Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
C ool, sharp air carried the tang of salt and the earthy dampness of the Irish countryside as the search party set out from Donnellan Castle. The group pressed onward, their horses’ hooves pounding rhythmically against the packed earthen road that wound its way around the edges of Kenmare Bay. Overhead, the moon hung bright and commanding, its pale light casting long, eerie shadows across the landscape.
Grace couldn’t help but think of those times aboard The Selkie , how the stars had seemed brighter, closer somehow, as if she could reach up and touch them. The ship had been a place of strange magic—her quiet conversations with Carew, the moments when his gaze had softened, and she had glimpsed something warmer beneath his practised exterior. Those memories seemed so far away now, almost as if they belonged to another lifetime.
Tonight, however, the world felt stark and unforgiving. The rugged beauty of the land, with its wild cliffs and shadowed glens, offered no solace. Every mile they covered brought them closer to Corlach Keep, and closer to what unknown awaited them there.
Grace found herself riding alongside Carew, though he seemed distant, his attention fixed resolutely ahead. His shoulders were stiff, his jaw tight, and the camaraderie they had shared on the ship was absent. She wanted to say something, to erase his worries and bring back the ease that had grown between them on the ship, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she rode in silence, her thoughts churning as the moonlit road stretched endlessly before them.
Finally, she mustered the courage to break the silence. “What will you do if Maeve does not want to come back?” she asked, her voice tentative but steady.
Carew’s head turned slightly, though he didn’t look at her directly. For a moment, he didn’t respond, the tension in his profile stark in the pale light. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and measured. “Then she does not understand what she has chosen, and will be made to see in time.”
His reply unsettled her. “Supposing she believes she loves him?” Grace pressed gently. “She may think she is doing the right thing.”
Carew’s jaw tightened further, his tone hardening. “I am certain she believes it, else she would not have gone off with him, but that doesn’t make it true. Flynn is not capable of love—not the kind that Maeve deserves. He uses people, manipulates them to serve his own ends. I will not allow her to be one of his pawns.”
She already is , Grace thought with a frown, her chest tightening with the weight of his words. She had no love for Flynn, that much was certain, but she could not dismiss the possibility that Maeve might have genuine feelings for the man, however misguided. The thought of Maeve’s heartbreak, should those feelings be torn apart, would create a divide that would be difficult to repair again. “But if she resists…” Grace began, only for Carew to cut her off.
“Then I will convince her,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “Whatever it takes, I will bring her back.”
The finality in his voice left little room for discussion, and Grace fell silent, her gaze drifting to the landscape around them. The moonlit hills and valleys seemed vast and indifferent, their beauty tinged with an ominous sense of foreboding. She shivered slightly, though only partly from the chill night.
Behind her, she could hear the murmur of conversation between the others. Joy’s voice, lyrical but determined, carried over the steady rhythm of the horses’ hooves, occasionally arguing good-naturedly with Freddy. Patience and Ashley rode close together, their silhouettes a picture of quiet strength and unity.
As the hours dragged on, her body began to ache from the unrelenting pace, but she refused to complain. The urgency of their mission left no room for weakness. The moon had climbed higher in the sky, its light growing colder and more distant, when they finally crested a hill that offered a sweeping view of Kenmare Bay.
The bay glittered like molten silver, its surface rippling gently under the moonlight. The land around it was wild and untamed, dotted with the dark shapes of trees and the occasional flicker of a distant lantern. In the distance, perched on the edge of a rugged promontory, was Flynn’s own medieval castle—a forbidding silhouette against the night sky.
“There it is,” Carew said grimly, his voice cutting through the quiet. He reined in his horse, the others following suit, as he surveyed the keep with an intensity that made Grace’s stomach twist.
“How do you wish to proceed?” Ashley asked, his tone brisk and authoritative.
Carew’s gaze remained fixed on the stone fortress.
“We will approach cautiously. Reconnoitre. I doubt Flynn will expect us tonight, but we cannot assume he is unprepared. He did greet The Selkie’s arrival, after all.”
“If at all possible, we need to find Maeve and get her out before Flynn has a chance to interfere.” Ashley had the most experience with these types of operations.
The task was daunting, and as Grace stood with the others, gazing at the imposing stone fortress, she finally grasped the magnitude of what lay before them. Similar to Donnellan, its high walls and narrow, arrow-slit windows spoke of centuries of defiance, a place meant to repel invaders and safeguard its secrets. It was not a welcoming sight. Grace, for all her imagination, could not picture any but a medieval army with flaming arrows and catapults managing to breach it.
The air around their small party was charged with tension as they huddled together in the shadow of a nearby grove, their voices low and cautious.
“We should surround it,” Carew said, his tone clipped and authoritative. His dark gaze was fixed on the fortress, every muscle in his body coiled with determination. “Positioning ourselves near all entrances is essential. There could well be an escape tunnel we cannot see.”
Grace nodded, her thoughts briefly straying to the stories she had read. Hidden tunnels and secret passageways were staples of the novels she adored, and they had a believability about them. She could almost imagine Flynn slinking away through some dark, damp passage, his shadowy figure disappearing into the cliffs.
