Chapter Fourteen
“Broken rituals shall cause a Fae to become unbalanced.”
~Chronicles of the Fae
Flexing his muscles in the fading light of the day, Conn leaned against a pine tree and waited until Ivy had locked the door on the Celtic Knot. Each day had been the same for the past few weeks—rising before dawn and making sure Ivy’s steps led her safely to the bookstore and back home again. From the moment Dunstan had made himself known to Ivy, he—Conn MacRoich had silently become her protector. He had done so all without her knowledge, since she surely would have berated him.
Days and nights became a blur—each busy with their own work. Weeks drifted by, and all the repairs to the roof were done. A job Conn had relished, since thatching was something he had done many a time over the centuries. Old pipes had been replaced with new ones, and he fixed the gate leading to her garden. He would never forget the joy on her face when she saw what he had done to the broken down bits of wood. Conn carved a new one from fresh oak, and she almost wept in his arms.
The moment engraved forever in his memory.
The lights went dark in the store, and Conn slipped under the heavy branches to wait. Soon, Ivy appeared. However, the lass did not venture onto the path toward the cottage. He let out a hiss as she made her way across the street to the Seven Swans. Tempted to follow the lovely-eyed lass to the pub, Conn stepped forth from the trees. Her hips swayed to a rhythm that called out to him, luring him to go after her.
His steps stilled, and he raked a hand through his hair. “Not tonight, Ivy O’Callaghan.” He deemed another would most likely see her safely back to the cottage. She did have her share of admirers making this another reason why he should not follow her into the pub. He might be sorely tempted to take a fist to one of them. Especially to Mac O’Reilly.
Tighten. Release. Breathe. Yet, his hands clenched once more as he turned away from her.
Making his way to his motorcycle by the garage, Conn started the engine and took off for the main road. Increasing the speed, his mood worsened the farther he went. Would he ever rid himself of this fixation over Ivy?
Deciding it best not to be on the road, Conn veered in the direction of Sean’s place. Within moments, he came upon the dwelling and brought the motorcycle to the side. Shutting off the engine, he got off and quickly sought the refuge of the home and its owner.
Warmth enveloped him when he walked into the library. Sean was leaning over some scrolls, a dram of whiskey by his side.
“Interesting research?” Conn wandered over to the cabinet and removed a glass. Bringing it to the table, he set it next to the bottle.
Sean kept his focus on the scroll. “Not keeping Ivy Kathleen company this eve?”
“I’ll step aside for the other followers in her group.”
The man glanced at the glass. “You’ve returned without even one bottle to replenish the ones you’ve drank?”
“My next trip into town.”
“Humph! Don’t expect me to fill your glass. Your hands are not broken.”
Smiling, Conn did just that and bent over the desk. “O’Callaghan lands?”
“Aye,” muttered Sean.
Taking a sip of the whiskey, Conn pointed to the frayed parchment. “I take it Ivy has contacted you about Dunstan.”
Sean removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I can tell you for certain, there are no loopholes to claiming her land.”
“Yet, here you are studying said lands.”
Slumping down in his chair, Sean refilled his glass. Rolling the tumbler in his hands, he nodded. “His family has made allegations over the centuries, though it faded over time. Bloody fools, the whole lot of them. They wish to see all the land—from the hills to the coast in their name. Their account is one where an O’Callaghan chieftain took over the lands by killing their kin. It’s an outrageous story. If they did their own lineage, they would conclude that the O’Callaghans have always been on this land.”
Conn took a seat across from his friend and stretched out his legs. “Why now? Surely Dunstan must comprehend that Ivy is an O’Callaghan and has every right to the ownership.”
“Cannot say why the man has aspirations of getting his claws on the land. He came into his own inheritance a few months before Ivy Kathleen, so he might be one of those who simply craves the power of owning all the land around here. His father cared only for the next drink and a woman to fill his bed.” He slipped his glasses back on his face. Pointing to the scroll, he added, “You can see only a stream separates the borders between O’Callaghan and Dunstan’s lands. I’ve heard he hired an attorney, but Dunstan was told there is no validation.”
“Apparently, the fiend is a lunatic. Or are you concerned there is more to all of this?”
Sean tossed back his drink. “Yes. I would like to bury this ridiculous claim—one that surfaces every hundred years. It is madness.”
