Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
G race was afraid she had not been completely honest, she reflected as she lay in her berth for the last night, her fingers absently stroking Theo as he purred. The ship rocked gently beneath her, a soothing motion she had come to associate with comfort rather than discomfort. If she could take away the man who had tried to kill her, then she would have described the voyage as the most wonderful time of her life. Also perhaps, she amended, save the seasickness, but since that only seemed to be when the weather was exceptionally severe, she could overlook that part. That seemed a minor nuisance compared to the extraordinary moments that had filled the days in between.
While she was looking forward to Ireland, she was not looking forward to being parted from Carew. She’d had his full attention at times on this journey, and it had been beyond her childish dreams. His attention, even though received by accident, had become something she cherished more than she ought. For once she had felt seen by him instead of found wanting.
And yet, there was an unpredictability to him that left her uncertain in more ways than one. One moment he was warm and engaging, his sharp wit and keen intelligence transforming their conversations into a lively dance that left her mind alight and her heart racing. But then he would retreat into himself, becoming distant and inscrutable. Had she imagined the connection between them entirely? What version of Carew awaited her once they reached Ireland? Would he withdraw from her completely, an obligation now fulfilled? The thought gnawed at her, though she tried valiantly to push it aside.
The problem with fairy tales was that reality eventually intruded. Take Persuasion , for example. While Anne Elliot’s steadfast patience had earned her a triumphant reunion with her Captain Wentworth, Grace could not bring herself to expect the same happy ending for her own tale. Lord Carew was nothing at all like she’d first thought him. It was possible, she supposed, that his particular manner aboard the ship—his attentiveness, his occasional warmth—was an anomaly, a reflection of the confined setting rather than his true character. It was also possible she was getting a rare view of the real man…unguarded and unfiltered. That possibility more than any other unsettled her, for she wanted to keep him.
A sharp knock at her cabin door startled her from her sleep. Rising quickly, she smoothed her impossibly wrinkled skirts and opened it to find Lord Carew standing there looking like Satan himself come to tempt her.
“I thought,” he began, his voice quieter than usual, “that you might wish to watch as we approach Kenmare Bay. ’Tis a sight worth seeing.”
Grace blinked in surprise, her heart leaping before she could suppress it. “Oh. Yes, I would very much like that. Thank you.”
He stepped aside, allowing her to follow him on to the deck. The crisp, bracing morning air greeted her, carrying with it the familiar tang of salt and something else—something earthy and green. Ireland. They were nearly there.
As she reached the railing, the horizon was no longer the endless expanse of sea she had grown accustomed to. Instead, it was broken by cliffs, their rugged faces rising dramatically from the water. The sunlight danced across their surfaces, as though nature herself had carved out the stone.
The cliffs gave way to rolling hills, their slopes lush with emerald grass that glowed in the sunlight. Scattered dots of white hinted at cottages, their thatched roofs contrasting with the verdant landscape. It was a place both wild and welcoming, untamed yet not. Grace felt a pang of longing she could not explain, as though some part of it called to her like England’s gentle countryside.
As the ship rounded a bend in the coast, a medieval castle came into view, perched high above the bay. Its imposing silhouette proclaimed it a fortress with its towers and turrets, while the wide windows reflected light. The castle commanded its position with authority over the water and the cliffs, where waves crashed against the rocks below. It was stunning, a place to warn off invaders and make them question the wisdom of trying to attack.
“That is your home?” Grace asked, her voice awe-filled.
Carew nodded. “Donnellan Castle.” There was a note of pride in his tone, tempered by something quieter—perhaps even wistfulness.
“It’s…magnificent. I do not think I could have conjured such beauty in my dreams,” she said earnestly, her eyes sweeping over the house and its surroundings. “Though it looks fierce at the same time.”
He chuckled softly, a sound that sent warmth through her chest. “An intentional impression, and there’s some truth in it. I love that the cliffs have always shaped the castle as much as the castle has shaped the land.”
She turned her attention back to the view, allowing the silence between them to stretch, comfortable and companionable.
As the ship drew closer to the bay, the details of Donnellan came into sharper clarity—the tall stone walls, rising from the cliffs down which water poured in a great fall into the sea below. Grace could scarcely take it all in.
And yet, as much as she looked forward to setting foot on land, to exploring the castle and its grounds, a quiet sadness settled over her. This journey, this time with Carew, had been a gift she had never expected. She feared that once they disembarked, the spell would be broken, and he would retreat into his revenge on Flynn, leaving her on the periphery once more.
“Miss Whitford,” Carew said suddenly, drawing her attention back to him. There was something in his expression she could not quite place, a flicker of hesitation. “I hope you will find Donnellan to your liking.”
“I am certain I will,” she replied, her heart tinged with sadness. “It is an extraordinary place, my lord.”
“I wish I would be able to show it to you.” His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, as though he wished to say more, but then he turned back to the view, thus putting a jagged point on any question she might have had about furthering their relationship. If what this was could be quantified as such.
