Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
SELENE
The key turned more easily than I expected, and a warm gust of air greeted me, unlike when I’d arrived at Cillian’s house the previous day. The scents of something simmering, of butter and onion and fresh bread, rushed forward like a welcoming committee.
My stomach rumbled in hearty appreciation. For lunch, I’d eaten a sandwich from a petrol station outside Killarney that I’d grabbed, along with coffee, before I’d headed to the castle. I’d told myself it was sufficient, which it had been until the late afternoon rolled around.
Maeve had arrived, I thought. She must have been able to sneak away early. Except Cillian had been positively clear when he’d said she and Clara wouldn’t join me for at least a week. Maybe something had changed.
I closed the door behind me and set my bag down on the narrow entry table. I relaxed my shoulders, realizing how tightly I’d been holding them. The hum beneath my skin was still there, though I suspected that came from the anxiety Bren’s presence created and not residue from the castle.
Despite the intrigue of the old castle, it didn’t feel like a home the way this place did. Cillian’s house felt lived in, even though he was usually in Dublin and I suspected this place was often empty.
No mist pressed against the windowpanes here. No odd pressure changes settled into me the way they had in the castle, as if the old stones held something different from the rest of the modern world.
The warmth of Cillian’s home came from the furnishings, like the dove gray rolled-arm sofa in the drawing room and the watercolor paintings of Killarney splashed across the walls.
But there was something more here. Something in the bones of the house. I knew most structures that were built centuries ago had suffered the effects of fear caused by wars and sieges. I didn’t feel that here, so perhaps that was the difference.
Maybe once I truly understood the castle, I could change all that.
I slipped my soft but warm plum sweater from my shoulders and draped it over my bag. Maeve would have corrected me, saying the correct term was a jumper, not a sweater. I could manage calling a car’s trunk a boot, but jumper just seemed too odd.
The wood creaked under my boots as I strode deeper into the home where I spotted light spilling from the kitchen in a soft amber bar across the floorboards.
I told Cillian I’d be fine staying in the house alone until my co-workers could join me, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thrilled to have company.
I pasted on a bright smile as I neared the kitchen, but it faded the moment I stepped inside.
Instead of finding Maeve or Clara, an older woman stood at the stove.
She shot a quick glance in my direction, not appearing the least bit startled to see me.
She finished stirring whatever was in the pot with steady, unhurried precision, set the wooden spoon aside, and then turned to face me with a warm smile. “Hello, Selene. I’m Nora.”
I would guess she might be in her seventies, though there was nothing remotely fragile about her. The sleeves of her peach cotton blouse were rolled neatly to her forearms. Her gray hair was pinned back without fuss. And her sharp blue gaze made me suspect not much snuck past her.
I returned her greeting as she approached, thinking Cillian had been vague in his description of her. She obviously was more than a keeper who stopped in twice a week to water plants.
Nora cradled my hands in her warm ones, giving them a small shake as though testing their weight. “You’re thinner than I expected.”
I snorted a small, surprised laugh. “I’m sorry?”
She only grinned. “We’ll fix that, hun.”
Then, without warning, she crouched in front of me and examined my boots. Her unexpected actions held me in place without her doing or saying anything, and I didn’t know quite what to do with them.
Nora drew her fingers over the dried mud and faint stone powder near the heel with the brief, focused attention of someone confirming something they had already half-suspected. “Ah,” she said. “You’ve already been inside.”
I could only assume she meant the castle. Cillian must have told her where I was working. “I’m overseeing the restoration.”
She rose. “Of course you are.”
Her gaze settled on my face, and she studied me for half a second longer than was comfortable before she gestured toward the small kitchen table. “Sit. You’ve not eaten properly.”
I opened my mouth to argue that I’d had lunch, but Nora was already striding away. She paused to wash her hands, and she didn’t glance back to see if I’d followed her instructions before she ladled stew into bowls. I sat.
