.
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“Low on petrol,” Donovan replied, turning off the engine. “We don’t want to run out because it makes a bloody shambles of the fuel injectors.” “Oh,” she said, and turned to brace her back against the door so that she faced him. “Guess we don’t want that.” “Not if we can help it.” He reclined his own seat back a bit farther and tried to get comfortable. “Don’t worry, they should be here soon.” But a half-hour later, no one had arrived and the temperature inside the car was growing uncomfortably chilly. Donovan restarted the engine and ran the heat for ten more minutes. He’d just shut off the ignition again when his mobile rang. The dispatcher apologetically explained that the driver had been unable to locate them in the thick fog and that it wasn’t safe to keep looking. “We’ll try again as soon as it’s light,” the woman assured him. Donovan glanced at his watch. “But that will be hours. Can’t he give it one more go?” “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Shea, but no. I can contact the PSNI to try and find you, shall I?” “No, that won’t be necessary.” With a frustrated sigh, he rang off, then turned to face Rylie’s anxious stare. “They won’t be able to find us until morning. Too foggy.” She heaved an equally discouraged groan. “Great.” “Fuel injectors be damned!” he declared. “I’m running the heater.” “No, wait!” She reached out and stopped his fingers from turning the key. “Save it for later. Maybe if we get some sleep we won’t feel so cold.”
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Her hand on his made him think of the dance they’d shared earlier in the evening and he suddenly felt anything but cold. He pulled his hand away and gazed out the window into the chilly darkness. “Good idea.” He heard her shifting around in her seat trying to get comfortable. “Why don’t you crawl in the back and stretch out?” he suggested, still not looking at her. When she started to protest, he added, “Go on, I’m fine here.” She clambered across the center console and heaved over into the back seat with a grunt. Having her derriere so close nearly undid him. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and clenched his hands into fists, not daring to breathe. When she finally stopped rustling around, he exhaled in relief. Another long half-hour crawled passed. From the back seat, Rylie’s even breathing told Donovan she was asleep. He blew on his icy fingers and started the engine, shutting it down after another ten minutes, even though the heat had taken longer to come on and the chill was scarcely out of the air. An interminable thirty minutes later, he repeated the ritual. But this time, after eight minutes the car started to sputter. Quickly, he shut off the engine, and then the emergency flashers. No point in running down the battery too. Folding his arms tightly across his chest, he leaned his head back and tried to sleep. “Donovan?” Rylie’s soft query jolted him awake. He glanced at the illuminated face of his watch and saw it was nearly three. He’d been asleep over an hour. His nose and cheeks tingled from the cold and his feet felt like two lumps of ice.
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“Wh-what is it?” he asked, his words a frosty cloud in front of his mouth. “I know the car is out of gas,” she said, and he could hear her teeth chattering. “But I thought if we shared body heat . . . ” Her voice faded away, while a very warm notion sprang into his sleep addled mind. “Are you suggesting that we . . . ” Words jammed in his throat. “ . . . huddle up to keep warm,” she finished for him. “Yes. You can crawl back here with me.” God in heaven! He must be still dreaming. She had to know that what she asked would court disaster. “Or I could crawl up there with you,” she volunteered when he didn’t answer. He gave his head a rough shake just to be sure he truly was awake. Then he answered, “We both know that’s not a wise idea.” “I don’t care,” she retorted. Then she made an odd little sound of distress. “Please don’t make me beg. It’s so humiliating.” Shamefaced, Rylie drew her legs up to her chest and shrank into the far corner of the back seat, shivering. She knew Donovan was right, but if wisdom meant being this cold and miserable, she wanted no part of it. What she wanted was him. Somewhere between Queen’s University and Callahan’s, she had lost sight of the concept that Donovan was her half-brother. Instead, she only saw the man who, last night, gave her a bone-melting kiss. The man who, a few hours ago, left no question about his desire for her and had threatened to break the sleazy professor’s arms. The man
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who shot her libido into the stratosphere and her rational thoughts beyond reach. The sound of the car door startled Rylie, and she jerked her head up. The front driver’s door opened and shut, then the back door opened and Donovan slid onto the seat beside her. “Bloody freezing,” he muttered, blowing on his clenched hands. “F-f-for s-s-sure,” she agreed through chattering teeth, though just having him close to her suddenly made her feel a lot warmer. And they were very close. He was a big guy, and the back seat of the car was small. No way could they both sit here and not touch. He pulled one of her hands between his and rubbed, then repeated with her other hand, pressing hers between his when he was done. Warmth spread from her fingers across her palms, and where their shoulders brushed together, heat sizzled along her nerve endings and banished her rationality into the fog. He stretched his arms over her head in the tight confines. “I’m going to take off my jacket and spread it over the both of us,” he explained. “We should be warmer that way.” Rylie could only nod her agreement. His movements awkward, Donovan worked one arm out of a sleeve, then the other. With a grunt of satisfaction, he pulled the jacket in front of him. In the next instant, she felt his arm around her, and before she could think, he shifted her onto his lap. Sexual awareness sprang to life all over her, and she had to bite her lower lip to keep from moaning.
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Adjusting into the corner she’d just vacated, Donovan tented the jacket over both of them. “Better now?” he murmured into the top of her hair. Oh, God, he was warm! And solid. And irresistible. “Ummmm,” was all she could manage. Rylie folded her arms in front of her and snuggled against his chest, her head completely under the jacket. Her shivering stopped as she lost herself in the intoxicating feel and scent of the most alluring man she’d ever met. One of the three buttons on his Henley pullover dug into her cheek and she shifted her head slightly to avoid it. Beneath her ear, his heart jumped. His arms encircled her and his hands worked their way under her windbreaker, but rested discreetly atop her sweater. “Go back to sleep,” he urged in a rough whisper. Like that was going to happen! Just like at Callahan’s when she pulled him onto the dance floor, the dark, irrational part of her took over. She snaked one hand behind him and explored the length of his back. When she reached the bottom of the Henley, she slipped her hand under it and felt the smooth knit of his T-shirt, his skin toasty warm just beneath. Donovan inhaled raggedly, and the unmistakable bulge of his arousal nudged at her hip. “Saints in heaven, Rylie,” he hissed. “You need to stop.” “Why?” she challenged against his shirtfront. “You’re not my brother.” He craned his neck to look down at her. “I know that, but do you?” “I know I don’t want you to be.” She strained to make out his features in the darkness, and could faintly distinguish the squareness of his jaw, the curve of his lips.
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“You can’t be. It can be anyone else in Ireland, Donovan. Just not you.” The desire flooding her veins drowned any remaining fragments of reason and she stretched up to plant a kiss on the side of his neck. With a groan of surrender, he dropped his head and claimed her mouth. His hot tongue drove in hard and fast. Startled by the intensity, Rylie gasped, but quickly recovered, giving herself over to the hunger that had been building since they’d left Ballyneagh this afternoon. Digging her fingers into his forearm, she flattened her chest against his and delved her tongue into the tantalizing recesses inside his mouth. He groaned again, and his hands shoved under her sweater. His fingers skimmed across the small of her back, then up her spine, their touch creating little explosions of sensation along the way. She ground her hips against the bulge of his erection and nipped at his bottom lip to encourage him to do more. Instead he pulled back, broke the kiss. She couldn’t stop a breathy little moan of protest. “Oh, God! We can’t be doing this,” he panted, his brogue distinctly more pronounced. “Not now, and surely not here.” “Here and now is fine,” she insisted, nuzzling his neck. “I want to, and I know you do, too.” “No, ’tis not fine.” His big hands settled around her hips and stilled their erotic movements. Then he moved one hand up and lifted her chin with his knuckles. “I want us to have no regrets, Rylie. And until you know for certain, about Dermot I mean, you will.”
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She bit her lip to stem further argument, because– dammit!—he was probably right. Again. Taking a deep breath, she moved both hands back in front of her and sighed. “All right, you win . . . Saint Donovan.” A sardonic chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I’m far from a saint. But I will admit to a preference for a proper bed.” “A traditionalist?” she teased. “I should have known. Do I have to crawl back into the front? Or can I stay here if I promise to keep my hands to myself?” He gave her chin a little chuck, then pressed her head back against his chest. “As long as you keep your hands and lips right where they are, wee little minx, you can stay.” “Okay,” she sighed again, hoping he didn’t realize that if she could stay snuggled close to him, she would agree to almost anything. She could feel the tension in his muscles relaxing under her. Her own still felt as tightly strung as the strings on the fiddle at Callahan’s. “We both need to get some sleep,” he murmured. “Okay,” she said again, though she didn’t think there was any way she could actually manage to do it. However, somehow she must have, for the next thing Rylie knew, she awoke to the rumbling of a large engine very near by. She poked her head from under Donovan’s leather jacket and got a close up view of his darkly stubbled jaw. The even rise and fall of his chest directly under her signaled that he was still asleep. Over his head, the window was beaded with condensation, and a pale grayness showed beyond it. Morning.
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“Donovan,” she whispered as the rumbling engine continued to idle seemingly on top of them. “Somebody’s out there!” His breath hitched, and one arm tightened around her while the fingers of his other hand shifted down to her bottom. Then he seemed to remember where they were and the corners of his mouth eased upward into a grin. He gave her butt a possessive little pat before he slowly opened his eyes. “Rescue at last?” he asked still smiling. A tapping on the driver’s window froze her sassy retort in her throat. She scrambled to sit up and reach the far window, but her arms and legs seemed to hopelessly entangle themselves with Donovan’s. The tapping continued. “Anyone there?” a gravelly voice called. “Yes!” Rylie tried to answer, but a strand of hair flew into her mouth and it came out, “Yuphth!” “Half a minute!” Donovan choked out around a chuckle. He easily lifted her and scooted under, plopping her down in the spot he’d just vacated. Wrestling open the door, he slid out, taking his jacket with him and giving Rylie a momentary view of a large yellow truck and an equally large man dressed in yellow rain gear. Frigid air whooshed in before the door shut. No longer pressed against Donovan’s warm, protective body, Rylie felt bereft as well as cold. And she really needed to go to the bathroom. The car door re-opened and Donovan offered her his hand. “Wait inside the truck where it’s warm.” Embarrassed by the speculative expression on the
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tow-truck driver’s ruddy face, she mumbled thanks and hurried to the idling vehicle. After crawling into the cab, a glance in the rear view mirror confirmed that she looked very much worse for wear. However, as she watched Donovan and the driver conferring in the drizzly gray dawn, she realized she’d left her purse in the car. That seriously limited her ability to do damage control. Pulling off the elastic scrunchy, she smoothed her hair with her fingers as best she could, then put the holder back in place. The warm air blasting from the truck heater thawed her nearly frozen toes, but she much preferred Donovan as a heat source. Her rational self, which had been completely MIA a few hours ago, resurfaced to remind her that this wasn’t the first time her hormones had led her down a disastrous path. But Joel had never brought up regrets, and neither had any other guy she’d ever known. Only Donovan . . . The whine of the winch interrupted her thoughts, and Rylie turned to look out the back window. Her rental car shuddered and, with the insistent tug of the metal cable, finally broke free of the muddy ditch. Glancing at her wristwatch, she turned around as the car thunked against the back of the truck. Their rescue was almost complete. She crossed her legs tightly and prayed her full bladder would hold out until they reached a gas station. Twenty-five minutes later, they rolled into the Ballyneagh BP station directly across the road from Brigit’s Bakery and the pub. Donovan’s feet scarcely hit the ground before she scrambled out after him and rushed toward the side door marked WC. “A couple of hours” Paddy Maguire had promised when
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he looked at the mud-encrusted car. Rylie didn’t question him, nor even ask about estimated costs, so Donovan did. Since returning to Balleyneagh four months ago, he’d garnered a reputation with the locals as a hard arse, and deservedly so. No longer the green boy who’d fled to America, he quickly proved that, unlike his father, he would not let anyone take unfair advantage of him or his. That is, until Rylie Powell had strolled into the pub three nights ago. One smile from that alluring mouth of hers and all his logic and acute business sense flew right out the window. At the moment, as they climbed the stairs to the apartment over the pub, the sight of her rounded derriere just in front of him was giving Donovan enough wood for a Samhain bonfire. If she threw herself at him again, like she had a few hours ago, he would be utterly and completely lost. The thought made him fumble with his keys when they reached the door. She gave an enormous yawn, stretching her arms wide, her small, firm breasts jutting out seductively under her sweater and jacket. God in heaven! Sainthood was extremely over-rated. Finally getting the door open, he ushered her inside. “Have a seat,” he said, hitting the knob on the radiator on his way to the kitchen. “I’ll fix us a cuppa.” “Sounds good,” she replied, plopping her cute little bottom onto the couch and yawning again. He looked away fast, beating a hasty retreat to the kitchen where he filled the electric teakettle, then rummaged in the cupboard for cups and something resembling breakfast food. “What about some toast?” he called.
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“Great! I’m starving.” So was he, but not for toast. He heard the sound of the telly as he dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. How would he manage to keep his hands off her for the next two hours? He checked the fridge for marmalade, and then decided that, though a cold shower might be a bit too obvious, dousing his face and hands might do the trick. Hurrying through the sitting room, he noticed she’d removed her jacket and shoes and sat in the corner of the sofa with her feet tucked under her. “Can you listen for the teakettle?” he asked, not daring to linger. “Okay,” she murmured in a tone that sounded either drowsy or mesmerized. Once in the loo, Donovan ditched his jacket, and then washed his face, hands and forearms with cold water. Invigorated, he ran a comb through his hair and brushed his teeth, at the same time checking in his toiletry kit to be sure he had a condom. Just in case . . . The whistling of the teakettle startled him. Guiltily he shoved the foil wrapper into his pocket. “Can you get that, Rylie?” he called, hastily rinsing his toothbrush. “Please?” The whistle continued, while he sloshed a gulp of water around his mouth and spat it into the sink. “Rylie?” He strode back into the sitting room and saw why she didn’t answer. Head lolled against the arm of the sofa, she was sound asleep. Shaking his head at his own miscreant self, Donovan went into the kitchen, brewed the tea and buttered the toast.
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She must have really been exhausted for when he came back a few minutes later, she was still sleeping, her face serene as a child. He turned off the telly, but couldn’t bring himself to wake her. Instead, he lifted her into his arms. McRory had the right of it, she was as slight as one of the faery folk. He easily carried her the short way into his bedroom, where he deposited her gently on the bed. She stirred a bit, shifted onto her side, but didn’t open her eyes. He pulled the down comforter from across the bed to cover her, then slipped back into the kitchen to have the tea and toast. When Donovan finished in the kitchen, he went back to the bedroom and found she still hadn’t moved. Perhaps a shower was in the cards after all. Moving stealthily, he removed clean clothes from the bureau, then headed for the loo. He reemerged a half-hour later freshly shaved, showered, and dressed. Rylie continued to sleep, though she’d kicked the comforter halfway off. Gently, he pulled it back into place, and fought a momentary urge to kiss her awake. Chastising himself, he went back to the kitchen, checked to see if the milk was sour, and poured himself a bowl of Weetabix cereal. He’d nearly finished when a knock on the front door interrupted his reverie. “Morning, O’Shea.” Inspector Lynch thrust his foot into the narrow space Donovan had opened. “May I come in?” Considering the man showed every intention of barging inside, Donovan swung the door wider to allow him entrance.
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“What brings you here, Inspector?” he asked, carefully keeping his tone neutral. “Since you didn’t return my calls yesterday, I didn’t expect you would today either,” the burly policeman replied with a lift of his eyebrow. “And I suspect you already know that your sister and the doctor have forbidden me from speaking to your father until I obtain an order from the court.” He crossed to the sofa and sat down without invitation. “Which I shall, to be sure.” “I told her as much,” Donovan replied, sitting opposite him in the wooden chair. He kept his voice and expression calm and detached. “Obviously she didn’t listen to me.” “Glad to see that at least you have decided to be cooperative,” Lynch said in a tone ripe with sarcasm. “I’ve something to show you.” Reaching into the large pocket of his overcoat, he produced a manila folder. “As I told you in my phone message, we identified the body as being one Malachy Flynn, a high ranking member of the Provisional Irish Republican Army, the Provos. A bad bunch who once had a lot of support in these parts.” His pale eyes locking with Donovan’s, he slapped a piece of paper from the folder onto the coffee table, a grainy black and white image of a man. “Wanted by the Royal Ulster Constabulary and Scotland Yard for terrorist activities with intent to overthrow the government. Whereabouts unknown for over twenty years, and now we know why. These were his two closest associates.” He laid two more photos next to the first, one an equally poor quality computer print and the other a mug shot. Pointing at the latter, he said, “Stephen ‘The
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Butcher’ O’Boyle, apprehended in Liverpool eighteen years ago. Died during a prison riot three years into his life sentence. The other, Conor McTeague, is still at large though he’s suspected to have fled to America about the same time Flynn went missing.” Donovan had sat impassively throughout Lynch’s recitation, arms folded across his chest, but now the police inspector leveled a challenging glare at him and shoved the pictures closer. In the indistinct image of Malachy Flynn, Donovan could clearly see the features of the victim in his visions from two days ago. Drawing in a deep breath, he quickly slid his eyes away. “I’m afraid all of this means nothing to me,” he said, returning the inspector’s hard stare. “And as I’m sure my sister already told you, my father was never in the IRA.” “Quite certain of that, are you?” Lynch asked with a scowl. “Because I’ve reason to believe that thirty or so years ago, your father, Dermot O’Shea, worked as a mule for the Provos, moving weapons and explosives between Liverpool and Belfast. ’Twas believed the Provos dealt with international terror networks in America, Eastern Europe, and North Africa. Networks that still exist today.” The man’s eyes narrowed to slits in his fleshy face. “We authorities don’t like terrorists, no matter how many years ago they may have quit.” Finding his hands clenched into fists, Donovan carefully loosened them and dropped them to his sides. “Are you saying my father needs to hire an attorney, Inspector? Or are reason and proof two different things?” “Interesting you should mention proof,” Lynch said, slowly gathering up the pictures and placing them back
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inside the folder. “Twenty-five years ago, I believed your father played a part in your mother’s disappearance, which was also linked to a shake-up in the Provos.” He slipped the folder back into his pocket. “But I never could prove it, though I wasn’t alone in my belief.” “Then you weren’t the only one who was wrong,” Donovan stated with dismissive finality. “Now unless there’s something more, Inspector, I think I’d better look into hiring that attorney.” Lynch rose to his feet. “You do that, boyo, because whatever ’tis you, your sister, and your father are hiding, I will get to the bottom of it this time.” Then, as Donovan stood to see him out, the Inspector nodded toward the archway leading into the bedrooms. “Morning, Miss Powell.” How long had she been standing there? Donovan fought to keep his consternation from showing as he escorted Inspector Lynch to the door. Most likely she’d heard everything, not that it mattered. Shutting the door behind the man, he waited until he heard Lynch’s heavy tread on the stairs before he turned and wound his way back toward the couch. Rylie met him halfway. “I’m sorry,” she said, her gray eyes regarding him warily. “I think I better get going.” “No, wait.” He put his hand on her arm, but quickly dropped it with the instant flare of attraction. “Have a cuppa while I make sure your car is ready.” She gave a little nod of acquiescence, though she still looked uncertain. Then she sat down on the couch to put on her shoes. Hurrying to the kitchen, Donovan plugged the teakettle back in and called Paddy Maguire at the BP.
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As he rang off, Rylie entered the room with her jacket and purse. “Toast?” he offered, but she shook her head. “I really should go.” “Rylie, please—” he blurted, then looked away. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, he wanted her to know this. “I told Lynch the truth. I don’t know anything about that IRA stuff, and I certainly don’t recognize those men.” She reached up and cupped her small hand around his cheek. “Of course you don’t. No one expects a sevenyear-old child to remember things.” Relief and something more coursed through Donovan at her words. He turned his head to nuzzle her palm, but an odd spark in the depth of her eyes stopped him. “But how old was your sister?” she asked. “And what does she remember?”
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Chapter 8 RYLIE ATE A HUGE BREAKFAST CALLED AN ULSTER FRY WHEN she arrived back at her B&B. Fried eggs, sausages, bacon, and that weird potato bread called farl—she could practically hear her arteries clogging as she wolfed it down. The only explanation she gave Mrs. Cooke for being gone all night was that her car had gone off the road and been stuck in the mud. Though the manager kept pressing her for more details, she didn’t mention anything about Donovan or being in Belfast. After polishing off everything on her plate, she hurried to her room for a hot shower. She was still blow-drying her hair when Mrs. Cooke rapped on the door to tell her she had a phone call. Thinking it must be Donovan, but not wanting to ask, she unplugged the dryer and followed the older woman into the sitting room, where the handset lay on a side table. Self-consciously, she picked it up and said hello. “Miss Powell . . . that is . . . Rylie, ’tis Sybil Gallagher.” The woman’s voice sounded unsteady. “I’m right sorry to bother you but I . . . I’ve no one else and I . . . I really need to talk to someone.” “It’s nice to hear from you, Sybil,” Rylie replied, glancing at Mrs. Cooke from the corner of her eye. “I’m not doing anything if you’d like to get together. Are you in Belfast?”
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“Ah, no.” Sybil seemed to pick up on the restricted nature of their conversation. “I’m at a public house in Portadown, the Red Branch. If you could meet me here, I’d be most grateful.” Rylie asked Mrs. Cooke for a pen and paper and took down the directions. “See you soon,” she told Sybil in a bright tone she hoped didn’t sound too fake, and then hung up. “A girl I met the other day wants to meet me for lunch in Portadown,” she explained, as if the B&B manager hadn’t been listening to every word she said. An hour later, Rylie pulled her car into a parking space on the side of the building with “Red Branch” emblazoned in foot-tall letters across its gleaming white stucco. Meeting with Sybil Gallagher would give her a welcome reprieve from thinking about Donovan, their possibly shared father, and dead IRA terrorists. However, she felt certain that Sybil’s topic of discussion would be her doomed affair with Professor McRory. Based on the other woman’s strained tone, Rylie thought the relationship was probably unraveling. And maybe her advice back at the O’Shea’s cottage had been a factor. If so, while she felt bad for Sybil, she wasn’t sorry she’d spoken up. When she entered the pub’s cavernous interior, Sybil hailed her from a corner booth. Wearing faded jeans and an oversized black sweatshirt, Sybil’s face looked pinched and even more pale than usual. The freckles across her nose stood out in stark contrast to her pallor. Her eyes looked puffy and red, but she greeted Rylie with a wan smile and an air kiss next to both cheeks.
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“Thanks so much, Rylie.” She stopped and bit her bottom lip. “I feel like such a fecking neddy!” She plopped down onto the padded bench seat. “That is, a fool. I’m sorry I made you drive all the way here.” “Don’t feel bad. I really didn’t mind.” Rylie reassured as she sat opposite Sybil. “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone you don’t know.” Sybil gave a nervous nod, her dull brown hair dipping into her eyes. She shoved it back and pointed at the battered fish fillet and pile of fries in front of her. “I was just having a bite. Care to join me?” “No thanks, I only had breakfast a couple of hours ago.” Rylie sat back and looked around the vast, cluttered room while Sybil devoured the remains of her meal. All of the booths and more than a dozen of the heavy wooden tables were occupied with lunchtime diners. “Sorry,” Sybil apologized again, between bites. “I’ve had a right ravenous appetite lately—” She broke off abruptly and scrubbed one hand over her eyes. Rylie bit her lip then asked, “Is there someplace more private where we can talk?” Sybil shook her head. “But I reckon if we went over to the town center or walked one of the paths by the river, no one would pay us much heed.” After a couple more moments, Sybil stood and shrugged on her jacket. Rylie followed her out the door. Though the sky looked threatening, they walked the three blocks to the town center, where an impressive dark stone church dominated the landscape. “Do you live here?” Rylie asked as they walked along a meticulously landscaped pedestrians-only shopping area.
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Sybil shook her head. “My cousin does, but she’ll not be off work for hours yet. I came on the train from Belfast this morning after . . . ” Her voice faded away and a stricken expression etched her face. Rylie guided her to an ornate metal bench where they sat down. “You talked to Aongus this morning, didn’t you?” she prodded gently, though she was pretty sure she already knew. Mutely, Sybil nodded, her eyes brimming with tears. “I’m pregnant,” she blurted then buried her face in her hands. Rylie’s stomach did a queasy pitch and roll. Though she felt like throttling Sybil for her careless stupidity, she put her arm around her and patted her on the back. “It’s okay,” she soothed in spite of a pounding rage growing in her veins. “You can tell me, Sybil.” “Aongus wants me to get rid of it.” The other woman’s voice was a muffled whisper into her hands. Of course he would, the asshole! Rylie tramped down her urge to curse and patted Sybil’s back some more. After a dozen silent heartbeats, she raised pleading eyes to Rylie’s. “Saints in heaven, Rylie! What am I to do?” Keeping her voice even and unruffled, Rylie asked, “What do you want to do?” “I—” She buried her face again. “I don’t know.” Still fighting her righteous anger, Rylie pulled her arm away and looked around. People walking by seemed oblivious to them, so she asked, “How late are you?”
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Sybil wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then looked up. “I’m not exactly sure, but not more than a couple of weeks.” “Then you have some time.” Rylie tried to sound more encouraging than she felt. “Spend a few days here, or somewhere else, alone. Think things through and sort your feelings out before you make a decision.” “You’re right. I know you’re right.” Pulling a tissue from her pocket, Sybil blew her nose. “You must think I’m a bleedin’ idiot.” “I think you’re human,” Rylie replied with a sympathetic shake of her head. “We all make mistakes, Sybil. Even me.” She gave a little snort of derision. “Especially me.” Now there was the understatement of the year. She’d come to Ireland to find her father, and instead, found herself falling for a man who might be her halfbrother. Except that he couldn’t be. She simply could not feel like this about Donovan if he were. She’d never felt like this about anyone. Not even Joel. Especially not Joel. Sybil rose to her feet, still looking a bit shaky. “I can’t thank you enough, Rylie.” She bit her lower lip before she continued. “If you hadn’t mentioned about you and your boss . . . Well, I don’t think I could have told you, and I really needed to tell someone. You know?” She did know. “I’m glad I was here,” Rylie said honestly. “And if I can help in some other way . . . ” She stood and glanced at the row of shops behind them. “Is that a candy store? Perfect! Let’s go get some intensive chocolate therapy.”
ttt
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Donovan stood outside the bank where his sister worked and waited for her to appear. He’d already contacted the county legal aid office and with their help located an attorney, and arranged an appointment for tomorrow. However, all during his various conversations and arrangements, Rylie’s questions about Doreen kept coming back to echo inside his head. He’d phoned his sister and told her they would meet when she finished work. Before he drove back to Ballyneagh, she would give him some answers. Employees spilled outside in a rush to get home before the rain started up again. Doreen straggled out with the last few people, clutching her purse in one hand and an umbrella in the other, her black raincoat cinched tightly around her slim waist. He lifted his hand and she hurried up to him. Though she wasn’t petite like Rylie, Donovan still needed to bend for her to kiss his cheek in greeting. “Is anything else wrong?” she asked breathlessly, her blue eyes wide with worry. “Did that PSNI inspector come back?” “No, Doreen,” he reassured, clasping her arm to guide her to the Morris. “We just need to talk.” “About Da? And how we’re going to manage this business with the attorney?” She slid into the passenger’s seat, primly tucking her skirt around her legs. “Don’t worry, Donovan, I’ve already talked to Da to prepare him for tomorrow. Frannie O’Toole took me over on our lunch break.” He circled round the car, got into the driver’s seat, and buckled his seat belt. “So what did he say, besides the usual cursing?”
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Twin frown lines furrowed the pale skin between his sister’s dark brows. “Not much. I just didn’t want this to come as a total shock to him, that’s all.” “He didn’t precisely seem shocked to me,” Donovan muttered darkly. As he pulled the car out of the lot and onto the street, his sister slanted him a look. “Can this wait a bit, then? I planned to stop at the cathedral on my way, and Sean is due home early tonight. Perhaps if you stayed for dinner, then after we—” “No, Doreen,” he interrupted sharply. “I want to talk now.” “Donovan Joseph O’Shea!” she scolded. “Don’t tell me you believe for even one minute that our father might be capable of actually doing such a terrible deed.” “Why not? You do.” “What? I most certainly do not! Da isn’t a murderer!” While his sister spluttered in outraged protest, he turned the car onto Lower English Street, and headed for St. Patrick’s. She wanted to go to the cathedral, then he would take her there. Keeping his eyes on the road, he waited for her to take a breath, then calmly asked, “Maybe he didn’t kill the man, but what about this other IRA stuff? Lynch is right. Da worked for them, didn’t he?” “Saints preserve us!” Doreen declared, crossing herself. “I won’t listen to such things from my own brother’s mouth.” He shot her a lethal glance. “Oh yes, you bloody well shall!” She drew back, cowering from his sudden wrath, and crossed herself again. Reining his anger and frustration
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firmly in, Donovan guided the car up the hill and into the parking lot of the cathedral. He pulled into a parking space under a lamppost and left the engine idling. Turning to face her, his voice was once again composed, but deadly. “Now spare me the theatrics, Doreen, and tell me the truth. I know Mum and Da argued. I remember that much, and I know you remember more.” She stared daggers into him for a long moment before she sighed heavily. “All right, I do remember. They argued about money, and she didn’t want him to go to Liverpool any more. At the time, I didn’t understand, but I suppose it makes sense now.” She stopped and bit her lower lip. Tears welled in her eyes. “He did it for us— you, actually. He said he had to get us out of there, away from the farm. I remember more than once hearing him say, ‘Whatever ’tis in those fens, ’tis harming you Moira, and our wee laddie too.’” The Morris’s engine gave a wheezing strangled sound and died. Or perhaps the strangled sound came from him, Donovan wasn’t sure. He held the cool plastic of the steering wheel in a death grip as memories assailed him. Doreen had gone off to school and his mother was hanging wash on the twine strung like a spider’s web around the wooden clothesline pole. He had a long stick in his hand, trailing it after him in the dirt, making bigger and bigger circles. Just-turned-five Donovan reached the edge of the fens, where he wasn’t supposed to go. But there were interesting looking rocks and bushes and Mum wasn’t watching. He used his stick to dig at some roots exposed
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by the recent rain. Something round was stuck to one of the roots. When he reached for it, a funny buzzing noise started up. He thought it might be bees, but he didn’t see any so he picked up the dark piece of metal and rubbed it clean on his shirtsleeve. One end of it looked like the head of a snake. Then he heard a different noise and saw two other boys close to his own age. They were dressed in funny raggedy clothes, but they were playing with sticks too, using them like swords to fight a pretend battle. “That looks like me brooch,” one of the boys said, pointing to the object in Donovan’s hand, then nudging a silver circlet fastened on his shoulder. “I’m Hain, and this is my brother, Ro.” “I’m Dony,” Donovan said, shoving the metal circle into his pocket. “Can you teach me to sword fight too?” Playing with his new friends, he’d lost track of everything until he heard his mother scream. The next thing he knew she was picking him up off the ground and crying, “No please, not my baby! Don’t do this to my baby.” “I’m not a baby, I’m a big boy,” he protested. “And these are my new friends.” “No!” his mother wailed, and turned toward Ro and Hain. “Leave him be! You hear me?” As Ro and Hain ran off into the fens, his mother shifted him in her arms and hurried awkwardly back to the house, crying all the way. Donovan couldn’t understand why she was so upset, but he promised to be a good boy and not go wandering near the fens. Later that night, when he got ready for bed, he hid the piece of metal with the snake’s head in the toe of his sock, and put
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it in the hidey-hole inside the windowsill where he and Doreen kept all their secret treasures. Whenever he had the brooch in his pocket, Ro and Hain would appear at the edge of the fens and the three of them would play together, though afterwards Donovan often had a headache and blurry vision. He never told his Mum, but eventually she found out. She took the brooch and hid it somewhere deep in the fens, where he would never find it again. If only that had ended it. His sister’s hand on his arm startled Donovan back into awareness. Her tears were gone and in their place, she wore the hard, determined expression he’d seen so many times on Dermot’s face. “’Twas all such a very long time ago. Why can’t the PSNI just let this go?” “A man was stabbed to death, Doreen. They can’t exactly forget that.” “Well, I know Da didn’t do it,” she stubbornly insisted. He wished he shared her conviction. But he knew in his heart that his father was a drunk and a liar. “Unless you have proof of his innocence, good luck convincing the police.” She glared at him again, then reached for the door handle. Her voice was haughty, “I’m going in and pray for divine guidance. You should think about doing the same.” Her self-righteousness always made him snippy, and now was no exception. “I’ll leave the praying to you. It’s your specialty.” “Godless heathen!” she spat at him. Then she flung open the car door and walked swiftly toward the church.
