BENEATH THE SHADOW OF TIME
by Vera Bell
Start Reading FREE (18+):
_______
Prologue
He was fearless. He was stubborn. He was noble.
He was my husband. He was my lover. He was the father of my children.
He was a leader. He was a warrior. He was a target.
He was more than a man. He was only a man.
But that was in the past.
The past is cruel. The past is relentless. The past keeps repeating itself.
In this life, his name is Ryan Casey…
Or is it?
_______
PART ONE
Chasing the Shadows
To love or to have loved, that is enough. Ask nothing further. There is no other pearl to be found in the dark folds of life. To love is a consummation.
– Victor Hugo, “Les Misérables”
_______
Chapter One
Ten Thousand Pounds of Gold
Neave, June 7, 1566, Ulster, Ireland
Ten thousand pounds of gold for my beloved’s head—a speck in all of Ireland’s soil. Ten thousand pounds of gold for my children’s father—a drop in the Irish Sea. Ten thousand pounds of gold—a fortune most men would never see in all their miserable lives.
The road to Dunluce Castle lay twenty leagues from Benburb and amounted to a day’s journey. It coiled along Lough Neagh and Lough Beg, writhed among the undulating hills of Tyrone and Antrim, and snaked through the dense forests of oaks, ashes, and yews. Last year alone, I’d traveled this road more times than I could count, and while the seasons of my journeying waxed and waned, one thing remained constant and unchanging—the fog, my ever-present companion.
It descended upon us now. A blinding, treacherous blanket that soaked me to the bone, rolled down my neck in cold, biting rivulets, and imperiled my mare’s every step. It seeped into my boots and polished clean the scian tucked into my belt.
Beside me, my Aedan, armed with four daggers and his long Irish sword, seemed impervious to the weather. For all he cared, it might have been the brightest summer day or the coldest winter night, for his concerns lay elsewhere. They would always lie elsewhere now.
A small army of gallowglasses pressed close, flanking us on both sides. Half of Aedan’s men rode ahead while the rest guarded our backs. And I no longer trusted any of them.
Hence, I’d not hesitate with my blade if I caught but a flash of disloyalty, a hint of wavering. For the price the Tudor queen had set on my Aedan’s precious life was neither steep nor exorbitant, neither generous nor lavish. It was something else entirely—a sum beyond all bounds of decency and civility. A brothel’s coveted temptress—mouthwatering, vulgar, obscene—beckoning with her naked arms and rouged lips. Come to me, and all your troubles will fade into the mist. A disrobed siren, sea-green hair floating about her enticing flesh, coaxing eyes piercing a man’s fluttering heart. Touch me, and I shall be yours forever. Put your loyalty and honor out of your mind and take me. And keep me—the one you thought you could never have.
“My Neave.” Aedan’s voice shook me from my grim revelry. “Are you not glad to see your good-sister, Alma, again?”
“I am, a chroí.”
“Are you cold, then?”
I shook my head.
“Hungry, mayhap?”
“I’m not, my Aedan.”
He rode up closer. “Then why is your brow clouded so?”
Nestled against Aedan's chest, Ronan’s head bobbed with the steed’s every step, his small face serene, his grip on the pommel loosened. I would have given anything to leave him in the safety of Benburb, but nothing could keep the king’s firstborn from accompanying his father to Dunluce Castle.
I nudged Fionna closer to Tuireann and lowered my voice. “What’s to hinder any of them from… from conspiring to…” My throat constricted.
He sighed. “You wear yourself thin with worry for naught, my Neave. My own brothers and commanders, my most loyal warriors, whose love for me burns as fiercely as for Ulster itself. For I am Ulster—as I go, so it does. Each of them would die for me.” He swallowed. “Same as you.”
True enough, my Aedan was Ulster. With his sword he won it, and with his sword he would keep it. But what of the bounty?
I contemplated the rough, murky faces surrounding us. Whose price here was ten thousand pounds of gold? Or less, if split between them all? Yet here at least, I was Aedan’s eyes and ears while his own remained blinded and deafened by his purpose of driving the English from Ireland. And by his unwavering faith in his men’s honor.
“And what of Ragnall’s men?” I trained my gaze on his heartbreaking face. “How are we to know where their loyalties lie?”
“How many times must I recite this to you before you believe me, a mhuirnín?” He reached over and stroked my arm. “My good-brother and his men are sworn to our mutual cause. Together, we will throw the English back to their wretched homeland, never to return. Or d’you fancy the Scots hunger for the English to rule them?”
“I know not what the Scots hunger for,” I said, “but I reckon none of them, save Ragnall, could ever dream laying eyes on ten thousand pounds of gold.”
But this was idle talk, repeated ad nauseum and yielding no fruit.
The fog lifted as we approached Dunluce Castle—a Scottish stronghold that rose above the turbulent tides and melted into the dark cliffs on which it stood. The remnants of the fog hung above the watchtower like a tattered shroud. I squared my shoulders. Inside, awaited the grit of Ragnall’s measured brogue, the grimness of his brooding men, and the gloom of the walls that echoed with every clang, every thud, every grunt.
Far in the distance, an eagle soared into the sky, its large, powerful wings gliding above the earth in deathly calm. Moments later, a mournful wail of bagpipes sliced through the cold, still air like a dirge for lost souls.
Soon, the figure of a woman emerged from the grand entrance, growing near. Lady Alma MacDonnell was as lovely as Aedan was handsome, but where her brother towered tall and brawny, she stood willowy and soft. Where he proved obstinate and unbending, she remained pliable and even-tempered. But no less proud or capable.
Her face split in a warm smile as we dismounted. “You look well, brother.” She reached to smooth his damp hair and adjust his mantle.
And he—dimples dancing at the sides of his mouth—raised her into the air and set her down with care. “As do you, sister.”
Back on the ground, she greeted Kian with a gracious nod and an amiable “welcome, brother,” then circled her arms round me. “Have a rest from your sentinel now, dearest good-sister,” she whispered in my ear. “He is in my care now.”
I buried my face in her slender shoulder, weak with relief. Alma MacDonnell was the only soul I trusted with Aedan’s life.
“Wait for me, Da!” Ronan hopped from the coach and dashed toward Aedan, brimming with pride at being granted leave to accompany his father while wee Aine and Aedan Og remained behind with their nursemaids. “I’ll enter alongside you!”
Sharp as a whip, our firstborn knew a rival the instant he laid eyes on his infant brother. He hadn’t wept or stormed as he had at Aine’s birth. Instead, he stood very still at my bedside, his sweet face creasing with strange, new lines.
“He has the look of Da.” Ronan pursed his lips, contemplating the dark-haired, blue-eyed babe in my arms—the spitting image of Aedan. “Will he be his favorite?”
“What nonsense, a leanbh.” I cast a look at Aedan, who gave an impatient shake of his head. “Put it out of your mind at once!”
“Is he your favorite, Da?” Ronan stared at his father with bright, unblinking eyes. “Is that why you named him after yourself?”
Aedan sank to one knee and gripped Ronan’s small shoulders. “Your mother named the babe, and save for her, I keep no favorites.” His expression hardened and voice deepened as it did when he addressed his men. “Nor should you, son. It is unbecoming of a chieftain and makes a wretched king.”
