Chapter Three
Regan had done it this time. Her words had wounded her boasty ghosty, and judging by the way he’d snapped at her, the hurt ran deep. She’d been too blunt, too honest and not the least bit compassionate. “I’m sorry, Fáelán. You’re right. I know nothing of the past but what I’ve read, while you lived it. Who am I to say what is fact and what is faerie tale? If I promise to let go of the academic version of Ireland’s history, and to be a better listener, will you forgive me?”
He flashed her a hurt-filled look, distrust clear across his handsome features. “Will ye cease your doubting and quit your persistent nagging?”
Nagging? Was that what she’d been doing? That stung, mostly because he was right. She’d been pushing him to accept her version of his truth. Hadn’t Meredith admonished her to keep an open mind, while at the same time accusing her of the opposite? Her eyes prickled, and she got that tingly feeling at the back of her throat. Why was she so sensitive when it came to this spirit?
She drew in a long breath, letting it out slowly. Her sensitivity to the situation probably had more to do with all the changes she’d gone through lately, coupled with frustration with her life. She was used to being busy, so busy she never allowed herself a second to think about what her life lacked. She hadn’t adjusted yet, or found a compass for whatever was to come next. That was all. Well, that and the fact that no ghost had ever asked to spend time with her before. Of course she was off balance.
She’d sworn to help Fáelán, and she would. Only she needed to dial it back a bit, ease him into reality more on his terms than hers. This was about what he needed, and not about her at all. “I will quit my persistent nagging.”
“And . . . ?” He lowered his chin and glared at her from beneath his very fine brow.
“And what?” she snapped. “You can be plenty annoying yourself, you know. You’re every bit as stubborn as I am, probably more so.” He threw his head back and laughed, and all the tension filling her car disappeared. The tightness she’d been holding between her shoulder blades eased, and she smiled. “Am I forgiven, Little Wolf?”
“Can ye put aside your doubt for a few weeks, Álainn?”
“I’ll do my best.” It wasn’t doubt, dammit. Clearly, he was not of this world.
“That’s all a man can ask, aye?” He flashed her a crooked grin and winked.
His winks did things to her insides, sexy, erotic things. Too bad he wasn’t corporeal, because he tempted her beyond reason. The GPS alerted her to yet another roundabout. The Irish Department of Transport certainly were big on roundabouts, and she found them extremely confusing, much more so than driving on the left side of the road.
She steered the car onto what she believed was the correct ramp. “So, back to Newgrange. I take it you haven’t encountered any of the Fianna there, or Fionn MacCumhaill. How would they know to gather there? Are there caves nearby somewhere along the River Boyne?”
“Aye, well . . .” He uncrossed his arms and rested his hands on his thighs. “In this instance, I believe the word cave is a metaphor.” He cocked his head, and his expression turned pensive. “Like the word underground is to the fae.”
“Oh? Explain.”
“Ye’ve read the myths and legends, aye?”
She nodded.
“Then ye’ll know when the Milesian wizard Amergin defeated the Tuatha Dé Danann, he banished the fae to dwell underground. Since I live in the fae realm, I can tell ye for a fact ’tis not underground, beneath mounds or in deep hollows. The fae exist in the void realm, which, as close as I can tell, is another dimension or plane right here—right beside the earthly realm, in fact.”
“Interesting.” More interesting still were the reason and intellect that went into creating his own mythology. He certainly presented a challenge to her skills as a ghost whisperer.
“Aye, and it stands to reason the word cave as it pertains to Fionn and his band of remaining Fianna also refers to an alternative dimension. ’Tis my belief Fionn MacCumhaill and his men live in the void realm.” He turned to her, his mien a dropped gauntlet if ever she’d seen one. “As do I.” One of his eyebrows rose, indicating he was waiting to see if she’d refute what he’d said.
“OK,” she said with a nod. “That still doesn’t explain why you’d expect to find any of them at Newgrange.”
“We Fenians oft gathered there to camp. The hill provided an excellent vantage point in all directions,” he told her. “To maintain our strength and to keep our wits sharp, during all but the worst months of winter, we Fianna lived out of doors. We wandered about, foraging, hunting and sleeping beneath the stars. In exchange for keeping the peace, defending our island against foreign invaders and settling disputes throughout the land, the clans were obliged to take us in during the winters.”
“Ohhh. When you told me about being cursed, you said ‘once upon a winter’s eve,’” Regan murmured. “The night you were cursed, you were shacking up,” she said with a snort. “Some buxom bimbo took you in for the winter. Am I right?”