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Still gripping the steering wheel, Donovan rested his head on his forearms, feeling heartsick. Closing his eyes, he waited for the despair to pass. He wasn’t sure precisely how long he sat there, but when he opened his eyes and looked up, rain sluiced down the windscreen of the Morris. A steady stream of drops pelted across the pale circle of lamplight. Since his sister and his father seemed determined not to tell him the truth, perhaps he needed to go and find it himself. In the fens. An hour later, he pulled into the muddy cottage yard. The PSNI had posted a sign and plastic tape on the front gate, but he’d ignored them and driven in anyway. Rummaging in the glove box, he located a small plastic torch and was relieved to find the batteries were still good. Getting out of the car, he turned his coat collar up against the persistent drizzle and with the light from the torch, picked his way across the yard. In the rain and darkness, it took Donovan a few minutes to orient himself. He played the light over the four different excavations at the edge of the yard, but he wasn’t interested in the storage pits. He sought the place where votive offerings had been made. The place that had yielded the scabbard ornament. And triggered his vision of the Druid. He hadn’t purposely tried to use his gift since he was a small boy. Would he still be able to do it? When he reached the path leading into the fens, Donovan noticed heavy footprints in the mud. Prints too large for a woman’s shoe, and they had to be recent because they weren’t washed away, though water stood
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in the indentations of the heels. Someone from PSNI must have been out here earlier today, most likely Inspector Lynch. He stepped carefully around the prints and followed the path in. The scent of mud and wet foliage surrounded him, and he had to move slowly in the darkness. At last, he recognized the partially burned beech tree and knew he was getting close. The path forked and he could sense, rather than see, the direction where the body had been discovered. He followed the other branch, scouring his memory for the images from Sybil’s digital camera to guide him. The dense growth of overgrown bushes and vines served as a bit of a shield against the rain. Still, his footsteps lagged, anticipating what was to come. Dreading it, but needing it at the same time. Branches and vines gave way, and he could see the telltale mounds of earth that marked the location of McRory and Sybil’s dig site. The torchlight glittered on the droplets of water hanging from the taut pieces of twine. Warily, he approached the edge of the hole. He shined the beam of the torch around and recognized the ancient pilings, blacker than the surrounding earth. Taking a deep breath to steel his resolve, Donovan stooped and placed the torch on the edge, then lowered himself into the trench. Inside the two-meter deep hole, the air felt heavy, but not necessarily with rain. The darkness of the mud and wood seemed to absorb the feeble beam of torchlight. As Donovan reached for the nearest pier, a faint buzzing throbbed between his eyes. It was working.
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With grim determination, he laid his hand flat against the wet, crumbling timber and held his breath. Intense colors swirled around him, blacks, oranges, and reds. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut as the colors exploded. Drawing in a ragged gasp, Donovan slowly opened his eyes. Around him, the darkened landscape flickered in an eerie ocher light. The stench of burning pitch seared into his lungs and made him cough. He raised his eyes to the source of the odor and the light, a smoky wooden torch held aloft by a large man dressed in a long robe. Red and yellow beads adorned his flowing dark hair and beard. The tall man squinted in the flickering light. “Dony?” “Hullo, Hain,” Donovan replied. He tried to sound casual, but that was difficult with the blood pounding so fiercely in his temples. “By the gods!” the Druid swore. “Why are you wandering here between, my brother?” “Between?” Donovan gazed around at the shadowy landscape. It was no longer raining and it wasn’t night. But it wasn’t exactly day either. Everything beyond Hain looked blurry, indistinct. “Is that where we are then?” “As the holy night of Samhain approaches, the passage is easier,” Hain acknowledged. “For those of us with the gift.” “Gift?” Donovan snorted. “Always been more like a curse to me. Remember when we were little? Ro used to say that at times he saw something shiny in the two of us, like we were streams of water with sunlight reflecting off us.” An indulgent smile curled the big man’s lips. “I remember well.” He wedged the smoking torch into the
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fork of a tree trunk and grasped Donovan’s arm in friendly greeting. “But Ro was always the better fighter.” Clasping the Druid’s arm in return, Donovan nodded in agreement. “The two of us together could never beat him.” Hain’s smile of remembrance faded and his piercing blue eyes delved into Donovan. “That was far away in our lives, Dony. Why are you here now, seeking for me?” Taking a deep breath, Donovan dropped his hand to his side. “A man was stabbed to death and buried in the fens. This was far away in my life too, but now he’s been found, and he’s connected to me and mine somehow. I need to know the truth about who killed him, and I hoped you could help me.” The Druid’s shaggy head drooped and he rubbed both temples with his fingertips, as if he too suffered with the same intense pounding. “I know the man you speak of,” Hain said at last. “But what truth I can tell may hurt you far more than help you, Dony. This man caused your mother great pain, but he gave her something that brought joy as well.” “My mother?” Donovan asked. He experienced a sudden terrible flash of the hand stabbing the knife into Malachy Flynn. Strong fingers curled around the wooden handle, but the wrist bones looked slender, almost delicate. “Oh God, no!” He jerked his hands up to cover his face. The air jammed in his lungs. Hain’s hand settled on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. “She tried to protect herself, but mostly she was desperate to protect your sister and you.” His soothing
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voice sounded far away, while his words painted dreadful pictures in front of Donovan’s eyes. “He was heavy, but she dragged him as far as she could into the fens. Before she buried him, she searched his clothes.” As if he were hovering over the scene, Donovan saw his mother drag the dead man by his legs. She fell once, twice, as she struggled down the path. He watched her go through Malachy Flynn’s pockets, toss away his wallet, pull a notebook and some papers from inside his jacket. Hain’s voice murmured on over the vision. “Some of the things she found upset her even more. When she covered him with earth, she went back to the cottage to hide what she found in the safe place.” The hidey-hole. Donovan saw his mother shove the things into Doreen’s plastic pencil box, the one with the little metal padlock hooked through its clasp. She locked it and put it inside the hidey-hole. Then she climbed down the stairs and mopped up the blood from the kitchen floor. When she finished, she took her broom outside and swept away the tracks where she’d pulled Malachy Flynn across the yard. “The other men came just as she finished,” the Druid continued. “She heard the noisy chariot come through the gate and she ran. Two men yelled at her, but she kept running. They chased her. One had a stick that exploded and spit fire through the air. It hit her in the back, but she got up and ran on. Into the safety of the fens.” Before Donovan’s horror-filled eyes, he saw his mother stagger as the bullet slammed between her shoulder blades. He felt the pain radiate through his
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own body and he struggled to draw in his breath as his knees buckled. “Please . . . ” With beseeching eyes, he clawed at the side of Hain’s robe. “Did she make it between? To you?” Hain nodded but his expression was sorrowful. “She told me . . . showed me everything. Just as you’ve seen. But her wound was mortal, Dony. I was a mere child, I couldn’t save her. I could only help her find peace.” Donovan sat back on his heels as an enormous shudder wracked his body. A bone-numbing exhaustion washed over him, consumed him. His limbs felt leaden and he ached everywhere. “As I feared,” Hain whispered hoarsely. “This truth has hurt you, my brother. I regret the telling.” “No!” Donovan denied with the last of his waning strength. “I needed to know. It was important I know. Thank you for telling . . . showing. Thank you for whatever you did for her.” Unable to keep himself upright any longer, he fell over onto the cold, leaf-strewn ground, senseless. Cold raindrops splattering on his face roused Donovan back to consciousness. He couldn’t tell how long he’d lain there devoid of physical sensations, but now he shivered with the wet and cold. Impenetrable darkness surrounded him and his head throbbed with a dull ache. Gradually, he realized he was lying on his back at the bottom of the trench, and he forced himself to roll over and crawl out. He found the plastic torch, and after shaking and turning the power off and on a few times, he coaxed a feeble light from it. Using a slender tree to haul
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himself upright, he staggered along the path with the help of the wavering, meager beam. The light flickered off completely when he reached the edge of the fens. Shoving the torch into his pocket, Donovan lurched a dozen more meters before he fell to his knees. Somehow, he forced himself to crawl on all fours across the muddy yard. When he reached the Morris, he heaved himself into the driver’s seat and started the engine, turning the heater on full blast. His vision too blurry to drive anyway, he sprawled across the seat and soaked up the warmth. Within a short time, his fingers and toes thawed and although his clothes were still damp, he’d stopped shivering. He turned off the engine and fell into an exhausted sleep. The cold roused him again a few hours later. Gray dawn light filtered through the windscreen. The rain had stopped. He turned the engine back on and used the heater to warm up again. Dried mud caked his jeans, his jacket, and his hands while a lingering pain pulsed behind his eyes. His vision, however, had cleared. After about ten minutes, he felt warm enough to turn off the car and go into the cottage. After stamping off as much excess dirt as possible, Donovan forced the door lock, went inside, and headed for the loo to wash his hands and face. The chilly tap water stimulated all his senses fully awake, and he groaned as he pulled out his shirttails to dry off. A hot shower wouldn’t happen a moment too soon and would undoubtedly feel like a half step from heaven. Making his way through the semi-dark kitchen, he climbed the steep stairs into the loft. The single window
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was easy to find, since it was the only source of light in the empty room. The plank of wood on the sill came up easily too, exposing the empty gap between the studs and wall. Donovan shoved his hand into the narrow space, his knuckles scraping. As he struggled to squeeze his wrist and forearm into the hole, his fingers encountered something smooth and hard. Awkwardly maneuvering his hand, he grasped an edge and pulled out the familiar black plastic rectangle of his sister’s pencil box. But the rush of triumph froze in his veins when he saw the broken remains of the lock hanging from the clasp. Biting his lip, he raised the lid anyway, and saw just what he feared. Whether twenty-five years ago or yesterday, someone else had been there first. The box was empty.
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Chapter 9 D ONOVAN ARRIVED LATE AT THE ATTORNEY ’S OFFICE . When he got back to the apartment after his night in the fens, he’d stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out, trying not to think or feel. Still groggy and somewhat achy, he’d crawled into bed and been overcome by a dreamless sleep more like an unconscious stupor than rest. When he finally awoke several hours later, he had to throw on clothes and rush out with two pieces of dry toast and a bottle of water in his hand. However, the drive to Armagh City had provided him with too much time to think about what he’d seen and learned the night before. The knowledge lay heavily on his mind as he entered the office of Jeremy Heaney, Esq. His sister Doreen, sitting in one of the chairs in front of the attorney’s desk, gave him a sour look of disapproval as he introduced himself and apologized for his tardiness. With shaggy brown hair and mild hazel eyes, Mr. Jeremy B. Heaney scarcely looked old enough to be out of law school, but seemed cordial. His late father, John A. Heaney, Esq. had successfully defended numerous IRA members, he assured Donovan. Then, while Donovan’s gut twisted with dismay and his sister stared resolutely at the wall, Heaney quickly recapped his and Doreen’s previous discussion and outlined what information he needed and possible options that existed for Dermot.
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His vision from the fens played over and over in Donovan’s mind as the three of them left the attorney’s office and made the short drive to Holy Family. He and Doreen rode silently in the Morris while the attorney drove his own car, a black BMW. Wearing pajamas and a robe, his father sat in the chair with the ever-present communication device on the tray table in front of him. Donovan tried to hang back but his father kept insistently calling, “Boh” so that he was obliged to stand next to his sister and look over Dermot’s shoulder. Dermot looked more pale and fragile than he had in over a month, but his stubborn expression was the same as usual. His visage never changed while the lawyer spoke about attorney-client privilege and other formalities, until Heaney brought up the allegations that Dermot had served as a “mule” for the Provos. Then, his eyes flicked toward Donovan and Doreen and for a brief instant, concern flashed across them before he typed, “Did it. Not sorry.” Doreen’s mouth flattened into a taut line as Heaney asked, “So you knew the deceased, Malachy Flynn?” Dermot gave what passed for a nod and uttered some half-intelligible curse words. Doreen’s face grew more distressed and Donovan could feel the tension knotting tighter across his own neck and shoulders while Heaney continued, “But you didn’t kill him?” “Nuh!” Dermot spat, his hand trembling so that he dropped the stylus of his communication device. With the truth nearly choking him, Donovan patted his father’s shoulder and whispered hoarsely, “’Tis all right, Da. We know you’re not a murderer.”
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Donovan wasn’t sure who shot him a more surprised look, his sister or his father. Hand still unsteady, Dermot gripped the stylus and determinedly punched out, “Wanted 2.” Then, his eyes glittering with tears, “Should have.” Doreen flung her hands over her face and sobbed. She must know more than she had ever told. Donovan sucked in a noisy breath and held it while the images of his mother stabbing Malachy Flynn slashed across his mind. Expression somber, Heaney cleared his throat. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Sullivan, Mr. O’Shea. Should the PSNI pursue this case, I’ll do everything in my power to see that your father serves no jail time.” “Th—thank you,” Donovan managed to say, though his voice remained unsteady. His sister pulled herself together, leaned over and kissed Dermot’s wrinkled cheek. “I’m sorry, but I need to go back to work.” “I’ll be happy to drive you,” Heaney offered. He pressed a business card into her hand, then another into Donovan’s. “And don’t discuss the case with anyone unless you call me first.” He patted Dermot’s good arm. “Especially you, Mr. O’Shea. I’ll see that the staff here all know.” When Donovan turned to follow Doreen and Heaney, his father grasped his coat sleeve. “B—boh?” Deep worry lines creased Dermot’s forehead as he struggled to say more, but failed. “What is it, Da?” The old man waited until they were alone before he slid open the shallow drawer under his tray table. He
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removed a plain white envelope and pressed it into Donovan’s hand. Then he picked up the stylus and typed, “4 Ur pretty Yank.” Donovan turned the envelope over and saw the word “Reilly” scrawled in childishly uneven letters, the tail of the Y long and slanted. His father had gone to a lot of trouble to write out a note. What could be so important? Stomach churning with possible answers, Donovan shoved the envelope into his pocket. “I’ll take it to her straight away.” Dermot gave one of his half-nods, but the creases in his forehead remained as he struggled again to form words. “S-s-surrah,” he finally managed to apologize, pushing at the tray table. “Don’t worry, everything will be all right now,” Donovan reassured. “Shall I help you back to bed?” Dermot nodded again, and Donovan helped him stand. Then, the old man tottered the few steps to his bed, and again, with Donovan’s help, settled into it. Donovan raised the rail back into place, then in response to his father’s grunting and gestures, cranked up the head of the bed. “All set then?” But when Donovan turned to go, Dermot grabbed his sleeve again. “Boh,” he entreated. His mouth worked and his face reddened as he tried to make his slack facial muscles move. Donovan stood by helplessly and watched his father’s mute struggle, felt his frustration when he saw the tears once again glittering in Dermot’s pale eyes. “Luv you, Boh,” the old man finally whispered. Breath catching in his throat, Donovan dropped his
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eyes to the floor and squeezed the gnarled fingers of his father’s good hand. His voice came out a raspy croak, “I love you too, Da.” He hurried out the door without looking back. When he got to the Morris, he pulled out his mobile and called Rylie’s B&B. His hand shook as he punched in the number. The manager answered and after he identified himself and asked for Rylie, she told him Miss Powell departed early and hadn’t returned. He left his mobile number and asked to have her call as soon as she did come back. “Another apology, is it?” the woman asked tartly. “No,” Donovan sputtered, taken aback. “But I’ve something important to give her.” “Do ya, now?” The manager drew the question out in a way that set his teeth on edge. He tried to make his tone as business-like as possible. “Yes, so I’d really appreciate a call back.” Then he thanked her and rang off. His father’s letter felt like a live coal in his pocket as he drove away. Though he resisted the urge to read it, he decided to stop at the B&B on his way back to Ballyneagh. And if Rylie wasn’t there? He ran a debate with himself whether or not to leave the letter. But he still hadn’t made up his mind when he arrived at the stately brick manor home that had been converted to the nicest B&B in the Dungannon area. Fortunately, as he entered the circular drive, his mobile rang. Hastily he pulled the car over and answered. “Donovan? It’s Rylie.” Her voice sounded a bit breathless, but at the same time guarded. “I just walked in the door. What’s up?”
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The sound of her voice, especially her saying his name, sent a little ripple of pleasure down his spine. Bloody hell! He was like a schoolboy with a crush. He cleared his throat, “Yes, I just arrived myself from Armagh. I’m right outside.” He got out of the car and waved toward the front window, still talking. “I’ve a letter for you from Dermot. I promised to bring it straight away.” Donovan saw a middle-aged woman twitch aside the curtains while Rylie spoke. “Dermot? Is he . . . Is he okay?” Before he could answer, he heard her make a small impatient sound, and then she said, “I’ll be right out.” And rang off. He’d scarcely shoved the mobile back into his pocket when she rushed out the front door, wearing the bright yellow jacket and dark jeans. The sight of her sent another of those annoying little ripples skittering across his nervous system. Shite. He reined in his over-active libido and resisted the urge to kiss her cheeks in greeting. Instead, he slipped the offending envelope from his pocket to her hand. “Here. Get in.” Obediently, she slid into the passenger’s seat of the Morris, her gaze riveted to the envelope. He reached into the back seat and handed her the red hooded sweatshirt. “This is yours, too.” She was still staring at the envelope when he got into the Morris and started it. “Did you read it?” “Of course not.” Donovan bit back the urge to say, “Open the damn thing!” and edged the car to the end of the driveway.
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Her face looked unusually pale, and dark smudges of fatigue stained the skin beneath her eyes. After his night in the fens, he expected he looked much the same, but wondered why she did. Then his rumbling stomach reminded him that he’d eaten nothing but two measly pieces of toast all day. “Let’s go to tea, or an early supper, shall we?” “Okay, just a minute.” She slid her finger under the folded flap of the envelope and took out a single sheet of lined tablet paper. Donovan couldn’t stop himself from leaning over to see. Emitting a strangled cough, she splayed her free hand over her eyes. The hand holding the paper shook, but he could read the large, scrawled words: UR father Christy Reilly My cousin a Provo in prison Sorry Donovan didn’t know what to feel. Relief? Sympathy? Doubt? All those and more surged through him at the sight of the words. He felt the wave of shock roll off Rylie as the paper dropped into her lap and landed on top of the sweatshirt. Her hand fell from her face to her throat, and the pain in her gray eyes stabbed right into his chest. Her voice came out thick with tears. “Did . . . Did you know . . . ?” He shook his head, touched her shoulder. “Please, Rylie . . . ” She squeezed her eyes shut, her hand clenching the neckband of her T-shirt in a death grip. “Do you think it’s true?”
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“Yes.” Then at her flinch of reaction, he quickly recanted. “I—I don’t know.” The engine of the Morris spluttered and died. Getting a firm grip on himself, Donovan restarted it and prepared to turn out onto the main roadway. Before he did, he shot her another quick glance. “Do you want something stronger than tea?” “I . . . Maybe.” She met his questioning gaze with eyes still swimming in doubt and anguish. “Can we just go to your place?” “Are you sure you want to?” Bottom lip caught in her teeth, she nodded then picked up the note again. She stared silently at it all the way back to Ballyneagh. Donovan parked the Morris close to the back door of the pub and they managed to slip inside unseen. However, the noise from the main room testified that, in spite of tea time being almost over, business was brisk. Obviously Rylie wanted to keep her presence unknown, since she headed straight for the stairs. “So what’ll it be? Wine, beer, whiskey?” “Just tea will be fine,” she replied. “But I’d love a sandwich or something. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” “Neither have I, so I’ll find some food while you put on the kettle.” He tossed her his wad of keys, which she caught in mid-air. “Thanks,” she said, and disappeared up the stairs. Rylie pitched her hoodie and the repugnant note onto the couch and hurried into the kitchen. The teakettle sat on the counter, unplugged but half full of water. Donovan’s mug sat next to it with an inch of cold tea still
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in the bottom. She put it in the sink, added more water to the kettle, and plugged it in all the while trying to ignore the distressing commentary running through her head. Her father really was a criminal. An IRA terrorist who may have committed all kinds of unspeakable acts. And the worst thing of all was that he’d taken a different identity. Lived a lie the entire time he was in America. With her mother. With her. It had all been a sham. She battled back the cold, sick feeling rising from the pit of her stomach by telling herself it didn’t matter. Besides, was it really that different from Dermot O’Shea? The man she’d believed to be her father once worked for the IRA too. He’d deceived his family, given his cousin his identity. And who knew what else? She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands to blot out the image of the white-haired man with the fierce scowl. The words he’d typed clung stubbornly in her mind: I luved Moira. How was that possible? Could you truly love someone when your heart was morally corrupt? Better not start down that slippery slope. Too many ugly things littered the path. Joel Davis and Aongus McRory to name two. She stumbled out of the kitchen, through the living room and into the bathroom where she splashed cold water on her face. Blotting her cheeks with the hand towel, Rylie stared into the mirror. The gray eyes that stared back seemed to belong to a stranger, someone she didn’t know at all. She had come to Ireland seeking the answers to who she was. But now she felt more lost than ever. The front door rattled and she stepped into the living
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room as Donovan came inside carrying a steaming tray. His expression looked tight with worry. “Are you all right?” he asked, smoothly kicking the door shut behind him. She passed one hand across her eyes before she answered honestly, “I don’t know.” His frown deepened. “Rylie, I swear I didn’t—” The whistling teakettle cut off his words. Mutely she followed him into the kitchen and watched as he set the tray in the center of the table, then began to fix the tea. His large capable hands moved with swift skill measuring and pouring. “Eat some shepherd’s pie,” he said over his shoulder while he opened the cupboard. “You’ll feel better.” Rylie stood silently watching for another long moment. Shepherd’s pie and tea weren’t what she needed. She needed him. “Donovan, please,” she entreated, wincing inwardly at her whimpering tone. “Just hold me.” The cupboard door thunked shut as he turned to face her, and she walked into the welcoming circle of his arms. She pulled herself close, her own arms around his waist, and laid her head against his chest. The strong, steady beating of his heart under her ear felt comforting in a way she’d never experienced before. For the first time in a very long time she felt safe. She swayed with the realization and his grip tightened. “None of it matters,” he whispered into her hair. “It doesn’t change who you really are.” Rylie pulled back to search his handsome face. “You don’t know who I really am.”
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“I know enough,” he countered. Then his lips covered hers. Warm and soft at first, his tongue began a gentle exploration of her mouth. But when she answered him with eager abandon, the kiss grew possessive, demanding. She molded herself against the hard planes of his body and moaned her answer. After another heady moment, Donovan broke the kiss, panting. “No regrets?” “Only if you stop now,” she replied, and reached for him again. His killer smile gleamed as he dodged around the table. “Wee minx,” he murmured. Then with one deft movement, he shoved the tray of food into the fridge. “We may want this later.” She giggled. “Much later, Mr. Practical.” “Much later,” he agreed. And the next moment, he swooped her off her feet, one arm around her shoulders, the other under her knees. She gave an involuntary squeak of surprise, then gasped, “Don’t hurt yourself.” “With a wee little thing like you?” he scoffed as he carried her through the living room. “Not likely.” Rylie busied herself undoing the buttons on his shirt, but her fingers fumbled with excitement. She’d only managed to unbutton three when he set her on the bed. While she eagerly toed off her sneakers, Donovan divested himself of his shirt and T-shirt. She practically came just seeing his bare chest. He really was that gorgeous, all lean hard muscles and ridged abs. No CPA ever looked so good!
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Panting, she yanked her sweater over her head and flung it on the floor, then ripped open the snap and zipper of her jeans, peeling them down her legs. Still smiling, he knelt in front of her and pulled the annoying jeans the rest of the way off. She grasped his forearms and hauled him toward her for another mind-numbing kiss. While her tongue greedily invaded the moist interior of his mouth, her fingers unbuckled his belt and worked open the fly of his wool trousers. When she brushed the hard length of his arousal, he broke away with a sharp intake of breath. “Slow down,” he hissed, rummaging in the drawer of the nightstand with one hand. “I’ve only one condom.” “Poor planning on your part,” she teased, pulling his pants around his knees. “So shall I run down to the corner and buy some more then?” he mocked, stepping out of his slacks. She suppressed a giggle at his very proper blue and white pinstriped boxers. “Don’t you dare.” “I thought not.” His boxers joined his pants on the floor as he bore her backward onto the middle of the bed, which creaked noisily under their combined weight. While Donovan’s beautiful lips claimed hers again, his busy fingers sent her bra and underwear to the floor with the rest of their clothes. Rylie’s body hummed with the need to have him inside her. Now. Twisting her mouth from his, she snatched the foil packet from his hand and ripped it open. As he massaged her breasts, she climbed astride his thighs and smoothed the condom over his impressive erection.
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“Sweet saints in heaven,” he groaned, falling against the squeaky mattress. She intended to tease him a little, but found she couldn’t wait. She wanted him so badly that instead of easing slowly, the moment she touched herself to him, she plunged down on his full, hard length. Intense pleasure ripped through her, destroying all her coherent thoughts and inhibitions. She rode him hard, the sweet promise of release shimmering on the edge of her consciousness. “Oh God, Rylie,” he rasped. Then he let go of her breasts and wrapped his hands around her hips. Before she could protest, he flipped her under him, thrusting into her once. Twice. She encircled his waist with her legs and met his next thrust with her own, shattering into the throes of orgasm. A moment later, she felt him join her.
Donovan shifted away from the enticing contours of Rylie’s bottom, snuggled intimately against him in the narrow confines of his bed. In the past few hours, they’d brought each other to completion two more times with hands and mouths. First they’d been in the shower after a session of eating scones and jam in bed had gotten completely out of hand. The bathroom had suffered an even worse fate, with water and sodden towels everywhere. Libidos momentarily sated, they’d partially dressed and gone into the kitchen to heat up the shepherd’s pie. Quickly dispatching that, they’d eventually gorged themselves with every edible thing in the cupboard. A
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short nap had left them so invigorated that their next go round threatened to knock plaster from the walls. In retrospect, he imagined everyone in the pub below probably heard them. One more time would undoubtedly be his complete ruin, though certain parts of his anatomy stirred with a differing opinion. Glancing at the illuminated bedside clock, Donovan reluctantly hauled his arse out of bed and pulled on his rumpled boxers. Smears of jam decorated the front of his T-shirt so he tossed it into the corner and opened the bureau drawer for a clean one. Behind him, the bed springs creaked and Rylie’s sleep muffled voice asked, “Why are you getting dressed?” “So I can take you back to Dungannon before we both turn into pumpkins.” Donning the fresh T-shirt, he turned and steeled for her protest. The dim light from the living room shone just enough for him to watch her stretch languidly, the coverlet slipping below one pert nipple. He bit his lower lip to stifle a groan. “Any other time, I’d want to stay,” she admitted. “But this is the noisiest, lumpiest bed I’ve ever slept in.” Then she threw off the covers and amidst the sound of more metal grating, rolled to the side of the mattress, exquisite in her nakedness. Whatever clever thing he’d been about to say dried in Donovan’s constricted throat, and her husky chuckle made something far more complicated than simple lust pound through his veins. “Oh, my mistake,” she continued, eyeing the growing tent of his boxers. “I guess not all the lumps were the bed.” She picked up her panties and twirled them around
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with her index finger. “So what is it the locals say? One more quick shag before we hit the road?” “Shag is English slang,” he replied haughtily, picking his crumpled trousers off the floor. “And if you don’t put on those knickers straight away, I’ll be beating down the door of the pharmacy and then where will we be?” “In a right feckin’ mess?” she asked innocently, then burst into a gale of laughter that he couldn’t help but echo.
At five minutes before midnight, Donovan kicked his trousers into the heap of dirty clothes in the corner, sighed and fell backward onto the mattress in a raucous chorus of squeaking springs. His bed was nearly wrecked, the loo flooded, and the cupboard bare, but the scent of Rylie’s hair lingered on the pillowcase. He’d never felt better in his entire life. Much later, the jangling of his mobile awakened him from a sound sleep. He squinted against the sunlight streaming in the window and saw that it was a quarter past eight. Could Rylie be up and about already? Wanton little minx. He smiled in spite of the muzziness clouding his head and answered the phone. “Donovan? Did I wake you?” asked an unfamiliar female voice. “Oh, no! So very sorry to call this early. ’Tis Brenna, Brenna McRory.” “Brenna,” he repeated. Then the tinge of urgency in her tone registered in his brain, and he shook his head to clear the fog of sleep. “Is something wrong?” “Did you see or talk to Aongus yesterday? He wasn’t in his office all day and he didn’t come home last night.”
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“Sorry, no.” Donovan stood, and then squirmed when his feet hit the cold floor. The image of Professor McRory and Sybil Gallagher flashed across his mind. “Did he say he’d be in Ballyneagh?” He balanced the phone between his ear and shoulder while he pulled on a pair of sweat pants. “No, I just assumed he went to the dig site.” Brenna sounded distracted, and more than a little upset. “But I left him several messages and it’s not like him to ignore my calls.” Before he could murmur a phrase of false reassurance, she plunged on. “The thing is, I finished the testing and I wanted him to bring you back here to discuss the results. This is not the kind of news to deliver over the phone.” “’Tis all right, Brenna,” Donovan broke in to calm her obvious distress. “We already know Rylie’s not Dermot’s daughter. He told her.” “’Tis not about Rylie . . . ” Her voice broke, a very bad sign surely. “Oh, God! I’m so sorry. I really didn’t want to tell you this way.” Donovan sat down abruptly. “What?” he demanded. His mind raced with a dozen horrible possibilities. “Just tell me, Brenna.” He heard her take a deep breath before she spoke with deadly calm. “Rylie is not Dermot’s offspring. But neither are you, Donovan.” “What?” he repeated, the sound hollow and meaningless inside his head. For a long, empty moment everything ground to a halt. He heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing. Then his hands started to shake. He wrapped both of them
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around the mobile to keep it against his ear. All the awful imaginings weren’t even close to this! “You can’t . . . How—” More words refused to emerge and he choked. “The Niall marker,” Brenna’s voice sounded far away, but every syllable was a bullet, blasting away pieces of him like the wobbly targets in a shooting gallery. “You have it, but Dermot doesn’t. Since it’s passed from father to son, there’s no way he can be your biological father.”
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Chapter 10 BALANCING HER TWO BAGS AND PURSE IN ONE HAND, RYLIE rapped on the door of Donovan’s apartment. If he didn’t answer quickly, the scent from the bakery bag would prove too tempting. Just like him. However, if he opened the door less than fully dressed, she would have quite a dilemma. Which to open first, the bag with the thick slices of bread called brambrack or the bag with the condoms? If only every day offered such delectable choices. She was about to knock again when the door swung open, and Donovan stood there in jeans, pullover, and socks, but no shoes. Okay, enough clothes to solve the initial problem. “Special delivery from Brigit’s,” she announced, holding up the white paper bag as she stepped inside. Then she rattled the plastic bag in her other hand. “And a little something from the pharmacy in Dungannon. A dozen little somethings.” She moved close, intending to stand on tiptoe and kiss him, but he brushed away, his movements stiff and guarded. “I was just about to call you,” he said, and his tone sounded strained. “I have to get to Holy Family right away.” She tossed both bags on the coffee table and clutched his arm. “Has something happened to Dermot?”
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He shook his head and pulled away. “No, not exactly. . . ” His stony expression did nothing to ease her growing anxiety. He sat on the couch and mechanically pulled on his sneakers. Chewing her bottom lip, she plopped next to him. “If it’s not an emergency, you should eat something first,” she babbled, pulling the bag with the raisin bread toward her. “I know you haven’t had anything.” He shook his head again and the haunted look in his eyes stopped her words and her breath. “I can’t . . . ” Donovan closed his eyes and his throat worked for a moment. Then he spoke in a rough whisper, “Brenna called about the tests.” “No!” Horror ripped down her spine. “No, not that! God, no.” He reached over and cupped her cheek with a trembling hand, and she sagged against him in relief. “Dermot’s not your father. But Brenna says—” His voice choked off again for a moment. He dropped his hand and looked away. “She says he’s not mine either.” When she tried to protest, he plunged on. “I have the Niall Marker and he doesn’t, so he can’t have fathered me.” “There must be a mistake,” she insisted, but the tortured look on his face said otherwise. She knew exactly what he was feeling, the shock, disbelief, anger. What kind of sick cosmic joke was this? An unreasoning urge broadsided her, and she ached to touch him, hold him, reassure him everything would be okay. But she couldn’t because she knew it wasn’t true. Everything might never be okay again.
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Still looking a bit unsteady, he stood and reached for his jacket. Rylie picked up her purse and the bag of brambrack and stood also. “I’ll drive.” Neither of them spoke more than a few words all the way to Armagh, though Rylie did manage to get Donovan to eat a slice of the brambrack. She had one too, even if it did taste like ashes. In spite of the lack of verbal exchange, a fierce protectiveness blossomed and grew inside her. When they reached the care facility, she got out of the car and marched inside next to him. No one greeted or acknowledged them as they strode down the hall, but Rylie did see the physical therapist entering the room next to Dermot’s. She positioned herself like a sentinel next to the door. “I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.” “Thanks,” Donovan replied, and without making eye contact, he disappeared inside. “Boh?” asked Dermot when he entered the room. His shrewd gaze took in Donovan’s obvious distress and he pulled over his tray table and communication device. Donovan scooted the chair close to the bed and sat stiffly on the edge of the seat. “We need to talk, Da,” he said, tilting his head so that he could see the screen when his father typed. “About the DNA tests.” The old man’s eyes narrowed to a pugnacious squint as he punched at the device. “Told truth! She’s not mine.” “This isn’t about Rylie. It’s about you and me.” A gray cloud of confusion passed across Dermot’s face and he gurgled an unintelligible question.