Ronan hadn’t seemed convinced then, nor any time after, but joining his father’s retinue to visit the Scots seemed to have settled the notion at last.
“Won’t you greet your dear auntie, Lord Ronan?” Alma’s face lit up at the sight of him. “He grows more like my brother each day.” She spun to me with a wide smile. “Or mayhap more like you. I cannot tell with that bright McConway hair.”
Her husband, Lord Ragnall MacDonnell, awaited inside with his men. He’d wed Alma at the dawn of his third decade—she but a girl of sixteen—to unite the MacDonnells and the O’Neills. Cold and rugged like his wintry motherland, he spoke little and smiled less, yet he appeared to hold tender affection for his lovely young wife and her powerful clan. But now that Aedan bore a price on his head, Ragnall—with his undisputed rule over the Antrim coast, a sizeable army of redshanks, and the queen’s own Protestant faith—seemed a greater threat than any.
Yet neither Aedan nor Alma shared my concerns.
“I trust Ragnall like a brother, my Neave,” Aedan had said soon after the discovery of the bounty. “Besides—” he winked—“what reward can rival Alma’s love?”
But I no longer trusted his brothers, and what could be more dispensable than a woman’s love?
“Ragnall may have wed me for policy,” Alma had echoed, “but he loves me for life, good-sister. He’ll not touch a hair on Aedan’s head. No amount of coin would tempt him to harm my brother.”
But I didn’t trust men’s loyalty to their wives against the spellbinding glitter of gold.
***
After changing out of our riding clothes, we took our seats at the usual places: the O’Neals opposite the MacDonnells, the chieftains at the head of the table, the wives at their sides. A great platter bearing a boar’s head stood in the center, surrounded by roasted mutton with kale, rabbit with turnips, haggis, and game that looked to be either goose or partridge. There were salmon, perch, and pike dressed with leeks, warm bannocks, loaves of barley bread, silver goblets with claret, and overflowing cups of whiskey.
My fingernails found my palms as I studied the Scottish chieftain’s stony expression. Did Ragnall MacDonnell still hold the O’Neal in high regard, or was he feigning deference to fell our defenses?
“Bless us, oh God…and our food and our drink…” Ragnall’s broad Scots rang out, echoing off the walls like the clash of claymores. “You redeemed us so dearly and delivered us from evil—”
The Scots weren’t much for conversation, so we ate in silence, the air thickening with every passing moment.
I froze at Aedan’s words, so faint, I alone heard them. “I consign my fate into Your hands, Lord.”
A shiver raced down my spine, yet a flicker of relief stirred in its wake. He wasn’t altogether blind to the weight of the bounty.
Aedan leaned back in his seat, heavy steel-blue gaze trained on Ragnall. “A thousand of your redshanks to join my six thousand gallowglasses, good-brother. Ten pounds each.”
Before Ragnall could reply, his cousin, Torkel, gave a wry wink. “Ten thousand pounds—a rare fortune!”
My heart stopped. I raised my head to meet Alma’s unblinking stare. No amount of coin, is it?
“Indeed, it is.” Aedan’s smile didn’t touch his eyes. “And one I’d gladly share with my friends in the fight against our common foe.”
Ragnall stroked his forked beard, his expression ever unreadable. “You’re welcome to five hundred of my finest, good-brother. Twenty pounds each.”
_______
Chapter Two
Airtight
Ryan, June 7, 2013, Miami, FL
Ryan poured himself a second cup of black coffee. It was early—two hours before his meeting—yet he’d been at the Bureau since dawn. He wasn’t prone to nightmares and didn’t even remember the last time he’d had one. But he’d awakened in the dead of the night—mind racing, heart pounding.
Slowly, Ryan raised his head, the unwelcome flashback coiling in his chest once again, heavy and cold as ice. A long, labyrinthine tunnel—dark and menacing. Deathly silent. Then, rattling, like an old clunker. A whoosh. A clap. The walls, the ceiling—the whole world—tilting and crushing down with bewildering force. Something gritty in his eyes and mouth and on his hands. No—not his mouth, not his hands—definitely not. Then, pitch darkness. Stifling and pain-filled.
Ryan gulped down his coffee and tossed the paper cup into the wastebasket under his desk. It hadn’t been him. Just one of those disjointed dreams where you’re a helpless bystander, watching a train wreck. You see the threat looming, snowballing, closing in, inevitable and unstoppable, but you can’t intervene. And when it consumes you—though not really you—it leaves an unsettling feeling of not having quite dodged the bullet.
That was when Ryan woke up in a cold sweat. Careful not to wake Sie, he’d gathered her into his arms. She murmured something in her sleep, soft and warm, brushed his chest with her fingertips, and settled her head on his shoulder. But he couldn’t fall asleep as his mind spun in circles, trying to make sense of his dream with zero success. So he’d gotten up, gone for a run, then showered, and headed to work.
Ryan popped open his laptop. The Operations Order for the Shadow case sat behind his newly drafted mission and tactical plans. He let out a slow breath. In his entire FBI career, he’d never led a more dangerous case.
He was decent at concealing emotions, but since their move to Miami, he had to constantly check himself with Sie. She’d already figured out the drug-trafficking bit—as he knew she would, given the location. He hoped with all his heart that had satisfied her need to know. Because she could never—under any circumstances—learn the full extent of this nightmare.
A highly sophisticated Colombian drug cartel that distributed multi-ton shipments of cocaine and other narcotics into the US to the tune of obscene sums of money was bad enough. But what those illicit profits were used to fund was downright monstrous. The FBI had dubbed the organization “Sombra”—Spanish for Shadow. A perfect name. Sombra was the shadowy mastermind behind funneling an arsenal of deadly weapons into the hands of warlords and insurgents around the globe. It was also the kingpin of the hideously efficient machine of human trafficking.
Unblinking, Ryan scrolled through the Operations Order. Mostly women and children—a hellish underworld of suffering. He tightened his jaw as the words “kidnappings, coercion, torture, and enslavement” rose off the page like distorted shadows. Sombra was a cancer that spread far and wide, striking everything it touched. And he and his team had been tasked with infiltrating and obliterating this many-headed beast.
Courtesy of his brother-in-law’s ex-Navy buddy, the infiltration piece was complete. Ryan rubbed the back of his neck, familiar misgivings knotting his stomach. Evan swore up and down Damien was their man. But Ryan didn’t know him, and his shady past did little to instill him with confidence. Could he trust the guy with the lives of his men? With his own life? He closed the plans. His doubts aside, Damien’s role had already proven pivotal. Thanks to his Colombian father’s past involvement with Sombra—petty crimes the FBI had pardoned—Damien had an in with the cartel. It was nothing earth-shattering—the guy posed as a low-level operative, seeking to impress the higher-ups. And Ryan had to give credit where it was due. Damien had gotten all the intel they needed, and then some: photos of the local key operatives, detailed descriptions of their personalities, blueprints of the warehouse. The list went on.
Ryan blew out a long breath. Everything about Damien checked out. Heck, he’d been with Evan in Afghanistan, of all places.
His phone chimed.
Ryan shook himself, touched the speaker, and softened his voice. “Morning, love.”
“Everything okay?” Sie sounded like she just woke up, voice low and husky.
Why on earth am I here and not with her?