“I’m not familiar with the word bimbo, but I was taken in by my lover’s family, aye.” One of his knees began to bounce.
“What was her name?”
“What has her name to do with aught?”
“I’m just curious.” The sign for Kilkenny appeared, and Regan turned onto the road that led into the village surrounding the castle. It was still early in the tourist season. Hopefully they wouldn’t encounter a huge crowd. “What happened to her? Did Morrigan curse her as well?”
“There was naught I could do,” Fáelán rasped, his tone bleak, defensive. “I was banished to the void that very night.”
Regan frowned. “She died?”
“On the eve I was cursed, I knew Morrigan meant to kill Nóra. I did the best I could to protect her.” He shifted in his seat and blew out a breath. “I begged and pleaded with Morrigan to spare Nóra’s life. My pleas fell upon deaf ears.”
He stared out the window, his hands fisted in his lap. The knee bouncing had stopped. “Nóra was innocent of any wrongdoing. As was I. None of what happened that night makes any sense at all, but the fae need not worry over making sense to mortals. As a Fiann, ’twas my duty to protect those unable to defend themselves. I failed.”
Pain pulsed off him in waves, and she hurt for him. “I’m sorry, Fáelán. Did you love Nóra?”
“I was quite fond of her, but nay. She did not hold my heart.”
“Yet you did your best to protect her and at your own peril.” To his last breath, he’d been Fiann to the core. How could she not swoon a bit over that? Morrigan had killed him and his girlfriend, and that devastating, unresolved injustice could be the reason he still lingered here on earth. Warmth surged for her boasty ghosty, warmth tinged with deep sadness.
“Here we are,” she said, pulling into a parking spot. The day had started out sunny, but clouds had moved in, and with the clouds came a chill. Regan twisted around and grabbed her flannel-lined rain jacket from the back seat.
Fáelán sucked in an audible breath.
“What?” Her gaze flew to his.
“Naught is amiss,” he croaked. “I wish I could catch a hint of your scent, or touch your lovely”—his gaze dropped to her breasts—“hair, is all.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. Twisting and reaching as she had, she’d thrust her breasts practically in his face. Worse, her V-neck T-shirt did show a bit of cleavage. She groaned inwardly. No doubt he’d been a lustier-than-the-average-bear kind of man in life. She’d have to be more careful, considerate. No need to torture the poor ghost with what he could no longer experience. “Sorry,” she muttered, climbing out of the car. “Let’s go.”
Fáelán followed her through a town square lined with businesses on either side. A broad walkway called The Parade took up the center of the square and led up a gradual hill to the castle, which was situated on the River Nore. They walked together in silence all the way to the stairs leading to the castle’s entrance. Following the signs, Regan headed toward the admissions booth. “Let’s see the castle first, and after that we can tour the grounds. I promise not to shop until late afternoon.”
“Hmm.”
Did that mean he agreed? She fished inside her day pack for her wallet and approached the woman selling tickets. “T—uh, one, please,” she said, handing over ten euros. She’d almost asked for two admissions. Fáelán was becoming more real to her with each passing moment.
“Would you like a book about the castle’s history?” The woman handed her the change and pointed to the books.
“Not now, thanks.” Regan took one of the folded maps of the castle and grounds and moved on. Fáelán had gone quiet. She studied the map and whispered, “You’re awfully quiet. Everything OK?”
“Aye, but we cannot have people thinkin’ ye talk to yourself, now can we?”
“Good point.” Her heart ached for him. What must it be like to be invisible to the world, to want life so badly you’d create an entire fantasy in order to fool yourself into believing you hadn’t died? “Fáelán . . . do you believe in reincarnation?”
Fáelán stomped in a circle around the irritating female. “Ye make me want to tear out my hair, ye do, Regan MacCarthy, and that’s a fact!”
She turned her wide eyes his way. “What’d I do now?” She blinked, false, owl-eyed innocence suffusing her features.
He wanted to give her a good shake. Instead, he threw his hands in the air. “If I believe in reincarnation, then I should accept my death, because if I’d only accept my death, I’d cross over to be reborn. The sooner I make myself available for rebirth, the sooner I can rejoin the living. Aye? Admit it, ye wee termagant. ’Tis what ye were plannin’ to say, and after swearin’ not even an hour past ye’d cease with your dogged wheedlin’.” At least she had the good sense to blush . . . and to avert her gaze.
“I . . . oh.” She bit her lip. “Maybe, but I didn’t mean to—”
“Nag?”