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Taking a deep breath Donovan began. “The woman who did the tests is studying a trait passed from father to son.” He lifted his gaze and watched Dermot carefully. “I told her to include you and me.” Dermot’s face went a shade paler and his jaw twitched, but he made no sound. Donovan felt his own nails digging into his palms. “I have the trait, but you don’t, Da.” For a dozen agonizing heartbeats, Donovan held his breath. Dermot appeared to do the same. Neither of them moved. Finally a single tear emerged from the corner of Dermot’s eye and slid down his grizzled cheek. Donovan sucked in a noisy, searing breath of air. “You . . . You knew.” Somehow, he was on his feet, his hands loosening and fisting convulsively. “You always knew, didn’t you?” Eyes squeezed tightly shut, Dermot gave what passed for a nod. A sob rattled in his chest. Too many emotions and questions crashed through Donovan for him to give voice to any of them, so he paced to the end of the bed and back, twice. On his third time, Dermot dashed his good hand across his eyes, then picked up the stylus. Donovan stopped to peer over his shoulder. “Luved her,” he typed. Then, “She luved U. Enuff 4 me.” “Oh God, Da,” Donovan whispered, his knees threatening to buckle under him. “Oh God . . . Oh God . . . ” He pulled Dermot into a fierce embrace, the mass of new implications threatening to overcome him. The old man’s scrawny shoulders felt like brittle bird bones in the grip of his fingers, but he held Donovan equally tight with his good arm.
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A commotion outside the door dragged Donovan back to reality. He could hear Rylie’s voice rising above several others, commanding them not to interrupt. His father’s hand trembled and dropped away. Donovan loosened his own hold, stepped back and scrutinized him. His breathing seemed shallow and rapid, his eyes dull with fatigue as he glanced from Donovan to the door and back. Here was one more thing Dermot did not need to face. At least not at the moment. Giving the old man’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, Donovan softly admonished, “Get some rest, Da. I’ll send that lot away.” After a brief verbal tussle with the physical therapist, the nurse, and the hulking aide, Tommy, Donovan gladly let Rylie lead him to the car. The charge nurse had agreed that as soon as she checked Dermot’s vitals, he wouldn’t be disturbed again until lunchtime. Once he’d fastened his seat belt, Donovan leaned against the headrest with a weary sigh. “Are you all right?” Rylie asked for the third time as she backed the car out of the parking space. “I hardly know,” he answered truthfully this time. He closed his eyes and felt the car turn out of the parking lot onto the street before he added, “Given the circumstances, I guess I’m as well as can be expected.” Rylie’s small hand settled atop his for a moment, feeling warm and soft and comforting somehow. “Do you want to talk about . . . the circumstances?” Her hand fluttered away. “If you don’t want to, that’s all right.”
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He opened his eyes and gazed at her profile, full cheek, pert nose, and determined chin. Her alluring mouth was pulled tight with worry. Worry over him. “No, I want to.” She glanced at him when he spoke, her gray eyes tender with concern. Quickly, he looked away, disconcerted by the unexpected answering response within him. Trying to decide where to start, Donovan took a deep breath, and then he told her everything. How his mother had disappeared right before they’d moved from the old cottage. How Dermot’s drinking grew worse and worse over the years. How he’d jumped at the chance to study in America even though neither Dermot nor Doreen wanted him to go. How it was so much easier to never look back. Donovan hadn’t really intended to, but once he started, the words seemed to tumble out of their own accord. Someone else spoke, calm and matter-of-fact, while he observed and Rylie drove and listened without comment. When the long recitation finally ended, he sat for a dozen silent heartbeats, staring at his clenched hands. “You were lucky.” Rylie spoke at last, her voice little more than a whisper. “Not many men can truly love a child they know is not their own.” As Donovan digested this nugget of information she continued, a hint of abrasion in her tone. “My stepfather cared for me, but it wasn’t the same. Especially not once my brothers were born.” “What a bloody fool,” Donovan muttered. “How could any man not love you?” A deep rosy color bloomed on her cheeks. “Plenty haven’t.” Then after a brief pause, she asked, “Is this the right road to Belfast?”
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“Belfast?” he echoed, pronouncing the word like she did, like a Yank. “Yes, but why?” “Because I’m taking you to get a decent cup of coffee.” Since it was Saturday, the streets teemed with people and parking was scarce, but eventually they found Starbucks and a nearby car park. Soon they settled at a secluded table over very large hot drinks. Rylie’s instincts were brilliant. He did feel better after sipping a fortifying cup of dark roast. “Maybe when we’re done, we can do some sightseeing,” she suggested. “I’ve heard the Ulster Museum is good.” Donovan couldn’t stop a grimace. “Last time I was in the Ulster Museum, I was thirteen and ended up face down on the floor in front of a display of Celtic jewelry.” “Oops. Guess museums aren’t high on your list of things to do,” she said, fingering her latte cup. “We could stroll around the botanical gardens. Or there’s always shopping.” Purposefully, he made another face and she laughed, the rich sound sending sensual awareness across his nervous system. He glanced at his watch, then out the window at the puffy clouds dotting the sky. “Let’s go next door and get some sandwiches,” he said, gulping down the last of his coffee. “Then I’ll take you to see the Giant’s Causeway, where legend has it that the Ulster warrior, Finn MacCool, scooped the earth from Lough Neagh and threw it into the sea to make a pathway to his lady love in Scotland.” Silvery lights sparkled in Rylie’s eyes, sending another wash of heat through him as she finished off her own drink.
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“You Ulster boys know how to impress a lady,” she mused with a saucy grin. “I’m afraid old Finn set the bar rather high.” He held her jacket for her. “Not for you,” she murmured with a knowing lift of her eyebrows. Images of the wildly pleasurable things they’d done last night danced across his mind. He had only meant to comfort her, but his libido had gotten completely out of hand. And then she had been amazing. He’d had his share of flings, to be sure, especially once he learned how American girls loved a lad with a brogue. But making love with Rylie had felt different somehow. With an inward groan, Donovan shoved those disconcerting thoughts aside and held open the door of the deli. Now, more than ever, he had no right to such feelings. This latest revelation gave him enough baggage to clog bloody Heathrow. Rylie ducked under his arm and walked inside the store. They bought fresh sandwiches, crisps, and bottles of water, which they took to the car. Donovan drove out of the city and up the main motorway through Ballymena to the Antrim coast. The weather held though, as always, winds buffeted the coastal cliffs. He pulled into a turnout so that they could eat overlooking the sea. However, the breeze proved too strong and they were forced to finish their meal inside the car. “What island is that?” she asked between bites. Donovan gazed at the barren dark hump. “Rathlin, famous for two things, Robert the Bruce and Guglielmo Marconi.”
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“Oh, right, I remember reading that in a guide book,” she said, expression thoughtful. “A Scottish king and an inventor.” “Only Robert the Bruce was an outlaw when he hid in a cave on Rathlin, a wanted fugitive.” Donovan finished off his sandwich while he watched her expression change. He could plainly hear her thoughts echoing his. One man’s hero is another’s outlaw. “I suppose the guide book related the story about the spider?” he said instead. “How watching it try and try to spin a web motivated the Bruce to fight again.” Rylie nodded, pouring the last slivers of her crisps into her hand. “Spiders give me the creeps.” She finished off the crumbs and the rest of her sandwich before she spoke again. “I borrowed the B&B manager’s computer this morning and emailed the private investigator.” Her eyes remained fixated on the car windscreen. “I sent her the info on Christy Reilly and asked her to try and locate him.” He took a swig of water to clear his throat before he asked, “In the prison, you mean?” Nodding again, she turned to face him, her pretty mouth pulled tight and her chin pointed up in stubborn defiance. “It’s something I need to do, Donovan. The whole reason I came here.” At the moment, the new knowledge of his parentage was too raw for him to comprehend, but because this was her, empathy arose from an elemental place within him. “Well, if he’s still in Northern Ireland it’ll be simple, for there’s only one real prison left, and it’s just outside Belfast.”
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“Really?” Realization and something akin to hope flashed across her face. All he could picture was her, his wee golden princess, waltzing into a maximum-security facility. Donovan winced. “But that’s no place for you to go. Not alone.” “You’re probably right.” She dropped her gaze to her hands. “Would you go with me? If it is the one near Belfast, I mean.” The disturbing turn his visions had taken with the dead man in the fens caused him to shudder at the possibilities of what might happen if he went into a prison. However, this was Rylie asking, and heaven knew he could deny her nothing. His fingertips brushed a strand of her hair. “To be sure.” Awash in feelings of possessiveness he shouldn’t be having, he pulled his hand away and reached to start the car. “Ready to see the Causeway, then?” She turned her gaze back to Rathlin Island and nodded. In spite of it being the off-season, the car park at the Giant’s Causeway was over two-thirds full. Donovan eased into the first empty spot he saw, and the two of them hurried to the Visitor Centre. They spent a halfhour inside looking at the various displays along with the other tourists, and Rylie purchased a disposable camera. When he wasn’t paying attention, she snapped his picture while he was studying a rack of sweets. “Just for that, I’m not buying a Cadbury bar for you,” he threatened with mock severity. But, of course, he wound up sharing his with her all the same. They opted not to ride the shuttle bus, walking down the steep road to the sea instead. Donovan hadn’t seen
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the thousands of bizarre, honeycomb-like stone pillars in over twenty years, but they were every bit as impressive as he remembered. Rylie seemed equally awed by the massive hexagonal formations. Hand-in-hand they clambered over and around the dark volcanic rocks, taking more pictures as they went. Rylie posed in front of the “pipe organ” formation. Donovan by the “harp” formation. And another tourist took one of the pair of them, with Rylie snuggled close under his arm as if she were meant to be there. After an hour in the increasingly gusty winds, they rode the shuttle back up the hill to the Visitor Centre. “Thanks so much for bringing me, it was great!” Rylie enthused. The chilly wind had left her cheeks almost as rosy as her red sweatshirt, and the constant buffeting had loosed wisps of hair from her ponytail. They framed her face in such an appealing way that it was all Donovan could do to keep from kissing her right there in front of the building full of tourists. Mentally chastising himself, he replied, “Glad you enjoyed it. I thought we’d stop for an early supper in Ballymena.” “Sounds good. But one more picture first.” And before he could stop her, she snapped what would undoubtedly be a very unflattering photo of him, next to a trash bin. A few kilometers down the road, she made him pull over so she could take a photo of Rathlin Island. Even though he told her it probably wouldn’t turn out in the fading light, she insisted. Sighing at his own foolishness, Donovan complied.
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When they reached Ballymena, they found a cozy little eatery in the bottom floor of a three-story Victorian. “This place is a bed and breakfast too,” Rylie observed as they got out of the car. “Why don’t we get a room and stay the night?” Then at his startled look, she added, “They must have better beds than that thing you sleep in. I’ll bet your mattress is the worst in three counties.” “You’re most likely right,” he conceded. “But things are very old-fashioned here. Unmarried couples, especially those with no luggage, don’t blithely check into B&Bs.” “You’re so cute when you’re all prim and proper,” she giggled. Then standing on tiptoe, she gave him a peck on the cheek. “Okay, I’ll put up with your horrible bed tonight, just don’t try to tell me you’re not that kind of boy.” Her closeness momentarily robbed Donovan of reason and he pulled her against him for a fast, urgent kiss. The truth was, he’d always been exactly the opposite of “that kind of boy”. Every relationship he’d ever had he made short, superficial, and completely commitment-free. That’s the way he’d always wanted them, until now. Shaken, he pulled away, but Rylie pressed herself against him for another long moment. “That’s my kind of appetizer,” she said in a husky whisper. “Let’s hurry up with dinner so we can get to your place for dessert.” Though he finished every morsel on his plate, Donovan scarcely tasted any of it. Before the meal arrived, Rylie had gone to the WC and emerged with her hair freshly combed and loose around her shoulders. The light from the single candle on the table made it gleam like burnished gold, while her smoky-eyed gaze sent all
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the blood to his groin. She kept teasing him with double entendres that made him squirm with growing sexual frustration. But he answered her sass with a bit of his own all the same. At this rate, he thought, they might not make it back to Ballyneagh. Near the end of the meal, their verbal antics were interrupted by the ringing of his mobile, but he ignored it, knowing it was likely to be unpleasant news. However, once they finished and he’d paid the bill, she reminded him to check his messages. “Oh, hullo Donovan. ’Tis Brenna McRory,” said the anxious-sounding voice. “I’m sorry to be calling again, but I’ve still had no word from Aongus and I was hoping . . . ” The message trailed away for a moment and when she spoke again, there was a catch like a sob. “I suppose I should call the police. I don’t know what else to do.” Stopping next to the car, Donovan hit the redial without thinking. “What’s wrong?” Rylie asked. But Brenna answered before he could tell her anything. “Brenna, ’tis Donovan O’Shea. Any word from Aongus?” “Donovan, I’m so sorry I disturbed you again.” Her tone sounded strained. “I called everyone I could think of and no one’s seen or heard from him. I even drove out to the dig site, your family’s old homestead, isn’t it? All I saw were some muddy prints inside the cottage, but I don’t think they were Aongus’s. They looked to be American trainers.” “Yes, those would be mine,” Donovan reluctantly admitted. “I was out there a couple of nights ago.” He
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hesitated a moment then asked, “Have you talked to Sybil Gallagher?” “I tried, but she’s not returned my calls either.” Her voice cracked and he heard an unmistakable sob. “This is just not like Aongus. I’m so afraid something’s happened to him.” “Don’t worry,” Donovan soothed, though the image of McRory with his assistant leapt to the forefront of his mind, making him clench his hand around the phone. “I’m sure he’ll show up any moment.” “I pray you’re right, but I was so distraught that before I left the cottage, I called the PSNI.” His stomach did a sudden pitch and roll, as Inspector Lynch’s squint-eyed glare materialized in his mind. “What did they say?” Brenna gave a ragged sigh, “Same as you. They took a report but told me he’d probably turn up in a day or two.” “There ya go then.” He forced a cheerful tone he definitely didn’t feel. “If I should hear anything, I’ll call you straight away.” “Thank you,” she murmured. “You’re too kind.” Then she rang off. “What’s going on?” Rylie asked as he shoved his mobile back into his pocket. When Donovan looked at her, the flash of McRory as the rampaging Norse warrior flitted through his head. Why was he suddenly full of ugly imaginings? “Professor McRory’s not been home in a couple of days.” He didn’t bother disguising his sour tone. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he held the passenger door for Rylie, then walked around and got into the
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driver’s seat before he spoke again. “Poor Brenna’s so worried she called the police.” He buckled his seat belt and reached for the ignition. “I didn’t have the heart to tell her he probably ran off with Sybil Gallagher.” “He hasn’t run off with Sybil,” Rylie said, her voice oddly tight and defensive. “I know, because yesterday morning, I put her on the ferry to Scotland.” Startled, Donovan cast a quick look in her direction, but her features were indiscernible in the darkness. Clearly there was something going on, but she didn’t elaborate. Finally, when she remained unmoving and speechless, he gently probed, “Why Scotland? And why you? Talk to me, Rylie. Please.” She sighed wearily, “I guess I was the available neutral third party. Sybil needed to be alone, away from McRory, to think.” She gave another long sigh, then added in a hoarse whisper, “She’s pregnant.” Donovan groaned aloud. “I’m guessing the professor wasn’t happy to hear that news.” Rylie gave a derisive snort, “Let’s just say he made his preferences very clear.” She shifted in her seat. “Now Sybil has some hard choices. And she wanted to be alone, so I helped her.” Her voice dropped back to a whisper. “I’m just glad it’s not my decision.” “A bad situation, to be sure,” he muttered, starting the car. The drive was long and quiet with both of them absorbed in their own thoughts. In truth, speculating on the whereabouts of McRory gave Donovan a welcome reprieve from the other disturbing revelations
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crowding his mind. Thoughts he’d managed to hold at bay all afternoon. When the sparse lights from Ballyneagh twinkled ahead in the darkness, Rylie broke the silence. “With everything that’s happened, do you still want me to stay tonight? I’ll understand if you don’t.” Donovan nearly swerved the car off the road in his surprise. “You must be joking!” he blurted, steering the vehicle back into the proper lane. “Unless, of course, you don’t—” “Get real!” Rylie interrupted. “I’ve hardly thought of anything else all day.” “Well, in that case . . . ” Donovan hit the brakes, pulled the car over and threw it into park. Then he leaned across and planted a big kiss on the side of her face. “Hey!” Laughing, she pushed him away. “What happened to Mr. Traditional who prefers a bed?” “After last night, I’ve become far less traditional.” Then Donovan captured her mouth with his for a kiss that started playful but quickly changed to sensual. A long moment later, Rylie broke away, panting. “The protection is still sitting in your living room.” Groaning, he put the car in gear and proceeded to set a new land speed record for the remaining distance to Ballyneagh. Gravel spewing beneath the tires, he flung the car into the first available space behind the pub, which sported the usual Saturday night crowd. The two of them piled out of the car and raced for the back door, their own laughter mingling with the loud noises coming from the main room. With this din,
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keeping their activities quiet would not be an issue. Donovan’s smile widened with the realization. Hand in hand, they bounded up the steps. While he fumbled to open the door, Rylie pulled his head down so that she could sprinkle a line of wet kisses from his chin to his jaw. When she reached his ear, she gave the lobe a teasing nip that sent his libido into overdrive, and his keys jangling to the floor. “Wanton little minx!” he gasped with laughter as they both dove to retrieve the keys. She snatched them off the floor first and made a tsking sound. “How clumsy of you.” “Clumsy is it?” he demanded, pressing her against the wall, their mouths scant millimeters apart. “You’re the one who bit me.” With one hand, he pried the keys from her clenched fist, while with the other, he traced his finger around the edge of her ear. “I’m going to do a lot more than that to you, if you ever get the door open,” she vowed. “Starting with this.” She claimed his lips, her hot, provocative tongue darting into his mouth. Her firm round breasts poked against his chest and her fingers tunneled into his hair, her nails raking erotically against his scalp. The need for the sweet oblivion she offered overwhelmed Donovan for a moment. With a guttural moan, he kissed her back, plastering his body against hers, his arousal thick and hard against her stomach. Breaking the kiss, she whispered, “The door, hurry!” “You’ll be the death of me,” he muttered, struggling to fit the key into the lock.
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“You’ll die smiling,” she promised, nuzzling at his neck again. “My Ulster warrior.” But before Donovan could turn the key in the lock, the door swung open. His sister Doreen stood on the other side of the threshold, arms crossed tightly across her chest. Her expression could curdle fresh cream. “About time you got home.”
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Chapter 11 THE DARK-HAIRED WOMAN’S GLACIAL TONE FLASH-FROZE Rylie’s blood. Holy freaking hell! She stumbled against Donovan, who stood as if he’d been frozen also. His mouth hung slack for another agonizing moment before he finally croaked, “Doreen, what are you doing here?” “I needed to talk to you,” the ice queen replied, skating her frosty glare over the two of them. Talk about bad first impressions! Cringing like a lower life form, Rylie dropped her hands to her sides and took a step backward, hoping against hope she would fade into the wall. “You could have phoned,” Donovan’s voice sounded equally chilly. “I would have, if I’d known you were . . . entertaining.” Her pointed emphasis acted like instant antifreeze and sent all Rylie’s blood rushing to her face. Donovan cast a quick glance in her direction then returned his sister’s arctic stare. “Miss Rylie Powell, this is my sister Mrs. Doreen Sullivan.” “H-hi,” Rylie managed. The other woman said nothing, just continued to stand in her regal splendor. Donovan grabbed Rylie’s hand and towed her past Doreen into the apartment.
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The first thing she saw was the box of condoms, sitting in the center of the coffee table on top of the plastic bag. Great. She might as well have worn a flashing neon sign that said I’m the slut who’s here to screw your brother’s brains out. Guiltily, she pulled her hand from Donovan’s grasp. “Have you put on the kettle then?” Donovan asked, his voice still stiff with formality. “You’ve run out of tea.” Doreen’s answer sounded accusatory, as if she knew why her brother had no groceries. “Then I’ll go downstairs and get us some,” he countered. “No, I will!” Rylie jumped at the loudness of her own voice, but no way was she staying up here alone with Donovan’s sister for even a minute. “Please, I insist.” Doreen inclined her dark head as if she were a queen bestowing a favor on a lowly subject. Rylie averted her eyes and shifted her feet. But when she glanced up, Donovan’s gaze met hers, bleak with apology and longing. “Hurry back,” he said. Right, like that was going to happen. She spun on her heel and marched out. However, as soon as she heard the door click behind her, she sprinted down the steps. Breathing hard, she headed straight for the bathroom under the stairs and splashed some water on her face. Then she gave herself a pep talk. She refused to let Donovan’s sister intimidate her any further. Meekly turning tail and running was not her style. Not that she could anyway, since Donovan still had her car keys. Squaring her shoulders with new resolve,
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Rylie assumed her walking-tall stance, strode out and headed for the main room of the pub. “So that’s your trouble-making little Yank,” Doreen sneered. She crossed the room and perched on the straight-backed wooden chair. “Seems to be one thing after another since she showed up here.” “None of this is her fault,” Donovan declared defensively. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, he swept the offending box of condoms back into the bag, and dropped it on the floor next to his feet. “Isn’t it then?” Her censorious gaze followed the bag’s movements. “When I stopped in to see Da this afternoon, he was too upset to be understood, raving on about tests and such. Her paternity tests, I’m guessing. The nursing staff was afraid they’d have to send him to hospital. Then I get here to find that police inspector nosing about asking questions about you and that Professor McRory.” She raised her eyes to his, and he was shocked at the anguish he saw in them. “God in heaven, Donovan, please don’t tell me you’re sleeping with that girl when she might be your half-sister!” “You bloody well know she’s not!” Outrage brought him to his feet before he realized what he was about. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he flung the words at her and turned his back to regain control. He paced to the end of the couch before he spoke again, his tone restrained. “Da admitted who her real father is.” He faced his sister with a fierce scowl. “Those tests he was raving about were of him and me. Seems he’s not my father either.”
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Doreen’s critical attitude dissolved before his eyes. With a strangled sound of distress, she covered her face with her hands. “Damn that Lizzy Cassidy to hell!” she muttered between her fingers. “What?” Donovan queried in utter confusion. After a long moment, Doreen lowered her hands, but her voice was still shaky. “Remember when I was fourteen and wanted to become a nun? Well, Lizzy Cassidy told me I couldn’t because my mother was a whore.” Her voice took on a low, steely undertone. “When I told her to take it back, she said, ‘everybody knows your brother was born only six months after your father came home from Liverpool.’” “Bloody hell!” Donovan swore. “Does everyone in County Armagh know except me?” Feeling unsteady, he sat back down on the sofa. His sister wiped her nose with a tissue and gave a defiant little toss of her head. “Not from Lizzy Cassidy. I pushed her down into a muddy ditch and told her if she said another word about my mother or my brother again, I’d bash her over the head and drag her into the fens where nobody would ever find her.” A greasy ball of apprehension formed in the pit of Donovan’s stomach, while he stared silently at Doreen for a long moment. “Like our mother did to Malachy Flynn?” “Stop it!” she hissed. “Some things are better left unsaid.” “Not any more,” he insisted, leaning across the coffee table. “Tell me, Doreen. Tell me what happened that day Mum went missing.” Doreen bit her lip and clasped her hands tightly in her lap before she finally spoke in a halting voice. “We were
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packing up our things to move here. Da had left early to go to Belfast. I heard Mum on the phone. She sounded strange, so I went down to see what was the matter.” Doreen stopped and squeezed her eyes shut as if she could see the scene playing out once more. “She was pale as death but her eyes were crazy wild. She told me to go and fetch you. The two of us had to go to Ballyneagh. And we were not to go on the road. We must cut across Mr. Farrell’s pasture.” “I remember,” Donovan murmured, rubbing his temples to soothe the dull ache that throbbed there. “You made me get into the sheep crib. It was full of moldy old straw and I didn’t want to.” He touched his sister’s tightly clenched hands and she opened her eyes. “You went back, didn’t you? What did you see?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Not a lot. I stayed on the other side of the wall and peeked through the rocks. There was a black car parked in the yard . . . ” She swallowed convulsively. “I could hear a man shouting, and Mum screaming. I was scared. But then everything went deadly quiet, and I was even more scared.” “Did you go to the cottage?” Donovan asked when she stopped speaking. Doreen shook her head. “I started to, but then Mum came out. She was dragging something. I couldn’t see very well, but it was something heavy. And she was crying.” A single tear slid down Doreen’s face too. She dashed it away with the back of her hand. “She dragged it into the fens. I—I waited a long time, but she didn’t come back. I was afraid to leave you alone any longer, so I ran back to the crib.”
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The dull pain inside Donovan’s skull had intensified to a pounding. “We waited in the barber shop for Da, didn’t we?” Nodding briefly, Doreen’s gaze shot to the door. The pounding wasn’t inside his skull after all. Donovan covered the short distance quickly and threw open the door. Rylie stood outside balancing a large tray with a teapot, cream, sugar, and a plate of scones. She craned her neck to see around him. “Let me help you,” he offered. But she shook her head and stepped inside. “I’m okay. I’ll just take this into the kitchen.” Silently, Rylie walked past Doreen, who was now completely composed and sat ramrod straight in her chair. As Rylie disappeared from sight, Donovan shut the door and turned to his sister. “We need to go to the PSNI and tell them the truth.” Doreen cast a doubtful glance toward the kitchen. “What truth is that, Donovan?” She got up and walked toward him, her voice low. “Mum may have killed that man, but for all we know it was self-defense. All those years ago, when I told Da what I saw and asked shouldn’t we go to the RUC, he told me we couldn’t trust them. He said there were those who would do all of us harm, even the police.” His mind didn’t want to accept her words. He would rather believe things were straightforward. “That was a long time ago,” he argued to himself as well as her. “A lot has changed. The Sinn Fein and IRA are all legitimate nowadays.”
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“Maybe so, but there’s something about that Inspector Lynch I don’t trust.” She stopped abruptly when Rylie walked back into the room carrying two mugs. “Do you take cream or sugar, Doreen?” she asked, her voice just a bit too sweet. His sister shot Rylie one of her most sour disapproving glares. “I shan’t be taking tea, thank you.” “Okay.” Sarcasm laced Rylie’s saccharin tone. “Since Donovan and I take our tea without anything, we’ll drink these. I don’t suppose you want a scone?” “As a matter of fact, Doreen was just leaving.” Donovan placed his hand against his sister’s back and gave her a look that dared her to say otherwise. Rylie set the mugs on the coffee table and plopped down in the corner of the sofa. “Guess I’ll see you later, Doreen.” Doreen snatched her purse off a pile of boxes and turned away with a disdainful sniff. “At least I know why Da was so upset,” she said stiffly to Donovan as she walked out the door. Then she added, “I’m sorry Lizzy Cassidy was right. And I’m sorry you found out this way.” “Me too,” he acknowledged. Before he shut the door, he watched her sweep down the stairs, regal as a queen. Then, feeling as if he’d been thrashed by a gang of street thugs, he walked back to where Rylie waited on the sofa. “What was that last thing she said?” Rylie asked, her face pensive with concern. Donovan lowered himself into the opposite corner from where she sat and rested his head wearily in his
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hands. “Seems she’s known for years about Da and me, along with half the town.” He blew out a frustrated breath and continued, “And you were right. She remembered quite a lot about that day. The day our mother killed a man and disappeared into the fens.” “Oh, Donovan,” she murmured, touching his forearm in a comforting gesture. “First that stuff about your father and now this. I’m so sorry.” “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” he replied, though he couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Sorry that you have to be here in the middle of all this.” “Don’t be sorry about that,” she said, drawing up her legs and scooting next to him. “I’m not.” She brushed her fingertips through his hair. “In fact, I’m glad I’m here, because I intend to make you forget all about everything for awhile.” He looked up into her silvery eyes, and saw fire smoldering in their depths. Then her small hands settled on both his cheeks, framing his mouth, and her lips slanted across his. With a shuddering sigh, Donovan pulled her onto his lap, and answered the beckoning of her tongue with his own. Rylie’s hands left his face and moved to the buttons on his shirt. Once those were undone, she yanked both his shirttails and T-shirt free of his waistband. But when he tried to return the favor, she broke the long hot kiss to pull his hands away. “Let me finish with you first,” she insisted. “Then it’ll be my turn.” “Never let it be said that I couldn’t take turns,” he replied while she divested him of his shirt.
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“Smart man,” she breathed, wrestling his T-shirt over his head. “Very smart man.” Then her mouth trailed down his neck and settled warm and moist on his collarbone, while her nails grazed hot paths over his stomach. Stifling a groan, he tossed the T-shirt onto the floor and stroked the silky strands of her hair draped across his chest. Long, torturous moments later, when her fingers reached his waistband and unbuttoned the fly of his jeans, Donovan had indeed forgotten everything.
The bed springs creaked out a noisy chorus that roused Rylie awake. An icy draft of air hit her bare bottom, announcing that Donovan was out of bed. With a muffled groan, she rolled over and saw his tall, lanky form silhouetted in the gray pre-dawn light from the window. Dressed in flannel pajama pants and nothing else, the sight of him sent a warm rush of desire spiraling through her. Amazing, considering he’d brought her to orgasm how many times last night? Didn’t matter, however many times, she was ready for one more. In a distant corner of her mind, a voice told her with Donovan, she would always be ready for one more. Knock it off, Rylie! She chastised herself. She and Donovan were having a fling. A very pleasurable one, maybe the best one she’d ever had, but a fling nonetheless. Even if it didn’t feel like one. It was still a fling. By this time next week, she’d be back home in California and life without Donovan. Or anybody, for that matter. But she wasn’t going to let herself think
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about that and spoil any of the time she had left. She intended to enjoy every minute. Starting now. “Come back to bed,” she called. “Sorry I woke you.” When he turned in her direction, Rylie could see by his profile that she wasn’t the only one ready for round whatever. “Then make it up to me.” “Go back to sleep,” he urged instead, facing the window again. Rather than argue, she shook her hands free from the overly long sleeves of the pajama top she wore and crawled out of the noisy bed. The wooden floorboards sent a chill up her bare feet and legs that made her shiver. She slipped up and pressed herself against Donovan’s back, wrapping her arms around his torso and linking her fingers across his bare chest. His skin felt cool to her touch, but his muscles seemed tense. Not with desire, but with something else she didn’t recognize. “What is it?” she whispered. “I don’t really know,” he admitted slowly. “Something isn’t right, but I can’t quite put my finger on what.” Rylie’s own stomach muscles clenched. “Something with us?” He turned in her grasp and hauled her tight against his chest. “God in heaven, no! If things were any more right between us, I would be certain I’d died and gone to heaven.” She reveled in his answer for a moment, enjoying the tickle of his chest hair against the side of her face.
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“Then it must be what you and your sister were talking about,” she ventured at last. “The dead man and your mother.” Beneath her cheek, his heart gave a pronounced thump. “Yes, and more besides, I think. Dermot, and your father, and maybe even McRory are all pieces in this. I just need to fit them together somehow.” She pulled away and looked up at him, but disconcerting shadows obscured his handsome face. “With your Sight thing, you mean?” “I’m afraid so.” He pulled her close again, tucking her head under his chin. “I’ve never been able to control this gift or whatever ’tis I have. In fact, I’ve spent over half my life avoiding it. But now I have to use it, because I know the answers are out there, in the fens.” The last thing Rylie wanted was to leave the warm cocoon of his arms, and she didn’t care how selfish that made her. “Well, I don’t think they’re going anywhere, so they can wait for a couple more hours. Let’s go back to bed.” She got her wish for a little while, but at a quarter before seven, with Donovan waiting in the car, she ran inside her B&B and did a quick clothes change. Since she’d already showered at his place, she threw a few items into a plastic bag and sprinted back out the door before Mrs. Cooke or anyone could waylay her. By 7:05, she and Donovan were seated at the counter of a bustling café called “Molly’s” ordering breakfast. “You don’t have to go with me, you know,” Donovan muttered after the waitress delivered their heaping plates and hurried away.