The notion flitted at the edge of Ryan’s consciousness—more a feeling than a thought. And on its heels, lingered another—the two always seemed to badger him in pairs. This new, uncharacteristically dark idea that bordered on fixation, first reared its ugly head a week after their move. He’d tried to discount it, brush it away, but it kept buzzing in his mind, loud and relentless, like a pesky housefly.
He shook his head to clear it.
Because I’m not right for her.
Ryan froze with sudden cold clarity. How long was he going to keep this up?
“Are you there?” Sie’s voice shook him out of his strange brooding.
“I’m at work.” He twisted his wedding band. “Sleep well?”
She sighed. “I think I may have had a nightmare.”
Ryan tensed. “Want to tell me?”
“I can’t really remember it. It wasn’t like…a vision. Definitely not.” She fell silent. “There was someone—I don’t think it was you, but anyway… He was in mortal danger, but he didn’t see it—even though it was so obvious to me. So, I tried to warn him, to tell him, but I couldn’t get through to him.”
Ryan’s hands grew cold. He flexed his fingers. Last time their dreams aligned resulted in the resurfacing of something better confined to the past. He pursed his lips—unless this “nightmare” was a convenient pretext for nagging him to quit his job.
“Baby—?”
“I’m here. Getting ready for my nine o’clock briefing.” He forced a smile into his voice. “I’m not in mortal danger, Sie.”
“I really did have a nightmare.” She huffed. “I’m not making it up.”
After they said goodbye, Ryan stared, unseeing, at his laptop screen. Of course she wasn’t making it up—she couldn’t if she wanted to. But her motive in telling him was impossible to miss. Maybe it was high time to face the truth. He dragged both hands through his hair. No, it wasn’t. Because it wasn’t the truth. He let out a weary sigh. Then why did this insane idea keep sprouting to life in his otherwise rational mind?
For heaven’s sake, she’s having nightmares.
He scoffed, studying his screensaver—the familiar blue and yellow FBI seal with the words, “Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Investigation” and the motto “Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity” in the center. Once, she thought his job was sexy. “Hot” as she’d dubbed it, eyes twinkling, lips curving into her heart-breaking half-smile. It was cute—hot indeed—how she loved his position, status, uniform, and all the bells and whistles that came with it. Until they’d moved in together, and the hard reality replaced the dreamy pageantry. And then, she hated it. All of it.
Was it so insane to admit he was making her miserable? That despite everything, maybe—just maybe—he truly wasn’t right for her?
Ryan tipped his head back and closed his eyes, shuddering with unbidden dark epiphany. He may have been all wrong for her in the other life, too, but God gave him another chance to be right. To do right by her. And instead of cherishing and honoring this incredible gift, he was squandering it away to feed his insatiable, unceasing need for adrenaline rush. Which fueled his calling.
***
Two hours later, the guys sat around the table of the largest conference room in the Miami FBI building, their faces grim. They’d all read the Operations Order.
Ryan trained his gaze on Damien. “You sure about the timeline?”
Damien’s eye twitched—a tic Ryan had initially mistaken for a wink. “As sure as I sit here.”
The DEA swat team would be having their own meeting today, along with ICE, ATF, MPD, Coast Guard—it was a long list. All were part of the massive joint task force assigned to the Shadow case. But Ryan’s concern lay with his guys.
He tossed the mission plan printouts on the table. “Starting tomorrow, I expect each of you to recite this in your sleep. We follow this plan to a T, or this whole thing goes to hell faster than you can say Sombra.” He gave the guys a moment to scan the plan. “The transfer of arms and narcotics is going down on August 14, 11:30 PM, at this Homestead warehouse. Our objective is to neutralize all cartel members and take possession of evidence. In the nutshell, we secure the perimeter—Damien goes in first.”
Damien compressed his lips with a knowing “hm-mmm,” a violent twitch flickering through his eye.
“They won’t see it coming.” Ryan leaned back in his chair, pushing down a strange quiver in his stomach. “When he signals to breach, the entry team moves in, followed by the cover team. My signal for extraction comes when evidence is secured. The backup team will be on standby.”
Jason put down the printout. “Lethal force?”
“The official mandate is custody, but we’ll use our best judgment when making contact.” Ryan took in the strained faces peering back at him. “Each of you has been selected for your unique set of skills and experience. You know your job. The plan is airtight. We’ll outnumber them four to one. All we have to do is follow the plan, and we’ll be golden.”
Ryan stayed behind after everyone had left, staring at the blank white board. He never used those things. Drawing was Sie’s specialty. He exhaled, trying to banish the little voice that kept nagging at him. Already, she was having nightmares. He couldn’t imagine what learning the truth about this case and his role in it might do to her.
But she wouldn’t learn it, would she? If ever there was a classified case, Sombra was one, and his guys knew to keep their mouths shut.
Besides, he’d do right by her. Right now.
Ryan grabbed his phone and opened the messaging app.
We’re going out tomorrow night. Call the babysitter. Wear something sexy.
He’d get her flowers after work, too—a dozen long-stem white roses. Or was that an overkill?
The phone chimed.
Sounds nice. The three dots hovered for a heartbeat. What’s the occasion?
He gave a faint scoff. She was fast—no flowers.
The occasion is I love you.
Love you too, she replied. Don’t bring flowers.
_______
Chapter Three
Use It or Lose It
Siena, June 8, 2013, Miami, FL
Despite its impressive size, the restaurant felt intimate with its chic décor, breathy crooning of a female singer, and soft ambient lighting. A mouthwatering mixture of freshly baked bread, herbs, and spices wafted over the low hum of the conversation and mingled with the warm glow that seemed to wrap the place like a blanket.
Late as usual, we arrived to find everyone already gathered: Emma and Jason, Ashley and Evan, and an unfamiliar man.
Beside me, Ryan scoffed—exasperation mixed with unease. “I thought it was just the six of us,” he muttered.
The new guy—easy smile and drink in hand—seemed friendly and relaxed.
“Why?” I whispered. “Who is he?”
Ryan shook his head—a swift, dismissive gesture. “No one. An agent.”
“Hey.” Evan gave Ryan a curt nod as we approached the table. “How’s it going?” he said to me, his dispassionate expression rivaling the world’s best poker player.
“Good,” I mumbled, forcing a smile.
Inexplicably, I didn’t care for Evan, Ryan’s brother-in-law. Which was odd since the two were so alike—strong, silent, modern-day warrior types, who seemed born into their innate grit and calm authority. Though in Evan’s case, he’d taken all that to a whole other level. Maybe he was full of himself—he was good-looking. And not that this was any of my business, but I couldn’t understand how his and Ashley’s relationship worked.
I affected intense interest in my phone while picturing him coming home with his permanently impassive expression and a terse, “Dinner.” Or was it a loaded, “Dinner?” Then sitting straight as a board, chewing his steak, stolid and mute, while Ashley tried to ask him about his day.
The agent next to Evan, who he’d introduced as Damien Buitron, his ex-Navy buddy, raised a glass with a lazy white smile. “¡Arriba, abajo, al centro, pa' dentro!” He lowered his drink, then brought it to the center. “You are never above me, never below me, never away from me, and always with me.”
With effort, I kept my eyebrows from rising. His fluent Spanish, laced with a faint South American accent, clashed with his all-American, Midwestern looks. Yet for some inexplicable reason, the contradiction pulled me in. Maybe it was his smile—unhurried and disarming—like it wasn’t meant to win anyone over, but did anyway.