Maeve, Clara, and I hadn’t been at the house long enough during our earlier visit for me to get a proper look at the kitchen.
The off-white walls were warm and complemented the muted colors throughout the house, and the copper pans hanging over the island added charm.
The window above the sink that looked out over the lower slope of the estate offered a lovely view of the fields of grass that lay in soft green gradients as they drifted toward the forested area.
Nora set a bowl in front of me and a slice of bread beside it, steam rising in curls from both. She returned to retrieve a crock of sunny yellow butter and made one more trip to bring her own bowl of stew and a slice of bread.
Without asking, she poured what I suspected was Chilean wine, a staple in most Irish homes, into the two glasses on the table and slid one to me.
I lifted my spoon, my mouth already salivating at the delicious chunks of beef, potatoes, and carrots simmering in the thick broth.
“This looks and smells amazing. Thank you.”
Her eyes twinkled with knowing. “You’ve good balance.”
That wasn’t a phrase I’d heard yet in Ireland, but I was certain it had a different meaning than it would have back home. I glanced down at my boots, then back at her, trying to find the context. Balance. “I suppose working in old buildings teaches you that. The floors aren’t always level.”
Nora watched me take the first bite. “That’s not what I meant.”
She didn’t offer more, and I was too embarrassed to ask for clarification. “You’re the keeper, then?”
“Nora Connery.” She inclined her head slightly as she gave her full name this time. “And yes. I keep things.”
My instincts warned she wasn’t talking only about mopping floors and taking out the garbage. “Cillian mentioned you might stop by once or twice a week to check on things. I really appreciate dinner, but I certainly don’t expect you to cook for me when you’re here.”
“Once or twice a week? To check on things?” She gave me a look that suggested I had misunderstood something fairly fundamental about the situation. “The man is daft. He knows I stop in every day when someone is at home. I’ve been doing the same for ten years.”
I frowned, clearly misunderstanding something. Many things, in fact. The woman seemed to have a language of her own. Though she was warm and friendly, she perplexed me. “You weren’t here when my friends and I came to stay a few weeks ago.”
Nora huffed an annoyed breath. “That’s because I wasn’t given proper notice. I was at home with the family. If Mr. Ashcroft had told me, I would have greeted you properly.”
I wondered if that proper meeting would have included dinner too. If only she had, we might not have ended up at the pub, and—
No. I would not wallow in the pool of that unfortunate regret any longer. It wasn’t affecting my working relationship with Bren, and I intended to move on. “Ten years? That’s quite a while.”
She licked stew from her upper lip. “Long enough to know the rhythm of the land, the pattern of the seasons, and the way the estate settles differently in winter versus summer. Certainly long enough to know him.”
I assumed she meant Cillian. When I had a moment later that evening, I planned to comb through my past work to see where her insight might be useful when dealing with my boss.
Nora lifted her glass of wine and met my gaze over the rim. “Did he meet you at the door?” Her tone remained conversational, as though she’d inquired about the weather, but something hovered beneath the surface of her casual words.
“Cillian? No, he’s in Dublin.”
She snorted as though amused. “That’s not who I’m asking about, hun.”
I drew my brows in confusion. Had she meant someone else when she’d referred to him? “Oh, do you mean Mr. McLoughlin?”
Interest flared in her eyes. “Sure, I do.”
Why did it feel like that mattered?
I paused to course-correct my side of our conversation so that my answers matched her questions. “Yes, actually. He was waiting at the door when I first arrived. Why?”
She nodded as if my response confirmed something she already suspected. “When you were inside, did he stay near the hearth?”
I hesitated, utterly mystified by her questions. “I…don’t recall.”
Her mouth curved faintly as she pinned me with a direct gaze. “Did he cross the center?”
I’d lifted a spoonful of stew but ended up setting it back in the bowl as a chill raced through me. I knew exactly what she meant, but I wanted her to say it. “The center of what?”