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Rylie paused with her fork full of scrambled eggs halfway to her mouth. “Yes, I do. We agreed it’s not safe for you try alone.” After he’d related his adventure from two nights ago and admitted that he didn’t know how long he had lain unconscious, she wasn’t about to let him do it again without her being close by. Her gaze followed his to the window, where gray drizzle hung over the street. “’Tis a miserable day to be mucking about in the fens.” “I won’t melt any faster than you will.” Her quip didn’t earn her a smile, but her rumbling stomach would be denied no longer and Rylie attacked her eggs, bangers, and hash browns with gusto. Donovan followed her lead, though with far less enthusiasm. “If you’re trying to think up more arguments, save your energy,” she warned between bites. A half-hour later, they were back in her rental car headed for the O’Shea’s deserted cottage. The landscape remained shrouded in soggy gloom. This was the kind of day made to stay indoors. In bed. Even Donovan’s old, lumpy, squeaky bed. Rylie gave herself a mental curse for her wayward thoughts. She was definitely fulfilling Doreen’s extremely low opinion of her. However, thinking of Donovan’s warm apartment in contrast to the cold and dank cottage—or worse, the fens—gave her an idea. “Didn’t you say that just looking at a display of Celtic jewelry once triggered your gift?” Brows lowered in suspicion, he nodded.
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“Then why can’t we just take things back to your place and experiment there?” Frowning, he turned the car off the main road onto the paved country lane. “What sort of things?” “Dirt? Rocks? I don’t know.” Rylie blew out her breath in frustration as the car bounced over the rutted road. “How did you know to go to that excavation site? Can you tell you’re going to have a vision before it starts?” Donovan seemed deep in concentration before he answered. “Usually there’s a kind of buzzing sound first.” He started to say more then didn’t. Rylie chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment. “If it doesn’t work we can always come back out here.” “I think you may be onto something,” he admitted, and she nearly clapped her hands in relief. “And trying this in a controlled environment makes sense.” His lips tilted into a half smile. “A nice, warm and dry environment.” She reached over and gave his leg a pat. “Have I told you lately that you’re a very smart man?” His lips curled into a full-fledged grin. “I believe you mentioned it last night.” Minutes later they turned onto the bumpy dirt track and within a few more minutes, the cottage came into view. Streamers of yellow police tape fluttered from the open gate. “Are we even supposed to be here?” Rylie asked nervously. “Probably not.” Donovan guided the car to a stop close to the cottage door. Before they got out, she looked around for a container. Neither of them had eaten their muffins at
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breakfast, and the waitress had put them in a white styrofoam box. Rylie wrapped both muffins in a napkin and shoved the empty box into her jacket pocket. “All set,” she said, flipping the hood of her windbreaker over her head. “Let’s try the storage pits first,” Donovan suggested. Somehow, the dreary weather gave the cottage and its trampled yard with mounds of dirt a sinister air. Grateful for Donovan’s solid presence beside her, she slipped her hand into his as they walked across the muddy yard. However creepy the house and yard looked, the fens looked even more so. The heavy mist hovered over the uneven ground and clung to the trees and bushes, giving them the look of spectral beings. She sent up a fervent prayer that they wouldn’t have to go in there anytime soon. As they approached the nearest mound of dirt, Donovan’s fingers tightened around hers. She jerked her gaze away from the spooky images of the fens and looked at his profile. His jaw was clenched, and his lips were a thin, rigid line. “You can hear something.” It wasn’t a question, but he nodded anyway. Then he let go of her hand and looked away, his voice a stiff whisper. “This was the first pit I discovered. There was a dog . . . ” He closed his eyes and swallowed. “And a horse.” “What should I do?” She fumbled in her pocket for the box and held it out. “Collect some of the dirt?” He nodded again and she walked to the muddy hole and peered into it. Better than the fens, she reminded herself grimly.
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Donovan continued to stare off in the opposite direction. “I think something from the bottom would be best, if you can manage it.” One end sloped and Rylie carefully edged her way down. An inch of muddy water lay at the bottom, so she opted to scrape damp earth off the side as low as she dared to bend over. When she’d collected a lump roughly the size of one of the muffins, she closed the box and shoved it back into her pocket. Then she started an even slower and more cautious exit, mud clinging to her shoes. She could see Donovan now staring moodily at the fens. “Do we need anything else?” she asked, fighting the urge to wipe her hands on her jeans. He looked at her as if she’d just materialized from the mist. Then he ran the back of his hand across his eyes and said, “I suppose you’d like to wash up.” She nodded and they walked back toward the cottage. However, halfway there Donovan stopped and rubbed at his temple. “Am I too close? Can you hear whatever you hear from the dirt?” “No, ’tis something over here.” He moistened his lips then paced behind the car where previous vehicles had left numerous ruts and tire treads. Wordlessly, Rylie followed. Hand still hovering at his temple, he moved slower and slower, finally stopping altogether. “There’s definitely something here.” She scuffed at a clod with her shoe, then squatted down to examine the tire tracks. All she could see was
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more mud and tangles of dead grass. She started to stand when something metallic caught her eye. Putting one hand on the ground for balance, she unearthed the partially buried object. “This looks like that thing Professor McRory had the first night we met,” she mused, brushing away more of the dirt. “The scabbard ornament,” Donovan hissed. “Put it away!” Glancing up, Rylie saw him holding both temples. His face looked unusually pale. She shoved the offending piece of metal into her pocket and leaped up. “Are you okay?” Donovan drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then nodded. “I’ll just wait in the car whilst you wash your hands.” She hurried to the cottage door, which was unlocked. Stamping mud off her shoes, she stepped inside and hastily made her way to the bathroom. Plunging her hands under the faucet, she yelped when the icy water hit. Not only was there no soap, but there was nothing to dry on. Teeth chattering, she turned off the water and rubbed her numb hands on the legs of her jeans. Donovan’s place would feel like nirvana after this. Twenty minutes later, they were back in Ballyneagh. Since it was Sunday, everything was closed, including the pub. Upstairs, they both removed their muddy shoes and left them just inside the door. Heading straight for the bathroom, Rylie gave her hands a thorough scrubbing with soap and heavenly hot water, while Donovan
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brewed tea. She returned to the living room, peeled off her windbreaker and draped it over the corner of the couch, then sat down. A few moments later, Donovan came in carrying two mugs. He sat in the opposite corner. “Let’s get this over then,” he sighed, placing the steaming cups on the coffee table. He rolled his head from side to side as if his neck were kinked with nervous tension. “We could wait,” she suggested tentatively. “At least until we finish our tea.” “I’d rather not.” His tone bordered on brusque and he didn’t meet her gaze. “I don’t think you realize how difficult this is for me. I don’t like the idea of you seeing me—” He broke off and closed his eyes for a moment. “Actually, I’m not really sure what you might see, but I have a feeling it won’t be pleasant.” He was right. If they waited she might lose her nerve. “That’s okay,” she replied. “As long as you’re all right.” Taking a deep breath, she reached for her windbreaker, pulled the white styrofoam box from the pocket, and set it on the table in front of him. “Whenever you’re ready.” Donovan took a deep breath too, then leaned forward and opened the lid. With slow deliberation, he broke up the clump of mud and let it sift through his fingers. Rylie knew the instant it hit him. His breath caught and his eyelids fluttered as if he were about to lose consciousness. All the color leached from his face and his fingers went slack. “Donovan?” she squeaked in panic, grasping his arm.
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With a sharp intake of breath, he fell back against the couch cushion in a startle reflex, lucidity snapping back into his eyes. “Wait!” She snatched her hand back in embarrassment. “Sorry, I guess I need to give you more time, but I didn’t think you were breathing.” He gave her hand a pat of reassurance. “At least your idea seems to be working. Just give me a minute or two. Surely I can hold my breath that long without permanent damage.” “Okay.” She tried to sound blithe, though she felt anything but. “I’ll hold my breath too. That way I’ll know when you need air.” Nodding, he gave her hand another pat then leaned forward again. This time, when he touched the moist earth, he shut his eyes. His already pale complexion went paler and after a half-dozen heartbeats, his breath stopped again. With a nervous inhale, Rylie stopped breathing too and studied his still, handsome features. Beneath his eyelids, she could see rapid movement, like REM sleep. Her fingernails dug into her palms as she fought to keep the air contained in her lungs. Donovan wheezed unexpectedly and Rylie’s breath whooshed out in surprise. She grasped his arm. “Donovan?” Inhaling deeply, he groaned and opened his eyes. “Are you okay? Did you see anything?” She clamped her mouth shut to stop babbling. He massaged his forehead with his free hand, which shook a little. “I’m fine.” He ran his tongue over his
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bottom lip then swallowed. “’Twas as if I were hovering over the scene and looking down. I could see two Druids preparing the pit. They had wooden spades . . . ” “Have some tea,” she insisted, pressing the closest mug into his hands, which felt clammy with perspiration. He took a gulp, then shook his head as if to clear it. “I don’t think this will show me enough.” That meant going back out to the nasty old fens. Rylie shuddered and reached for a sip of tea herself, mind whirling with excuses to not go. “Try this other thing first.” She set down her mug, reached into her jacket pocket, and pulled out the mud encrusted scabbard ornament. Donovan’s eyes widened and he drew away with a hiss, like a vampire confronted with a cross. Abruptly, he set the mug back on the coffee table, sloshing out tea. This thing obviously had a lot more woo-woo than a clod of dirt. Rylie drew her hand back into her lap. He ran his fingers through his hair, then held out his palm. “All right, give it to me then.” “Just a second.” She glanced at her watch, then back at his grimly determined face. “Okay, you’ve got three minutes.” And she slapped the dirty hunk of metal into his hand. He reacted instantly, his breath choking off and his eyes rolling back. She clasped her hands tightly together in her lap to keep from grabbing him, and focused on the minute hand of her watch. The harder she stared, the less it seemed to move. Beside her, air rattled in Donovan’s chest and her eyes jumped to his face. Tiny beads of sweat gathered on his
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bloodless upper lip and his jaw twitched. She looked back at her watch—still one more minute to go. He was breathing, but shallowly and very labored. His eyes rolled side to side and a low moan gurgled in the back of his throat. Damn it! She wasn’t waiting any longer! “Donovan!” she cried, gripping his forearm. When he didn’t respond, she grasped his shoulder and shook. “Donovan! Come back!” He went deathly still under her hands. No breath. No eye movement. A panicky chill snaked down Rylie’s spine. “No!” she shrieked, as he slumped against the couch cushion, the piece of metal clanking to the floor. Before she could shriek again, a strangled sob shuddered through his body and his eyes popped open. The pupils were so wide that they obscured all but a tiny rim of blue iris, just like the day they’d discovered the body in the fens. He sucked in another gasping breath and sat up. “Thank God, oh thank God . . . ” she babbled. But his big hand closed convulsively over her wrist. “M-McRory,” he stuttered. “McRory’s dead.”
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Chapter 12 DONOVAN GROUND THE HEELS OF HIS HANDS INTO HIS EYES to try and blot out the terrible image, but to no avail. When he looked up, Rylie slumped next to him on the couch, pale and trembling. He never should have allowed her to become involved with this. With him. “You’re sure he’s dead, but you don’t know who killed him?” she asked in a quivering whisper. Pain throbbed behind his eyeballs and a fresh wave of nausea swept through his gut, but he managed to nod. Rylie sighed raggedly, “And if we go to the police, they’ll think we’re crazy. Or worse.” “Afraid that’s the long and short of it.” Gripping the arm of the couch, Donovan hauled himself to his feet and swayed drunkenly for a moment. “Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded. “The loo, for aspirin.” She tugged on his arm. “No you’re not. Sit back down. Or better yet, lie down. I’ll get you aspirin.” Feeling too weak and sick to argue, he complied, falling back onto the cushions with a groan. Much to his chagrin, Rylie bent down and hoisted his legs up so that he reclined across the full length of the sofa. “I’ll be right back,” she said and disappeared through the archway. Donovan let his chin loll against his chest in momentary defeat. Their little experiment had turned out to be
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both a success and a disaster. With Rylie’s help, he had managed to induce his “gift,” but what he learned only compounded the problems. And no matter how terrible he felt, how tired, after this last “vision” he knew he would have to go into the fens for the answers. Rylie reappeared and pressed three tablets into his palm. He chugged them down with tepid tea. “Just rest here for a few minutes until your headache is better,” she said, taking the mug from his hand. “Why don’t you rest with me?” She lifted her eyebrow and gave him a knowing look. “There’s barely enough room for you. Besides, I think it’s safer if I just go clean up the kitchen.” “Spoilsport.” The fact that he’d capitulated twice without argument proved how done-in he was. He craned his neck to watch the sway of her cute little derriere as she strolled away carrying both mugs. He’d never felt like this about a woman . . . giddy, possessive, protective, and more. Perhaps she really had bewitched him. Shite! He was in a very bad way if he were thinking such ridiculous thoughts. Sighing, Donovan succumbed to his exhaustion and closed his eyes. Only for a few moments. The ringing of his mobile awakened him from a fitful sleep haunted by fragments of disturbing dreams. He nearly rolled off the sofa, first in surprise, then struggling to extract the phone from his pocket. At last he managed to flip it open and breathlessly answer. “D-Donovan?” By now he recognized Brenna McRory’s voice, though it was thick with tears.
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“Hullo, Brenna. Are you all right?” The image of McRory’s dead, sightless eyes flashed across his mind and he nearly dropped the phone. “I—They—” She choked in a strangled sob. “They found Aongus’s Land Rover.” “Where?” He asked sharply. “’Twas in Lough Neagh, sunk nearly to its rooftop.” Brenna continued to sob. “But no sign of Aongus. They—they’re going to drag the lake . . . ” Donovan took a deep breath, and suddenly realized Rylie was hovering over his shoulder. “Where are you now, Brenna?” “The PSNI stationhouse in Dungannon. They’ve told me to go home and wait, since the search could take hours, but I—” Her voice broke and she sputtered half-coherently. “I don’t think I can drive . . . I knew you were close by. I’m so sorry . . . I didn’t know who else to ask.” “’Tis all right, Brenna,” he soothed, hating that it was a lie. “Rylie and I will come fetch you. We’ll see that you get home.” After a bit more sobbing by Brenna and a few more reassurances from him, Donovan rang off. “Did they find Professor McRory?” Rylie asked, her expression taut with worry. He shook his head. “His car, but no sign of him.” He rubbed his neck, which ached from sleeping on the couch. “And I’d tell them they’re looking in the wrong place if only they wouldn’t ask how I knew.” She feathered her fingertips down the side of her face. “So Brenna is taking it hard.”
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Closing his eyes to let the balm of her touch sooth him, he nodded. “Since the car is registered to the university, the PSNI asked her to come and make a positive I.D. She’s at the station house in Dungannon and I told her we’d drive her home.” He captured her hand and dropped a light kiss into her palm. “Do you mind very much?” Rylie squeezed his hand and brushed her lips across the top of his head. “Of course I don’t.” His few minutes of sleep had lasted over two hours, and it was now almost noon. Before they left for Dungannon, he and Rylie went down to the empty pub kitchen and Donovan scraped together the ingredients for boxty. “Boxty on the griddle, boxty in the pan.” He recited in a singsong tone as he fried the mashed potato concoction. “If you can’t make boxty, you’ll never get a man.” He divided the single large pancake into quarters, the way his Mum had always done, and scooped out two portions for Rylie. Then he flipped the remaining two pieces onto his own plate. She looked between him and her steaming dish, and gave her head a little toss. “What if I don’t want a man?” “Too late, I’m afraid. You’ve already got one.” They didn’t take time to properly clean up. Instead they merely rinsed the dishes and left them stacked in the sink. They’d nearly reached their destination before Rylie finally asked, “Are you going to tell Brenna? About Aongus, I mean . . . ” Donovan’s hands involuntarily tightened on the steering wheel. “I don’t think I’ll need to. She already suspects the worst.” But he wasn’t about to confirm it,
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even if he did have to lie through his teeth. “What about you, are you telling her about Sybil?” Rylie sucked in her breath sharply. “God no! She definitely doesn’t need to hear that.”
Her red hair plaited just as it had been the night they’d all met at Queen’s, Brenna waited for them on a bench inside the PSNI station door. “I’m so sorry to be such a nuisance,” she said, catching each of their hands with hers. “But thank you so much.” “’Tis no bother,” Donovan insisted while Rylie made similar assurances. “I’ll just drive you in your car and Rylie can follow us.” Brenna murmured more thank-yous, and pressed a tissue to the corners of her already puffy eyes. “If you wouldn’t mind, could you take a look at the Range Rover before we go? ’Tis in the impound yard just round back.” When Donovan gave her a look of confusion, she wrapped her fingers around his forearm and continued in a low voice, “The other night at Callahan’s, Aongus told me you have The Sight. I thought maybe if you looked at the Rover . . . ” He started to tell her he didn’t need to look, but decided better of it. This way, he could honestly say he saw nothing and perhaps that would put an end to her questions. “All right, then.” He agreed, and was so guilt-ridden by the look of hope on her face that he added, “But I must warn you, whatever ’tis I have doesn’t always work.”
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Since she hadn’t heard the exchange, Rylie shot him a quizzical look when they passed her rental car. “Half a moment,” he said and followed Brenna around the building. “’Tis that one.” Brenna pointed and looked away quickly, wiping her eyes again. The mud-encrusted vehicle sat alone near the gate, looking forlorn. Donovan took a deep breath then slowly counted to ten before he turned back to Brenna. “Anything?” Her golden brown eyes pleaded for any shred of information. He shook his head, but her crestfallen look plagued him so much that he said in all honesty, “He wasn’t in the Rover when it went into the water.” Color flooded Brenna’s face and her fingers dug into his arm. “We must tell them to stop dragging the lake!” “Brenna, no!” Donovan ordered, breaking her hold. This was the last thing he needed. “He could still be there. He just wasn’t inside the car.” He clamped his mouth shut, determined not to dig himself in any deeper with more lies. Tears choked her voice again. “You think Aongus is dead, don’t you?” He would definitely not make the mistake of telling her the truth either. “I don’t know,” he answered in as neutral a tone as he could muster. It wasn’t a total lie. He didn’t think it. “But we need to let the PSNI do their jobs and find out what happened to him.” He placed his arm around the sobbing woman, and guided her back toward the front parking lot. They rounded the corner and nearly collided with Inspector Lynch.
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“Fancy meeting you here, O’Shea,” the beefy man mused, standing directly in their path with his hands in his pockets. “Funny how you manage to constantly turn up in the middle of PSNI business.” Donovan gave the man a narrow-eyed glare. “And what PSNI business brought you to my pub yesterday?” “I’d been back out to your family farm and found someone wearing American trainers had been inside the cottage.” He looked pointedly at Donovan’s shoes. “And I thought perhaps I needed to remind you that ’twas still a crime scene. Only you weren’t at the pub.” “I took Miss Powell to see the Giant’s Causeway.” “So she just told me.” The glance Lynch sent in Rylie’s direction made Donovan seethe with an unreasoning desire to punch the leer off his fleshy face. “As for a crime scene, what could possibly still be in that cottage over twenty-years after the fact?” The inspector continued to smirk. “I thought you might tell me, O’Shea.” “Not without my attorney,” Donovan replied, then he stepped around the man. “Come on, Brenna. Let’s go.” Lynch made no move to stop them. Brenna pointed out her white Volvo sedan, and they stopped en route where Rylie waited behind the wheel of her rental car. She assured them she would have no trouble following them to Newtownabbey, but Donovan made an arrangement for a meeting place all the same, in case they did become separated. Brenna also gave her the address and telephone number of her brother, Colin Murphy, where she’d decided to stay the night.
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Noticing that Inspector Lynch was nowhere to be seen, Donovan escorted Brenna to her car and they began the drive. “I’m so sorry Donovan, I seem to bring nothing but bad tidings to you.” Brenna sniffed, and then blew her nose into a well-worn handkerchief. “At least it was fortuitous that you and Rylie weren’t related.” “Indeed it was,” he acknowledged. “And turns out I was the only one surprised about my parentage. ’Twas old news to my father, my sister, and half the village.” Brenna gave a wan smile. “Such secrets can seldom be completely hidden. Like Aongus and his women.” Donovan tried to keep his surprise from showing but he must not have succeeded, for Brenna gave his arm a motherly pat. “Surely you didn’t think me foolish enough not to know. Aongus has always had an eye for the ladies, ’tis part of who he is. But he always comes back to me, and I always forgive him.” “You deserve better,” Donovan muttered, staring fixedly at the road. “So I’ve been told, and on more than one occasion,” Brenna replied. “And perhaps I do, but ’tis himself I love.” He couldn’t begin to argue with that and didn’t try. The drive to Newtownabbey, a northern suburb of Belfast, passed without incident. Rylie managed to follow them with no problems. When they arrived at the narrow brick row house occupied by Brenna’s brother and his family, she insisted they come inside. Introductions were made all around with Colin Murphy, his wife April, and their two young daughters, Shawna and Emily. As soon as they discovered Rylie
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lived in California, both little girls were in awe and convinced she must be a movie star. While April disappeared into the kitchen to brew a pot of tea, the girls dragged Brenna and Rylie upstairs to show them their Halloween costumes. Donovan found himself alone in the sitting room with Colin, who peered at the rugby match on the telly for a moment before switching it off. Donovan perched on the edge of the sofa, wishing he were elsewhere. “Leave the match on if you’d like.” Colin shook his head and snorted, “April would have my hide. We don’t see Brenna nearly as much as we should. I suppose she told you Aongus and I don’t get on.” “No, but I understand why you don’t.” A look of loathing crossed the other man’s face. He glanced first toward the stairs, and then toward the kitchen before he said, “Then you’ll also understand when I say ’twould not break my heart if they never found that faithless bastard.” Careful what you wish for. Donovan was hard-pressed not to voice the warning aloud. He was spared a reply by Colin’s wife calling from the kitchen that tea was almost ready. Colin rose to his feet and bellowed up the stairwell, “Girls! Bring Auntie Bren and Rylie downstairs now.” Amid much giggling, the four females appeared. Rylie sported some sort of sparkling metal band on her head and carried a plastic stick in her free hand, a child’s fantasy of a faery princess. Donovan’s wayward thoughts of Rylie in nothing but the crown and wand were interrupted by the
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appearance of April, who carried a heavily laden tea tray. However, when Donovan jumped up to assist, she shooed him away. “Shawna, fetch the biscuits and some napkins,” she ordered her older daughter. “Will you sit here with me, Rylie? Please?” Shawna patted the seat of the vacant armchair before she scampered off into the kitchen. Rylie settled into the chair with a wide grin, clearly enjoying the children’s attentions. Donovan was left to share the sofa with Brenna and April, balancing his china teacup and saucer precariously on his knee. The tranquil domestic scene had proved a balm for Brenna, for she looked far less tense and anxious. He felt a small measure of relief that she’d chosen to come here. Though it made no sense at all, he couldn’t stop a feeling of guilt, knowing what he did. No matter what her brother’s feelings were toward McRory, at least he would provide the emotional support Brenna would shortly need. Donovan’s gaze settled again on Rylie, who had laid the wand on the arm of the chair and rearranged the crown back on Shawna’s head. He felt a little catch in his pulse. She fit in so easily, but from bits she’d revealed, she hadn’t lived a cozy family life. Heaven knew his childhood held few pleasant memories. Maybe that was why his own sister had tried so hard to achieve an existence like this one. Doreen had the adoring husband and the row house, but so far, even after nine years, no child. He’d never sought any such things for himself. Never let himself consider them.
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As if she felt the weight of his stare, Rylie turned and locked her enigmatic gray eyes with his. Her alluring mouth curled slightly, a smile of shared secrets and intimacies. Donovan’s throat constricted with the realization that he had shared more with her the past few days than he ever had with anyone else in his entire life. He took a gulp of tea to loosen his throat while he told himself it was because of the sex. ’Twas fecking deadly, as the local lads would say. And anything that wonderful was bound to throw a man off. That, and the fact that by the end of the week she would be gone, taking all his secrets with her. Precisely what he wanted. So why did regret and something more ripple across his nervous system when he thought about it? Perhaps he wasn’t so very different from his sister after all? As if thinking of her had conjured a spell, his mobile rang, and he knew it was Doreen. “Excuse me,” he apologized, setting his cup and saucer on an end table as he rose to his feet. He turned and stepped away to answer. “Donovan! Oh God, Donovan!” his sister cried on the other end of the line. “They’ve taken Da to hospital. He’s had another stroke.” “What?” He nearly dropped the mobile. Blood roared in his ears as the crushing weight of a sledgehammer pounded inside his chest. “When? Where are you?” “Just now,” she sobbed. “We’re in the car on our way there. Sean’s driving.” Her voice disappeared in a surge of weeping.
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Somehow, Donovan made his tone come out even and calm, though his every nerve and brain cell screamed. “I’m in Newtownabbey, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.” “Please hurry,” Doreen sniffed, and rang off. Feeling as if he were in a bad dream, Donovan shoved the mobile into his pocket and turned back to the crowd in the sitting room, who were all openly regarding him. “’Tis my father,” he said, clutching the top of the sofa in a death grip. “He’s had another stroke.” The drive to Armagh City passed in a haze for Rylie as it undoubtedly did for Donovan also. He had insisted on driving, saying he needed to keep his thoughts occupied. She hadn’t tried to engage him in small talk; she knew how useless it felt in this kind of situation. She answered whenever he did speak and tried to encourage him to open up. Of course, he didn’t. Damned stubborn man. “You don’t have to stay, you know,” he said as he pulled the car into the hospital parking lot. This was the third—no, make that the fourth time he’d told her the same thing. And for the fourth time she replied, “I know, but I want to.” Doreen’s husband Sean had called a half-hour after they’d left the Murphys’ house to tell Donovan that Dermot was in intensive care and Doreen was waiting to see him. Rylie grabbed Donovan’s hand and his grip tightened around her fingers when they walked through the front doors of the hospital. The unmistakable smells of disinfectant, sickness, and despair assailed her as soon as they stepped inside, along with flashes of memories from her
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mother’s illness. She remembered too well the feeling of being alone in a hospital while a parent clung to life. That was why she intended to stay here with Donovan. She would leave when he left, and not a moment sooner. The ICU was on the second floor, and instead of waiting for the elevator, Donovan opted for the stairs. Reluctantly, she let go of his hand and followed him. She couldn’t keep up, and he was forced to wait for her at the top. She recognized the man pacing inside the glass enclosed waiting room from the wedding photo she’d seen in Donovan’s apartment. A bit paunchier and with thinning brown hair, Sean Sullivan still looked like the anxious bridegroom. When they entered the room, he glanced up and relief washed over his ruddy face. “Ah, Donovan, here you are then,” he exclaimed, thumping his taller brother-in-law on the back in a typical male greeting. “They’ve just allowed Doreen in to see himself.” “He’s stabilized then?” Donovan’s tone was tightly controlled. “Appears so.” Then Sean saw her and extended his large, work-roughened hand. “And you must be Rylie.” A smile lit his features as he vigorously pumped her hand. “Sean Sullivan, as I’m sure you’ve guessed already.” “Yes, hi. I’m Rylie Powell.” “Well done, lad,” Sean muttered to Donovan, blue eyes twinkling. “Doreen said she was a looker.” Rylie felt her face heat with a blush and was thankful no one else currently occupied the room. Sean’s comment notwithstanding, she was sure whatever Doreen had said about her was not complimentary.
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Donovan ignored both of them. “What did the doctor say?” “Same old bull—” Sean glanced her way and cleared his throat. “Same old medical mumbo-jumbo. Can’t tell the extent of damage yet, not out of the woods for another twenty-four hours.” He looked at Donovan’s stony expression and added, “Personally, my money is on Dermot. We both know he’s a tough old bugger. He’ll pull through.” “I hope so,” Donovan said in the same emotionless tone. Since only one visitor was allowed into the ICU at a time, the three of them drifted into the metal and plastic chairs lining the walls and began what Rylie knew would be a long vigil. She picked up a well-worn magazine and thumbed through the pages, not really seeing any of the words or pictures. After about twenty minutes, Donovan announced his intention of taking his turn at Dermot’s bedside. She didn’t mind being left alone with Sean, who’d proven, in typical Irish fashion, to be quite talkative. She already knew that he was from Dublin, the third of four brothers, and a plumber as his father and older brothers all were. When his father died, he’d taken his share of the family business in cash and come north to go it alone. His life sounded so blissfully ordinary in comparison to hers or Donovan’s, and she was thankful for Sean’s steady stream of talk that distracted her from the grim reality all around them. Sean was in the midst of recounting how he and Doreen first met when the woman herself swept into the room. She gave Rylie a haughty glare and met her husband in the middle of the room. “Donovan and I are trading off every hour at Da’s
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bedside,” she said, as Sean gripped her hands and pecked both her cheeks. “Unless, of course, you’d like a turn.” “Maybe later,” Sean replied. He craned his neck to include Rylie in the exchange. “What say we all go down to the cafeteria for a cuppa?” Doreen shot Rylie another glare, then shook her head so that her dark hair obscured her expression. “I’m going to the chapel and pray for awhile. Perhaps you should stay here in case there’s any change.” “I’ll stay,” Rylie volunteered. “You go ahead, Sean.” He returned her strained smile with a bob of his head, and escorted his wife out the door. Fifteen minutes later, he returned alone, carrying two styrofoam cups and some packets of sugar and powdered creamer. “Figured you could use it, but didn’t know how you took it,” he explained, handing her one of the lidded cups. He slid into the chair next to her, as she murmured her thanks. “Don’t pay Doreen too much mind when she gets on that high horse of hers,” Sean said, his ruddy face pinkening. “She’s not usually like that, it’s just that there’s none who breathe air good enough for her baby brother.” Rylie’s smile was genuine this time. “Glad to know it’s not just me.” “Not a’tall, darlin’,” Sean reassured. “And as far as I’m concerned, he’s damned lucky to have you here. Just don’t be telling herself I said so.” Doreen didn’t return until a few minutes before Donovan’s hour was up. Her absence suited Rylie. However, when Donovan reappeared to wait until his next stint, he proved almost as uncommunicative as his sister.
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He had not been here when Dermot had suffered his initial stroke in June, and Rylie knew that seeing his father in the midst of all the tubes, wires, and equipment disturbed Donovan deeply. She did drag him down to the cafeteria for tea, but he continued to be quiet and withdrawn. Rylie purchased a couple of fashion magazines in the gift shop and went back upstairs for the long haul. Over the course of the afternoon, a few people drifted in and out, but mostly only she and Sean occupied the narrow room with whichever of the siblings was not sitting with Dermot. After the third hour, Donovan stopped telling her to go back to her B&B. Hospital staff changed shifts, and a couple of times a doctor or nurse ejected Doreen or Donovan in order to perform procedures on Dermot. Near the dinner hour, Sean forced Doreen to eat something from the cafeteria. When Donovan came out, Rylie made him go downstairs with her. Neither of them finished their watery soup and cardboard sandwich, but at least the temporary change of scene was a distraction. As the night wore on, Doreen dozed fitfully with her head resting on Sean’s shoulder. His unflagging devotion made Rylie smile. Sean had admitted to her that he’d proposed to Doreen on their third date, but it had taken him another four months to “coax her ’round” to accepting. Finally, shortly after midnight, Sean convinced Donovan to go to the Sullivan’s house for some real rest. “There’s been no change for hours and we’re all exhausted,” Sean argued, pressing his house key into his brother-in-law’s hand. “You and your wee Yank go catch
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a few winks in the guest room, whilst I drag your sister home by the hair of her head if I have to.” “Good luck with that,” Donovan muttered. Rylie squirmed nervously in the uncomfortable chair. “I don’t think Doreen will like me sharing the guest room.” “I’ll tell her ’twasn’t safe for you to drive any farther,” Sean insisted. “Which ’tis not. Now go!” In spite of her misgivings, she knew Sean was right. She felt like a zombie and Donovan looked equally as bad. Rising to her feet, she grabbed him by the arm before he could protest further, and dragged him out the waiting room door. After ten minutes of driving through the deserted, rain-drenched streets, Donovan pulled into the driveway of a dark townhouse, and they got out of the car and hurried inside. The Sullivan’s place was almost identical to the Murphy’s house in Newtownabbey, with sitting, kitchen, and dining rooms downstairs, while two bedrooms and a bath occupied upstairs. The stairs felt steep as Everest as she followed Donovan to the guestroom, situated in the front overlooking the street. Her exhausted brain vaguely registered butter-yellow walls and frilly lace curtains at the windows as she kicked off her shoes and dropped her clothes onto the carpet. Clad in only her stretchy white tank top and underwear, Rylie snuggled beneath the prim eyelet-edged duvet, too tired to care how much of a hissy-fit Doreen would throw when she discovered her in bed with her brother. She was asleep even before Donovan crawled in beside her.