Ryan, still and unblinking, brought his glass to his lips. “Sláinte an bhradáin chugat, bod mór agus bás in Éirinn,” he muttered, inaudible to anyone but me, and possibly Jason, at his right.
I flicked him a sidelong glance, but he ignored me. This popular drinking toast wished upon a man the health of a salmon, a large penis, and a death in Ireland. But that wasn’t why I dipped my head to hide my frown. For one, Ryan never spoke Irish outside our infrequent liminal experiences. Stranger still, his grim tone sounded entirely at odds with the lighthearted sentiment.
Damien spread his arms with an easy chuckle. “My dad is Colombian—” His left eye made a sudden, violent twitch. Inexplicably, it made my stomach clench. “Use it or lose it, right?”
Emma rubbed her forefinger against her bottom lip. “Were you born there?”
“Nah, born and raised right here, in Dade County. Dad met mom—a blonde from Iowa—” he gave a derisive shrug, pointing to his fair locks—“while she was vacationing with her girlfriends in Ft. Lauderdale. She never went back.”
The waitress approached with the second round of drinks, gawking at the sight of four real-life GI Joes. Damien murmured something in Spanish, and she giggled and blew him a kiss.
I risked a glance at Ryan. His stony expression surpassed Evan’s. What grudge did he hold against Damien? Maybe it was the man’s twitchy eye that wouldn’t stop now that it’d started. It was disconcerting, this involuntary, rhythmic quiver of an upper eyelid, completely out of sync with his speech and movements, as if betraying a secret he didn’t wish revealed.
“Evan speaks highly of you.” Ryan shifted his gaze to Damien, his words taut and clipped. “Afghanistan?”
I bit my lip, feeling very small. It was probably an injury sustained in combat.
Damien fixed Ryan with a long, fluttering stare, followed by one of his effortless grins. “Yeah—” he winked at Evan—“that was something, huh, buddy? You?”
Ryan leaned back in his chair. “Why the DEA, Damien?”
The man gave another shrug, his eye twitching like crazy. “Bro, I live in Miami. Being ex-military, it’s either that or fixing household appliances.” He snorted. “I’m not ready to fix household appliances.”
***
The restaurant was a stone throw away from our Brickell apartment, but it seemed farther as Ryan and I walked side by side in dead silence.
“Is it his eye?” I ventured.
“Hm?” Ryan circled his arm around me, pulling me close. “No.”
I slid my hand into his jeans’ back pocket. “I thought he’s nice…otherwise. Personable, I mean.”
Ryan didn’t reply.
I slowed my pace. “What?”
“I wonder if he’s hiding something…uh—” Ryan scrubbed a hand over his face. “I mean…if he has other skills he hasn’t told us about.”
I came to a full stop, cold all over despite the unrelenting heat. “But he was with Evan in Afghanistan—”
“Hey, I’m not worried.” Ryan scratched the back of his neck. “He’s been vetted through and through and has the exact skill set we need.”
Above us, the waxing crescent shone like a bright jewel among an ocean of stars, throwing Ryan’s tight jaw into a sharp relief.
“I see.” I forced down a familiar urge to beg him to quit this case. “Just how big is this drug trafficking operation?”
We reached the lobby of our high rise, but instead of going in, he gathered me into a hug so tight I gasped. “I love you,” he whispered against my lips. “I love you so much, Sie.”
I drew back, a vise tightening in my chest, stealing all the air from my lungs. “Ryan—”
“Let’s get you upstairs, beautiful.” He took my hand with a twinkle in his eye; it clashed with his stiff shoulders and razor-edged jaw.
The babysitter paid and discharged, I walked out onto our spacious balcony. My mind heavy and dull, I watched the stars and the lights sparkle in the Biscayne Bay. Odd how the logical part of me admired the city’s unfolding beauty while something primal inside urged me to pack our bags and run as far away from it as possible.
“Stunning.” Ryan came up behind and pulled me close.
“Yeah.” I unclenched my jaw and leaned back against his warm, solid bulk. “But it’s not home.”
“You’re stunning.” He lifted my hair and pressed his lips to my neck, his hand sliding up my thigh beneath the smooth fabric of my charmeuse dress.
I drew in my breath. “Let’s go inside.”
“No.” His fingertips found their target.
Eyes wide, I gripped the warm metal rail, trying not to look down. “What if someone sees us!”
“The lights are off.” His hand had gone, followed by the soft whoosh of a zipper sliding down. “So it’s unlikely.”
“But feasible,” I breathed as he grabbed my hips.
“It’s not home, so who cares.”
His all-consuming yearning for me was home. His steady hand in my hair was home. His sweet breath at my neck was home. I held onto the rail, biting my lip to keep from screaming as his clip accelerated in perfect sync with his skillful fingers.
We remained there for a while, catching our breaths. Then he scooped me up and carried me to an oversized lounge chair. “I’m addicted to you,” he murmured into the top of my head, sinking down into the soft cushions. “The more I get, the more I want.”
I buried my nose in his chest, inhaling his head-spinning scent. “That was really hot, baby.”
Guinness stepped onto the balcony with a low grumble, then settled at our feet, ears perked up. He hadn’t taken well to this move and now lived in a permanent state of unease.
“I’m sorry this isn’t home.” Ryan tucked an errant strand behind my ear. “Do you want to fly to D.C. for a few days? To visit?”
“No.” I drew a small spiral against his scruff, my words emerging before the thought had fully formed. “I want a little girl.”
My finger wound up between his grinning lips. “It’s about time.”
I pulled back. “I think I’ll get off the pill.”
“You do that, love.”
I cleared my throat, searching for the right words, but my mind refused to cooperate.
“This apartment isn’t going to work,” I squeezed out. “And neither is this constant moving.”
Guinness gave a low growl, and Ryan scratched behind his ears. His smile faded as he stared off into the night. “This case shouldn’t take too long. Then, we’ll see.”
A sudden breeze sent a shiver down my spine. The stars dimmed and vanished behind the heavy rain clouds. And in place of the moon glowed a tattered circle of eldritch light filled with sinister black and blue shapes.
_______
Chapter Four
And Naught Would Thwart Me
Neave, June 8, 1566, Ulster, Ireland
I closed my eyes in bliss, sinking into the soothing warmth of my bathing tub. Behind me, Betha brushed out my hair in her calm, gentle manner, humming under her breath. After four days of ceaseless bargaining with Ragnall, his officers’ dispassionate faces, and whiskey that made my eyes water, coming home was akin to having ascended to heaven.
Alma’s children and Ronan had taken me away from the negotiations table, so I didn’t yet know the outcome. But things must have not gone to plan, for Aedan had left the Antrim coast in a foul temper. Only when the Benburb walls appeared in the distance had his expression lightened at last.
The door hinges creaked as I drifted into a sweet, carefree slumber for the first time in days.
Betha’s hand came to a halt mid-brush.
“You may take your leave, Betha.” My shameless husband approached the tub.
“M’lord.” She scurried to the door, cheeks flushed and head bent low.
“Poor Betha.” Aedan gave a soft chuckle, unfolding a drying sheet. “And she doesn’t know half of it.”