Ashley leaned forward, his brow furrowed in thought. “We need to get someone inside,” he said. “If we rely on watching, we might be here for weeks with nothing to show for it. Flynn will know how to hide—if he even brought her here.”
Carew considered this, his expression grim. “Perhaps a servant could be bribed,” he conceded, though his tone suggested distaste for the idea.
“It is worth trying,” Ashley agreed. He glanced at his wife. “Patience and I can take that entrance,” he added, gesturing towards a smaller gate on the eastern side of the stone wall.
Grace, who had been listening intently, suddenly felt a spark of determination. A plan began to take shape in her mind, one that seemed as daring as it was logical. She hesitated for only a moment before speaking. “I shall go to the front door, looking for shelter,” she said, her voice steady.
The effect of her words was immediate. The entire group turned to her, their expressions a mixture of disbelief, astonishment, and doubt. Joy, however, looked at her with something akin to admiration, a spark of encouragement in her sharp eyes.
“Nay, lass,” Carew said after a moment, his tone firm. “I’ll not have you go alone. You do not understand what this man is capable of.”
Grace met his gaze without flinching. “Perhaps not fully,” she admitted, “but I understand enough. He has no quarrel with me, and as I am unknown to him, I do not believe he would find me suspicious. I am unassuming, unremarkable. They would not refuse me shelter.”
Carew’s eyes narrowed. “This is no jest. Flynn is dangerous.”
“I know,” Grace said quietly, “but this may be our best chance. He will not suspect me, and I can gather information. Perhaps I may even locate Maeve.”
Ashley looked at her closely, weighing her words. “It’s a bold plan,” he admitted, “but it’s not without risk.”
“All plans carry risk,” Grace countered. “If you have a better idea, I shall gladly step aside.”
Patience reached out to touch Ashley’s arm, her expression thoughtful. “She may be right,” she said softly. Then she turned to Carew and said, “A stranger asking for shelter on a cold night is far less suspicious than you pounding on the front door demanding to see your sister.”
Carew turned away, his jaw tightening as he studied the fortress. The flicker of torchlight on the walls seemed to mock their indecision. Finally, he sighed and turned back to Grace.
“If you insist on doing this,” he said reluctantly, “you must have an escape plan. I will stay close to the door, ready to intervene if anything goes wrong.”
Grace inclined her head, accepting his condition. “Very well, but I must appear to be alone when I approach.”
Carew stared at her, his expression dark. “This is reckless.”
“Yet necessary,” Grace said, her voice steady. She held his gaze directly, unwavering. “Do you trust me?”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a reluctant nod, he answered. “I do, but I do not wish to risk you as well.”
“Then you must let me do this.”
With the plan agreed upon, Grace felt a strange mixture of fear and resolve settle over her. The fortress was no less daunting, the risks no less grave, but for the first time, she felt like more than an observer in this ordeal. She had a part to play, and she would see it to its conclusion.
As they began their descent towards the keep, Grace mustered her courage. She would finally do something adventurous like her sisters. Perhaps she could be brave, she just needed the right cause.
Ronan rode at the head of their party, Grace alongside him like a silent sentinel. She should not be here, of course, but resistance to the Whitford charm—or force—seemed impossible. It was a peculiar spell they cast, one that ensnared even the strongest of wills. Westwood, Rotham, Stuart—each had succumbed in their turn, and now it was his own resolve that faltered, no matter how fiercely he tried to guard his heart.
There was comfort, however, in her presence. Despite the risks, her calm strength steadied him, supporting him against the tumult of his thoughts. As they made their final descent through the darkened hillside, her quiet determination reminded him that he was not alone in this battle. Yet the thought of her venturing into Flynn’s den set his nerves alight with equal parts of dread and frustration. Why had he allowed her to convince him? Why had he not insisted on a safer plan?
An eerie mist clung to the ground along their path. The moonlight rendered the scene both ethereal and menacing, every shadow a potential hiding place for an unseen enemy. Ronan’s mind turned to the possibility of sharpshooters, though he hoped the element of surprise and cover of darkness was on his side. Flynn was cunning, but he preferred to play games, where his charm and guile could work their full effect. Still, Ronan’s hand rested lightly on the butt of his pistol, his senses attuned to every sound in the stillness.
Every twist and turn of the path brought them closer to Flynn’s door, closer to Maeve—and closer to the confrontation that had been years in the making. The anticipation was a slow-burning fire in his chest, its heat stoked by a potent mix of anger, guilt, and dread.
It was hard for Ronan not to dwell on the many ways he might make Flynn suffer once he had him in his grasp. The man had crossed every boundary of decency, weaving his poisonous charm into the heart of one too trusting to see him for what he was. That Maeve, Ronan’s own sister, had fallen prey to Flynn’s lies was a betrayal he could scarcely fathom. She was young, full of idealistic hope that peace might be achieved where bitterness had long reigned. Flynn had exploited that hope with ruthless precision.