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The muffled jangling of a telephone woke her, but before she could drag herself up, it stopped. Excellent! She flopped back against the pillow and tried to reclaim blissful slumber. Unfortunately, Donovan was gone, leaving a chilly expanse where his warm body had just been. With a groan, she clutched his pillow to her chest and curled herself around it. But she still hadn’t managed to go back to sleep when he came into the room and switched on the bedside lamp. Rylie groaned again and squinted her eyes against the light. “Good news,” he said. Though he still looked tired, the tension in his jaw was gone. “They’re moving Da into a regular room.” A huge sigh of relief heaved out of her while he continued. “Sean’s driving Doreen and me to the hospital now, then he’ll take me back to Ballyneagh before he starts work.” “What time is it?” she asked, stifling a yawn. “And what about me? I’ll take you back to Ballyneagh.” He flashed one of his killer smiles, the kind that left her feeling boneless with pleasure. “’Tis almost six and you need to get yourself back to your B&B and get some more sleep.” When she started to protest, he raised his hand in a silencing gesture. “No more arguing. As soon as I see Da is settled, I’ll go home and rest too.” “Why don’t I wait for you there?” she insisted, scooting closer to the edge of the bed. “Because then neither of us is likely to rest, and you know it.” He tried to look severe but couldn’t quite stifle his grin. She reached for him, but he shied away. “No, don’t get up. You’re far too distracting, and I really need to go.”
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Shivering from the chilly air on her bare arms, she pulled the duvet back up to her neck and mused, “Your sister actually trusts me alone in her house?” Donovan’s expression grew serious. “After all you did yesterday, she wouldn’t dare speak a word against you.” “I didn’t do it for her.” “I know.” Her mind replayed the events of the previous day, bringing her up short when she remembered his visions and how he’d seen McRory’s death. She bit back a gasp, but from the sudden flash in Donovan’s eyes, he knew exactly what she was thinking. “I’ll call you for lunch,” he said, turning for the door. “Donovan, wait!” Her command momentarily froze him in place. Then, he warily turned to look at her, blue eyes guarded. “Please, promise you won’t go into the fens without me. Promise me?”
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Chapter 13 DONOVAN STOPPED RUBBING THE TOWEL OVER HIS WET HAIR and cocked his head. He’d heard right, his mobile was ringing. Hastily draping the damp towel around his hips, he stumbled for the bedroom and grabbed the phone off the nightstand before it went to voice mail. “Donovan, did I wake you?” Just the sound of Rylie’s voice sent a surge of pleasure through him that settled directly in his groin. “No, I was in the shower. Wish you were here.” “Sorry,” she murmured, obviously ignoring his salacious invitation. “I know you said lunch, but I heard from the PI about my . . . about Christy Reilly. He is in Maghaberry Prison outside Belfast.” She took a deep breath and completely switched topics. “How’s Dermot?” “Fine,” Donovan replied, fumbling to pull on boxers and sweats. “Yelling some fairly clear curse words at the nurses, last I saw him. I’m guessing he’ll be back at Holy Family in a day or two.” He bent to mop up his wet footprints with the discarded towel. “Are you calling the prison, then?” “I just did,” she replied, her tone tentative. “I can see him at two o’clock. Can you still come with me?” A wave of protectiveness swamped him. “Are you sure you’re up to that?” he asked before he could curb himself.
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She gave a nervous little giggle. “I guess it’s that or the fens. Some choice, huh?” “Rylie—” he began, but she cut off his protest before he could finish it. “Can you be ready by the time I drive over? Then we can go see Dermot first.” “I’ll be ready,” he said, and rang off. Dermot was asleep when they arrived at the hospital, though Donovan was mystified how he could pull off such a feat in the midst of the noise and bustle. Not to mention the fact that he had various lines and wires still attached to him. However the old man had managed it, Donovan couldn’t bring himself to wake him, and after about ten minutes he decided to leave his father to his rest. The charge nurse reconfirmed that Dermot would be released back to the Holy Family facility within a couple of days. With one final look at Dermot’s grizzled face, Donovan took Rylie’s hand and together they left the hospital. She seemed pensive and withdrawn, not at all her usual self as they drove toward Belfast. “I supposed you’ve worked out everything you’re going to say to him,” Donovan ventured. She worried her teeth over her bottom lip a moment before she replied, “I planned to let him do most of the talking.” “What makes you think he will?” “He’s Irish,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward. “You’re the closest to a taciturn person I’ve met in this entire country.” “True enough,” he admitted. But in his mind, he kept seeing a hard-boiled tough in one of those old prison
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movies, and he didn’t want her hurt by some SOB like that. “Just realize he’ll probably lie to you, at best. And most likely he’ll try to plead money out of you.” “Donovan.” Her hand on his arm stopped his words, while the way she breathed his name nearly stopped his heart. “I’m not that naïve,” she admonished. “Don’t worry.” Then she let go of his arm and added, “I don’t know if I can eat anything, but do you think we have time for coffee?” He glanced at the dashboard clock. “’Tis not even noon, we’ve plenty of time. Starbucks, then?” The way she smiled when she nodded left him feeling weak in some places and decidedly stiff in others. Good thing she would be leaving in a few days. And perhaps if he repeated that to himself enough, he might actually start to believe it. At a quarter before two, Donovan parked the car in the designated lot, facing the concrete-block compound of the maximum-security prison. The coffee he’d drunk churned in his stomach in an acidic wave, and he guessed Rylie’s did too. He had called on his mobile before they left Starbucks and confirmed the scheduled visit. Rylie had given both their relationships to Christy as cousin, and had used Dermot’s stroke as well as her impending return to the States to leverage their hasty visit. A dozen cars dotted the visitors’ area and they followed the other people scurrying toward the gate in the tall razor wire topped fence. Though her expression was inscrutable, Rylie’s hand trembled a little in his. He tried to give her a smile of
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encouragement, but he couldn’t manage much more than a reflection of their grim surroundings. The events of the past twenty-four hours crowded his mind: the vision of McRory’s dead face, Lynch’s thinly veiled threats, Dermot’s struggle for life amid the noise and desperation of the ICU. He wouldn’t let himself speculate what might come next inside Maghaberry Prison. Going through the security check took twenty minutes. They wouldn’t allow Rylie to carry in her purse or her envelope of pictures. Donovan had to surrender his mobile, wallet, and the contents of his trouser pockets. They also both left their jackets, and were forced to follow single file behind their escort to the visitors’ room. Metal tables sat in a long line across the back of the otherwise empty room. Prisoners in orange jumpsuits sat singly on the far side of the tables with guards standing at intervals behind them. “That’s himself just there,” said the escort with a nod of his head toward a burly prisoner on the extreme left. Donovan’s eyes skimmed over the man, whose head sported little more than dark stubble on top. With broad shoulders and a thick neck, he reminded Donovan of a bull, the one from Irish legends, powerful and dangerous. The man turned his head to survey the room, displaying a dark tattoo of a Celtic cross that ran from behind his ear into the neckband of his shirt. His images of the movie prisoner hadn’t been too far off, Donovan realized, his gut twisting with an urge to shield Rylie from the man’s sight. The urge intensified as they moved closer, and Christy got a glimpse of her. His eyes widened and he half rose from the chair, his lips
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forming a word that might have been a name. But the guard stepped toward him and Christy hastily sat back down, though his eyes remained riveted to Rylie. Donovan pulled out a chair for her while the escort addressed the prisoner. “What do ya know, Christy, you’ve actual visitors. These are your cousins from America, Rylie Powell and Donovan O’Shea.” Christy Reilly grunted and clasped his hands on the table in front of him, dropping his gaze like a whipped but resentful dog. Another tattoo peeked from the edge of his shirtsleeve, a Celtic knot design that encircled his massive biceps. Donovan murmured appropriate thanks to the escort and took his seat next to Rylie. Wearing a silky turquoise blouse and dark slacks, she looked like a delicate porcelain figurine poised stiffly on the edge of the chair. However, her jaw was clenched in what he now recognized as her stubbornly defiant mode. Heaven help Christy Reilly if he crossed her. When the escort walked out of earshot, Christy muttered, “You’re the spittin’ image of your mother, as I suppose you’ve heard often enough.” His voice sounded gravelly, as if it didn’t get much use, and he continued to study his hands. “Y-yes . . . I mean, I know.” Rylie bit her lip and drew in a breath that made her breasts rise enticingly. “I think I have your eyes, though.” Christy lifted his gaze from his hands, and his steely gray eyes met her equally flinty ones. One of his black eyebrows arched up a scant millimeter. “So you do.” His gaze fell back to his hands and he steepled his fingers. “How’s your mother, then?”
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Rylie’s face and tone remained emotionless. “She died of cancer six months ago.” Donovan saw a fleeting shadow of pain flash over Christy’s stony expression. He didn’t lift his head. “So that’s why you’ve come?” “No—Yes—” Rylie cleared her throat. “She never spoke of you, but I wanted to see you for myself.” “Well then, here ya are.” He threw back his head and sat ramrod straight in his chair, clapping both palms against his chest. “Yer old man’s a worthless piece o’ shite who couldn’t even give ya his own name, except in a roundabout sorta way.” Rylie lifted her pointed little chin, and her voice no longer wavered though it remained flat, uncaring. “My mother loved you. Why did you leave and break her heart?” Christy clasped his hands back on the tabletop and turned his head to one side, fixing his gaze on a point somewhere near the ceiling. “’Tis not like I had a choice.” “Why not?” She threw the words like a challenge. The burly man sighed with resignation and faced her bold question. “I suppose you’ll pester me ’til you’ve had the whole story?” In spite of himself, Donovan’s lips twitched. How very right he was. When Rylie didn’t respond, Christy sighed again. “All right, since you must know. ’Twas a fine spring morning, I was taking you to the park so Jen could study. She was back at university, ya see.” He stopped long enough to crack the knuckles of first one hand and then the other. His eyes grew unfocused
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with a faraway look, as if the scene were replaying in front of him. “You insisted on walking, holding both me thumbs. The park was at the end of our street but we didn’t even get halfway there when up walks Conor McTeague, bold as brass, right there in the heart o’ Brooklyn. ‘Hullo, Christy lad,’ he says to me. ‘Surely you weren’t fool enough to think you could be staying here forever.’” Christy abruptly halted, while Donovan struggled to recall why the name Conor McTeague sounded familiar. “Then he chucked you under the chin and you started to cry.” Folding his beefy arms across his chest, Christy addressed Rylie directly, no longer lost in his reverie. “Young and stupid I might have been, but not that stupid. I knew the best thing I could do for both of you was disappear.” “So you did,” Rylie finished for him. “And so I did,” Christy reaffirmed in the same flat tone. “Why did you take Dermot O’Shea’s identity?” Rylie asked. “And did my mother even know your real name?” Christy’s arms loosened and he slumped forward to lean his elbows on the table. “Jen,” he whispered. “My angel, Jen.” Then his eyes snapped up, hard and accusatory, moving from Rylie to Donovan and back again. “She knew nuthun’. I never told her a word. I couldn’t. Scotland Yard was hot on my arse. That’s why I used Dermot’s name. Couldn’t very well leave under me own when I was wanted for murder.” He paused and cracked his knuckles again, glancing over his shoulder at the guard. “Sorry little girl, but your old man really is a heartless bastard, a thief, and a murderer.”
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Finally placing the name as one Lynch had told him, Donovan blurted, “Did you kill Conor McTeague?” Christy’s hard gaze swept over him. “No. But I killed plenty of others, including a guard during a riot ten or so years ago, which is why I’m still here.” Then his eyes narrowed, “But surely you’re Moira and Dermot’s wee lad. What would you know of Conor?” Donovan stiffened to a defensive posture. “I know that he was a Provo and a crony of Malachy Flynn.” “Ah, yes. A worse pair you’ll never meet.” Christy’s lips curled in a sneer of disgust. “I reckon someone’s done ’em both in by now, but ’twasn’t me.” “You’re right, at least about Malachy,” Rylie said in the same matter-of-fact tone he used. “They only just found his body, but he was murdered a long time ago.” Sudden unease drove Donovan to lay his hand on her arm and stop her from saying more, but he wasn’t fast enough. “In the fens.” At her words, Christy’s contemptuous expression dissolved and knowledge flickered through his eyes. “She killed him then.” Donovan sucked in a sharp, involuntary breath as Rylie asked, “Who?” “You know who,” Christy replied, his probing gaze directed at Donovan. “But maybe you don’t know why.” He cast another glance over his shoulder and continued in a low, conspiratorial tone. “’Twas no secret that Malachy was smitten with Moira, even though she’d have none of him. One night Malachy bragged about how he’d forced himself on her, and
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how her feckin’ gobshite of a husband wouldn’t have her now.” “Ow!” Rylie protested in a hoarse whisper and Donovan realized he was squeezing her arm. He dropped his fisted hands to his lap, breath sticking in his throat. “I went for him, of course,” Christy continued dispassionately. “Would’ve most likely killed him on the spot, except McTeague pulled me off. Told me to give those with the most cause their chance. But Flynn made himself scarce for a long time after that. Some in the Provos thought he might be the traitor we believed we had in our midst, though I always thought ’twas that nine-fingered bastard.” Donovan could scarcely hear for the blood pounding in his ears. Breathing hard, he unclenched one hand and rubbed his temple. “I think you know the rest of this story,” Christy mused, his expression unreadable. “For you’ve the same tall rangy look about you as Malachy Flynn.” Donovan choked. Cold rage and helplessness engulfed him as he spluttered and coughed. “Donovan?” Rylie leapt from her chair and grasped his shoulder. “Are you all right?” For another long moment, he couldn’t draw enough air into his lungs, but he nodded anyway. The guard started toward them and Rylie plopped back into her chair worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Her small hand clutched his, pulling him back from the black abyss. “So that’s how ’tis then?” Christy murmured, his eyes flicking between the two of them.
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While Rylie’s face flamed, Donovan’s strangled attempt at denial was interrupted by the guard. “What’s happening here?” he demanded. Christy dropped his gaze to his hands but his voice was sullen. “Nuthun’.” “This visit is over,” the guard stated, hand on the billy club at his waist. “First bleedin’ visitors I’ve had in twenty years,” Christy complained, his head still down. “Two minutes more.” The guard took a single step backward and stood glaring at them. “They told me Dermot was in hospital. That true?” Christy’s question and his stare were once again unfocused. Cheeks still pink, Rylie nodded. “A stroke.” Donovan found his voice at last. “The doctors say he’ll recover, but not one hundred percent.” “Too bad,” Christy murmured, his gaze raking over both of them again. “S’pose you’ll both go home to America then?” Rylie nodded again. “I’m leaving Thursday.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, but Christy’s gray eyes pierced hers. “Good. Don’t want you coming back ’round here.” He cracked his knuckles again and added, “Don’t want your pity.” Then he rose to his feet, tilting his chin in the guard’s direction. “Let’s go.” Rylie stood also, and swayed a little. Still feeling half coldcocked, Donovan got up anyway to put an arm around her. As the guard motioned for an escort, Christy turned and looked at them a final time. “You could send me a
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card at Christmas, though,” he said, then turned and shuffled away. Silently, they followed the escort from the room. Neither of them spoke more than perfunctory answers while they collected their jackets and personal items. More than a little dazed, they stumbled out to the parking lot. In spite of her golden tan, Rylie looked wan and tremulous. As for Donovan, the ugly truth sat like a stone in the pit of his stomach, making him cold and nauseated. “Are you all right?” Donovan finally asked as he held the passenger door for her. She nodded. “Are . . . are you?” “Y—Yes.” Eyes glittering with tears, she lifted her hand and cupped his cheek. “Are you sure?” Her fingers felt smooth and warm against his skin. Such a welcome comfort. He turned his head and rubbed his lips across her palm. Then a sudden shudder struck him, shaking its way from his fingertips to his toes, bringing a full dose of frigid darkness with it. “Hold me,” she whispered, and pulled him tight against her. Small as she was, she anchored him. Her arms encircled his waist, her body warm and soothing against the horrors ripping through his mind. Embarrassed by his weakness, Donovan buried his face in her silky hair as a single sob escaped his throat. Rylie’s grip tightened. “Oh, Donovan,” she murmured in his ear. “Oh, please. It’ll be all right. I love you, Donovan.” Holy freaking hell!
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The split second after she uttered the words, Rylie tried to suck them back into her mouth. But it was too late. She felt Donovan’s body stiffen beneath her hands. He’d heard. Shit! Shit! Shit! They jerked apart and she stared at her feet, face burning. “I’m sorry . . . ” she fumbled. “I didn’t mean that— No, wait! What I meant to say was . . . ” She looked up and his eyes were focused somewhere far over her head. “Shit.” Mortified that she’d said that aloud also, she clamped one hand firmly over her mouth, melted into the passenger seat, and shut the car door. Oh, God! She had so totally screwed up! But the worst part was, she did love him. And she wanted desperately for him to love her, too. With a groan, Rylie covered her face with her hands. A few moments later, she heard the car door open and felt Donovan slide into the driver’s seat. Wishing she could disappear into the upholstery, she sneaked a sideways peek at him through her fingers. His gorgeous face looked chiseled from marble. Reluctantly, she pulled her hands away and took a deep breath, “I—” “Don’t worry about it,” he interrupted, his tone brusque. “We’re both pretty done in. Shall we go to tea?” “Okay,” she replied, still wishing she could just die on the spot and end her misery. In spite of her wishes to the contrary, she neither expired nor vanished, so she occupied herself with
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replaying every moment of her meeting with Christy Reilly as Donovan drove. Talk about an object lesson in loving the wrong man! By his own admission, her father was a thief and murderer. Yet her mother had loved him once. And he had loved her. All the surly scowls in the world couldn’t override the way he’d whispered her mother’s name. Then she thought of Donovan and the crushing blow Christy had delivered to him. Had Christy lied? From Donovan’s reaction, she had to assume it was the truth. Not that it mattered to her, but she couldn’t even imagine how horrible he must feel knowing he was the product of a rape. Donovan pulled the car over at a small café, interrupting her gloomy thoughts, and they got out and went inside. Frilly curtains hung at the windows and lacy cloths covered the tables in a cutesy tribute to quaint Ireland. The Ireland the tourists came to see, and had little or nothing to do with reality. At least not her reality. And not Donovan’s. Rylie went straight to the ladies’ room to try and wash the stench of the prison off her hands but the dank, musty odor seemed to linger in her nostrils even after she rubbed on scented lotion. She rejoined Donovan, and they sat in awkward silence after the freckle-faced young waitress took their order. Finally, Donovan cleared his throat. “Rylie, about us . . . ” Oh no! Here came the big “no strings” speech. She really did not want to hear this right now. Not on top of everything else. Quickly, she decided to go there first.
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“Look, you were right, we’re both stressed out. Don’t worry about it.” Consternation furrowed his brow. “True enough, but I need to tell you that I . . . I’ve never been involved with anyone long term before. I’m not sure I know how.” Every word from his mouth was torture. She had to interrupt him. “Can you do three more days?” She glanced at her watch. Two days, fifteen hours and twenty-five minutes. Her heart constricted painfully in her chest. She had to look away, but somehow she kept her voice steady, “That’s all I’m asking, then I’ll be outta here.” The reappearance of the young waitress prevented Donovan from replying. Rylie looked everywhere but at him while the girl served their sandwiches, cookies, and scones. She had just set the teapot, sparkling white with green shamrocks, on the table when Donovan’s cell phone rang. Excusing himself, he walked a few steps toward the front door to answer. Rylie didn’t know whether to giggle or sob, so she nibbled the edges of a delicately trimmed cucumber sandwich and tried to hear what he was saying. Within moments, he flipped the phone shut and signaled the waitress. “I’m sorry, but we have to go,” he said, shrugging into his jacket and reaching for hers. Concern leaped from her stomach into her throat. “Dermot?” Donovan shook his head, handed the waitress two bills and asked for a box. “The lawyer. Seems the police want to formally question me about McRory’s disappearance.”
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“But you don’t—” she began, as she shoved her arms into the jacket he held for her. “Lynch’s doing.” He didn’t elaborate, for the waitress reappeared with a box and his change. Wordlessly, Rylie shoved the dainty little sandwiches and scones into the styrofoam container and followed him back to the car. She might have momentarily dodged the commitment bullet, but this was not the way she wanted to do it. “What are you going to do?” She asked the doubleedged question as she fastened her seat belt. Donovan’s grip on the steering wheel turned his knuckles white. “I’ll tell the truth, of course, to whatever they ask.” Then, as if he anticipated her next question, he added, “’Tis not like they’ll ask me about my Sight, or visions, or anything like that.” “No, why would they?” she muttered more to reassure herself than anything else. Too bad it didn’t work. They sat in strained silence for a few minutes until they reached the main roadway. The route was beginning to look so familiar that Rylie could probably drive it in her sleep. “I’ll drop you off in Dungannon then come back for you when I’m done.” Donovan looked straight ahead and spoke as if he were discussing the weather. “No, I have a better idea. I’m going with you, and we’ll go see Dermot when you’re done. Then we can go to dinner or something.” And as far as she was concerned “something” included both of them naked in Donovan’s horrible bed. Preferably for the next two and a half days. “Rylie, I—”
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“Save your breath for the police and their questions.” His sapphire eyes flicked momentarily to meet hers, then returned to the road again. Rylie saw his beautiful lips twitch slightly. “I can see ’twill do me no good to argue with you.” She gave his leg a possessive little pat and quickly pulled her hand back into her lap. “Like I said before: smart man.” Now she only had to figure out how she would live without him. Though it was after five, the attorney and his secretary were waiting for them when they arrived. Donovan made introductions, and Jeremy Heaney exuded Irish charm, though Rylie couldn’t help but think he looked more like a schoolboy than a lawyer. However, he and Donovan were in complete and stalwart agreement that she remain behind. He offered to have his secretary, who resembled a typical Irish grandmother, stay at the office and wait with her, but Rylie declined. Bad enough that the two men insisted she not go along to the police station, but she most certainly did not need a babysitter. “Sorry to hear about your father,” Heaney said to Donovan, as the secretary let herself out. “And I’m sure this will all come to naught. ’Tis a flimsy attempt by the PSNI to get you to be more forthcoming about this old murder case.” While Donovan shifted self-consciously, Rylie couldn’t contain herself any longer. “I don’t get it,” she complained, still miffed about waiting at the office. “Malachy Flynn has been dead for
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over twenty years, and the Provos have long since disbanded. Why does the PSNI care?” “Gone but not forgotten,” Heaney replied, his boyish face serious. “Recently it’s come to light that members of British Intelligence were once involved with the militant IRA splinter groups. Turns out Malachy Flynn was one such agent. Or possibly even a double agent.” With Christy’s words about Flynn and McTeague echoing inside her head, Rylie crossed her arms over her chest. “Why would that matter now?” Heaney gave a dramatic sigh. “Because, Miss Powell, no one in the world has a longer memory than we Irish. And no one can nurse a grudge half so long.” She watched as he transformed from schoolboy to pontificating lawyer. “Take the Troubles for example. Most non-Irish would tell you that this constant unrest and sporadic violence originated in the plantation policies of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Point of fact, it had been going on for at least a thousand years before that when Queen Maeve of Connacht invaded Ulster.” “’Ulster forever Connacht never?’” She couldn’t help quoting. “Exactly!” Heaney grinned, the miscreant schoolboy once more, and elbowed Donovan. “I see some Ulsterman has taught you the right of it.” Then, after a look at Donovan’s strained expression, he said, “Let’s go and get this over then. Miss Powell, help yourself to tea in the back room just through there.” She curbed the urge to hug Donovan or even give his hand a squeeze. That’s what he got—or didn’t get—for making her stay here.
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Once the two men left, she wandered into the back room Heaney had indicated, plugged in the electric teakettle, and heated one of the scones in the microwave. She tried to distract herself by thumbing through a newspaper sitting on the counter, but it didn’t hold her attention. Her mind wandered back to her meeting with Christy Reilly. Of all the scenarios she’d imagined about meeting her biological father, none had come close to the reality. The man who’d fathered her might be a hardened scarylooking criminal, but now she knew he’d acted in what he believed to be the best interest of her and her mother. She’d never anticipated that. But then, all the expectations she’d ever had of Ireland didn’t begin to match the reality either. The quaintness was strictly for show, while all around lurked the ancient, wild, and, most of all, tragic beauty of the real Ireland. A place far beyond what tourists saw. A place that took her breath. And then there was Donovan. She’d never in her wildest dreams expected someone like him. By turns charming and aloof, hard-nosed and then vulnerable, he was the ultimate puzzle wrapped in a sexy-as-sin package. No matter how many times she told herself this was one of those crazy wonderful flings, she knew that for her it was more. She had never experienced such an intense connection with anyone. Too bad it couldn’t be permanent. Once Rylie finished drinking her tea and nibbling on the scone and sandwiches, she went back into the front reception area and stretched out on a small settee. She
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actually dozed off before Donovan and Heaney returned. The key rattling in the office door awoke her with a start. She could hear Heaney talking, and though she couldn’t make out the words, his voice sounded sharp and strident. The two men entered, both wearing grim expressions. Neither greeted, nor even acknowledged her. “Please, Mr. O’Shea.” Heaney’s emphatic tone shifted suddenly. “Donovan. You can trust me to keep strict attorney-client privilege about anything you say.” Donovan wore his frosty distant look. That didn’t bode well for Heaney. Rylie stood and smoothed her rumpled clothes. “How did it go?” “Fine,” Donovan bit out in a way that practically shouted the opposite. He shot her a dark glance and tilted his head toward the door. “We need to go.” “Half a moment!” Heaney insisted, raising his hand in a halting gesture. “I can’t help you or your father if you don’t tell me what you know about Malachy Flynn’s death.” “As I said before,” Donovan muttered between clenched teeth. “I was seven years old and I don’t remember.” He grabbed her hand. “Let’s go, Rylie.” She felt like the rag toy being tugged between two dogs. And the demanding tone of Donovan’s voice made her want to plant her feet and fight back. “Doreen’s the one you need to talk to,” she flung at Heaney. “She saw her mother drag the body out of the house.” “W-what?” Heaney stuttered, blinking rapidly.
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Donovan couldn’t have looked more stunned than if she’d slapped his face with all her might. He just stared, mouth slightly agape, eyes round with shock. Once again, too late to take the words back, so she might as well tell it all. “But I don’t think Doreen knows that Malachy raped her mother.” Rylie picked up her purse and reached for the doorknob. “My father, Christy Reilly only told us that this afternoon.” She yanked open the door and stepped into the vestibule. “Is this true?” Heaney continued to splutter. “Yes,” Donovan replied, and followed her out. “We’ll be in touch.” Then, as the attorney stood dumbfounded, he pulled the door closed. Not waiting, Rylie spun on her heel and marched away. She didn’t stop until she reached her rental car, parked alone in the row of empty spaces next to the building. She stood in the dark with her arms folded over her chest as Donovan unlocked the passenger door for her. “So where are we going?” she asked, still a bit peeved. At him. At herself. At everything. “The fens,” he answered. “I think I know who killed McRory. But I still don’t know why.”
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Chapter 14 “DON’T THINK YOU CAN GIVE ME THE RUNAROUND LIKE you did with Heaney,” Rylie warned. “No, I don’t have any such foolish illusions,” Donovan conceded, his tone and expression still grim. He started the car and pulled out of the parking space onto the street, all in stony silence. “So what’s the deal with the police?” she ventured after several long, uncomfortable moments during which she steadfastly refused to apologize for what she’d revealed to the attorney. “Do they know McRory’s dead?” Donovan flinched a little at her last question. “At least one of them does.” He shot her a quick, sidelong glance, then added, “Lynch.” Though she wasn’t really surprised, Rylie suppressed a shudder and asked, “Did you have a vision?” He shook his head, and waited until he’d turned onto the main roadway before he replied. “Actually it was something your . . . something Christy said about the Provos. He said some of them believed Malachy was a traitor in their midst, but he always thought it was the nine-fingered bastard.” Rylie’s mind skimmed back to the few times she’d seen Inspector Lynch. The day they’d found the body in the fens, he’d been wearing gloves. The morning in Donovan’s apartment, she hadn’t seen his hands. And yesterday when
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he’d come up to her car window in the parking lot of the police station, he’d kept his hands in his pockets. “I never noticed either,” Donovan continued, as if he followed her thoughts. “But today, he grabbed the back of my chair, and I saw his left hand was badly scarred, half his ring finger was missing and the pinky was completely gone.” She swallowed hard, trying to digest this disturbing information. “So Lynch was a Provo too. Do you think he used a different name?” Donovan gave a non-committal shrug, though his jaw remained clenched. “According to Heaney, they were a paranoid lot, so likely he did.” They reached the outskirts of Armagh City, and Donovan continued on the main road. Rylie didn’t bother asking about Dermot and the hospital, since clearly they were on a mission. She rolled the knowledge about the Provos, Lynch, and Professor McRory around in her mind, but it still didn’t quite gel. “What would matter enough to make Lynch kill McRory?” she muttered in confusion. Donovan cast her another dark look. ”I don’t know, but I mean to find out.” In the fens. Neither of them spoke the words, but they hovered in the air between them nonetheless. Her stomach churned at the idea, but at the same time, there was no way in hell she would let him go alone. “Can we stop at Dungannon on the way?” she asked, brushing her hand over the leg of her wrinkled pantsuit. “So I can change my clothes?” She wiggled her toes; those pumps definitely had to go, too.
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He had dressed more casually, though he wasn’t exactly set for mucking around in the fens either. However, he didn’t look happy at her suggestion. “Five minutes, no more,” he muttered. On a mission, all right. She only hoped it wasn’t one of the impossible variety. Once they left the city behind, the traffic was pretty much nil and they quickly covered the distance from Armagh to Dungannon. The lights from Cavanagh House shone invitingly when they pulled into the circular driveway, and Rylie couldn’t help but wish they could stay awhile, maybe have a light supper. Donovan angled the car into the space closest to the side door, and made no move to turn off the ignition. Struck by a sudden suspicion, she reached over, flipped the key to off and palmed it. “Five minutes, I promise!” she exclaimed over Donovan’s muffled protest. Then she bounded out of the car and hurried inside. “Miss Powell!” Mrs. Cooke called to her, as she rushed through the kitchen. But she didn’t dare pause long enough to return the manager’s greeting. She rubbed her thumb over the smooth metal surface of the car key. Knowing Donovan, he’d probably try to hot-wire the damn car so he could ditch her. Well, think again, smart man! “Miss Powell!” Mrs. Cooke cried again, chasing her down the hall. She caught up as Rylie swiped her card key in the lock of her room. “That friend of yours, Miss Gallagher has been calling.” Face flushed, the manager held out a folded piece of
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paper, and at Rylie’s puzzled look explained. “Your friend in Portadown, Miss Gallagher? She’s called every hour for the past three.” “Thanks.” Rylie snatched the paper and stepped into her room. “And do you have a flashlight I can borrow?” Before the startled woman could answer, she shut the door. She had no time to ponder why Sybil would call her. Shoes went flying as she shrugged out of her jacket. Pants and blouse landed in a heap on the floor as she pulled on socks, T-shirt, and a sweater. The only jeans she had were the ones she’d worn yesterday. Oh well, they’d be even more dirty after tonight. As she tied her sneaker laces, she discovered she’d put on two different colored socks. Crap! No time to change now. She grabbed her red hoodie, keys, and the note, then rushed back out into the hall. “Miss Powell?” The manager gave her a reproachful look as she hurried for the door. “Aren’t you calling your friend?” “Later,” Rylie answered, grabbing the small plastic flashlight from the woman’s hand. “Thanks, Mrs. Cooke.” From the look on the woman’s face, Rylie guessed that her opinion of Americans in general, and her in particular were pretty much the same as Doreen’s. Not that she cared. Rylie slid into the passenger’s seat, and passed Donovan the car key. “All set,” she panted, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts momentarily mesmerizing him. Just having her next to him effectively dissipated
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any righteous indignation he’d managed to cultivate since leaving Heaney’s office. Mentally calling himself a fool, he started the car and pulled to the end of the driveway. “Can I use your phone?” Rylie asked in the midst of smoothing back her hair and securing it with one of those wide elastic bands. “I need to call Sybil Gallagher.” Donovan fished awkwardly in his trouser pocket with his left hand. “She called you?” Rylie nodded and took the proffered device. “Three times.” Then she turned on the dome light and squinted at a piece of paper before dialing. “Don’t worry, I won’t mention anything about . . . ” Her voice trailed away as she turned off the light. He turned onto the road headed toward Ballyneagh as she said into the mobile, “Sybil? It’s Rylie Powell.” She murmured some unintelligible phrases, then he heard her say, “From Aongus? Insurance? I don’t . . . What does it say?” Rylie put her hand over the lower half of the phone and whispered to him, “She got a note from McRory, some kind of photocopied list.” While Donovan’s mind revved faster than the car engine, she moved her hand and spoke loud enough for him to hear also. “Looks like names and account numbers? Anybody you recognize?” She paused and made that little humming sound he found so endearing. “Hmmm, interesting . . . ” Then her voice squeaked, “Lynch? Inspector Lynch? And he called?” “Tell her not to go to the police!” “Sybil, listen!” Rylie ordered at the same instant. “Don’t call him back. You need to call Jeremy Heaney.” She spelled the name in rapid staccato. “He’s Donovan’s
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attorney. Leave a message with his service and tell them it’s urgent.” Rylie’s free hand settled atop his thigh, her fingers gripping flesh though the twill of his trousers. Her voice echoed hollowly inside the dark confines of the car. “Don’t stay there. Go someplace else, a motel or a B&B. And don’t answer your phone, just check your messages.” She paused again, and though the tension in her fingers didn’t lessen, her tone was soothing. “No, but we’re on our way to look for him now.” Another momentary pause. She might not be an actress, but her control was admirable. “Don’t worry, we will as soon as we find him.” Then he heard just the slightest catch in her voice. “And Sybil, I’m really happy about . . . the baby.” Ringing off, she let out a long shaky breath and pulled her hand away from his leg. “Should I call Heaney?” Donovan shook his head. “Let’s wait. We’ll only get his service.” She handed him the mobile, but when he went to shove it back into his pocket, he only succeeded in dropping the blasted thing between the seats. He muttered a curse then asked, “What about that list?” Her face was unreadable in the dark and her tone was once more tightly controlled. “McRory mailed it to her at her cousin’s house in Portadown. She said it was a photocopy of names and numbers and he’d scrawled something across the back about safekeeping and insurance. She said she recognized one local politician’s name and a couple of others she thought were in the government. And Lynch’s name was on it, too.”