I pursed my lips, staring at his white léine that concealed little of his state. “I wager she knows more than you credit.”
“She has no notion what I’ve in mind for you.” His lifted brow clashed with his unblinking eyes and rigid jaw.
“And neither have you. Rise, a mhuirnín.”
I stood, after a silence, with a resonating splash, water dripping down my body in long rivulets, heart thumping a loud, steady drumbeat. “What do you have in mind for me, my Aedan?”
He gave me a crooked smile. “Something exceedingly untoward and thoroughly disgraceful.”
When I didn’t reply, he walked round the tub, gathered my drenched elflocks into the linen sheet, and took his time to blot them dry. He didn’t bother with the rest of me as he plaited my hair into a single braid, his hands so near, I felt their warmth.
Finished, he sauntered over to the chest that contained the multitude of colorful strings and ribbons Betha used to dress my hair.
“Hm...” He turned as I stood in the tub, dripping wet and covered with gooseflesh. “White or maroon?” His burning gaze lingered on my breasts, grazed my abdomen, traveled lower. “Or saffron mayhap?”
I shivered, not with cold. The cool air on my skin was like a foretaste of an exquisite meal. A savory delight to be served at the time of the server’s choosing.
“Maroon,” I breathed.
He returned to the selection and studied it for a short eternity. “Blue, I think.”
After removing a generous length of dyed silk Betha hadn’t yet trimmed into ribbons, he approached my tub.
I gasped as he covered my eyes with the cloth and tied it behind my head.
“Cold?” His lips brushed mine, then were gone.
I pulled in my breath, the mounting heat inside obliterating all else.
His steps receded, then he was back with a fresh sheet, drying my neck, along my sides, between my breasts. Leaving parts of me damp and untouched.
The heat ignited into a roaring flame that surged into my every corner. I thrust out my arms, groping in the darkness. My fingertips grazed his shoulders.
He seized my wrists and placed them at my sides. “There is quite a bit of drying yet to be done, a rún.”
My chest rose and fell; my breath came forth loud and uneven as he dried each part of me with meticulousness that rivaled the most thorough of the waiting-women. The flame inside me blazed like a forge. Only another moment now.
“What I’ve a mind is to have you stand in this tub for longer.” His sweet breath skimmed my neck. “Much longer. While I watch.”
I parted my lips, but nothing emerged aside from a faint, “Watch…?”
His steps diminished, fading with each retreating stride. “Might pleasure myself as I do.”
I burned as if with fever, tingling and aching, shivering and gasping for words. “Aedan.” His name spilled forth as a half-demand, half-plea.
“I do not believe I shall let you see. I said it would be untoward.”
I set my hands on my hips, trying and failing not to bite my lip. It was too much, not enough. It was always so with him.
He came back, his mouth at my breasts, hand stroking my backside. Then, he was gone again.
The fever filled my bones, my life’s blood, my soul. I pushed it down with all my might, but it only burned brighter.
“I’ve a mind to remove my blindfold.” I lifted my trembling hand to the back of my head. “So I can watch.”
“Seems to me you’re itching for a chastisement.”
My body pulsed and ached. My mind emptied of every thought. My need swelled into the bathing chamber and burst through the walls and the ceiling. “M’lord...”
“My Neave?”
“If it please m’lord…”
His voice deepened. “Rather unladylike to beg a man so.”
“Aedan…” The word was more a gasp than a sound. I reached out into the darkness, but he beat me to it.
He lifted me out of the tub, carried me a few strides, laid me down on the settee. The linen sheet skimmed my feet; his fingertips followed in its wake, dancing across my soles. Too gentle, too light. My body flailed, recoiling from the tickle, arching toward it, trapped between a moan and a giggle. I wished for it to stop; I never wanted it to end. “Please…” Another moment, and I’d take leave of my senses.
“I said it would be disgraceful.” His steady fingers dried my heels, insteps, between my toes, stroking and kneading places I didn’t know existed.
I was plunging, blind, into a pulsating, beckoning void. Only another moment of this sweet yearning. Only another touch before he was mine again.
His hair brushed my ankle. “I don’t believe I’ve ever told you how pretty your wee feet are.” He pressed soft kisses to the top of my foot. Trailed them down. His lips closed on my toes. The firmness of his mouth, the heat of his breath. My body seemed to levitate above the bed as I trembled and writhed, hovering in some new, unmapped heaven. My stunned mind regarded me as if from elsewhere. And you thought he’d done it all!
“Aedan… this…”
How could he send me to the brink of madness with naught but his mouth upon my foot! His unending taunting and teasing consumed me, yet it scarcely touched the surface. My body curled in on itself, pitched toward him, craving resolution, demanding union.
“I’ll have you find pleasure in this alone, my Neave,” he murmured, switching to my other foot. “As long as it takes… Give yourself over.”
I dug my hands into the silky sheepskin underneath and threw my head back, all sense leaving me in a single tide. My moans and whimpers rang in the small bathing chamber and no doubt reverberated outside, but only death could halt me now.
Slowly, I returned to myself, my breathing as tremulous as my befuddled thoughts.
Aedan didn’t remove my blindfold. “By the heavens, I’m drunk senseless on you, my Neave.” His voice came forth rugged and husky as he pulled himself up. “Worshiping at your lovely feet as I do.”
I licked my lips, parched and tingling. “How’s it you’d never…” But that wasn’t the question that suddenly plagued me in pace with returning reason. “Have you done this… have you—?”
He lowered himself, hovering above, his mouth at my neck, collarbone, breasts. “I haven’t, my Neave…” His powerful thrusts sent me into a new unceasing spin, overflowing with stars and the sound of his voice breathing my name. “I never loved before, my Neave… I love you, my Neave… always and forever… and naught would thwart me… never forget it, my Neave.”
Later, as we lay in our bed—my head tucked into his shoulder, his arms circled round me—his words echoed in my mind, ill-timed and disquieting. How strange it was for him to speak of such somber things while finding pleasure.
“How I wish to be Niamh of the Golden Hair, and Fionna—the magical Aonbharr,” I murmured more to myself than to him, “to carry you to the safety of Tír na nÓg.”
He chuckled. “So I would succumb to utter madness and leave a goddess, only to perish three years thence as a decrepit old man?”
I buried my nose in his smooth, firm skin, trying to envisage him as a man in his elder days: his face still beautiful but lined with age, hair thick but sparkling with silver, shoulders broad but mayhap a bit stooped. My noble Aedan—a living legend, a wise king.
But it was his brother Kian I saw in my thoughts, his eyes sightless and dull. I pushed the image away and reached into the depth of my soul. Now, I saw myself as a woman weathered by years: face wrinkled like a parchment, hair white with age as was the way of my father’s people, hands thin and spotted. I, an old woman, sought my Aedan, an old man, but he wasn’t there.
My heart squeezed and eyes burned as I wrestled with my mind to show him to me with all the indignities of the advanced years, for I wanted them all—every last one. But it pushed back and showed nothing.
“Let us leave here, a chroí,” I whispered, slipping into the most terrifying abyss of all. “Let us ride south and raise cattle there. Let us leave here, my Aedan.”
He pressed a hand to my forehead, then propped himself up to peer at me. “I’d no notion sucking your wee toes would cause you to take leave of your senses, a rúnsearc. No need to travel far. I’ll do it here every night if you fancy it so.”