“It just kind of—”
“Popped into your head, and ye couldn’t spare it a thought afore it flew out of your mouth?”
“Hey.” She glared.
“Go on your tour, Regan. I need to go for a run.”
Her glare was replaced by a look of puzzlement. “Go for a run?”
“Aye. ’Tis like walking, only faster.”
“I’m sorry. Making suggestions . . . it’s a hard habit to break. I’ve dealt with so many ghosts, you see, and—”
He growled, gave her his back and ran for the exit, taking note of the alarmed stares turned toward Regan. To them, it would appear she was holding a conversation with herself. Once outside, he circled around to the side of the castle and took the path leading past the long, rectangular castle wing to the extensive parkland beyond. Fáelán ran full out along a well-groomed trail until his irritation, his utter frustration at the most vexing female he’d ever encountered in nearly eighteen hundred years—excepting Morrigan of course—leached out of him bit by bit.
Still he forged on at a good clip. Sweat trickled down his back, chest and face. He turned onto a path leading toward the river. After half an hour or so, he slowed his pace to a steady jog to cool down.
He’d been at it for some time before his lungs began to burn. Finally, he slowed to a walk, much calmer now, steadier. He’d always been quick to anger, one of his many faults, to be sure. Placing his hands on his hips, he gazed out at the River Nore, a familiar sight.
He’d oft been here with his family, attending fairs and markets. Where the castle now stood had always been a strategic location for defense. Boats could be easily unloaded here, and the bank of the river at the bend was the best place for people to disembark, including enemies.
There had been no castle back then, only a fort of stone, wattle and daub, built upon a knoll with a ditch moat, and defended by a territorial chieftain sworn to the King of Leinster. He could be sharing his memories with Regan right now, pointing out places of interest to her. After all, he’d been born and raised not so very far from Kilkenny.
His thoughts centered upon Regan, unsure whether she was his miracle or yet another curse. Chuckling, he rubbed the back of his neck. She was a trial, to be sure. Once again she’d provoked him into behaving like a petulant child, and they’d been together for only a single morn. He should return to the castle and look for her afore she took it into her mind to leave him.
There must be a way for them to come to some accord. Of course, the way would require he take the high ground, control his temper and behave as a Fiann ought. He barked out a wry laugh. Who amongst his brethren would be able to maintain their composure with Regan poking and prodding at them, doing her best to herd them in the direction of her choosing?
He fixed in his mind the image of the castle entrance, and, unbidden, images of Regan with her slender back bowed, one leg raised, her foot in her hands, touching her toes to the back of her head interfered. He shook it off, and the whoosh and rush enveloped him. He stood in front of the entrance once again. His gazed drifted toward the terraced garden overlooking the man-made pond of the castle gardens.
He found Regan outside, sitting upon a stone bench, her shoulders slumped and her head bowed. By the gods, seeing her so dejected twisted him into a knot of remorse. He should not have snapped at her as he had. Even though she was completely wrong, her heart was in the right place. ’Twas generous and kind of her to give of her time to a man she saw as naught but a scáil, and he’d best keep that in mind.
Resigned, Fáelán strode toward her, ready to form a truce at any cost. After all, wasn’t she the woman destined to steal his heart? “Not bloody likely,” he muttered under his breath. As if she’d heard him, Regan lifted her head and turned his way. Her face fell at the sight of him, and his heart dropped like a stone through water. He took a seat beside her, at a loss as to how to proceed. “What are ye doing out here, lassie? Have ye seen all there is to see inside the castle?”
“No, but . . .” She sighed heavily. “The castle ghosts started to pester me, and I wasn’t in the mood, so I came outside,” she said, gazing out over the pond. “I’ve been thinking.”
“As have I.”
“I’m not doing you any good, Fáelán. In fact, I’m probably making things more difficult for you.” She studied her clasped hands where they rested upon her lap. “It seems like all I do is upset you.”
“My thoughts exactly.” He extended his tired legs, crossing them at the ankles.
“Well, at least we agree on one thing.” She shot a disgruntled look his way. “Anyway, I think it would be best if we part ways. I didn’t really come to Ireland to—”
“On that I beg to disagree.”
“Really. Because of the curse?” She grunted. “Because I have to be honest—”
“Are ye willin’ to hear my thoughts on the subject, Regan?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to share your thoughts with me regardless, so go ahead.”
“What if ye stop tryin’ so damned hard to do me good? What if we just be ourselves, spend some time together and see what happens?”
Regan opened her mouth as if to say something, closed it and studied him intently. “You look flushed. You’re . . . sweaty.”