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“So I gathered.” Donovan strove to keep his own voice as calm as hers. “I take it Sybil hasn’t heard about McRory’s car being in Lough Neagh, and him missing?” “Not yet, and I wasn’t about to tell her.” Rylie’s voice faltered with a tiny catch. “She’ll find out soon enough.” The truth of that sobered him into silence. Whatever they’d stumbled into had already proved deadly. However, he could no more deny the urgency of his visions than he could change who or what he was. Heaven knew he’d tried. For fifteen years in America he’d tried to be someone else, but only four months back in Ireland had effectively erased all he’d sought to become, and forced him to face the hard truth. For a wild instant, he wanted to keep right on driving. Take Rylie to some safe and cozy little B&B and not come out until it was time to take her to the airport. All right, if he wanted a true flight of fancy, then he wouldn’t take her to the airport either. In this fantasy, he could actually be worthy of her, not some ill-conceived bastard of a terrorist spy. A man laid low by hallucinations he couldn’t control. A man so weak he might endanger the woman he loved. Donovan was so intent on his self-loathing and disgust that he nearly missed the turn for the cottage. He had to stomp on the brake pedal and almost throw the car into a spin whipping down the lane. Rylie gave a little squeak of surprise. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” “You don’t scare me,” she replied in a somber tone. “But the fens do. You really believe McRory’s in there? His body, I mean?”
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“Yes, but I don’t know where.” Since she was now inextricably involved, he might as well tell her everything. “I plan to ask for help, from a holy man, a Celtic Druid. I guess he’s some kind of shade or something who’s been wandering the fens for over a thousand years.” When he paused for breath, she interrupted, “Okay, you’re seriously creeping me out now, Donovan.” She gave a little nervous laugh. “How ’bout you don’t tell me anything else and let me just wait and be surprised?” Considering how totally preposterous it all sounded when he tried to put it into words, he was happy to comply. Steering the car over the rough track took all his focus anyway, especially with the fog beginning to settle close to the ground. The lights from Mr. Farrell’s neighboring cottage looked like they were shining through layers of gauze. They would have the devil’s own time picking their way through the fens. The police tape still fluttered from the gate posts as he guided the car through and up to the yard. The cottage loomed like a spectral hump in the dark, an image not completely dispelled when the headlamps shone on it. He parked close to the front door, and they got out. “Are we going inside?” Rylie asked. Then she pulled a small plastic torch from the pocket of her sweatshirt and switched it on. “I borrowed it from Mrs. Cooke.” Donovan could have kissed her for remembering a light. But then he could have kissed her for no reason at all. “Brilliant woman,” he murmured, and her smile was a hundred times brighter than the narrow beam of light. Tamping down his desire, he looked from the door of the
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cottage across the dark expanse of yard to the even darker presence of the fens. “Unless you need to use the loo, I’d just as soon get this over and done.” Her smile dimmed, but he could still make out the stubborn, defiant set of her jaw. “I’m fine, and you’re right. Let’s go.” They crossed the yard slowly, picking their way through the dead tangles of grass and avoiding the piles of excavated earth. Once, when Rylie shone the torch beam over one of the mounds, a distinct buzzing jarred his brain. Inadvertently, he raised his hand to his temple. “You hear it already, don’t you?” Rylie asked in a whisper. He dropped his hand and nodded. “’Tis strong tonight.” She gave a nervous little giggle, “Because it’s Halloween?” “Samhain,” he corrected, recalling the Druid’s words from a few nights ago. “Tomorrow is Samhain, one of the Celts’ most celebrated days. A time when the spirits are close.” “Lucky us,” she muttered between clenched teeth. “Sure hope they’re friendly spirits.” The air grew heavier with mist and the feculent odor of decay. Vines and brush overcame the grass and weeds, and the earth grew spongy under foot. Beside him, Rylie paused. “Looks like we’re here,” she observed. “You go first. And take the flashlight.” She shoved the plastic cylinder at him, their hands colliding. Hers felt icy, fragile as a snowflake against his. Of its own volition, his other hand came up and stroked her cheek, equally chilly in the moist darkness.
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“Rylie . . . ” he breathed her name on a sigh of longing. Then his lips settled atop hers. Unlike her hands, her mouth felt warm and inviting. She tasted achingly sweet. Her eager tongue met his on an escalating wave of need, while her hands looped around his neck and she flattened her breasts against him. God in heaven knew he’d give anything to be worthy of her! But he never would be. And tonight’s escapade would prove it to her once and for all. The torch flickered crazily between them and clunked to the ground. With a groan of regret, Donovan broke the kiss and bent to retrieve it. She bent with him, both of them groping for the rolling light. “I’ve changed my mind,” she declared. “Let’s go back to the cottage. Or the back seat of the car. Or any place where I can have my way with you, except the cold muddy ground.” “Later,” he admonished, his fingers finally closing over the wayward torch. Then more to himself than to her, he added, “If you still want to.” “Oh, I will,” she answered as they both stood. Donovan wished he could believe her. Wordlessly, he played the light over the ground, searching for the path that led to McRory and Sybil’s dig sites. After a moment he located it and together, he and Rylie walked into the stygian darkness. His feet dragged, as if his body protested his mind’s decision to come here. Within a few minutes of entering the dank labyrinth of the fens, the noise inside his skull started up again, increasing in intensity with every meter he
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traversed. He definitely couldn’t recall this happening to him before. The sound soon grew so loud that he couldn’t think, he had to focus hard to keep putting one foot in front of the other. When they reached the fork in the path, he handed Rylie the torch and clutched his temples with both hands in an effort to blot out enough of the harsh buzzing so that he could remember which direction to take to reach the ancient pier. “Are you all right?” Donovan could scarcely make out her words through the relentless cacophony. However, the brush of her fingertips across his cheek seemed to ease a bit of the pounding. He put his hand over hers and flattened her cold but soothing fingers against the side of his face. Drawing in a ragged breath, he stared at the division in the path again. “That way,” he said with a tilt of his throbbing head. “Can you go first?” Even in the dark, he could see the concern etching her delicate features. She nodded and shined the torch on the ground before she stepped in front of him, catching his hand. Stumbling after her, he clung to her hand like a lifeline. Long, agonizing minutes later they reached the excavation site. In the pool of torchlight, the pit looked like a newly dug grave. And he had to go into it. Reluctantly, Donovan let go of Rylie’s hand and approached the edge. The ancient black timbers roared out their sirens’ song.
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“Donovan, what are you doing?” she cried out, the light from the torch wavering. “You’re not going down there!” “Have to, I’m afraid.” His mouth was so dry his voice came out little better than a croak. Quickly, before he lost what little remained of his nerve, he scrambled over the lip and into the hole. The effect was instantaneous. Colors and shapes exploded in front of his eyes. The noise inside his mind crescendoed and burst. Robbed of breath, Donovan hovered on the brink of consciousness for a moment. In the sudden black quietness, he heard Rylie give a strangled cry. He looked up and saw the tall form of the Druid coalesce within the swirling mist at the edge of the pit. Donovan opened his mouth to speak, but only managed a weak cough. “Dony, my brother.” The robed figure reached out a long arm, and Donovan felt very real and rough fingers dig into his forearm to help him clamber out. The beam from the torch flickered and winked out. “Hain,” Donovan managed to wheeze in greeting. He followed the big man’s gaze and saw Rylie scrambling frantically after the fallen torch. Little mewling sounds of distress issued from her. “Can she see you, too?” he asked in surprise. Hain nodded his shaggy head. “’Tis Samhain. And though she does not look it, a little of the High King’s blood flows in your wee golden lass as well. She can see me, mayhap not so well as you, Dony. Nor do I think she can understand what I say.” “Rylie,” Donovan called out softly.
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She’d found the torch and clutched it in both hands. Visibly shaken, she turned on her knees and faced them. “’Tis all right,” Donovan soothed. “He’s a friend.” But she didn’t answer; only whimpered. In fact, though she struggled to stand, her legs collapsed under her and she sat back on the muddy ground. Donovan took a couple of steps toward her, but Hain’s deep voice stopped him. “I had best go no closer to her,” the Druid said. “But I know why you’ve come again, Dony. The dead man, he who dug these holes, you seek him.” Though it wasn’t a question, Donovan nodded. “McRory.” His throat constricted at the confirmation of what he already knew. “He really is dead then?” “You have seen that he is, my brother,” Hain replied, steepling his fingers in front of his face. “As you guessed, the nine-fingered one killed him and brought his body here, to the fens.” Lynch! Donovan’s mind spun. Lynch had murdered McRory. But why? The Druid continued speaking, “He went to the other place, where your mother buried the tall man long ago. He moved the mound of earth and buried the dead man next to the hole, then covered him back with the same mound.” “D-Donovan?” Rylie’s whisper quavered behind him. He jerked his head in the direction of her voice and saw, to his astonishment that she stood within an arm’s length of him. Even in the dark, he could see that her eyes were wide with fright and that she was trembling. Yet she’d managed to push herself this close.
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“’Tis all right,” Donovan reassured her, nearly overcome by a wave of admiration and pride at her courage. He extended his hand in her direction and she grabbed his fingers in an icy death-grip. Behind him, he could hear Hain’s deep voice warn, “Take care, my brother. This man means to harm you also. Both of you.” Donovan pulled Rylie close, tucking her head under his chin. “I’m s-sorry I’m such a b-big baby,” Rylie choked out against his chest. He murmured a comforting sound in the back of his throat, then swiveled his head in Hain’s direction. But the Druid had disappeared into the mist. The same intense noise that had accosted him earlier blared inside his head, but rapidly diminished to a low whir. Nonetheless, the momentary blast staggered him. Rylie’s arms encircled his waist, steadying him. She peeked nervously over her shoulder at the dark, swirling fog. “What . . . Where . . . ” She turned her startled face up to him. “Did I scare him off?” Donovan smiled a bit in spite of the pain stabbing behind his eyes. “I think he was more worried about scaring you. I didn’t expect you’d be able to see him. Did you hear him too?” She buried her face against his jacket for a moment before she spoke again. “Not really. I could hear a low sound but no words. And he did look pretty darn scary. Kinda like a big hulking shadow, only in reverse. Light instead of dark, but more substantial than a ghost, or how I’d picture a ghost.” She stopped abruptly and took a step
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back though her arms remained loosely clasped around him. “You looked more like the ghost. Almost like you weren’t quite there.” She drew herself close to him again. “Are you okay? What did he say?” “What I already guessed, Lynch murdered McRory.” To his surprise, Donovan found he was panting as if he’d just run a thousand-meter foot race. Or maybe a five thousand meter, for his limbs and body felt engulfed with fatigue. And his head ached like it had split down the middle. He let go of Rylie and rubbed his temples. Rylie drew away a little and asked, “Did he know why?” Donovan grimaced. “No, but he told me Lynch buried McRory right next to the pit where they discovered Malachy Flynn.” “Smart. Who would think to look there?” “We would,” Donovan replied. Then at her glance of protest, he explained. “I’m hoping if I find McRory, then I’ll be able to see why Lynch killed him.” “In a vision, you mean?” When he gave a slight nod, she chewed her bottom lip for a moment before she said, half-heartedly, “But we don’t have anything to dig with.” “There’s a lean-to on the side of the cottage, I’ll check for anything we can use.” Rylie gave a small sigh or relief. “Good! After that close encounter with your friendly Druid, I really need to use the bathroom.” “That’s settled then,” Donovan affirmed. “And when we get to the cottage, we’ll call Heaney’s service.” “Good idea.” She pulled the plastic torch from her pocket, switched it on, and they began their slow exit
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from the fens. The mists had thickened, and if they tried to shine the torch beam anywhere but directly on the ground, it reflected back like a distorted mirror. With the limited illumination, roots and branches tripped and snagged at them, hampering their progress further. The buzzing in Donovan’s ears continued, though not as loudly as before. Either that, or his head already hurt so much that it seemed inconsequential in contrast. He yearned to sit down and take a long cool drink of water, but he didn’t want to prolong this misery one moment more than necessary. Besides, the nearest water was at the cottage anyway. The fog had grown so dense, that he didn’t even realize they were out of the fens until the torchlight shone on the mound of earth from one of the storage pit excavations directly in front of them. Squinting, he could faintly make out the darker shape of the building across the yard. “Thank goodness!” Rylie accompanied her exclamation with a little jig. “We’re almost there!” He sympathized with her plight. “Why don’t you go ahead? Can you see well enough without the torch?” He dug in his pocket for his keys. “The door shouldn’t be locked but just in case, the smallest of these opens it. Oh, and take the car key too. I dropped the mobile between the seats. Heaney’s office number is on the directory.” With hands still icy cold, she exchanged the torch for the keys, thrusting them into her pocket. “What should I tell Heaney?” Donovan shrugged. “’Twill be his service, so just say ’tis urgent that he call us back right away. Maybe by
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then, my headache will have eased up enough to sort out what to tell him.” “Poor baby,” she murmured. Then standing on tiptoe, she brushed her lips across his cheek. “I’ll check my purse for aspirin.” Before he could answer, or kiss her back, she was gone. He could make out the red splash of her sweatshirt bobbing along through the mist for several moments, then the swirling gray curtain swallowed it. Fingering his cheek, he trudged on across the yard, wondering how the hell he could explain to the lawyer—or anyone else for that matter—what he knew about McRory without having been directly involved. Perhaps he really should be locked up, and studied for the freak of nature he truly was. He’d known the minute he touched foot back on Irish soil that his life would be torn apart, but he’d never imagined how badly, how irreparably. No going back now. Donovan pushed aside his gloomy thoughts and concentrated on the task at hand, finding something to exhume a corpse. Fecking lovely. He reached the lean-to attached to the back corner of the cottage. As expected, no padlock dangled from the rusty bolt fastening on the door. With fingers half-numb from the cold, he struggled to move the ancient metal, which finally gave with a groan. He shined the light all around the tight enclosure. Other than mouse droppings and cobwebs, the contents were sparse. A moldy broom with a splintered handle leaned in one corner and a rusty paint bucket sat in the other. A yellow-tipped screwdriver, a wooden clothespin,
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and a handful of eight-penny nails lay scattered on the earthen floor between them. Nothing else. Not so much as a rag. Think! Donovan commanded himself. Maybe he could use the lid of the paint bucket? Or maybe there was something inside the cottage? He cocked his head to listen, but heard nothing from inside. Leaving the leanto door open, he walked toward the front. “Rylie?” he called out, shining the slender torch beam in the direction of the car. A sudden glare of light split the darkness at the cottage door, followed by a muffled cry, “No!” “Rylie!” he shouted, throwing his arm up to ward off the piercing brightness that stabbed his eyes. But before he could move or speak again, the blinding light quavered wildly and something heavy clattered on the stone floor. “Stop, O’Shea!” A man’s gruff voice ordered. He turned and saw Lynch standing in the cottage doorway. One of his hands gripped Rylie’s upper arm. The other held a gun, its barrel resting under her jaw.
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Chapter 15 THE PLASTIC TORCH DROPPED FROM DONOVAN’S NERVELESS fingers, the light spinning drunkenly on the ground at his feet. “Hands where I can see them!” Lynch barked, as he’d undoubtedly done hundreds of times. Somehow, through the paralysis of terror that gripped him, Donovan managed to raise his arms to chest level, palms out, fingers spread. The beams from the two dropped torches illuminated the ground around the doorstep and cast eerie shadows around Rylie and Lynch’s feet and legs. “So here you are again, O’Shea,” the beefy inspector mused with feigned casualness. “You and your little Yank looking for someone? Or maybe some thing?” Donovan swallowed down the bitter taste of bile before he could speak. “L—Let her go.” Anger battled with his fear, curling his fingers against his palms, making his voice stronger. “She knows nothing.” “And what of you, boyo?” Lynch’s tone dropped to a sneer. “How is it you always seem to know too bleedin’ much? Who helped you and your professor friend hatch this blackmail scheme? Not your old man, the feckin’ gobshite never knew squat about the Provos’ network.” “You’d never believe me if I told you,” Donovan replied, his mind now unparalyzed and whirling out of control.
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Somehow he had to divert Lynch’s attention. Make him lower the gun. He squinted into the darkness, trying to see Rylie’s face. Any other woman would have been sobbing hysterically. Trembling. Begging. But not Rylie. He couldn’t see her face, but could discern the rise and fall of her chest under the red sweatshirt. A little rapid, but not erratic. Not panicky. She, too, awaited her chance. “Doesn’t matter,” Lynch spat, wrenching Rylie’s arm. “I’ve waited too long, searched too long for those account numbers. Nobody’s going to take what’s mine after all these years.” “You can’t honestly think you’ll get away with three murders,” Donovan challenged, though he had no doubt that Lynch was capable of the deeds. His vision of McRory was more than enough proof. The other man gave an ugly laugh. “Not murder. I’m afraid the two of you will have a tragically fatal lovers’ quarrel. Certainly not unheard of. I shall arrive too late to prevent it, though one of you will live long enough to tell me the whole sordid tale.” He shifted his stance slightly and Rylie squirmed in his grasp. “So which of you survives the longest, O’Shea? You? Or her?” The gun swung a fraction as Lynch tried to adjust his hold on her. The slight movement was all the opportunity Rylie needed. As the gun barrel brushed beneath her chin, she twisted toward her captor. In the torch beams, Donovan saw her foot lash out and connect squarely with Lynch’s knee. “Bastard!” she shouted, ramming her shoulder into his throat as Lynch crumpled with a groan.
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The gun clattered onto the threshold. In the same instant, Rylie sprang away, dodged around the car, and leapt toward Donovan. “He has the car key!” she gasped, swiveling around him. “Run!” Donovan moved on pure instinct, turning to dash across the yard for the dark safety of the fens. He reached for Rylie’s arm and realized that she had them pinioned behind her back. Lynch had handcuffed her. “Son of a bitch!” he swore. But his words were lost in the sharp report of the pistol. Rylie squeaked in fright and stumbled. He gripped her elbow and kept her upright, kept her moving. Halfway across the yard, Lynch fired again and Donovan zagged to the left, jerking Rylie with him. Another shot rang out and Donovan heard the bullet thud into the mound of earth as they darted by. The rumbling tread of Lynch’s footsteps sounded behind them. Rylie stumbled again, her movements awkward and unbalanced with her hands lashed behind her back. He threw his arm around her shoulders to steady her. “Almost there,” he encouraged as the blackness of the fens loomed in front of them like an unearthly apparition. Another shot whizzed close by in the swirling mist. It had to be Rylie’s red sweatshirt he was aiming for. The realization slashed cold terror through Donovan’s fevered brain. With her hands cuffed, they couldn’t get it off of her, even if they dared pause long enough to try. He tugged Rylie with him as he lunged to the left and then the right in a desperate attempt to confuse their enemy.
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Lynch shot again. And again. The vines and brush were no more than a dozen meters away. Beside him, Rylie suddenly jerked from his grasp and went down on one knee. A cry of pain erupted from her lips. Donovan grabbed her upper arm to pull her up and a warm, sticky fluid gushed over his hand. Blood! She’d been hit! The terrible image of his mother’s body being flung forward as the bullet slammed into her back flashed through his mind. “Rylie?” Breathing hard, she stared open-mouthed at the blood dripping from his fingertips. She made a little strangled sound and her terror-filled eyes flicked up to his for an instant. Then they rolled backward into her head, and she went limp. Rylie! No sound emerged from his mouth. Everything stopped, frozen in that moment of horror. Then another bullet zinged through the bush next to her crumpled form, and spurred Donovan into action. Sucking in a ragged breath, he pulled her into his arms and made a mad dash toward the tangles of undergrowth. Into the dank sanctuary of the fens. He couldn’t stay on the path! That was his last coherent thought as the cacophony of noise that had assaulted him earlier hit him again. He couldn’t hear, could scarcely see as he crashed through the branches and brambles.
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One of his feet sank into muck up to his ankle and Donovan lurched and nearly dropped his precious burden. He wasn’t even sure if she was alive . . . Oh God! She couldn’t be dead! She couldn’t! He held her tighter and lumbered on, gasping to breathe in the moist, heavy air. The sounds inside his head pounded like a battlefield. War trumpets blared. Drums beat in savage rhythm. Dark colors swirled in front of his eyes. He couldn’t let himself lose consciousness! He wouldn’t! Donovan could sense movement and the presence of other beings around him. “Dony!” He recognized the gruff voice and turned to see the huge warrior materialize out of the mist. “This way, my brother,” Ro urged, motioning with the sword clutched in his right hand. Donovan followed him, the sounds of battle all around them—drums, horns, shouts. He couldn’t tell if Lynch still pursued them or not. He only knew he must keep up with Ro, as he stumbled through the wavering half-twilight that now surrounded them. Nothing else mattered, except the oozing of Rylie’s blood, warm and moist as it soaked through his shirt. Just when his legs were about to collapse, they burst into a small clearing no more than a dozen meters wide. In the center, stones were stacked knee high in a circle around a dark opening, a well. Thick green moss carpeted the ground on the north side of it. Ro motioned to the mossy area. “Put her there.” He sheathed his sword and propped his round, ironstudded shield against the rocks; a sure signal that for
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the moment at least, they were safe. Then he dropped a small wooden bucket tied to a crossbeam into the well. Gingerly, Donovan knelt and let go of Rylie’s legs. Relief such as he’d never known flooded him when he saw her chest rapidly rising and falling. Thank all the stars in heaven, she was still alive! Holding her against him with his left hand, he struggled to get his jacket off so that he could put it on the ground under her. She stirred and groaned. “Ow! Hurts . . . ” Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. Joy nearly overcame him, along with the overpowering urge to kiss her. Instead, he saw the wound was still bleeding and terror seized him anew. Had the bullet nicked an artery? Would she bleed to death before he could get help? God knew that if she didn’t survive, he didn’t want to either. The bullet should have hit him, not her! Rylie moaned again and though he scarcely remembered how, Donovan lifted his eyes heavenward to pray. The limbs of a hawthorn tree, adorned with bits of cloth and shiny trinkets left as offerings, spread over their heads. “This is a holy place,” Ro affirmed, squatting next to him with a bucketful of water. “’Tis said the well has healing powers, so we must clean her wound.” Donovan tossed his jacket on the ground. Then Ro helped him ease Rylie onto it. She whimpered again, but still didn’t open her eyes. He yanked off his bloodstained pullover and T-shirt, handing the latter to his friend. “Use this.”
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While the big shaggy-haired man easily ripped the cotton knit to pieces, Donovan searched his pockets for anything useful. Nothing. Shrugging the pullover back on he asked, “Is there anything we can use to get these cuffs off?” Ro offered the dagger from his sword belt, but though the blade was razor sharp, it was too wide. Donovan handed the weapon back, and his friend immediately used it to slice through the bloody sleeves of Rylie’s sweatshirt and sweater. Donovan had to turn away for a moment. The amount of her blood seemed too massive to be anything but serious. Glancing toward the festooned tree, a flash of metal caught his eye. From a thorn on the lowest branch hung a string of carved polished beads with a silver crucifix dangling from the end. His mother’s rosary. He’d know it anywhere. How had it come to be here? Feeling as if another presence guided him, he stood and slipped the rosary from the branch. Holding his breath, he knelt beside Rylie, and carefully inserted the end of the silver cross into the slot between the handcuffs. With a small twist, one cuff sprang open as if by magic. With her hands no longer bound, Rylie rolled her uninjured arm in front of her with a long sigh. Her eyelids drifted up just enough so that she met Donovan’s gaze. The corners of her pale lips curled just a fraction and his heart threatened to pound right through his chest wall. Then, her eyes flicked across to Ro, hovering close on her other side, dagger in hand and she gasped in fright. Her fingers frantically searched for Donovan.
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“Is—is he—fr—fr—” she struggled to speak. Torn between elation and anxiety Donovan covered her hand with his, the rosary falling around his wrist. “Friendly? Yes, he is.” Her grip was icy but gratifyingly strong. “But he . . . ” She licked her lips and panted with the effort. “He’s naked.” Donovan couldn’t help but smile. Of course that would be the first thing she noticed. “You can see him that clearly, then?” “Umm hmmm.” Rylie murmured, then jerked her injured arm with a hiss of pain. The warm metallic scent of her blood tinged the air. Ro had taken advantage of her distraction to continue treating her wound. Still wishing he were the one bleeding instead of her, Donovan smoothed her hair with his free hand and made a shushing sound of comfort. All he could do. Then he glanced over to where Ro swabbed away at the dark blood, his shaggy head bent close to Rylie’s shoulder. The bullet appeared to have gone completely through the flesh of her upper arm. Donovan couldn’t let her see his concern. “Ro’s a Celtic warrior,” he explained, to keep her attention diverted. “They went into battle with their sword, shield, and not much else.” She started to reply, but instead she stiffened and sucked her breath in sharply. Donovan’s frantic gaze jumped to Ro. The big man had wrapped thick strips of cloth around her arm and pulled them taut.
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“You must hold it tight to staunch the blood,” Ro said, motioning with his bearded chin for Donovan to take his place. “Lynch shot me, didn’t he?” Rylie asked in a quavering voice. Donovan didn’t want to let go of her hand, but he had to. He couldn’t bring himself to answer her question as he scooted awkwardly around to her other side. To give voice to the horror would make it too real, perhaps unbearable. His eyes probed Ro’s face for answers while his hand closed over Rylie’s bandaged arm. “I am no healer,” the big man said, rising to his feet. “I shall send for Hain.” “Where’s Lynch now?” Rylie persisted, her breathing shallow and uneven. She didn’t appear able to hear Ro. Or if she did, she must not understand his words. Again, Donovan looked at the warrior, who had hefted his shield into his hand. A dark smear of Rylie’s blood mingled with the green and yellow paint on his sword arm. “I don’t know,” Donovan whispered. “Don’t worry, Dony,” the tall warrior said. “Spirit or flesh, I’ll allow none to disturb you and your wee lass here.” In one fluid motion, he drew his long sword. Then with a final glance at them, he strode from the clearing. Rylie gave a weak cough. “He’s . . . even more scary than . . . the other one.” She coughed again and looked down at Donovan’s hand, wrapped firmly around her arm. Thank heaven she couldn’t see the blood he felt oozing through the cloth under his fingers. Or the wet ruddy stains darkening the green moss.
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“They’re brothers,” Donovan explained, hoping to keep both their minds on something other than her seeping bullet wound and the madman who’d inflicted it. “At least I think they are. The three of us were playmates when I was a child.” “Sc—scary,” Rylie murmured. “Well, we were all a lot smaller then,” he conceded. “Umm hmmm.” Her chin drooped as if she was tired, but then a shudder wracked her slim frame. “C—cold. S-so c-cold,” she chattered. “H-hold me?” He pulled her against him with his free hand. She winced and moaned a little with pain, but grasped his jacket off the ground as she snuggled onto his lap. Donovan inched his way backward a slow and careful millimeter at a time until his back rested against the stones stacked around the well. His hand still gripped her arm. Fear nearly suffocated him. Rylie curled against his chest. With his free hand, he pulled his jacket around her for warmth. “Your shirt is wet,” she murmured in a voice that sounded weak and distant. Donovan sucked in a breath and moved her slightly. “’Tis your blood, sweetheart.” “Oh, s—sorry . . . ” Her voice faded. Shock, no doubt. He wanted to rant, scream, do anything but sit here and helplessly watch her slipping away from him. He dropped his lips to the top of her head and rubbed them across her silky hair. “Don’t you even think about dying on me!” He declared in a fierce whisper. “You hear me?” She did, for she roused a bit and looked at him with half-closed eyes. “I . . . won’ . . . ”
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“Good! See that you don’t.” He pulled her tighter against him. Then to his utter humiliation a sob hung up in his throat. He choked it back down and sputtered, “I love you far too much to lose you now.” “Don’t cry . . . ” she breathed against the side of his neck. “ . . . love you, too . . . ” The dry branches of the hawthorn rattled as if a gust of wind had passed through them. But the air remained deathly still. Alarm leaped like wild fire through his veins, and in spite of Ro’s vow, Donovan peered anxiously at the curtain of fog surrounding the clearing. He swiveled his head to the left, and an instant later, when he turned back to the right, the Druid stood over him. “She is injured,” Hain stated, pulling the jacket away from Rylie’s arm. As Donovan nodded numbly, Rylie murmured, “The other one?” “Yes, he’s here to help.” He turned to watch Hain kneel and draw a fresh bucket of water from the well. Then the Druid opened a cloth bag attached to his belt and pulled out a small gourd dipper and a leather pouch. He ladled up water from the bucket and sprinkled in a pinch of herbs from the pouch. “Give her this to drink, ’twill ease her pain.” Donovan raised the dipper to Rylie’s lips, but at the first trickle, she drew back with a cough. “Tastes awful.” The strength of her refusal actually heartened him. “Drink it for me,” he urged and poured the rest into her mouth. “No,” she spluttered, spitting most of it back into his face. Not that he cared, for at least she displayed some of her usual spunk.
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“I need to see the wound,” Hain requested and Donovan slowly released his vise-like grip. Rylie gave a little whimper of fear and buried her face against his neck while the Druid carefully unbound the strips of bloody cloth. Donovan shielded her eyes from the sight, and had to force himself to look. To his surprise, the ragged flesh didn’t seem nearly so bloody. Too bad that didn’t ease his guilt. “The bone is unbroken and the bleeding has nearly stopped,” Hain affirmed. Donovan sagged with relief. Cradling Rylie’s head under his chin, he cooed nonsense sounds to her while he watched the Druid retrieve the remains of the Tshirt and cover it with a mixture of water and more ground up ingredients from a different pouch. Once the poultice was ready, Donovan helped Hain apply it to Rylie’s arm. Though her eyes remained half-open, she didn’t appear to be aware of what the two of them were doing. Donovan wanted to believe she’d swallowed enough of the herb to anesthetize her, but part of him insisted blood loss and shock were the real reasons. Whatever the cause, she endured the re-bandaging without protest. “Don’t worry, Dony,” Hain’s words echoed those of his warrior brother, as he secured the fabric with a strip from Rylie’s hacked-off sweater sleeve. “Unless the wound putrefies, she shall recover. Her heart is strong.” The mention of infection tightened Donovan’s grip with renewed worry. The Druid stood and added, “And her love for you is true, my brother. Just as your mother’s was for the man
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who claimed and raised you, though another’s blood flowed in your veins.” Air refused to enter Donovan’s lungs as his gaze followed Hain’s to the rosary still hanging from his wrist. “My mother . . . ” he finally wheezed out. “She came here?” “Is here,” the other man corrected. His eyes moved from the rosary to the limbs of the hawthorn. “Her spirit and many others sanctify this place.” Donovan’s gaze moved from the tree to Rylie’s unresponsive form, and finally to the tall Druid. “Are we between then?” Hain nodded, his dark blue eyes fathomless and unwavering. “For now.” Though the ominous tone made Donovan feel sure of the answer, he asked anyway. “How long can we stay here?” “Not long enough to escape the one who seeks you. Else you cannot return to your lives a’tall.” The leaves on the hawthorn rattled again, and Hain’s eyes shifted from it back to Donovan. “And there are other things afoot tonight.” Icy dread washed over Donovan and he felt as if he were drowning. Clutching Rylie, he labored first for breath then for words. “H—how long can you remain with her if I go?” The Druid shrugged. “Only an hour or maybe two by your reckoning. ’Tis our combined power that keeps the three of us here beyond reach.” He bent and brushed a lock of hair from Rylie’s cheek, then rested his hand on Donovan’s shoulder. “Hers is slight, and when you go, mine will fade.”