Grace followed his lead, and turned to watch as the ship made its final approach.
The cliffs seemed to rise higher as they entered the bay, the waves gentler now, lapping against the ship’s sides with a rhythm that matched the beating of her heart. For better or worse, their journey was coming to an end, and with it the fragile connection she had begun to treasure. Her insides felt stripped bare, as though the pages of her fairy tale were ripped away—ended before it had really begun.
Perhaps she needed to read less. Her flair for dramatic prose, even if only in her thoughts, was startling.
A loud crack sounded, sharp and jarring, breaking the tranquillity like a thunderclap. Grace started, clutching the railing as the ship jolted with the impact of something striking its hull. Shouts erupted around her, the crew scrambling to action, their movements swift and purposeful. Another crack followed, splintering a section of the deck not far from where she stood. It was only then that she realised the ship was under attack.
“Get down!” a voice commanded, cutting through the chaos like steel through silk. Before she could fully comprehend what was happening, she felt the solid weight of Lord Carew pressing her down to the deck, his arm shielding her head as another deafening crack split the air. She barely registered the shouts of the crew or the distant flash of gunfire. All of her senses were centred on the protective presence of Carew, his body taut with tension, his breath steady despite the danger.
“Do not move until I tell you,” he instructed, his voice calm but firm.
Her heart hammered in her chest, the shock of the moment rendering her mute. She nodded, her cheek pressed against the rough wood of the deck as the acrid smell of gunpowder filled her nose. Carew shifted slightly, his sharp gaze sweeping across the horizon as if assessing the threat.
“They’ve positioned themselves along the cliffs. A coward’s tactic.”
Grace clung to his words, her mind reeling. Who would dare fire upon them? It must be Flynn’s doing. Had the enmity between the families escalated to open violence? She did not know, and in that moment, she could not bring herself to ask. Her world had narrowed to the immediate danger and the steady presence of Carew beside her.
Another shot struck the ship, the sound reverberating through the planks beneath them, followed by a sickening cackle of laughter that echoed through the cove.
Carew shifted again, his hand brushing hers as he steadied himself. “We’re almost there,” he said, his tone unwavering. “They’ll not sink us with rifles.”
The confidence in his voice was a lifeline, and Grace clung to it, drawing strength from his certainty. The ship’s crew worked with desperate efficiency, steering the vessel towards the safety of the Donnellan dock. The cliffs loomed larger now, the enemy fire becoming less frequent as the ship moved beyond their reach.
When the ship finally turned a corner and docked, the gunfire ceased, leaving only the rush of the sea and the shouts of the crew to fill the air. Carew rose slowly, his hand extending to help Grace to her feet. She grasped it, her legs unsteady but her resolve firm. She could not falter now.
Ronan had to leave his well-trained crew to see to the mooring of the ship once they reached the protected alcove where The Selkie rested. His primary concern was escorting Grace safely off the ship and into the castle.
Flynn’s hand was in this—of that, he had no doubt. The shots fired upon their arrival were not an attempt to sink them but a warning, a reckless message meant for him, whether Flynn had fired himself or left his minions with orders to terrorize. What was Flynn’s purpose? And why now? Ronan did not think the man so foolish as to resort to outright murder, at least not yet. But Grace…
His gaze flicked towards the cliffs, their rugged heights climbing into the sky, and then towards the sheltered stairway carved into the rock—a steep, winding path that would lead him home to the castle. It was a long climb, but the stairs through the cliffs were protected.
Home. The word carried a weight he could not quite name. He had always thought of Donnellan and its austere beauty as a refuge, a place of stability. Yet, today, as he prepared to ascend those familiar steps, unease settled heavily in his chest. Flynn had never attacked them directly, nor during the day, nor so close to home.
His jaw tightened as his gaze shifted to Grace. She stood a few paces away, her head tilted upwards slightly as she took in the sight of the cliffs and the castle rising above them. Her wide eyes held a mixture of wonder and apprehension, a response that stirred something unexpected within him. He had grown accustomed to the stark beauty of the place, its commanding presence on the coast. But seeing it through her eyes made him pause. Did she see more than stone and mortar? Did she see perhaps even something unspoken in its proud edifice?
As he led her quickly across the gangway to safety, his heart hardened as his mind turned back to the man who threatened to destroy all Ronan held dear. The long-standing feud between their families had deep roots, its origins obscured by years of bitterness and mistrust. Yet Flynn seemed determined not merely to perpetuate the feud but to escalate it, to strike at the very heart of his family. To what purpose? Was there more beneath the surface that Ronan could not see?
It was hard to fathom such malice, though he had seen glimpses of its effects—his mother’s frayed nerves, Maeve’s growing restlessness. Flynn’s influence was spreading like a shadow, and now it had reached even these cliffs, the last place Ronan had thought it could touch. Flynn’s boldness had grown, and Ronan feared if he didn’t stop it now, it would pervade like a spreading disease. Something that infests before you know how bad it is.