“I do my best thinkin’ whilst I run.”
Her brow creased. “Ghosts don’t sweat.”
“Nay, ghosts don’t sweat,” he agreed. “But I do. What do ye say, lassie? No more good deed doin’ where I’m concerned. Leave it be for now. If I’d wanted help finding this light ye claim will beckon, I’d have asked for it. Relax. Can we not enjoy a bit of time spent together for no other reason than ’tis good to have each other’s company?”
She studied him, hoisting the strap of her day pack higher on her shoulder. Did she mean to leave? “I was born and raised not too far from this land, and right here is where I began my journey with the Fianna. Fionn oft recruited for his army at fairs and markets, and this was a popular area for both.”
“Really?” Her expression brightened.
“Aye. I’ll tell ye all about it while we shop.”
“You’re going to shop with me?” She laughed and rose from the bench. “This should be interesting.”
“If I’m not mistaken, this is the second day of June. Seems an auspicious day for us to begin anew.”
“Why’s that?” She blinked. “What’s special about the second of June?”
He stood up and shrugged. “’Tis as auspicious as any other day, aye? Are we in agreement? I vow I’ll quit harping about the curse.”
“All right, and I vow to stop trying to be the voice of reason and a do-gooder where you’re concerned. And . . .” Regan fished her phone out of her jacket pocket. “I also came up with a way we can talk without raising eyebrows,” she said, holding the phone to her ear and grinning at him. “What do you think? When anyone looks at us, all they’ll see is me talking to someone on my phone.”
“Brilliant.” Gladness replaced his earlier irritation, and he longed to place his hand at the small of her back, or better yet, draw her into his arms and kiss her breathless. Soon. Less than three weeks separated him from the earthly realm—and from touching Regan.
“We should choose a safe word for when either of us slips up,” Regan said, still talking into her phone. “When you bring up the curse, and how you’re going to fall madly in love with me, or when I start nudging you toward the light, we say the word and it will remind us of our promise.”
He chuckled. “All right. Although, all I need do is exert my considerable self-control.”
“Is that what happened when you turned tail and ran out of the castle? Was that you exerting your considerable self-control?” she said, mimicking his arrogant tone.
“Aye.” He winked at her. “For what I truly wanted was to throttle ye.”
“Ha!” Her eyes filled with amusement. “How about Newgrange as our reminder word?”
“Newgrange will do well enough. I’ve a place in mind to show ye, but ’tis a fair distance from Howth, more than a day trip. Would ye be interested in taking a tour around the Ring of Kerry? ’Tis popular with the tourists, and the view is breathtaking.”
“The Ring of Kerry is on my list of places to see,” she said, her tone excited. “I’ll make a reservation at a B&B nearby.” She glanced at him through her thick lashes. “Um, do you know of any places that might be . . . magical?”
“Why do ye ask?”
“Just curious.” She bit her lip.
“I imagine many places in Eire hold magic, but I’d not know of them.” He peered at her, pointedly. “I don’t see ghosts, and I don’t sense magic, Regan. Other than being a Fiann, I am unremarkable in any way.”
“OK.” She sighed. “When would you like to go to the Ring of Kerry?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll come for ye at daybreak. ’Twill give us most of the day and the next to explore.”
“It’s a . . .” Regan’s mouth shut and turned down for an instant. “Sounds like fun.”
His breath caught. She’d been about to say it’s a date, the modern term for courting, but who dated a scáil? Less than three weeks until the solstice, and then he could place his hand at the small of her back. He’d take her out for a fine meal, music and dancing. After which, he’d hold her close and kiss her delectable lips. And if he had any luck at all, his kisses would lead to more intimacies, and he’d taste other enticing, sensitive places. Blood rushed to his groin thinking about tasting the tender spot behind her ear, the swell of her breasts, the softness of her inner thighs. Heat sluiced through him, and his breathing grew ragged. A few more weeks, and she’d see how real he was, and virile. He hadn’t even reached his prime yet.
“We’ve a plan, Álainn. ’Tis grateful I am to ye, for it has been a long while since I’ve enjoyed the company of such a lovely, good-hearted woman.”
Regan made a sound deep in her throat, that sound only women made. The one that said she doubted her man’s sincerity. Fáelán grinned. How could he not? ’Twas such an ordinary reaction between an ordinary couple engaged in a dance as old as time itself—the dance of growing close, of becoming familiar with each other’s faults alongside their good qualities. Thank the gods, both old and new, his good qualities far outnumbered his faults.