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“And Ro?” The drowning feeling had been replaced with the helpless throes of a condemned man. “Is equally limited.” Hain shook his shaggy head. “Though he will give his all to aid you.” So that settled it. He had no choice. “Do not believe yourself unworthy of this adversary, my brother,” Hain said, reading his thoughts. “You are equal to the task, just as you are worthy of her love.” Donovan wished he could believe the words. In truth, he’d never felt more incapable. He’d always viewed his so-called gift as a weakness, so this power Hain spoke of was a foreign concept. But when he looked down into Rylie’s unconscious face, he knew he must try. She was only here because of him. He had put her in harm’s way and now he must get her out, or die trying. Flooded with guilt and trepidation, he pressed his lips to her forehead, cool and lifeless as a marble mask. “Help me move her.” With Hain’s assistance, he placed Rylie on an unsullied patch of moss, being careful not to jostle her injured arm. When Donovan finally let go of her, she uttered a whispered moan and curled into a fetal position. He spread his jacket over as much of her as he could, and hoped it would provide enough warmth. Without her pressed against his body, he himself felt bereft, like he might never be warm again. His mother’s rosary lay on the ground beside the well. He picked it up and hung it back on the same thorn where’d he found it. The silver crucifix flashed in the dull half-light of the clearing. Then he picked up the tattered remains of Rylie’s red sweatshirt sleeve. Her
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blood had begun to stiffen and dry in brownish splotches all over the bright fabric. He tied it around the end of a branch in his own bloody offering. Taking a fortifying breath, Donovan turned to Hain. “If Ro is to aid me, where will I find him?” “You can conjure him with your thoughts, my brother,” the Druid answered. “Even as you called us both when we were all young.” Had he really done that? Casting his mind back to the long ago memories, he supposed he did. Strange how he’d never really thought about it back then. “Don’t I need a brooch or . . . something?” Hain shook his head. “Not any more, and certainly not on Samhain.” He rested his big hand on Donovan’s shoulder and his words were the final catalyst. “Call Ro to you and together you can stalk your enemy.” Two against one. But that one had a gun. Didn’t matter, for he was no longer the prey. Lynch was. Donovan’s gaze dropped back to Rylie and a fierce swell of love and protectiveness surged through him and hardened to resolve. He would not fail. He lifted his eyes back to Hain’s. “Stay with her until I return.” “I shall, my brother,” the other man vowed. With a lingering glance at Rylie, Donovan turned and left the clearing. The wall of noise blasted into him the moment he stepped away from the sanctuary of the well. He clutched his hands to his ears and stumbled aimlessly for a moment through the eerie half-light. Then he stopped,
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drew in a ragged breath, and closed his eyes. Ignoring the noise and the cold, he brought the image of the big warrior into his mind, concentrating on every detail he could remember—tangled black hair hanging below his wide shoulders, glittering blue eyes, green and ochre paint swirling over his massive bare arms and chest. When he opened his eyes a few moments later, Ro stood in front of him, round shield in his left hand, long sword in his right. Scary as Rylie had described. Donovan released his breath and dropped his hands from his ears. All around him had gone deathly calm and quiet, even the pounding of his own heart. Ro cocked his head to one side, the light and shadows flickering over his face so that he appeared by turns real and a spectral apparition. He studied Donovan for a moment before he spoke. “You are ready then, my brother?” “I am.” Donovan glanced down and saw the same shadows casting him as both his bedraggled self and as a Celtic warrior, armed and decorated like Ro. They existed in both realms. “I intend to find the man who hurt my woman.” The big warrior’s teeth gleamed in a feral grin. “We shall hunt him down like the animal he is.” “He’s close by then?” Donovan could feel the same primitive urges for retribution and blood vengeance gripping him. Ro nodded. “I have watched him. He seeks for you and your wee golden lass. He will not be hard to find.” Donovan tested the weight of the sword and the shield in his hands. “Then let us hunt, my brother.”
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Chapter 16 RO’S ASSESSMENT PROVED CORRECT. DONOVAN GUESSED that he and the big warrior crept stealthily through the muddy undergrowth for less than fifteen minutes before they heard Lynch bellowing. “Give it up, O’Shea!” The police inspector’s voice reverberated through the dark, heavy mist. “I know you’re here! Give it up and I’ll let her live.” How very fecking generous. “Why does he think I’m there?” Donovan’s lips twisted with scorn. Beside him, Ro’s expression looked equally contemptuous, as if he knew his thoughts. “Because I laid down a trail even a child could follow. One that went in a circle, which that one failed to notice.” Even though whispered, his response sounded derisive. “Shall we drive him before us into the lough? Let the spirits in the water and the eels have him?” Tempting as the idea sounded, Donovan shook his head. Forcing Lynch into the lough still left the possibility, however slight, that he might escape. And Donovan intended for him to have no such opportunity. “I shall confront him.” “He still has the fire stick,” Ro reminded. “The thing that hurt your wee lass.” The mention of Rylie’s bullet wound made Donovan grind his teeth with pent-up fury. “Then we need to get it away from him, don’t we?” “Indeed we do,” said his companion with a deadly grin.
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With purpose they moved toward the sound of Lynch’s shouting. Donovan searched his memory to count the number of times Lynch had fired his gun. Five? Six? Perhaps all they needed to do was make the inspector fire all his rounds. If the gun had been full when he started. And if he had no more ammunition. Shite! Disarm him, then. “Come out, O’Shea!” Lynch shouted again into the mist. “I know I hit one of you. I saw the blood.” Donovan was hard-pressed not to rush him, hack him to bits with the heavy sword his warrior self carried. Instead, he caught his breath and sought to summon the power Hain claimed he possessed. With slow deliberation, he channeled all his fury and vengeful need into a single sharp focus. He scarcely noticed the throbbing pain in his temples. The weird twilight from the clearing began to glow around him and Ro. Tendrils of it spread like vines around Lynch and the scrubby bushes where he stood. And with it came the sounds of drums and war horns. Shadowy shapes of other warriors moved in the flickering light. Lynch crouched and spun in a slow circle, his pistol gripped tightly in his hand. “O’Shea? What the hell kind of parlor trick are you trying to pull?” “’Tis Samhain,” Donovan called out as he and Ro moved closer. “And you hold no sway here.” “Like hell I don’t!” Lynch declared, and squeezed the trigger. But the recoil sounded muted, and the bullet whizzed harmlessly through the air. With another curse, Lynch fired a second, equally ineffectual shot. “Steady,” Ro hissed. “Crowd him from the left. ’Tis his weak side.”
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The instinctual, primitive part of Donovan echoed Ro’s words and recognized his enemy’s vulnerabilities. As he followed the movements of his fierce companion, the throbbing in Donovan’s head moved beyond pain into something less tangible but far more potent. He felt it growing, pulsating through every part of him, spreading out across the fens. His eyes moved from Ro to himself, and to the moving shadows of other warriors all around them. Donovan wasn’t exactly sure what Lynch could see, but whatever it was, sent the man stumbling backward, his gun no longer gripped at the ready. Donovan and his companions followed in a bizarre kind of dance. “I must’ve hit her, didn’t I?” Lynch’s tone of bravado now sounded strained, as if the weird surroundings frayed his nerves. “Too bad. I’m betting she’s a sweet little piece. If she hasn’t bled to death, maybe I can still find out.” The words caused Donovan’s control to slip a fraction in the flash of his rage. A white-hot surge lashed from him and shook the trees and bushes with momentary ferocity, rendering everything else into an eerie silence. The fens and all within them held a collective breath and waited. Lynch would never touch Rylie. On any plane of existence. With every bone and sinew focused on his adversary, Donovan pressed silently closer. His control balanced on the edge of his sword blade. “I’ll let you watch, shall I?” Lynch boasted to the empty air. “Like when you were a wee lad. Did you watch your mother and Malachy Flynn?” With a roar, Donovan hurled himself at the other man. Forgetting about weapons, Donovan tackled him low, throwing Lynch off balance. The gun flew from the
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inspector’s grasp as he toppled backward. Amid unearthly rumblings and shrieks from the surrounding brush, the two rolled over and over fighting like wild beasts. Donovan felt the satisfying crunch of bone and the spurt of blood as his fist smashed Lynch’s nose. While his enemy pummeled at Donovan’s ribs, he landed a solid blow to Lynch’s jaw that snapped his head back. The muddy earth shuddered beneath them as they thrashed, and the noises grew louder. Donovan straightened to his knees, his hands closed around Lynch’s throat. With Donovan’s thumbs digging into the inspector’s windpipe, his face purpled. His arms flayed as he tried to break Donovan’s deadly hold. Any satisfaction Donovan felt disappeared in the next instant when Lynch brought his knee up hard and fast between his legs. Donovan crumpled with a wheezing groan. His enemy lunged and Donovan went over backward. Then they were both rolling on the ground again, each struggling for dominance. Donovan felt his arm entangle in something stringy. He glanced down at a long length of twine twisted around his wrist and realized where they were a halfsecond before they tumbled into one of Sybil and McRory’s excavations. He landed face down with Lynch on top of him. Even with the breath momentarily knocked from his lungs, Donovan felt his leg twist in an unnatural angle and pain shot through his knee. Concentration broken, he gasped and sucked in a mouthful of muddy water. His strangled cough alerted Lynch to his advantage. With a roar of triumph, he smashed Donovan’s face into
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the muck that had accumulated in the bottom of the hole. Donovan fought madly for air, shoving and writhing. His enemy eased up just long enough for Donovan to draw in half a breath. Then Lynch’s knee crashed down on the back of his neck and he pinioned one of Donovan’s arms, twisting it across his back. The blood pounding in Donovan’s ears drowned out the other sounds, while his bursting lungs screamed for air. He couldn’t think clearly enough to summon Ro or any other help. And he felt his consciousness slipping. Knew when he lost it he was dead.
Rylie floated in and out of awareness, alternating between cold black oblivion and red throbbing pain. Then a gunshot snapped awareness through her fogged brain, followed quickly by a second shot. “Donovan?” she cried out, struggling to sit up. Though the pain made her gasp for breath, her adrenaline-laced fear kept her upright, braced on her good arm. The tall, robed specter leaned over her, his voice and features equally blurred. All around, unearthly silence loomed in the moist, chilly air. Something was wrong. Very wrong. “Have to . . . find . . . Donovan!” she gritted out, pulling her legs under her. Pain left her voice unsteady. “Lynch . . . might . . . kill him!” The Druid must have understood, for a long arm extended down to her. Holding her breath, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist. He clasped her forearm with both his hands and hauled her to her feet.
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In spite of her best efforts, a whimper escaped her tightly drawn lips. A starburst of pain from her injured arm made her sway, but she was determined not to fall back down. She must find Donovan! With the Druid’s hand under her arm for support, Rylie forced herself to shuffle forward. A wall of noise engulfed her as soon as her feet slipped beyond the smooth green moss of the clearing. Suddenly, all the demons from hell screeched and beat on drums, or maybe each other. Even the ground vibrated with fury. The racket sounded like nothing in this world, and spurred her to a greater urgency. Donovan needed her. Panting, she struggled to keep up as the Druid pulled her along. Shadowy shapes moved through the rustling trees and bushes. The Druid paused and she bumped into him, the jolt sending an excruciating wave of pain through her upper body and bringing tears to her eyes. Digging her fingers into his arm, she blinked hard, unwilling to waste any energy on crying. The Druid turned to her, his expression unreadable in the flickering light, but tension quivered through his arm. He spoke and she could make out two words, “fell spirits.” Rylie followed his dark gaze and saw eerie light gathering above a mound of freshly dug dirt. But it was the commotion on the nearby ground that snagged her attention. A writhing mass grunted and thrashed. In the wavering twilight, she strained to make out two grappling figures just as they rolled to the lip of the hole and crashed down into it. The instant they fell, a blood-curdling howl shook the air and the Druid disappeared. Without his arm for
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support, Rylie crumpled to the ground. She managed to break her fall with her good arm, while over her head the terrible wailing continued. Unable to stand, she hobbled forward on her knees, her usable hand groping the earth in front of her. As she inched closer to the hole, her fingers encountered something metallic. She closed it in her grasp and knew what it was. Lynch’s gun! Frantic now, Rylie scrambled a half-dozen yards, dragging the gun with her. In her quest, she doggedly ignored the incessant noise and the pain in her arm. Through the yellowish light, she saw Lynch’s head bob above the top of the hole. He wasn’t facing her, but she recognized his pale hair. No sign of Donovan. Her pulse pounded loud enough in her ears to override some of the noise. She pulled the heavy pistol into her lap, and wondered how she could fire it effectively with one hand. From what her stepfather had long ago taught her, she could see that the safety was off, and since it was a semi-automatic, all she had to do was aim and pull the trigger. If only it were that simple. The thing weighed a ton. And the recoil would be downright ugly. Settling her left leg under her, Rylie brought her right up close to her chest, knee bent to help brace her arm. The pistol wobbled and she fought to hold it in place. Time seemed to stop. Lynch straightened more fully, his left shoulder looming even with her line of vision. Willing her hand steady, she tightened her grip, aimed and squeezed the trigger.
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Her hand jerked so roughly she dropped the weapon, and the simultaneous bang momentarily deafened her. With a sickening heave of her stomach, she saw Lynch jerk and then fall. She’d never shot at anything but a paper target. Trembling, she crawled close enough to peer into the hole. Lynch’s body pitched onto its side as, coughing and gagging, Donovan struggled from beneath. He rose to his knees, covered in mud and blood. Alive! He was the most beautiful sight Rylie had ever seen. She tried to call to him, but with the horrific din still going on and her own voice so damnably weak, he probably couldn’t hear her. But somehow he did, for he turned his head and made eye contact. Her heart gave a strong thump. She had to get him out! She reached her shaking hand toward him, only to have him swivel his head aside. Confused, she followed Donovan’s gaze. Two spectral beings hovered over the pit. One of them bore a distinct resemblance to Professor McRory, but with the side of his head blown away. The scream of terror rushed up her throat. Donovan’s head snapped up and he sucked in a swift, blessed breath of air. Lynch’s heavy body falling across him cut short the second draw. Fortunately the first inhale revived him enough to struggle, and he met no resistance from his enemy.
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Gasping in great drafts of air and coughing out mud, Donovan shoved the inert form aside. Warm sticky fluid ran down his hand. The inspector bled profusely from a wound in his shoulder. Stunned, Donovan sat up and looked for his rescuer. Rylie’s head and shoulders materialized near the edge of the pit. Her injured left arm hugged tight against her side. As her gaze met his, she stretched her good arm toward him. Beside him, Lynch shifted and at the same time, a terrible howl overrode the other noises assaulting his ears. Donovan jerked his eyes upward and beheld a grisly sight. Just over his head loomed Malachy Flynn and Aongus McRory. The dark stain of dried blood covered Flynn’s abdomen, while one side of McRory’s head sported a bloody, gaping hole. Stomach heaving in revulsion, Donovan flinched aside. Then he heard a scream that must be Rylie’s. He scrambled toward her and tried to stand. But pain shot through his left knee the moment he put weight on it and he crumpled back to the muddy floor of the pit. By now, Lynch had regained his senses and cowered against the wall opposite the gruesome wraiths. A moan of mingled pain and fright issued from his lips. Both dreadful beings regarded him. “Traitor!” accused Flynn. “Murderer!” pronounced McRory. Their voices grated and growled like the unholy creatures they were. Lynch yelped in reply, a terrified, cornered animal. Donovan could almost feel sorry for the man, except he knew him to be guilty of both those crimes and more.
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Taking advantage of Lynch being the momentary center of attention, Donovan hauled himself toward Rylie. He clawed his way to the top of the hole, the pain in his knee rendering his left leg useless. She gave him as much assistance as she could, but even her good arm was weak, undoubtedly from shock and blood loss. Still coughing and wheezing, he collapsed next to her. She pulled his head into her lap and examined him. “Where are you hurt?” she whispered close to his ear. “Only my knee.” But as he sought to reassure her, her eyes widened with panic and she caught her breath. Donovan twisted around and saw Lynch levitating out of the pit in the grasp of the two specters. Flynn’s long bony fingers closed around his throat. McRory gripped Lynch’s uninjured shoulder. The police inspector gave a strangled cry as his captors shook him like a rag doll. And when the ghastly pair were through with their victim, Donovan knew with dread certainty that he and Rylie were next. He couldn’t walk unaided and doubted Rylie could either, so Donovan rolled over in order to crawl. “Come on,” he urged her, but she seemed too terrorstricken to move. “Rylie, sweetheart, you can do it.” By tugging on her uninjured arm, he coaxed her to turn away from the pit. They’d only gone a dozen meters when she stopped with a strangled sob, tugged her hand free, and covered her eyes. He’d been so intent on dragging himself over the mushy ground that he hadn’t looked up. But now he did, and saw the hideous form of Malachy Flynn hovering in front of them. Black, hollow eyes fixed on Donovan’s face, and the
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long bony hand grasped his shirtfront. With inhuman strength, Flynn hauled him upright and snarled, “You misbegotten bastard! You should never have been born.” Ignoring the pain in his leg and gathering his strength, Donovan focused on calling Hain and Ro to him. But a shout and a gunshot shattered his concentration. The bullet passed harmlessly through the apparition, though it did release its hold. Staggering to remain upright, Donovan saw Rylie on her knees, the pistol quavering in her hand. Flynn’s blackened lips drew back and a repulsive laugh issued from them. “She would kill to protect you, just as your mother did.” Rational thought abandoned Donovan, and the image of his mother leapt into his mind. Only this was no longer a vision inside his head. From out of the mist, his mother stood tall and proud as an Ulster warrior woman of legend. Her dark hair blew about her shoulders, the butcher knife clenched firmly in her hand, confronting Flynn. “I never got over you, Moira. Not even after all these years.” No longer the risen spirit, the mortal Malachy Flynn reached a long finger toward her hair. His soft voice cajoled, “I’ve come to take you away with me. Somewhere the bleedin’ Provos and feckin’ Scotland Yard will never find us.” Her face a mask of hatred, Moira spat at him. Her vehemence made Donovan draw back right along with Flynn. “I’d not walk through the Pearly Gates themselves if I had to go with you.” Disbelief and anger raced across Flynn’s features.
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“Don’t be daft! O’Shea’s never given you anything and never will. I’ve money enough to go anywhere you like, buy anything you like. I’ll even let you bring the boy, since I know he’s mine.” “He’s no more yours than I am. My love, my heart is Dermot’s, as his is mine, in spite of what you tried to do.” Her words inflamed Flynn’s fury. He raised clenched fists as if he might strike her. The gesture spiked Donovan’s own ire, but before he could move, Flynn spoke. “I’ll take your daughter then. She’s almost grown and resembles you enough—” She snapped at that. “You shall lay not a finger on me and mine, ye Connacht devil!” she shrieked, swinging the knife in a low deadly arc. Donovan’s own rage fractured at the same moment. But instead of shattering, his control solidified into deadly ice. His focus narrowed to Malachy Flynn. “Stop!” he commanded, and the lethal tableau before him dissolved. The ghastly presence of Flynn reappeared and flickered between his living and phantom personas. The sword of Donovan’s warrior self suddenly wavered in his own hand. He thrust the point at his enemy’s throat. “Go back into the grave where she put you.” Once again, abhorrent laughter gurgled from the twisted mouth. “You can’t kill what’s already dead,” he mocked, and vanished. “Donovan!” He heard Rylie’s cry as his knee buckled and, swordless again, he crashed to the muddy earth.
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He felt her small hand clutching his arm in a vain attempt to help him rise. Gulping down the pain, anger and fear, he squeezed his eyes shut and focused as hard as he could. Hain . . . Ro . . . Help me! A dozen labored heartbeats later, his efforts were rewarded, for he felt firm hands beneath his armpits. When he opened his eyes, his long-time companions stood on either side, supporting him. The twin parts of his nature, healer and warrior. The parts he’d tried for so long to suppress. “Can you walk, Dony?” Hain asked anxiously. Donovan shook his head. “Not unaided.” “You and your wee golden lass must flee this place,” Ro added with equal concern. “Before the dire spirits return.” The Druid helped Donovan balance on his uninjured leg while the big warrior assisted Rylie. “No need to weep,” Ro soothed as if she was a small child, and he lifted her just as easily too. Once Ro stood her on her feet, Rylie panted, “Are you all right, Donovan?” She reached for him. Nodding, Donovan extended his hand and their fingertips brushed. “Lean on this.” The Druid thrust a dead tree branch into his hand. Donovan leaned his weight onto it, and the branch immediately bent and cracked. He fell heavily against Hain, and they both nearly tumbled to the ground. Rylie reached for him again, in an effort to help him stay upright. Ro picked up a much larger branch and hacked off several smaller limbs with his sword. “Try this, then.”
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It was nearly as big around as his wrist and so heavy Donovan had to grip it with both hands. It easily held his weight, but was awkward to maneuver. Nevertheless, it was far better than crawling. “Go!” Ro ordered, hefting his sword into a fighting position. “I’ll see that the enemy does not catch you.” With a brief nod, Hain supported Rylie’s uninjured arm and turned to obey. The sudden sense that he would never see the big warrior again washed across Donovan’s harried mind. He shifted his hold on his improvised crutch and searched Ro’s bearded face for confirmation. “Farewell, my brother,” he whispered, but the other man melted away into the fens without a reply. Making an ungainly turn, Donovan struggled after Hain and Rylie. The branch sank into the muddy ground and stuck every few steps. He had to keep wrenching it free, so his progress was damnably slow. Though the other two didn’t move much faster, they moved steadily ahead. At last he recognized the burned trunk of the beech tree and knew they were near the edge of the fens. The nightmare was almost over. But the tiny sprig of hope didn’t have a chance to fully form before it was dashed. A dozen meters ahead, the specter of Aongus McRory hovered over the dried grass. Only this was a McRory he’d never seen but for more than a glimpse. No Celtic warrior, but a deadly enemy, a Norseman. His legs were laced in leather, and a fleece jerkin covered his chest. Black images of fanged serpents encircled his bare arms, and he held a rough club with metal spikes protruding from one end.
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“Stop!” he ordered. “The woman stays here with me.” Frantically, Donovan hobbled forward as he watched Hain step in front of Rylie. “She does not belong to you,” Hain pronounced. Fingering his club, McRory scowled. “Nor is she yours, Druid.” “Knock it off!” Rylie popped from behind Hain with more energy than she’d displayed in hours. “You already have two women. Leave me alone!” “But darlin’, ’tis you I want. And have since the moment I laid eyes on you.” McRory drawled in his familiar smarmy tone. Then the Norse warrior snapped back into place. “And you I shall take.” In that split second when Donovan watched the professor slide between personas, he knew what he must do. Tossing aside the branch, he staggered the remaining distance and leaned possessively against Rylie’s good shoulder. “No!” he shouted. “She is mine!” Then he murmured close to her ear, “As soon as I distract him, run.” “Single combat, then,” McRory challenged. “No!” Rylie contradicted. She eyed both him and McRory with equal contempt, though beneath his hand, Donovan felt her tremble. “I’m not a prize in some barbaric he-man game.” “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I’m afraid that’s exactly what you are.” Donovan rasped, fighting against the pain in his leg. “This is not civilized Professor McRory, but his blood-thirsty Viking predecessor we’re dealing with.” He closed his eyes against her further protests. In some distant corner of his brain, he couldn’t escape the idea that by calling forth this unknown power of his, he’d
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loosed these dreadful spirits, too. How else could he explain the appearance of Flynn, then his mother? And now this? Even though the professor had seemed friendly enough, Donovan never much cared for McRory. Some gut-level instinct had recognized an adversary. Now, in this strangely altered reality between the living and the dead, McRory had emerged as an ancient and most deadly foe. One who must be reckoned with on the same plane. Warrior against warrior. Out of options, Donovan reached inward for those elemental parts of himself, felt the trappings of civilization fall away, and in their place the familiar weight of sword and shield. When he opened his eyes a moment later, Hain’s worried gaze met his. “You are weakened, Dony.” Grim lines bracketed the Druid’s mouth. “In body and spirit.” Unable to deny the truth of his friend’s words, Donovan answered, “I’ll manage.” Then he turned to Rylie, who seemed shocked speechless by his altered appearance. “Run for the car. Break the window and call for help on my cell phone. ’Tis our only chance.” He knew if he’d said “your only chance” she wouldn’t go. Malachy Flynn’s taunt echoed inside his head, You can’t kill what’s already dead. All he could do was try to save Rylie. His love. His heart. “Single combat, O’Shea!” McRory demanded again. “Winner takes all.” “Let me give you what strength I have,” Hain murmured. He bent and wrapped both hands around Donovan’s knee and muttered an incantation. Donovan felt heat and power flowing up his leg and into his gut.
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“Stop, that’s enough,” he hissed at his friend, and tilted his chin toward Rylie. “Give her whatever you have left.” In spite of her recent bravado, she looked decidedly unsteady on her feet. Donovan feared she might not be able to cover the distance from here to the cottage and the parked car. But she must. He was certain if the raging Norseman who was McRory got hold of her, death wouldn’t come soon enough. Hain dropped his hands and rose to his full height. A look of understanding passed between the two of them. Then the Druid placed one hand on Rylie’s left shoulder and the other on her forehead. Closing his eyes, his lips moved. Rylie’s mouth flew open in surprise, though she made no sound. Donovan hefted his sword in his hand, and muttered, “Get ready to run.” As he dropped his hands and stepped behind her, Hain vanished. With a shout, Donovan launched himself at McRory. The sudden ferocious attack caught his enemy offguard. He barely raised the club in time to fend off Donovan’s first blow. Then he had to continue using the weapon for a shield as Donovan thrust and slashed repeatedly, driving him backward toward the fens. From the corner of his vision, Donovan saw Rylie streak around them in the direction of safety. But McRory saw her too, and turned with a bellow of rage. Donovan lunged for his unprotected side, felt his blade hit a rib, and saw the dark stain spread across McRory’s jerkin. The Norseman howled with pain and fury. Then grabbing his weapon with both hands, he brought it down
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with enough force to shatter Donovan’s grip and knock the blade from his hand. Gasping from the shock of the blow, Donovan instinctively raised his own shield to block the next. McRory rained three more successive, jarring blows before Donovan realized he could use the metal decorated slab of wood in a counter attack. Like McRory, he used both hands and swung the shield at his opponent’s face. When that didn’t work, he shifted his target to the metal spikes on the end of the club. On the third pass, his adversary embedded the metal points deep into the center of the wooden shield. With a powerful twist, Donovan wrenched the club from McRory’s hands. Heaving the shield and club to the ground, Donovan drew the long dagger from his sword belt. But McRory already had his own knife clenched in his fist and slashed a glancing blow to Donovan’s shoulder. Ignoring the sudden sear of pain, Donovan swung his knife low, slicing through the leather covering McRory’s thigh, leaving another blood trail. His enemy gave ground, and the two of them crouched into a deadly dance of feint, thrust, and parry. Panting, they circled slowly, each searching for an advantage and finding none. Time seemed to stretch out into an eternity. Then everything happened in a rush. Donovan’s heel came down on the hilt of his fallen sword. Thrown off balance, he staggered and fell, dropping his dagger. Rolling quickly onto his side, he felt the rush of air as McRory’s knife hacked the air directly in front of his face. He lashed back with his bare arm, momentarily knocking his enemy aside.
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Jerking to his knees, Donovan groped the ground under him for his weapon. Above him, he watched McRory raise his blade to deliver the blow that would end his life.
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Chapter 17 RYLIE SPRINTED AROUND THE TWO BATTLING WARRIORS. Whatever spell Donovan’s friendly Druid had cast on her seemed to have replaced her pain with pure raw energy. She felt like she could run all the way to Ballyneagh, or even Dungannon. Instead, she halted a safe distance and turned to watch. While she now stood in darkness, the weird twilight still illuminated the two figures and the misty presence of the fens beyond them. Though the horrible events of this night were all too real, her mind balked at accepting the supernatural explanations. And most of all, she couldn’t understand this crazy fight between Donovan and McRory with her as the prize. It wasn’t like she would stand meekly by to be claimed by the winner, and both men knew that. Didn’t they? Where had all this sudden enmity come from? And how could this be happening? But it was. She edged her way back toward them for a better view. The ring of metal forcefully striking wood made her cringe and grind her back teeth together as she ventured even closer. Light and shadows played over the two combatants so that they appeared by turns modern and barbaric. Like the enormous, friendly warrior, Donovan sported little more than a sword, shield, and body paint. McRory wasn’t wearing a whole lot more: a sleeveless tunic and some leather tied at his waist and wrapped around his legs.
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While Rylie watched in numb fascination, he knocked Donovan’s sword to the ground with a vicious blow from the ugly spiked club he wielded. She bit back her cry of alarm as Donovan smashed his shield into McRory’s face. Then with a few more wellexecuted swings, he hooked the club into the shield and disarmed his opponent. No, not disarmed. Without realizing she’d moved, she was close enough to see the yellow light glitter on knife blades in both men’s hands. Dark blood oozed from a gash in Donovan’s shoulder, and from McRory’s leg and side. Rylie forced down her urge to vomit, and continued to watch, mesmerized. She forgot to move, breathe as the two men slowly circled and lashed out at each other. Then Donovan faltered. He must have stepped on something for his foot shot from under him. She watched for a horror-stricken second as he stumbled onto the dead grass, and then she leapt. McRory swiped with his blade, and then drew back for a deadly stroke. Her own scream echoed in her ears, and she flung herself across Donovan’s body. A shield between him and McRory. “Rylie, no!” She heard Donovan shout, saw McRory jerk, and at the same instant, felt the tip of the dagger skid over her collarbone. Her breath wheezed in sharply with the sudden pain. But before she could exhale, Donovan’s hand came up and knocked hard into McRory’s, causing the dagger to fall from his grasp. Bright red blood welled
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across the back of Donovan’s hand, where he’d connected with the blade. Rylie gained her feet in unison with Donovan. McRory scrambled to retrieve his knife, and she planted her muddy sneaker firmly on top of it. “Stop!” she ordered. “You’re not animals! Just stop.” As if to belie her words, McRory bared his teeth in a snarl. “I claim you by the ancient creed of single combat.” “No!” Donovan denied. She laid a restraining hand on his arm, relieved to feel knitted fabric, though his appearance still flickered between modern and primeval, clothed and naked. The slash at the base of her neck burned like a long finger of flame. “It’s too late for that,” she told McRory, who also wavered between his two personas. The effect left her dizzy. “’Tis not,” he insisted, seizing her arm. “I’ve lost everything, my future, my life. But I shall have you, my Sidhe princess. And I’ll take you with me into my unholy grave.” Rylie snatched her hand back in revulsion. “No, Aongus, you won’t.” He blinked at the sound of his given name, so she pressed on in as reasonable a tone as she could muster. “Can’t you see? We’ll be just like Malachy and Moira. I love Donovan the way she loved Dermot, with all my heart and soul. And if you force yourself on me, I’ll hate you forever.” “Such things matter not to me.” He reached to reclaim her hand again, but Donovan stopped him. Blood dripped from his fingertips onto McRory’s arm, and splashed on the leg of her jeans. She swallowed hard to fight the woozy feeling rising up in her stomach.
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“I believe they do,” she insisted, swallowing again to steady her voice. She willed herself to ignore both the searing knife wound and the returning pain in her arm. “Because you know what it’s like to love and be loved. Brenna loved you, and so did Sybil. And that love will live on in your child.” “The child lives?” McRory suddenly solidified into a single image, the affable attractive professor Rylie had first met. His mild hazel eyes probed her for the truth. Momentarily robbed of breath by his transformation, she nodded. “Sybil loved the baby too much to get rid of it,” Donovan affirmed in a hoarse whisper. In the rapidly fading light, he appeared strictly as his muddy, disheveled, bleeding self. Rylie grabbed the bottom of what remained of her ripped sweatshirt and pressed it against the wound on his hand. “Brenna will love the baby too,” she declared, marshaling her remaining strength. “Because it’s yours.” Then before McRory could protest, she added, “Just as Dermot loved Donovan.” Shadows darkened McRory’s once handsome face and turned it into the spectral apparition once more. Blackened fingernails dug into Rylie’s shoulder. “How is it you have all the answers?” “I—I don’t,” she replied, her arm throbbing. “I just have those.” “Give it up, Aongus,” Donovan urged. “We’re no longer between and ’tis almost dawn.” The gruesome being swiveled its head, and Rylie followed the sunken-eyed gaze to where gray light streaked the horizon.