The climb up the stairs was arduous but familiar. The carved stone steps wound through the cliffs, sheltered by a narrow tunnel lit by lanterns. Grace followed behind him, her steps careful but determined, and he could not help but glance back occasionally to ensure her safety. At last, the final step brought them to the top, where Donnellan Castle stood waiting.
Its weathered stone walls loomed large, the iron gates creaking open as a servant rushed to greet them.
It was home, and yet something felt amiss. He saw it in the hurried steps of the servants, the unease in their glances as they passed. He wished he knew what he was walking into. Had his father taken a turn—or worse?
His mother was waiting in the great hall. Lady Donnellan, always a figure of composure, now appeared anything but. Her gown was slightly askew, her hair escaping its pins, and her face bore the strain of sleepless nights. She turned to Ronan the moment he entered, her expression one of desperation and relief all at once.
“Ronan,” she began, her voice trembling. “Thank God you are here.”
“What has happened?” he asked, his tone sharp with concern. “Why is the household in such disarray?”
“It’s Maeve,” Lady Eleanor said, clutching his arm. “She is gone.”
“Gone?” The word felt foreign, its implications too vast to grasp. “What do you mean, gone?”
His mother’s grip tightened. “That rogue has cast his spell on her, Ronan. I tried to stop it, but she…she believes herself in love with him. She has eloped with him. I found a note this morning.”
The room seemed to tilt slightly, the weight of her words crashing over him like a wave. Maeve. His sister, spirited and trusting, had fallen prey to Flynn’s manipulations. Fury surged within him, hot and unrelenting, though he kept his expression carefully composed.
“Does Father know?” The knowledge would be the final nail in his coffin.
His mother shook her head with a look that indicated worry over her decision not to tell him. She had aged since he’d left only two months ago. “I was afraid of what it would do to him.”
“Do we know where they have gone?” he asked, his voice low but dangerous.
His mother shook her head, tears glistening in her eyes. “No. They could be anywhere by now. I have sent men after them, but there has been no word.”
Ronan’s fists clenched at his sides, his mind racing. Flynn’s audacity knew no bounds. To lure Maeve away, to use her as a pawn in his twisted game—this was beyond enmity. It was war.
“I will find her,” he said, his voice hard. “I will bring her back.”
His mother placed a trembling hand on his cheek. “Ronan, you must be careful. Flynn…he is not like other men. I fear what he might do if cornered.”
“I know what he is, Mother,” Ronan replied, his tone steely. “And I know what must be done. I will not let Flynn destroy Maeve—or this family.”
He glanced at Grace then, her presence a quiet reminder of the other dangers he had faced to reach this point. She stood near the doorway, her expression unreadable but her eyes steady on his. She had just seen Flynn’s darkness, too, had felt its reach if only on the surface. Ronan knew he could not afford to falter now—not for Maeve, not for his family, and not for the future he was only beginning to imagine.
Amidst all of this, Ronan turned towards Grace, his feelings softening slightly despite the storm of emotions raging within him. “Mother,” he said, his voice steadier now, “may I introduce Miss Grace Whitford? She has been my companion on this journey, though I regret to say under circumstances neither of us anticipated.” His gaze flicked briefly to Grace, as if willing her to understand his haste. “I am afraid I must leave her to recount the details of how she comes to be here. She has endured much, and I trust you will see to her comfort in my absence.” His words were formal, but the glance he gave his mother carried an unspoken plea for care, a rare moment of vulnerability that his mother did not miss.
Her brows lifted ever so slightly as Ronan finished speaking. For a fleeting moment, she said nothing, her keen eyes shifting from Ronan to Grace. He had little doubt she was taking in the younger woman’s slightly rumpled but dignified appearance, and then she regarded Ronan with an expression that was equal parts curiosity and concern. Despite the surprise evident in her features, she stepped forward with a grace that belied the weariness Ronan knew she must feel.
“This is unexpected, even for you, Ronan.” Her lips curved faintly, though the gesture held more curiosity than amusement. She turned her attention fully to Grace, inclining her head with a graciousness that made Grace’s posture relax ever so slightly. “Miss Whitford, welcome to Donnellan Castle. I trust you will find our home a refuge after what I can only imagine has been a trying journey. I apologize that things are not well here, as you must know.”
Grace dipped into a small curtsy. “It is I who must beg your forgiveness, Lady Donnellan, for imposing upon your household so unexpectedly and at such a time.”
Lady Donnellan waved her hand dismissively, a gracious smile softening her features. “Nonsense, my dear. You are most welcome here. Perhaps,” she added with a touch of shrewdness, “you can be of some comfort to me whilst Ronan finds Maeve and explain how this all came to pass.”
Ronan kissed his mother’s cheek, and he was filled with gratitude. “Thank you, Mother. I knew I could rely on you.”
With a nod, Ronan turned back to Grace. “I will return as soon as I can,” he said quietly. “You will be safe here.”
Grace offered him a faint, understanding smile, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. “Go,” she said softly.
With a deep breath, he turned back to his mother. “I must prepare to leave at once.”