Ronan’s jaw tightened as his thoughts spiralled into darker themes. He pictured Flynn’s smug smirk, his casual arrogance as he led Maeve away. A duel would be too honourable, too swift for the likes of him. Flynn deserved the weight of every moment of suffering he had caused, and Ronan would see to it personally.
When they finally crested the last rise, Corlach Keep came back into view, its dark outline imposing against the night sky. Torchlight marked the perimeter, a reminder of the men stationed there under Flynn’s command. Ronan reined in his horse and motioned for the others to stop.
“This is as far as we go on horseback,” he said quietly, his voice firm. He turned to Grace, who dismounted with quiet efficiency. Her face was pale but determined, her hands steady as she adjusted her cloak.
“You know the plan,” Ronan continued, his eyes locking with hers. “You go to the door and ask for shelter. Once inside, you must find Maeve and convince her to leave with you. If anything goes wrong—anything at all—you signal, and we will find a way in.”
Grace nodded, her gaze unwavering. “I understand.”
Ronan hesitated, the weight of what he was asking pressing heavily on him. “Flynn is dangerous,” he said, his voice low. “Do not trust anything he says.”
“I won’t,” she replied softly. “I am hoping to avoid him altogether, but I know not to trust him. He is nothing like you.”
Her words struck in a way he hadn’t expected, and for a brief moment, he wavered in letting her do this. He wanted to tell her to stop, to stay behind where it was safe, but he knew he needed her. Grace Whitford was determined and capable. How wrong he’d been about her. The fact was, he needed her, and she could do what he could not.
He watched as she moved across the old drawbridge, her figure a shadow against the mist-laden ground. The sound of her boots on the path was deafening to Ronan, though he knew it was his anxiety for Grace’s safety. He forced himself to remain still, though every instinct screamed for him to stop her, to bring her back. He stayed in the shadows, his gaze never leaving her.
When she reached the heavy wooden door, she paused for a moment before lifting the iron knocker and letting it fall with a resounding thud that reverberated through the night.
The seconds stretched into what felt like hours before the door creaked open. A man appeared, his face indiscernible against the faint light from within. Ronan couldn’t hear their words, but he saw Grace’s posture—calm, unthreatening, utterly convincing. The man seemed to hesitate, then stepped aside, allowing her entry. As the door closed behind her, Ronan felt an unfamiliar panic.
She was inside Flynn’s lair now, and there was nothing he could do to protect her. The thought was like a knife twisting in his gut. Not only was his sister under Flynn’s roof, but now Grace—the woman who had somehow managed to crack the armour around his heart—was there as well. His mind raced with questions. Would Grace find Maeve? Would his sister trust this stranger and agree to leave? Or would Flynn’s influence prove too strong?
Ronan was coiled as tight as a spring, ready to explode. He replayed the plan over and over in his mind, searching for flaws, for anything they might have overlooked. He had always prided himself on his ability to anticipate every possible outcome, but now, as he waited in the shadows, he realized how much of their success was beyond his control.
If anything happened to Grace, he would never forgive himself.
Stuart’s voice, low and steady, broke through his thoughts. “She’s strong, Carew. And clever. She will find a way. We are setting off to the servants’ entrance.”
Ronan nodded curtly, though his throat felt tight. He didn’t trust himself to speak. His gaze remained fixed on the door, afraid to miss any sign of trouble within.
If Flynn thought he could take what mattered most to Ronan and walk away unscathed, he was sorely mistaken. Flynn would pay.
Ronan stood alone just beyond the door of the keep, his body coiled with tension, every muscle taut. His ears strained for the slightest sound, his eyes fixed on the shadowy silhouette of the castle against the moonlit sky. He had never realized, but the sheer helplessness of waiting was worse than being flayed alive. All he could do was wait.
Grace was inside, braving the lion’s den with nothing but her wits and her courage. The memory of her determination, the quiet resolve in her eyes, was both a source of pride and torment.
Every creak of the bridge, every animal noise drifting on the wind set his heart pounding. He imagined the worst—Flynn discovering her, Grace caught in a trap, Maeve too frightened or injured to escape. The possibilities played out endlessly in his mind, each more dire than the last. He whispered a curse under his breath. If anything happened to her, he would never forgive himself.
He scanned the walls again, he searched for any sign of movement, any signal that Grace had found Maeve and was making her way out. The shadows seemed alive, shifting and writhing with every flicker of moonlight.
The waiting was agony, a torment that gnawed at his composure. Every minute felt like a lifetime. He prided himself on his ability to remain calm under pressure, to act with precision and control even in the most chaotic of circumstances. But this was different. This was Grace. This was Maeve. The stakes were not just his own life, but the lives of the two women he cared for most in the world.
A faint sound reached his ears—a distant creak of wood, perhaps a door opening or closing. He held his breath, leaning forward, his eyes narrowing as he tried to discern its source. Was it them? Or had Flynn’s men discovered her?
“Come on, Grace,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Come back to me.”
The thought of losing her, of failing his sister, was a weight he could scarcely bear. Yet beneath the fear and the anguish was a flicker of hope, a belief that Grace’s strength and ingenuity would see her through this ordeal. All he could do was trust her—and be ready to act the moment she emerged.