I wished I could strike at my daft mind. Show him to me, curse you. Old, blind, bent, deranged, taking his last rites on his death bed. Do your worst. Only show him.
But there was nothing. Only darkness.
“Wouldn’t you wish…wish to go to the New World?” My words emerged in a trembling sob, my body closing in on itself. “It could be…our Tír na nÓg, a chroí. Let us sail there, my Aedan. Let us leave here.”
He sat up, eyes wide with alarm. “By the heavens, is it my doing? Shall I send for the healer? You’re so small and fragile. Did I make you ill with all that revelry, my Neave?”
I stopped my unraveling. Fool! How could I have hoped to see him as an old man—him, the Prince of Ulster, the O’Neal, the More-Than-a-Man? He was to be worshipped, not envisaged as a mere mortal.
“Your revelry is my very life.” I steadied my thumping heart, stilled my racing thoughts. “A foolish waking dream. An ill-timed fancy. Forgive me for worrying you, my Aedan.”
I clasped his hand. “Now tell me, what furrowed your brow so at Dunluce Castle?”
“You’re my very life, but it’s growing late.” He stroked my cheek. “Best we sleep now.”
***
He appeared uncommonly somber upon awakening, mouth tight and downturned, eyes dark with shadows.
I pressed my lips to his. “What troubles you, my Aedan?”
He pulled back and searched my face, a small groove etched between his brows. “Did you sleep well, my Neave?”
“I did.” I smoothed his frown with my fingertip. “But you didn’t.”
He gathered me in and held me tight. “Come to the council hall after breakfast, for I am in no mood for idle talk.”
Without waiting for my reply, he rose and called for his manservant.
At the council hall, I took my seat beside him and schooled my racing mind to remain in the present. Although larger than that at Eden-Duff-Carrick, the two were alike. A great table with chairs and benches stood in the middle, and a map of Ireland lay sprawled across its top. A thick black line snaked round Ulster and parts of the Pale, encircling the breadth of Aedan’s territories—from Sligo to Carrickfergus, from Carlingford to Drogheda.
He stood as everyone settled down, brow furrowed and eyes hard as stone and gray as lead.
“Five thousand pounds for a measly force of five hundred men! Does Ragnall presume to hold the advantage? I’ll take his five hundred and the remainder, too—at my pleasure. And will have him pay the fealty he owes me, withal.” He tightened his jaw, his words bouncing off the walls like the beat of the bodhrán. “Did he forget I am the O’Neal? All my ancestors were the High Kings of Ulster, and am I not of their lineage? By the heavens, Ulster is mine, and mine alone. By my sword I won it, and by my sword I will keep it!”
A thrum of approval filled the air, mingling with Aedan’s booming voice.
“I am coming for them all—O’Donnell, the English, and the blasted Scots.” He struck the table with his large fist, sending the cups scattering. “Too long I’ve suffered their insolent presence in my Antrim.”
Cheers and shouts rose to the ceiling beams, piercing my eardrums.
I dug my fingernails into my palms, gasping for air, then, stomach churning, I stood. “What of the bounty?”
Aedan whirled to me, lips pressed into a tight line. “Lady Neave.”
“And what of Lady Alma and the children!”
Heart racing, I met his stare. It was neither wise nor proper to question my king so—not before his men. But the words escaped before I could stop them.
“My own sister and nephews, is it?”
No longer did my Aedan wear the sweet face of my lover. His gaze waxed cold and still—of a warrior bent on annihilation and triumph. His jaw appeared to be carved from stone—a commander ushering in his bloody victory.
“D’you fancy they’ll come to harm at my hand, m’lady?” He folded his arms, eyes shooting daggers. “Ragnall shall face a choice now. Go back to Scotland or remain here, in my domain, and bend the knee to his rightful king. He spurns my good will and policy at his peril. My force is the largest and the strongest it’s ever been. I do not lose battles as well he knows!”
I listened in a daze as the men mapped out the strategy and set the timeline for the war with the MacDonnells. They’d commence the campaign in two months’ time. Their purpose was to drive the Scots out of Antrim unless they submitted to the O’Neal.
“This is madness,” I said, but none seemed to hear, drunk as they were with the foretaste of their blood sport.
Arms stiff at my sides and hands clenched into fists, I left the table as Aedan spoke of launching the attack with three hundred harquebuses.
He neither looked in my direction, nor tried to halt me as I marched from the council hall.
_______
Chapter Five
The Flight of the Earls
Siena, July 24-26, 2013, Miami, FL
Austin loved his little swing at the playground. His eyes sparkled, silky hair flapped in the breeze, and little legs pumped with vigor as Ryan and I pushed the swing toward each other.
“More, dada!” Austin burst into laughter as Ryan gave the swing a bit of muscle.
I forced a smile, struggling to stay in the present.
After discovering my strange ability to astral travel, I promised myself to never search up the past on the internet. And if not for the stupid eagle, I may have kept it. But I’d seen one plummet from the sky like a rock when driving Austin to his well-child appointment a few days ago. Was it narrowing in on its prey or—the thought had made me sick to my stomach—plunging to its death?
After returning home, I couldn’t get on my computer fast enough. There was no obvious correlation between eagles falling from the sky and my desire to learn more about the past. So I couldn’t understand why I typed “16th century Ulster” into the search engine as fast as my fingers allowed.
I clicked the first link, “Plantation of Ulster.”
A devastating, bloody rebellion by the Gaelic chieftains of Tyrone against the English, known as the Nine Years War, ended with a decisive victory by the crown. The old Gaelic cultural and political system came to an end when the chieftains of the leading clans of Ulster, including the O’Neals and the O’Donnells, along with over ninety followers, fled Ireland to escape organized colonization of Ulster by the Great Britain. Their permanent exile, known as the Flight of the Earls, was a watershed event in Irish history as it resulted in the forfeiture of their lands and titles.
I sat very still, heartbeat thrashing in my ears, the room swaying like a ship deck.
After a brief stop in Normandy, the clans proceeded to the Spanish Netherlands until reaching their final destination, Italy. The Pope, with the financial support of Philip of Spain, provided them with living arrangements…
I dug my fingernails into my palms—I needed to stop reading. But I couldn’t look away. A deathly chill pierced me to the core and filled my veins with ice as I continued against my better judgement.
It was a short piece. Informative. Factual. Indifferent.
Finished, I closed the window and dropped my head into my hands, forcing my thoughts back to the beginning of the article, so I wouldn’t have to think of the end.
Italy. Is that why I’m not Irish in this life? Unseeing, I’d raised my head—but Ryan is.
I drew a shuddering breath, then another. It didn’t matter—none of it. I didn’t need to read that stupid article. Even if one knew nothing about Irish history, the mere fact that Northern Ireland existed as part of the UK said it all.
“Hey—” Ryan pushed the swing back to me. “What’s with the long face?”
I shook my head, catching Guinness’ confused expression behind the playground fence. The poor thing never understood why he wasn’t allowed inside with his family. And why young mothers with small children gasped at the sight of him while I did my best to assure them this big, bad-looking wolf was friendly as long as no one bothered him.
Ryan walked around the structure and lifted my chin with his fingertip. “C’mon.”
“I’m not sure you want to hear this,” I mumbled.