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“I give you my word,” Donovan continued. “That I will see your body given a proper burial on hallowed ground.” A shudder rippled through McRory’s ruined body, and the hand gripping Rylie loosened and dropped to his side. She felt herself sway also. The Druid’s spell was fading fast. “And I’ll do all I can to see justice done,” Donovan finished. “No need,” said the apparition with a hideous twist of its mouth. Whether in pain or irony, Rylie couldn’t tell. “I’ve taken my own vengeance.” Donovan laid his undamaged hand on her shoulder in a gesture of both comfort and possession. His voice was reasonable but firm. “Then let it end here.” Breath held, Rylie watched the malevolent fire in McRory’s eyes move from Donovan’s face to his hand on her shoulder, and finally to her. For one awful, skincrawling second, she thought he might turn back into the violent Norseman. Kill them both. “I’ll tell Brenna and Sybil how much you loved them,” she blurted. The loathsome creature stretched out its index finger and touched the bloody stain at the neck of her T-shirt. The dead flesh felt stiff and cold. Donovan’s grip on her tightened. She bit her bottom lip, not daring to move. “You do that.” Then the ghoul threw back his head, uttered an unearthly howl, and vanished. Rylie released her pent-up breath in a rush, and her trembling body sagged against Donovan. Equally unsteady on his feet, he nearly tipped over and sent them both sprawling. But somehow he regained his
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equilibrium and they remained upright. He tilted his head in the direction of the cottage. “The car,” he muttered, his voice tight with pain. “Can you walk?” She nodded, though she wasn’t sure how far. And she was even less sure about him. Covered in streaks of mud and blood, from his caked hair to his sodden sneakers, he balanced precariously, his left foot clearly not able to bear any of his weight. Shoving her good shoulder under his arm, the two of them began a shuffling hop toward the cottage in a bizarre parody of a three-legged race. The distance seemed interminable. Every movement sent the pain in her arm shooting into her body, in addition to the fatigue and dizziness draining her. But the idea that one of the murderous apparitions might swoop down on them again at any minute kept her moving. Afraid to look at anything except the ground a few feet in front of them, Rylie was taken aback when the whitewashed wall of the cottage loomed in her field of vision. She jerked reflexively. Donovan hobbled around so that he slumped momentarily against the wall instead of her. Without his body heat close to her, she shivered. “Need something to open the car,” he panted. “You go on.” Clutching at the rough exterior, he dragged himself toward the little lean-to fastened to the back corner of the cottage. She didn’t have the strength to argue, so she stumbled around to the front yard. The sight of the gaping door made her gasp aloud. No matter how long she lived, she would never forget the
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numbing terror of Lynch’s pistol resting under her chin. The same pistol she had used to shoot him. “I’ve taken my own vengeance.” The rasp of McRory’s hideous specter echoed inside her head. So had she. And she wasn’t sorry. Resting against the front bumper of the car, Rylie fought against the waves of pain threatening to overcome her. After all they had been through tonight, she refused to lose it now. She banished all thoughts from her mind and concentrated on willing away the pain.
Using the ruined broom for a cane, Donovan slowly staggered toward the car. He could see Rylie’s slight form huddled against the bumper. Though she was shaking, she remained upright, obviously on sheer stubborn will power alone. She’d saved his life at least twice in the past few hours, nearly losing her own in the process. But that was not what made his heart pound in his aching chest. She loved him! And God in heaven knew how much he loved her. He was past caring whether he deserved her or not. He would never give her up. The knowledge pushed him on when every muscle in his body screamed in protest. He reached her at last but had to steady himself against the fender before he could toss aside the broom and touch her. His mud-encrusted fingers trailed across her icy cheek, and he could see the glitter of pain in her eyes. “Just another few minutes, I promise.” The words scratched his dry throat.
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Her breathing labored, she nodded in reply. With awkward and agonizingly slow movements, Donovan inched his way down the side of the vehicle. Using the screwdriver he’d found in the lean-to, he fumbled with first the lock and then the seam of the door. When he got nowhere with either of them, he summoned the last bit of his strength and whacked at the back passenger window. On the third blow, the glass cracked. One more knock scattered chunks of safety glass onto the back seat. He reached through the hole and flipped up the door lock. Heedless of the broken glass, he opened the door and heaved himself onto the floor. After several long moments of thrusting his hands between the two front seats, he located his mobile. With a grunt of triumph, he flipped the phone on and punched in 999, emergency. “An ambulance,” he gasped at the nasally voiced female who answered. “Send an ambulance right away!” Something warm ran down his wrist. The knife wound on the back of his hand was bleeding again. Ignoring the emergency dispatcher’s question, he uttered a curse, then gave her the address and directions to the cottage. “Hurry!” he admonished, and rang off. He’d leave it to her to contact the PSNI. Donovan pressed his filthy left shirtsleeve against his bloody right hand, and struggled upright. Rylie stood, her uninjured arm draped over the open car door for support, regarding him. “They’re on their way,” he reassured. “Good,” was her barely audible response. She scooted aside and let go of the door so he could stand. But her legs started to buckle under her.
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He grasped the door with one hand and pulled her against him with the other. “Easy there.” “You’re bleeding again.” She felt so small and fragile as she shivered against him. The need to protect her sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body. “’Tis nothing.” In the grand scheme of things, that was certainly true. Without letting go of her, he somehow finagled the front car door open. Then he dropped heavily into the passenger seat, pulling her onto his lap as he did. She squeaked in surprise, but then snuggled against him. Her head rested beneath his chin, her silky hair tangled and matted with mud. He shifted his legs and pulled the door closed with a jarring thud. “So tired . . . ” “I’ll just recline the seat back until they get here, shall I?” Donovan reached down with his left hand and pulled the lever, sending the seat as flat as it would go. Rylie gave a ragged sigh and scooted a bit lower on his lap. Her shivering subsided. “Please . . . ” Her voice sounded miles away. “Don’t leave me . . . ” She was the one about to leave him, but he wasn’t going to remind her. “Don’t worry,” he replied, tightening his hold. “I never will.” “Ummm . . . ” was all she said. Donovan listened to her shallow breathing and watched the gray streaks on the horizon lighten while he tried to think of a coherent explanation to give the authorities for their night’s escapade. He still hadn’t
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pulled his jumbled thoughts into order when he heard the singsong wail of sirens approaching. He had a hard time rousing Rylie, and the noise from the vehicles sounded like they were almost to the gate before he succeeded. “What?” she gasped in confusion. “Where . . . are we?” “’Tis all right, sweetheart,” he soothed, patting her hair. “The ambulance will take us to hospital.” She looked at him, but her gaze remained uncomprehending. “To see Dermot?” He patted her hair again. ’Twould be far better if she didn’t remember anything. “Maybe later, after they fix your arm.” “My arm . . . ” She glanced down, still confused. “And your hand?” “Yes, don’t worry.” The flashing strobe from the ambulance bathed them in garish red and blue lights. Donovan shifted his grip on Rylie before he swung the car door open. “Over here!” He shouted and waved, but the noise of the sirens drowned out his voice. The ambulance screeched to a halt just behind the car, headlights glaring like a supernova. Also close at hand, a police siren continued to shriek. He didn’t know which was worse, the ominous silence of the past long minutes, or the chaos now erupting around him. Against his chest, he felt Rylie tremble. But the two ambulance attendants hurried up before he could reassure her. “What happened?” The nearest one demanded, reaching for Rylie. She shrank away with a sob. Donovan had to shout to be heard above the still blaring police siren. “Her arm. Gun shot.”
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The man’s pale eyes widened, his brows arching up into the fair hair flopping across his forehead. “And you?” “Twisted my knee. Can’t put weight on it.” He patted Rylie’s hair and murmured close to her ear. “’Tis all right, sweetheart. We’re going to hospital now.” “That blood hers or yours?” The attendant asked as he and his partner positioned a rolling gurney close to the open door. Donovan looked at the stains, some brown, some dark red, on his hands and sleeve. “Both. I’m afraid she’s lost a lot.” The man gave a grim nod as he pulled Rylie from Donovan’s grasp. Mercifully, the police siren stopped, and then as the two men carefully moved Rylie onto the gurney, a uniformed PSNI officer approached. “Donovan!” Rylie cried out. He leapt to her side, hanging onto the gurney for balance. “Sergeant Kelley, PSNI,” the man barked at Donovan. “You’re O’Shea?” Donovan nodded, realizing he would undoubtedly need legal counsel and that he should call Heaney. He let go of the gurney and fell back into the car, scrambling to retrieve his mobile from the back seat. He heard Rylie cry out his name again, but the sergeant blocked his way. “Care to tell me what happened?” His voice was as belligerent as his stance. Shoving the mobile into his pocket, Donovan pulled himself to his feet, using the open car door for support. “Inspector Colm Lynch shot her—Ms. Powell. He was trying to hit me.”
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This news seemed to catch the sergeant off-guard, for his mouth fell open. But before he could speak, Donovan rushed on, “I knocked the gun out of his hand. He came at me with a knife, and Ms. Powell picked up the gun and shot him.” Most of it was the truth. “Did she kill him?” The man blurted. Donovan shook his head. He could see the two attendants had Rylie inside the ambulance, though he still heard her hysterical cries. He must go to her. But Sergeant Kelley’s partner was approaching from the opposite side of the car, boxing him in. “Far as I know, he’s still out there somewhere.” Donovan waved his hand in the direction of the fens, and a drop of fresh blood splattered on the sergeant’s cheek. The man automatically wiped his face then stared at his stained fingers. “Did he cut you anywhere else?” “My shoulder,” Donovan replied. “And I twisted my knee when I fell.” Over the PSNI officer’s shoulder he saw one of the ambulance attendants hurrying toward them. “Just stall the ball there, Kelley!” The attendant called out. “The lad may have internal injuries. You can question him after the docs look him over.” The sergeant rounded on the man with a squint-eyed glare. “Don’t be tryin’ to tell me my business, O’Dwyer. A PSNI inspector’s been shot.” “Well I don’t see him here,” the attendant, O’Dwyer snapped back. “So shall I remind you of poor old Shamus Muldoon, who nearly died last spring because of your infernal questions?”
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“He does look pretty done in, Sergeant,” said the second officer, who now stood on the other side of the car door beside Donovan. “Shut up, Dooley,” Kelley ordered, but he stepped aside nonetheless. Happy for the diversion, Donovan leaned heavily on the attendant’s proffered shoulder, and hobbled toward the waiting ambulance. “Donovan O’Shea, is it?” asked his benefactor with a half-grin. “I’m Bobby O’Dwyer, Gerry Partlan’s nephew.” Then, before Donovan could offer his thanks, Bobby O’Dwyer shoved him into the back of the ambulance and shouted, “Let’s go, Smitty!” The ambulance ride went quickly. Donovan spent most of the duration holding Rylie’s hand, though he did manage to call Heaney’s service and ask them to have the attorney meet them at the hospital in Armagh. The ongoing wail of the siren in the background no doubt helped him drive home his point that this was an emergency. With an IV in place in her arm, Rylie rested quietly. A white bandage gleamed just below her throat. O’Dwyer turned his attentions to Donovan’s various injuries. He slit the seam of Donovan’s pant leg and peeled it back to reveal the swollen and bruised kneecap. Once he stabilized it with a plastic splint, he moved on to the knife wounds on Donovan’s shoulder and hand, scrubbing away the caked on grime. “You two take the prize for the dirtiest patients I’ve ever seen,” O’Dwyer pronounced, taping gauze over the cuts he’d already appraised as superficial. “How long did the pair of you roll about in the mud?”
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“Too long,” Donovan replied, reaching for Rylie again as soon as the bandage was in place on his hand. When his fingers settled over hers, her eyelids fluttered up. With a wave of relief, he recognized lucidity in her eyes. The dried mud streaked across her face and clinging in chunks to her hair didn’t matter. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. “Hullo, gorgeous,” he murmured, gently squeezing her hand. The corners of her wide mouth tilted up a fraction. “You’re such a liar,” she whispered. “What? Name calling, is it?” enquired Bobby O’Dwyer, checking her vitals. “I can see you’re going to be fine, my girl.” Then he nodded at Donovan. “And you are in for a heap o’ trouble.” “From a wee little thing like her?” Donovan scoffed, his tired grin peeking through. “Although she did save my life tonight. Twice in fact.” Rylie’s gaze moved between him and the paramedic. “I guess I did, didn’t I?” “’Tis all right if you don’t remember,” Donovan prompted. Far easier to claim faulty memory than be questioned endlessly by the PSNI. “You’ve been in shock.” “Indeed you have!” His unexpected ally, O’Dwyer, agreed. Her fingers curled in Donovan’s and she squeezed his thumb with a knowing glow in her eyes. “Some things I remember very well.” Her voice sounded considerably stronger, almost sassy. “You said you loved me.” “Oh, did I now?” asked Donovan, playing along.
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“Don’t you dare try to deny it,” she murmured, her tongue tracing her lower lip. “Not after all I went through to get you to admit it.” Shot. Stabbed. Pursued by vengeful spirits. What she had endured tonight, how she had risked her very soul, momentarily robbed Donovan of a reply. He rested his forehead against their clasped hands and drew in a ragged breath. “I’m not about to deny it,” he finally choked out. He raised his head enough to brush his lips over her grimy knuckles. “I’ll shout it from the rooftops if you like.” Rylie sighed out a little tsking sound. “You’re lying to me again. You can’t even walk with that knee, much less climb onto a roof.” Bobby O’Dwyer gave a snorting chuckle. “Didn’t I warn you about being in trouble, O’Shea?”
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Chapter 18 DONOVAN FIDGETED IN THE PASSENGER’S SEAT OF HEANEY’S BMW sedan as the vehicle bounced down the rutted lane. The attorney had given up attempts at conversation shortly after they passed Dungannon and Donovan’s replies dwindled from monosyllables to grunts. Heaven knew he didn’t want to be here. But Donovan had to find out for certain that the forces rampaging through the fens two nights ago—forces he feared he had triggered—were dissipated. Dread sat in his stomach, growing heavier by the second. “That’s the gate ahead on the left,” he informed Heaney. Fresh yellow police tape fluttered in the pale morning light, but the gate stood open. Heaney’s Beamer jounced through and headed for the wretched-looking cottage. Rylie’s rental car had been towed to the police impound yard, so the parking area was empty. A dozen more pieces of yellow tape criss-crossed the front door. “As your attorney, I want to warn you one more time not to touch anything,” Heaney said as he shut off the ignition. “’Tis not the cottage I’ve come to see,” Donovan replied, avoiding eye contact. “’Tis the fens.” Heaney exited the car and scrambled around to join him. “I’d better come with you then.” Leaning heavily on his three-pronged hospital cane, Donovan turned away. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
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“Sorry, but I insist.” Tenacious as a terrier with a bone, Heaney kept pace with him. Not difficult, considering the cumbersome plastic brace on Donovan’s left leg and the way the cane kept sinking into the soggy earth. When they came to the first excavated pit, Heaney’s mobile rang and Donovan flinched in reaction. Nerves frayed to the breaking point, Donovan gazed first at the mound of dirt, then into the hole, waiting, listening. Perhaps the meds they’d given him for pain and inflammation were dulling his senses, for he heard and felt nothing. Saints in heaven! If medication really could shortcircuit his “gift,” he would gladly pop a dozen pills a day. Refusing to get his hopes up, Donovan drew in a deep breath of chilly air and hobbled on toward the fens. A moment later, Heaney caught up to him. “The coroner concluded that Lynch drowned.” That removed a couple of small bricks from the load of worry weighing upon Donovan. But the bulk of the weight remained. “Did they find his gun?” The other man shook his head. “And they haven’t found the knife he used on you either.” Nor would they. Donovan kept that bit of information to himself. The mist rising up from the ground blended with the white puffs of his breath as he continued doggedly toward the looming presence of the fens. By contrast, Heaney seemed in a mood to disclose things. “I gave a copy of the paper McRory sent to Sybil Gallagher to the PSNI, of course,” he said, matching his
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steps to Donovan’s uneven ones. “But I kept the original just to be sure. A list of bank accounts along with the names of Provos from the look of it. My guess is that McRory tried to blackmail Lynch into giving him a cut. Since those accounts haven’t been touched in twenty-five years there are probably several million pounds in them.” Donovan shook his head with disgust but didn’t stop moving. “Enough to kill a man over?” Money fell pretty low on his priority list right now, quite inconsequential in comparison to things like his future, his sanity. “More than enough,” Heaney confirmed with a sigh. They continued on in silence until they reached the tangle of vines and brush that marked the edge of the fens. The muddy trail leading in looked wider and smoother, having been trampled by dozens of PSNI personnel multiple times in the past couple of days. Donovan paused to listen. No buzzing, but a low hum rather like an engine on idle thrummed inside his head. Not gone then, only muted. His fingers tightened convulsively around the handle of the cane. “They removed the body yesterday.” From Heaney’s edgy tone, he sensed Donovan’s unease. Either that or he just didn’t relish walking into the fens. Couldn’t blame him there. “What is it you expect to see?” “Nothing, I hope,” Donovan answered honestly. Gathering the tatters of his courage, he limped down the path. Heaney followed. Moisture clung to the surrounding vegetation and hung in the air, but the hum remained steady. No increase or decrease, even when
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they came to the excavation site, though the back of Donovan’s neck prickled with anticipation. Two holes now gaped, piles of earth ringing both of them on three sides. Since he couldn’t bend his left knee, Donovan shifted awkwardly in order to grab a handful of mud from the closest pile. “They made a thorough search of this area.” Heaney sounded more nervous. Could it be he felt something too? “I know,” Donovan mused, letting the dirt sift through his fingers while he gazed around. There was the place where Lynch had stood when he tackled him. They’d rolled into the farthest pit. Swallowing hard, Donovan moved his eyes over the area where he and Rylie had crawled. Flynn’s apparition had confronted them there. The hum suddenly went up a notch, as if the motor had been engaged, and with it came a throbbing pain in his temple. Donovan snapped his head back toward the holes. A shape coalesced above the newly excavated one, shimmering only a little more darkly than the surrounding mists. Stiffening, breath caught in his throat, Donovan recognized the nearly transparent figure as Professor McRory. Everything else ceased to exist as he stared into the bottomless depths of McRory’s dead eyes. Pain and sorrow engulfed Donovan, but no anger. No sign of the raging Norseman. McRory lifted one hand, and a wave of sadness tinged with acceptance flowed from the wavering image. His mouth opened, but instead of words, only a soft sigh emerged. Then he vanished.
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Donovan staggered, his right leg buckling as the hum and the figure simultaneously disappeared. Only his death-grip on the cane and the counterbalance of the brace on his left leg kept him from falling. “O’Shea!” he heard Heaney cry. “Are you all right?” Donovan wheezed in several noisy breaths and blinked his eyes, while the smaller man grasped him by the shoulders. “Are you all right?” Heaney repeated. “Fine . . . I’m fine.” Or as much so as he would ever be. Donovan kept his grip on the cane while he forced himself to make the same slow circuit of the excavations and the surrounding area. Except for the familiar dull ache behind his eyeballs, there was nothing. No Celtic warriors or Druids. No vengeful spirits. No sounds. Nothing. He’d faced down his demons and for the moment at least, he had won. Taking a deep breath, Donovan mentally cast aside the guilt and self-loathing and turned to the path leading out of the fens. “Let’s go,” he said to Heaney. “Go where?” the attorney asked, falling into step beside him. He didn’t answer for several moments, for he was trying to move faster. Damn the fecking brace and cane! Finally he said, “Back to Armagh, the hospital. I need to see Rylie.” “Ah.” Heaney infused a wealth of understanding into that single syllable. He fished in his pocket and pulled out his mobile. “Do you want to call her?”
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“No, I want to kiss her,” Donovan muttered. “At least for starters. If she’ll have me.” Heaney chuckled as he replaced the phone. “Well then, that being the case . . . ” He gave Donovan a thump on the back, before he jogged around him, headed for the car. Donovan emerged from the fens and crossed the yard, mumbling curses at his slow progress the entire way. Heaney had the Beamer running and the front passenger door open wide, waiting for him. He never looked back once. And he never intended to lay eyes on this place again. When they reached the main road, Heaney proceeded to shave several seconds off Donovan’s previous land speed record. Screaming around a school bus and several lorries, the mild-mannered attorney drove like a man possessed. Donovan wondered aloud if they would wind up back in the ER as patients, but Heaney just laughed.
Rylie stood under the cascade of hot water, content to let it wash away the remaining grime, stench, and horror of the fens. This was her first real shower in three days, though trying to bathe and wash her hair with one hand was almost impossible. Still, she was so happy to be rid of the annoying IV and the various tubes and wires that she didn’t really care. Today was the day she’d been scheduled to leave Ireland. But thanks to the efforts of Sean Sullivan, a true knight in shining armor, the airline had issued her a full return voucher good anytime within the next thirty days. Donovan’s garrulous brother-in-law had also taken it upon
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himself to call her stepfather, Jim Powell, while she had been in surgery. When she’d been in recovery, Sean called back and reassured Jim she was safe and in good hands. In truth, the only hands she wanted to be in were Donovan’s, and for the past three days, he’d seldom left her side. When they had arrived at the emergency room, he clung to the gurney, refusing treatment, right up to point where they pushed her through the swinging doors to the operating room. The last words out of his mouth were, “Don’t you dare leave me.” “I won’t,” she promised, and then the door swung shut. The first things she saw when she woke up in the recovery room were Donovan’s blue eyes a few inches from hers. “There now, Mr. O’Shea. What did I tell ya?” asked a nurse in a querulous tone. He breathed her name like a benediction, then dropped his head onto the blanket next to her and sobbed once. “Donovan?” she rasped through her raw, aching throat. “Are you okay?” Drawing in a ragged breath, he raised his head and answered, “I am now.” Then he kissed her full on the mouth, and Rylie tasted his tears. She tried to reach for him, but her right arm was tangled in a mass of tubes and her left arm wouldn’t move at all. That was because the surgeon had to repair muscle damage and give her a unit of blood, she later found out. Another operation would probably be needed, the doctor had advised, but not immediately.
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Both she and Donovan feigned ignorance when asked about the strange substance smeared under her makeshift bandages. Thinking, much less talking about the awful events in the fens wasn’t something she wanted to do right away. And so far, she had been spared from answering questions. She was fairly certain that she had Mr. Jeremy Heaney, Esq. to thank for that. After she’d been moved from recovery into a room, she’d sent Donovan home with Sean and Doreen to rest. He returned a few hours later, right after she’d eaten her chicken broth and green gelatin dinner, with Heaney in tow. The PSNI had found Lynch’s body face down in Lough Neagh. An autopsy would determine his cause of death. Though the attorney had listened with disbelief etched plainly on his boyish face to Rylie’s claim that she remembered nothing, he assured both she and Donovan that he was confident no charges would be filed. Loopy on pain meds and the after effects of anesthetic, Rylie had slept all that night and most of the next day. But whenever she woke up, Donovan was in the chair beside her bed. The surprise had been the appearance of Doreen. Donovan’s sister explained in her brusque manner that she and Sean had moved Rylie’s luggage from Cavanagh House to their spare bedroom and Doreen had laundered Rylie’s clothes. Then, before Rylie could stutter out her thanks, Doreen pulled out a new nightgown. She tied and adjusted the halter-top so that all Rylie had to do was slip it over her head. She’d also brought Rylie’s toiletries, clean underwear, and her blow dryer.
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Rylie almost believed the whole incident had been a dream, except after she finished her breakfast this morning, the nurse asked if she wanted to take a shower and put on her new gown. Reluctantly, Rylie shut off the hot water and struggled to wrap a towel around her wet hair with one hand. With that feat accomplished, she patted herself dry with a second towel. The plastic wrapping the nurse had placed over the blue sling effectively blocked the moisture from her injured arm, but the bandage on her throat was soaked. She carefully pulled it off and blotted the four neat black stitches, willing herself not to think about why she needed them. Dressed, hair almost dry and feeling semi-human, Rylie was startled to find Doreen instead of Donovan waiting in her room. “I knew that aqua color would become you,” Doreen said with an approving nod. “They’ve moved Dermot back to Holy Family. I’m on my way to make sure he’s settled, and thought I’d pop by. The nurses seem to think you’ll be released today.” “I hope so,” Rylie replied, her head spinning from the other woman’s rush of words. “Thanks for . . . everything.” Doreen waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “’Tis the least I can do for Boh’s Yank. That’s what Da calls you, ya know.” Rylie’s mouth dropped open in surprise and she sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed. But that pronouncement was nothing compared to Doreen’s next bombshell. “’Twould mean a lot to him if you and Donovan got married here in Ireland,” she remarked as casually as if she were discussing the weather. Then at Rylie’s stunned
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silence, she continued, “A spring wedding would be ideal. But if you and Donovan don’t want to wait, a Christmas wedding would be lovely, too.” “Wh—what?” Rylie sputtered. “Doreen, your brother and I . . . We—” “Just think on it, will you?” Doreen interrupted, then with a glance at her watch, she added. “I must run.” Still dumbfounded, Rylie gasped, “Wait! Do you know where Donovan is?” “I . . . ” Doreen looked around the room as if she expected her brother to materialize right through a wall. “Oh yes, he asked Mr. Heaney to take him out to the cottage first thing this morning.” She dropped her gaze to the floor and her tone shifted. “The PSNI found that professor’s body yesterday.” Rylie’s stomach lurched and her breath caught. Would this nightmare never be over? “Oh,” she murmured, her hand rising to the stitches at her throat. “Don’t worry,” Doreen reassured. “I’m sure Donovan shall be here directly.” And she disappeared out the door without another word.
In spite of Donovan’s foreboding, they arrived without mishap. Heaney screeched the Beamer to an illegal halt right in front of the hospital’s main doors. “Good luck, O’Shea. And if she turns you down, I intend to try my luck!” “You wish,” Donovan retorted, slamming the car door behind himself. For an attorney, Heaney was a decent enough sort.
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With a jaunty wave and a squeal of tires, Heaney departed. By the time Donovan reached Rylie’s room on the third floor, his aching leg had made him forget all about his headache. ’Twas hardly nine in the morning and he felt as if he’d spent a twelve-hour day at hard labor. However, he immediately forgot that too. As soon as he stepped through the door, she cried out his name and flew at him, nearly knocking him over. She wore a filmy blue-green nightgown that he quickly discovered left most of her back bare. The moment his hands touched her silken skin, a wave of raw desire ripped through him and sprang his lad to full alert. He felt a tiny half step from heaven itself. “Oh God, Donovan! I was so worried,” she babbled into the front of his new leather jacket. “Doreen said you went . . . ” She choked on the rest, tightening her grip on him. “’Tis all right, sweetheart,” he soothed. “I’m all right.” He rubbed his cheek across the top of her head and realized he’d forgotten to shave when her soft hair caught in the stubble of his beard. “Are you sure?” Rylie pulled back and met his gaze, tears shining in her stormy gray eyes. “Did you . . . see anything . . . in the fens?” Donovan dropped his left hand and gripped the cane to steady himself. “I saw McRory.” She blanched at his words, so he rushed to add. “He’s found peace.” She gave a shaky sigh. “Was . . . was that all?” “Nothing else. I swear.” Very carefully, so that he didn’t jostle her injured arm, he threaded his right hand into her hair and drew her face
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to his. Bending his head, he brushed his mouth across her upturned lips. “So it’s over,” she breathed against his cheek. Then hooking her arm around his neck, she plunged her tongue into his mouth. Caught off guard, Donovan swayed unsteadily and had to push her away. “It may be over for now,” he blurted, the lead weight back in his stomach. “But I still have The Sight or curse or whatever ’tis.” Rylie planted her right fist against her hip and stuck out her pointed little chin. “I don’t care. I love you, Donovan, and that’s all that matters to me.” And then she launched herself at him again. This time he met the onslaught of her tongue with his own, but only for a moment. They were dangerously close to toppling over, so he broke the kiss after one luxuriant taste. “I love you too,” he affirmed. “But right now, my very weak flesh needs to sit down.” “So I guess the rooftops are still out.” Donovan hobbled to the nearest chair and collapsed into it. “I’m afraid so.” She perched on the wooden chair arm and ruffled his hair. “Better watch out. Your sister has plans to marry us off by Christmas.” He captured her hand and placed a wet kiss squarely in her palm. “Would that be so bad?” Rylie gasped, eyes round with shock. “Yes—No—I mean . . . ” Flustered, she gave him a little shove. “You’re the one who doesn’t know how to do long term.” Grabbing her hand again, Donovan unzipped his jacket and pressed her palm flat against his rapidly beating heart. Which belonged to her anyway.
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“You told me I only had to do three days.” Then his lips claimed hers. Her tongue met his in a wild, eager duel. He knew he would never tire of the hot, sweet taste of her. The tangy satin inside her mouth. The hard peaks of her nipples. The sensual heat of her surrounding him, making him whole. Forever would scarcely be enough time. Before desire burned away the last vestiges of his reason, Donovan broke the kiss, and leaned his forehead against hers. They were both panting. “As I was saying,” he remarked when he finally caught his breath. “Considering the past three days, I think long term shouldn’t be a problem.” “Piece of cake,” Rylie huffed. After a long inhale she added, “Besides, we can always postpone the ceremony until spring.” Donovan shook his head. “I don’t plan to be anywhere near this place come Beltane.” “Bell what?” She slid on the chair arm and almost fell into his lap, her breasts brushing erotically across his forearm. He had to stifle a groan at the intimate contact. “Beltane is an ancient Celtic holy day, like Samhain.” Unable to resist nuzzling the tender flesh behind her ear, Donovan cut off further explanation. He wasn’t made of stone after all. Well, at least not all of him. “Oh right,” Rylie agreed, a breathy moan slipping out at the touch of his mouth. “Smart man . . . very smart man.” And she kissed him again.
The End
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About this Book THE VILLAGE OF BALLYNEAGH IS WHOLLY FICTITIOUS BUT the other towns and cities in the book, Armagh, Dungannon, Ballymena, Portadown, Newtownabbey, and of course Belfast all exist, though not exactly as portrayed by this author. The Giant’s Causeway and Rathlin Island are also real locales and the author tried to render both as accurately as possible. The fens of Lough Neagh do exist, though not in the precise location presented in this story. These natural wetlands are extensive and located on both the east and west shores of the lough. At least one portion in County Armagh is designated as a national nature reserve. The Niall Marker is a real gender-specific genetic trait that has been traced back to the fifth-century High King of Ireland, Niall of the Nine Hostages. Research studies indicate that as many as fifteen percent of the men in Ireland (both the Republic and the North) carry it.
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Acknowledgments WRITING MAY BE A SOLITARY ACTIVITY, BUT NO BOOK IS created in a vacuum, certainly not this one. Many people’s combined efforts were necessary to see this story into print and while I cannot hope to thank every person who contributed, I would like to acknowledge and thank the following: First and foremost, the love of my life, Dave, who took me to Ireland and so many other wonderful places. I am forever grateful (if sometimes undeserving) for your unfailing belief and support of my writing, and for your unique artist’s perspective. My editor Deb Werksman, who pulled my baby out of the slush and loved it as much as I do. Marlyn A. Farley, my First Reader Extraordinaire, who read my fumbling efforts for decades and remained positive and encouraging. I would never be here without you! My face-to-face critique partners, Aimee Carper, Cathy Decker, and Jo Lewis-Robertson who cared enough to bleed all over this manuscript and help me make it the very best story I could write. My BFFs (Best Friends Forever) and head cheerleaders, Whit and Shirl. And the other members of my cheerleading squad, especially: Sharen, Debbie J., Pam W., Michele, Terri S., Dennis, Alice, Phyllis, Kathy E.,
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Donee Sue, and Guy, and others too numerous to name but you know who you are. All my wonderful on-line (and sometimes in person) writer-buddies who shared experiences, opinions, and commiserated, especially Diana Duncan, Willie Ferguson, Tina Ferraro, and Debrah Williamson. The ’06 Packers in general and the other nineteen members of the Romance Bandits in particular. Banditas rock!
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About the Author BLESSED WITH THE GIFT OF “IRISH BLARNEY” LOUCINDA McGary (everyone calls her Cindy) became a storyteller shortly after she learned to read. If she didn’t like the way a story ended she made up her own ending. In high school Cindy wrote stories featuring herself, her friends, and their favorite movie and rock stars. After college she published a couple dozen poems in magazines and even wrote a couple novels. Then life intervened. Family and career became her top priorities, though she could never quite stop dabbling in writing. She also developed an almost legendary love of travel that took her all over the United States and abroad. A long-time reader of romances, Cindy discovered and joined Romance Writers of America in 2001. At the end of 2003 she decided to leave her management career to pursue her twin passions of travel and writing. Cindy likes to set her romantic and suspenseful novels in some of the fascinating places she has visited. Cindy loves to hear from readers, writers, and just about everybody! Please drop her an email:
[email protected] Or send her a postcard for her ever-increasing collection: P.O. Box 15492 Sacramento, CA 95813
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“A richly drawn love story and riveting romantic suspense!”
“A magical tale of romance and intrigue. I couldn’t put it down! Loucinda McGary is a talent to watch.”
—Karin Tabke, author of What You Can’t See
She’s just looking for the family she never knew . . . After her mother’s death, Rylie finds tantalizing clues that send her off to Ireland to find the man listed on her birth certificate as her father. She needs the truth—but how can she and Donovan be brother and sister when the chemistry between them is nearly irresistible? Uncovering the past leads them dangerously close to madness . . .
“A fascinating tale that kept me spellbound.” —Sandy Blair, author of A Highlander for Christmas
S
Wild Sight
He was cursed with a “gift” Born with the clairvoyance known to the Irish as “The Sight,” Donovan O’Shea fled to America to escape his visions. On a return trip to Ireland to see his ailing father, staggering family secrets threaten to turn his world upside down. And then beautiful, sensual Rylie Powell shows up, claiming to be his half-sister . . .
—Pamela Palmer, author of Dark Deceiver and The Dark Gate
w ild sight The
an irish tale of deadly deeds and forbidden love