She shrugged lightly, but her gaze didn’t leave mine. “Ah. Everyone has habits.”
Nora seemed willing to let the subject go, but not me.
“He avoided the center of the floor, the stone inlay, if that’s what you mean.”
“Mmm. I see.”
That didn’t make sense, but it was all she offered.
I added our conversation to the list of strange things I’d encountered that day and let it go. If I’d known her better, I would have pushed, but it didn’t seem polite, especially since I was an outsider in her country. I was curious, but maybe I didn’t want to know the answer.
Our conversation returned to mundane topics as we finished eating. When she stood to take her dishes to the sink, I gathered mine and followed. She turned on the water and added dish soap. I hovered as bubbles expanded on top of the water.
“I haven’t had a chance to explore Cillian’s estate. What can you tell me about it?”
She tilted her head, studying me for a long moment before she sank her hands into the suds. “Well, they say there’s a woman near the lake. A ghost.”
I picked up a nearby dish towel and waited while she scrubbed a bowl. “Oh, really? That sounds interesting. I love hearing about Irish lore.”
Though she didn’t lift her gaze to mine, a small smile curved her lips. “She appears when strong storms gather.”
I took the bowl from her after she rinsed away the suds. “Tell me more.”
“People claim she walks along the water. Some say she protects the land. Others say she mourns.”
My gaze drifted out the window to where I’d glimpsed the lake during my previous visit. “Do you mean the lake on Cillian’s property, the one beyond the trees out there?”
Nora met my gaze with wide, interested eyes. “Oh, didn’t you know? That lake is the same that meets the land at Mystwood Castle.”
Her comment shocked me, and I mentally recalled the route I’d driven to reach the tower house.
As I followed along in my mind, I could see how the curves eventually led back around and that my job site wasn’t actually that far from Cillian’s house.
“That’s amazing. I never would have guessed.
I suppose I didn’t really pay attention to the direction of the road. ”
She gave me a knowing nod as she handed over another bowl. “You could walk there if you want. Though the land tends to be swampy. Probably best if you stick to the roads.”
We worked in silence as I processed the number of unexpected things that had happened to me that day.
Nora glanced toward the window and spoke as though her comments had little meaning. “He’s never seen her.”
My stomach tightened, intuitively knowing we’d stepped back into Bren territory, and I wondered why she kept steering our conversation in that direction. “Do you mean Mr. McLoughlin?”
She shot me a look of disbelief. “Is that truly what you call him? Mr. McLoughlin?”
Heat warmed my cheeks, but I pretended indifference. “So far, yes.”
Nora gave her head a slight shake. “There’s no need for formalities. Not with him. As I was saying, he’s never seen her. He used to look. I’d see him out there watching for her, but he doesn’t any longer.”
I kept my frown to myself, along with my thoughts that what she said made little sense. The trees between Cillian’s house and the castle were far too thick for her to see much other than a glimpse of water. And that was only when the sun shone, highlighting it. Not in the middle of a strong storm.
Nora held out a clean bread plate. “That poor man.”
I scoffed as I accepted the dish, keeping my attention there as I dried it. “Poor is not a word I would use for Mr. McLoughlin. For Bren.”
“He carries too much,” she said simply. “And he has been alone longer than he admits.”
Her words triggered my empathy, but I shut it down immediately. I couldn’t open myself to his feelings. Not to the man who would be nothing more than a client to me. “Maybe he prefers it that way.”
She held my gaze for a long moment before changing the subject. “You’ll sleep well tonight.”
Her statement seemed strange, leaving me to wonder if there was a reason I might not. “Will I?”
“Sure. If the house lets you, and I suspect it will. I’ll leave my number though, in case you need anything.”
Nora had spoken lightly, but it didn’t land that way. I dried the bread plate and set it aside, trying to assess, with some objectivity, whether the steadiness I had always prided myself on had returned.
It had for now. Mostly.
The hum beneath my skin disagreed, but I knew myself better than it ever could.