He stared into my eyes. “Pretty sure I do.”
Austin twisted around. “Poosh, mama!”
“I’d…looked up the past.” I gave the swing a nudge. “I never do. I wish I hadn’t.”
Ryan frowned. “I wish you hadn’t either. We’ve got to let it go.”
“Mama, poosh!”
I suppressed a bitter scoff as Ryan took over the swing-pushing duty. “It’s not up to me. I mean, the visions won’t leave me alone. It’s as if something is still left undone.”
“All right.” Ryan blew out a weary breath. “What did you read?”
I swallowed hard. “It was about this nine-year war and this Flight of the Earls…the last of the Gaelic Irish nobility forced into exile by the English…” I bit back tears. “The O’Neals were among them…”
“Exile?” Ryan drew back. “Heck, no. I—he—would have rather—” Abruptly, he pushed the swing.
I stopped breathing.
He turned to face me. “Are you sure it’s accurate? There is a lot of crap on the internet—”
“I’m sure,” I choked out.
With a long sigh, he tipped back his head. “C’mon, love, don’t read this stuff.” He pulled me close. “We can guess how it ends. Please let it go for my sake if you can’t for yours.”
But I couldn’t.
“I just thought…you know, do you ever dream of anything like that? Like Italy—?” My voice cracked. “Do you ever have recurring dreams besides that old vortex one?”
Ryan extended one arm to push the swing, keeping the other circled tight around me. “No, I’ve never once dreamed of Italy.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “But I suppose I do have a recurring dream—of sorts. I’ve had it a time or two.”
My breath hitched. “You have?”
“Yeah. But it’s nothing like what you’ve read. I dream I’m on horseback—” His eyes widened. “Whoa. It’s him riding, not me. Sie—” His face lit up. “That gorgeous redhead riding beside—”
My stomach squeezed with pain that was palpable.
“Hey, it’s not a bad dream—not exactly, I don’t think.” Ryan looked away. “We’re just riding somewhere, no big deal, and there are people with us—friends. And I’m really set and bound to go somewhere, to get something done, and it’s a nice day, sunny and warm. But I guess something is a little off. There are suddenly these crows overhead, cawing, then this huge eagle plummets like a rock into the hillside—”
A sharp stab of ice pierced my chest and spread into every corner.
Ryan’s gaze lingered, unseeing, on the turquoise ocean waves lapping onto the sandy shore.
“Then my horse gets spooked, rears, almost throws me, and just overall, something doesn’t feel right. Like a sense of wrongness. But I also know it’s all nonsense, and I can already see my destination.”
“What happens next?” I breathed, slipping into the most terrifying abyss of all.
“Nothing. I always wake up at that moment.” He frowned. “Hey, nothing happens. C’mon, love. I hate how this stuff keeps coming back to upset you. Can we just live our lives?”
I hid my face in his chest, my voice too faint for him to hear. “I ask this myself every day.”
***
At our Friday dinner in Midtown, Ashley cast one look at Damien’s date and eyed me with a silent “whoa.”
The seven of us went out a handful of times, but until now, Damien had always shown up alone. A small part of me—one I wasn’t proud of—wished he’d kept it that way. The girl was drop-dead gorgeous—wavy strands, huge dark eyes, mile-long bronze legs. She tossed her oversized designer bag on the floor and sank gracefully onto the chair, ignoring her boobs spilling out of her low V-neck.
“This is Lola.” Damien beamed. “She speaks English, Spanish, Portuguese, and German! And her older sister is a model in Brazil.”
Ashely shrugged good-naturedly. “Welcome to the club, Lola. I’m a younger sibling, too.”
“That makes three of us!” Damien flashed Ashley a smile that may have been warm if his eye didn’t twitch at that very moment. “Always the weaker one, so you learn to best them with your sense of humor, right?”
“I did more than that.” Ashley peered at Ryan with a raised brow that suddenly brought out the familial resemblance.
“Ash—” Ryan shook his head. “For heaven’s sake.”
Damien laughed, his eyelid going wild. “Wait, wait! Let me guess. You messed with his stuff.”
Ryan contemplated the man with pursed lips. “Is there some mandatory training all younger siblings are made to attend?”
I took a sip of wine. “Wouldn’t surprise me. My little sister was an expert.”
“Ah!” Damien held up his hand as he upended his drink. “You should meet my older brother, Siena—to exchange war stories.”
Lola waved her gold-laden wrist with a pretty laugh. “I eh…too eh…sister.”
“Lucky for all of you,” said Emma. “I’m an only child, and it sucks.” She kept her gaze trained on Damien. “Do you have cousins?”
“A ton!” He took a water refill from the waiter. “How about you?”
Emma brought a forefinger to her mouth. “Are they all in Columbia?”
Damien whirled to Jason with rounded eyes. “Is your wife psychic?”
“Nah,” said Jason, straightening. “A lucky guess.”
The six of us sat in awkward silence when the apologetic Damien and the smiling Lola left before dessert, his hand on her waist, her hips swaying to the unhurried tempo of her designer stilettos.
No one ever talked about Emma’s gifts, even if most of us knew about them.
“She isn’t cheap.” My friend glanced around the table. “I can tell you that much.”
Jason frowned at her, and it seemed to have been to stop her from saying more rather than in disagreement.
Ryan stared at Emma, unblinking. “He wouldn’t do that…out in the open, Emma.”
Evan gave an impatient shake of his head. “He wouldn’t do that, period.”
I caught a glimpse of the smirking Ashley when the waiter came to ask how we liked our jelly donuts.
“A little ironic if she’s trafficked,” said Emma, fixing Ryan with a frosty glare.
Evan pulled in a loud breath. “She’s not.”
I raised my eyebrows at my friend. “You think she’s a…prostitute?”
“No.” Ryan cut in before Emma could answer, his eyebrows knitted. “No one is that stupid. Anyway, we haven’t come here to talk shop.”
Emma squared her shoulders. “I never said he was stupid.”
Lips pinched, Ryan peered at her for a long moment. “Can we drop this. He’s not paying her.”
An understanding flickered across Emma’s face as she forced a smile, but her eyes remained too bright for unaffected indifference. “No, you’re right.” She waved an overly careless hand. “That wouldn’t make any sense.”
I grabbed my water. “Since when are you such an expert in Miami prostitution?” I turned to Ryan, ignoring Emma’s heavy sigh.
“Since he’s here to investigate it, among other things,” said Evan, receiving a look of death from Ryan.
Fantastic. I drank my water to hide my frown. Drug cartels, trafficked women, what else?
“What?” Evan crossed his arms with a glance at Ryan. “That’s common knowledge.”
The conversation fizzled out, and soon our dinner came to an end.
It was well past Austin’s bedtime when we came home to find the babysitter half-asleep and our toddler wide awake amidst a giant explosion of toys. After dismissing the girl, I tried settling him into bed. But as in the past few days, he wanted nothing to do with me or his little bed, choosing instead to curl up with Ryan on the couch. I couldn’t exactly blame him since his daddy let him get away with everything—from climbing him like a monkey to shoving fingers up his nose.
“I don’t need to be sheltered.” I knelt amid the jumble of bright plastic. “It only makes it worse.”
Ryan kissed the top of Austin’s head. “Duly noted.”
“So, what do you really think of Damien?” I put away three monster trucks.