Standing slowly, Conn walked to the blazing hearth, his blood churned at the memory of seeing Ivy being held against her will. “I seek to banish this notion of his claim, as well. He frightened Ivy with his raving comments.”
“Sweet Jesus! He threatened her? She never mentioned being scared of Dunstan.”
Conn gave him a sideways glance. “I fear what he would have done to her, if I had not come forth. I doubt his words frightened her as much as his grip. The wee lass stood her ground as he held her firmly.”
His friend rubbed his jaw. “I could tell she was upset, but on the phone it’s hard to see one’s face. Bloody bastard!”
Finishing his drink, Conn walked over to the desk for another. “Why didn’t the man come forth after the death of Thomas? Again, why wait until now?”
Sean shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “He may have been away on business. Although, I now hear the man never ventures far from his own lands. He owns many horses and tends to them, so I assume this is why he wants her land. On another note, have you been to see Anne Fahey?”
“No. I am considering taking Ivy with me. The lass continues to ask questions of the villagers.”
Sighing, Sean shook his head. “So I’ve heard. Do you think it wise to take her out to see Anne?”
“She deserves to know everything. This is a part of her life.”
“Her parents had secrets—ones that might be best left buried.”
“I disagree,” argued Conn. “She already lives in the shadows. To seek out the truth will bring light and closure. And it could aid in my plan for her.”
Sean snarled. “You now have to deal with a thorn called Dunstan, as well.”
Taking a sip of the amber liquid, Conn tried to calm the fury rising within him again. “If you come across anything, let me know. Ivy does not need to be troubled. I will keep a watchful eye on Eric Dunstan.”
Arching a brow, Sean put down his glass. “Are you now her protector? Or is there something more?”
“No,” he lied. “My path with Ivy is far too important for this kind of distraction with Dunstan. Furthermore, I have no wish to see the lass upset. She is settling in well in her new home.”
The man continued to stare at him in silence. How could Conn possibly explain to his friend this fascination with Ivy? It was an overwhelming desire to protect and claim her. What he required was a conversation with one of his Fenian brothers. Draining his glass, he set it on the table. “I shall leave you to your research. Do inform me if you come upon any further information.”
Striding out of the room, Conn could hear his friend chuckling softly.
****
Greeting the new day in silence and meditation among the trees, Conn absorbed the energy of the land as he knelt. Lifting his head, his gaze traveled upward through the branches, wet from the early morning rain shower. Light shimmered off their limbs as the sun rose slowly into the sky. Peaceful, calm, cleansing—an entire night spent outdoors. When sleep eluded him, he concluded he had become soft around a certain woman. Therefore, he left the comforts of his bed and sought out the training of the land.
The warrior stood.
Shutting off his emotions, he sealed all thoughts pertaining to Ivy, except those necessary to safeguard. No longer would he fall under her spell. He was a Fenian Warrior. Not a human. Lustful feelings could be controlled—eliminated. They were not for him.
Breathing deeply, Conn walked out of the woods, ready to assist his charge.
An hour later, he pulled around the back of Ivy’s cottage. Getting off his motorcycle, he decided to look at Thomas’s car. If his plans included taking Ivy to see Anne Fahey, they required a vehicle other than his bike for the journey. Furthermore, she needed something for her own personal use, and Conn hoped it was something easily fixed.
His hand stilled on the garage door. Soft cries came from the back of the cottage. Frowning, he quickly made his way to the weeping person. Conn froze, mind and body numb. The sight before him ripped him apart. Ivy was on her knees rocking back and forth.
Rushing to her side, he could see instantly what had caused her grief and tears. The beautiful garden—one filled with flowers, vegetables, and herbs had been torn to shreds, including the garden gate he had built. Glancing in every direction, the place held a savage destruction he couldn’t fathom. “Ivy,” he said in a strangled voice.
She lifted her head, tears streaming down her face. In her arms were her cherished roses—petals strewn everywhere. “Why?” Her voice choked on the simple question.
Seeing Ivy in torment, Conn’s shields—his defenses dissolved, the warrior slumped down next to her.
Ivy glanced down at her hands clutching the petals. “They destroyed everything, even the beautiful roses in the front. And I only recently scattered my uncle’s ashes beyond the garden. It’s horrible.”
Stunned, Conn muttered a curse. Why had he not noticed the flowers were gone when he drove up to her place? Had he shielded himself off from all, including the land? Guilt plagued him for leaving Ivy alone last night. This was his fault.
“Cruel, mean—an insult to the land,” she sobbed, flinging the petals outward.
When he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, she flung herself into his arms. “I am sorry, Ivy.” His hand caressed her back, murmuring words as ancient as the land they sat upon. Cradling her quaking body, Conn let her pour out her sorrow in his arms.
When clouds gathered once more, and the rain threatened to spill down on them, Conn lifted her into his arms and walked into the cottage. Taking her to the couch by the hearth, he placed her down. Reaching for a blanket off the back, he draped it over her shoulders.
Kneeling in front of her, he wiped away a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “What can I do for you?”
Ivy hiccupped. “A cup of strong tea, please?”
He smiled and reached for her hands, placing a kiss along her knuckles. “Done.”
Stepping into the kitchen, Conn’s hands trembled. Fisting his hands on his hips, he could only think of one person who would have the balls to rip apart her garden. Dunstan. But why? He tossed the idea aside, for it made no sense.
He filled and put the kettle on, and then reached for a cup. Within moments, the water heated and he prepared her tea. Stepping back into the room, he noted her face held sorrow.
Handing her the cup, he asked, “Do you need a wee nip of something stronger?”
She rewarded him with a small smile. “Thanks, but whiskey won’t help ease the pain.” She took a sip of her tea, and added, “However, I might need a bottle later this evening.”
“I will gladly purchase the finest for you, too.” Conn sat down beside her. “Did you not hear anything during the night?”
Frowning, she held the cup against her chest. “No. Usually, I keep the bedroom window open a crack for fresh air, but by the time I returned home, I was exhausted and climbed into bed.”
Conn nodded toward the cat ambling their way. “What about the lady of the keep?”
Ivy chuckled softly. “Ahh…said lady has a name.”
He arched a brow. “Do tell.”
The cat jumped onto the back of the couch and perched herself behind Ivy’s shoulders.
“Neala. It’s Irish for—”
“Champion,” he interrupted.
“So the Celt knows the Gaelic?” Smiling, she sipped more of her tea.
“Among other languages. I commend your choice of name for the feline.”
Ivy glanced behind her. “Thanks. And to answer your question, she was snug under the blankets all night, so she didn’t hear anything either.” She turned her gaze back to Conn. “Why would anyone do this? Do you realize how old that garden is? My shock has turned into anger, because the damage that was done cannot be replaced.”
“Nevertheless, the harm can be replaced with new seeds. The land can be healed, Ivy.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Who are you? Sometimes the words you speak are incredible.”
“Remember, one who is ancient,” he teased.
Her lip twitched in humor. “Now you’re making fun of my words.”
Instantly, Conn drew her free hand into his. “I don’t jest.”
Ivy’s lips parted, and her tongue darted out, tempting Conn to taste. “Can you tell me something?” she asked softly.
His heart raced as he traced a path within her palm. “What do you wish to know?”
Placing the cup on the table, Ivy scooted closer to him. “When you were holding me in the garden, what language were you speaking?”
Conn swallowed, feeling the breath of her words against his face. “Why?”
She grasped his other hand. “Ever since I heard you speaking those words that day you were working on the Aga, I longed to find out.”
He was compelled to tell Ivy, tired of hiding in his own shadows. If he was going to bring her out of her darkness, he had to step forth from his own. “An ancient language, older than the Celts. From a race who invaded Ireland thousands of years ago.”
Conn could see the conflict within her eyes when she spoke. “My mother taught me all about the history of Ireland, so what race are you speaking of?”
“Tuatha De Danann,” he uttered softly.
“The Shining Ones?”
“Yes.”
“You do know that they’re revered here in Ireland? The Fae?”
“Of course,” he intoned evenly.
Silence followed for several moments. Neala proceeded to clean herself, as if bored by the entire conversation.
Ivy bit her lip and cupped his chin. The contact seared a path across his face. Leaning forward, she brushed a feather-light kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for bringing light and humor to me, my friend. Perhaps one day you will share the truth.” Moving off the couch, she folded up the blanket. “I’m off to open the bookstore. I’ll worry about cleaning up the garden later.” Taking her teacup, Conn watched her saunter into the kitchen with Neala following her mistress.
Smiling slowly, Conn stood.
The first seed of hope had been planted. Now, he would wait for the first leaf of knowledge to appear.