Ryan shrugged. “He’s fine.”
“You know, despite all that shielding, I happen to know Emma doesn’t much care for him.” I gathered the pieces of the emergency-vehicles puzzle and started reassembling it.
“Okay.” Ryan pursed his lips. “And?”
“She says his aura is off.”
“He’s a single guy, give him a break.” Ryan lowered his voice as Austin gave a wide yawn and buried his chubby face in his father’s chest. “Anyway, all that matters is that he does what he’s been hired to do.”
I stood. “And what’s that, exactly?”
Austin made a low wail and raised his head.
“Shh—” Ryan tucked him back into his chest. “Go to sleep, buddy.”
“No!” Austin squirmed, trying to wrench free. “No, Dada, no!”
A strange shiver ran through me, but I pushed it down and reached to take my screaming child.
“Dada!” He dug his little hands into Ryan’s shirt. “Dada, no! No!”
It took a full hour to put Austin to bed while he kept holding onto Ryan for dear life while screaming, “No!”
When he finally fell asleep, Ryan—deep frown and compressed lips—checked the camera recording, muttering something about needing to fire the babysitter. But the camera didn’t show anything alarming—only Austin playing with his monster trucks and puzzles, eating his dinner, and listening to a story.
Now, Ryan slept beside me, taking up most of the bed, as per usual. But I could tell by the familiar faint shimmer in the air there would be no sleep for me this night.
_______
Chapter Six
With or Without Your Blessing
Neave, August 2, 1566, Ulster, Ireland
I sat in my chair before the hearth, Aedan Og sleeping in my arms, wee Aine cooing at my feet to her poppet of wood, wool, and a bit of dyed blue silk. It seemed I lost my eldest child to the beast of strife and war that once again consumed his father. Save for the rare evenings when the five of us gathered in our chamber, Ronan no longer cared for my company or that of his small siblings. For he was the O’Neal’s firstborn, and his place was in the council hall, at his father’s side.
Between Aedan’s unspoken sanctioning of our son’s valorous urges and Ronan’s considerable obduracy, my protests had proven as effective as a mosquito bite. Therefore, the council hall was where the two of them, along with all Aedan’s men, spent the last two months. Come fire or famine, the O’Neal would answer the MacDonnells’ slight by bringing the Scots of Antrim to heel, and no earthly power could stop him.
Last night, when I tried to talk sense with him before this very hearth, he furrowed his brow and stared into the dying flames, still and mute as a statue.
“Falsehoods.” The word had slipped from my lips as his long-ago proclamation raced through my mind. “You told me lovely falsehoods when you said peace was your heart’s truest wish.” I lifted my chin. “It is war you hanker for, my Aedan. It is bloodshed you crave.”
“Those are fighting words, my Neave.” He regarded me, voice low and gruff. “Is it a quarrel you desire?”
I squared my shoulders and stood. “I desire peace and safety for our children, as any mother.” My lips trembled despite myself. “And for their father to live!”
He rose with a sharp intake of breath, towering over me. “But I’m not a mere father, am I? I’m a king and a chieftain. By the heavens, my Neave, when will you come to terms with it?”
I looked away, biting my lip. Never, most like.
“You knew the man you wed, a rún. Do not hold it over my head now.” He heaved a sigh and gathered me into his arms. “Ragnall’s ‘offer’ is a flagrant challenge. D’you think the Scots would remain a willing ally if I let it go unanswered? They will rightly see it for a weakness, and we won’t have the peace and safety you so fervently wish for.” He softened his voice. “In this broken world, war is the currency of peace, my Neave.”
I raised my head, a hollow ache spreading in my stomach. He was peering at me with a pained expression I never wished to see again.
“I cannot live in a world that doesn’t have you, broken or whole,” I breathed. “I cannot do it, my Aedan—”
He set his lips on mine. “The Scots are not a threat, a mhuirnín. It will be a swift battle and a victorious one, then Antrim will be mine, and we’ll have peace.” His kiss landed hard and heavy.
I pulled away. In the hearth, the flames had died, the logs were crumbling to ash.
“What makes you think Ragnall would not begrudge such peace? How can you be so sure he’d not retaliate?”
“I would that you didn’t fret over strategy and let me rule as I see fit.” He shook his head with a resigned sigh. “Ragnall must make a choice now. Mind, Mary Stuart bore a son, James VI, and there’s talk of baptizing him Protestant against his mother’s wishes.” He’d lifted a brow. “So, Ragnall must cast his lot—either with me, or with Scotland. I’d rather know now where his loyalties lie. Either way, it will be a swift surrender. Do not fret, a rún.”
Aedan Og stirred in his sleep, pulling me back to the present. True enough, a chieftain’s strategy was his affair alone. Yet I still had my beautiful babe with his chestnut hair and guileless blue eyes. And my gentle daughter.
She twisted her bright head at a soft knock outside.
“Come in,” I said.
The door opened, revealing Kian with a knitted brow and a hard jaw.
“Kian! Kian!” Wee Aine squealed, rushing to him.
Face softening a fraction, Aedan’s brother picked her up and settled her on his hip.
“A word, Lady Neave.” He remained at the threshold, my daughter in his arms. “It’ll not take long.”
Chest weighted as if with lead, I glanced down at the sleeping Aedan Og. Kian’s appearance at my chamber door was most unusual.
“You may enter—if you leave the door ajar.”
Kian marched in at a soldier’s clip, halting a pace away. “Aedan is still in the council hall with the others.”
Wee Aine ran her fingers through her uncle’s fair locks, eyes wide with fascination.
“He doesn’t know I am here, m’lady.” He petted her head. “But I must beg you, with respect, to cease your censure of his strategy.”
An angry flash of heat rose from my neck to my face. “You quite overstep your bounds, Lord Kian.”
He examined the floor as Aine placed her head on his shoulder with a beatific sigh.
“Begging your forgiveness, you hold much sway over him, it is known. But you must use it wisely, m’lady, for he will battle with the Scots with or without your blessing. But he could make a blunder with your…displeasure weighing him down as it does. I know my brother well.” He held my gaze, unyielding as stone. “He is distracted by whatever has taken place here, and—” he reddened—“not in a good way.”
“A blunder?” I swallowed, cold all over.
Kian nodded. “Apologies for upsetting you, m’lady, but on the battlefield, these are matters of life and death.”
“But—” I dug my fingernails into my palms. “He’ll take care and emerge victorious if I’m well pleased with his warfare and bloodshed?”
“There’ll be little bloodshed if he can think clearly. The O’Neal doesn’t lose battles—” He put Aine down and turned to leave. “Save for those in his bedchamber.”
Darkness had fallen when Siobhan came to take the children to their beds. I sat in my chair, watching the flames, eyes burning and heart thudding. Kian’s resolve frightened me. Aedan must not have been himself for his brother to find the courage to speak to me so.
I dropped my head into my trembling hands, my body closing in on itself. Kian was asking for the impossible. For I would never give my blessing to the O’Neal’s plunder and slaughter. For I could never sanction his imperilment. For I’d been right to fret and doubt when I arrived at Eden-Duff-Carrick seven years past. A blushing bride, an uncertain girl. I wasn’t cut out to be a king’s consort—a warlord’s wife.
And for my ineptitude, my beloved might err with deadly consequence.