Chapter 9 Catherine
Catherine
The dead do not walk. Nor do they blunder in the door at cockcrow, their eyes all red as a banshee’s and their hands shaking with blood not their own.
But there stood Sully, in my kitchen, three days past his burial and looking like he’d just tunneled up from the grave I’d dug with my own two hands.
He said my name, and I nearly pissed myself.
I thought the soul had left me, but I could taste my own heart in my mouth, hot and wild.
He just stood there, swallowing hard, his face some strange blend of hope and dread and guilt.
If it was a fetch, it was the worst I’d seen; but fetches don’t track mud through the house, or bleed from fresh wounds.
And when he said the word, “a ghra,” in that hush only we shared—no devil could fake that.
I wanted to run, I wanted to scream, I wanted to lay him flat on the stones and fuck him until neither of us could stand. Instead, I sat down hard and watched him breathe, his chest rising in slow, pained jerks. He stank of sweat and gun smoke, of old rot and raw iron.
“Sit, for the love of Mary,” I said, pointing to the rickety bench. My voice cracked on the first word. “You look about ready to drop.”
He did as he was told, same as always, lowering himself gingerly. His eyes never left me, flicking to my hands, my mouth, my collar. That was Sully—he never stopped watching, even when it hurt him.
I got him a cup and poured the last of the beer. His hands shook so bad he nearly spilled it all. He stared into the cup, like he thought the truth might be at the bottom.
“Are you real?” I asked again, leaning close enough to see the hairs stand on his arms. “Or are you just here to haunt me for my sins?”
He looked up, blinking fast. “If I’m a ghost, you’re the only heaven I’d stay for.”
I rolled my eyes, but the words soaked straight through. “Don’t be daft. You’re covered in blood. Whose is it?”
He looked down, like he’d only just noticed. “Three Redcoats on the bridge. Wouldn’t let me by.”
“Three? Alone?” I reached out and grabbed his wrist, checking for bone. The muscle jumped under my fingers, and he winced, but let me. “You’re mad as a March hare, Sully O’Toole.”
He grinned, and for a moment the old light came back. “Wasn’t much else to do. I had to see you.”
I let his hand go, but not before I squeezed hard.
“Next time, bring a stick. Or a whole damn army.” I got a rag and wiped the worst of the blood from his forearm.
There was a new tattoo, green as summer grass, a shamrock just below the old scar from the sheep shears.
I traced it with my nail. “What’s this?”
He flinched at my touch, but didn’t pull away. “A promise. To remember.”
I shivered. “Are you warm enough?” My hands shook, too, but for different reasons. “This can’t be!” I stepped back. “But—
He nodded, but he was lying. There were goosebumps all up his arm, and his lips had the blue tinge of a corpse. “Warmer now that I’m here.”
I moved to the fire, tossing in more turf. The room went bright and close. I could feel his eyes on my back, on the sway of my hips, on the skin at my nape. I was never vain, but with Sully it was different—I wanted him to see me, every inch. But he wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real!
When I turned, he was crying. Not loud, just a trickle. He swiped at it like he’d rather rip the whole face off than let a tear escape.
“Ah, don’t start,” I said. “Else I’ll follow, and you know I can never stop once begun.”
He tried to laugh, but it broke in his throat. “I thought you’d be gone. I thought—”
I shut him up with a glare. “What, run off with some lad from the village? There’s none there with two wits to rub together.”
He sobered, real quick. “You could’ve gone to family. To your brother in Kildare.”
“This land belongs to us,” I said. “I could never leave this place.”
Sully nodded, like this was an old argument. “I don’t know—
I went back to the table, knuckles white on the edge. “Aye, I stayed. Waiting for you to come back, like an eejit. And now here you are, but it’s wrong. I saw you buried. I felt you cold, Sully.”
He looked away, jaw clenched, eyes shining. “It’s wrong, but it’s real. I don’t know how, Catherine. I just…woke up. Like out of a bad dream.”
“A bad dream?” I spat. “That’s what you call it?”
He winced. “Wasn’t right, the way I left. I should’ve—”
I slammed the cup down. “You should’ve let them have the damn hill. None of them remembers who died there, Sully. Only me.”
He looked up, fierce. “I remember.”
We glared at each other, the old fight roaring back. I wanted to slap him and kiss him in the same breath. Instead, I said, “Why are you dressed like a dock rat?”
He looked at himself—pants black and stiff, leather jacket torn and filthy, his shirt demonic. “Didn’t have time to fetch Sunday best.”
I grunted. “You never did.”
He wiped his hands on the pants, then reached across the table and caught my wrist. His fingers were so cold they burned. “I missed you,” he said. “I had to come back. No matter the cost.”
Something crumbled in me. I yanked him up, nearly tipping the bench, and hugged him so hard the air left us both. His arms crushed around my ribs, breath hot on my shoulder. He smelled alive, the way I remembered—sweat and peat and a whiff of whiskey.
I buried my face in his neck. “Don’t you ever do this to me again, do you hear?”
“I promise,” he whispered. “I promise, Catherine.”
He started to shake, and I realized it wasn’t crying this time, but cold. He was trembling so hard I thought he’d come apart.
I got him to the hearth, half-carrying, and knelt beside him on the flagstones. I peeled the jacket off him, careful with the left arm. The cut there was shallow, but it had bled plenty. I fetched the linen and pressed it to the wound. He sucked in a breath, but kept still, watching me work.
“You’ve a knack for this,” he said.
I set my jaw. “Too much practice.”
He smiled, softer this time. “Did you ever think of another?”
I stared at him. “Don’t be thick. There’s no man alive who would put up with me.”
He grinned. “I did.”
I dabbed the blood away and folded the cloth. “And look what it got you.”
His smile faded. “Catherine. What if this isn’t real?”
I met his eyes. “Then we’ll both wake together, and that’s enough.”
He reached for me. His hands were rough, fingers stained and nicked. He cupped my jaw, tracing the bone as if mapping it from memory.
I leaned in, pressed my lips to his. They were warm now, and the taste of him—smoke and salt and something electric—sent a jolt all the way down. He kissed like he fought, all teeth and desperation, but I wanted it rough. I wanted to leave a mark.
He pushed back, gentle at first, but soon he was pawing at my hips, greedy as a starving man. I straddled his lap, the hem of my dress riding up, and ground down until I felt him stir beneath. I laughed, not soft or girlish, but wild, because I could. Because I wanted to see the hunger in his eyes.
He gripped my ass, hard, and pulled me closer. “You sure?” he murmured, but the question was a dare.
“Always,” I said. “Now shut up and take what’s yours.”
He did. He hoisted me up, turned, and laid me back on the sheepskin by the fire. The heat from the turf seeped into my bones. I clawed at his shirt, ripping it open. He shivered, but not from cold now.
He kissed down my throat, rough stubble scraping the skin. I arched up, letting him taste every inch. His hands were everywhere, pressing, squeezing, kneading. I bit his shoulder, hard enough to taste blood. He gasped, then laughed, a ragged sound, and kissed me harder.
He slid my dress up, hands slipping under. My thighs were slick with sweat and want. He pressed his face between and breathed deep, then ran his tongue up the inside, slow and hot. I shivered and gripped his hair, dragging him closer.
He licked and sucked, gentle at first, then rough, just the way I liked. My breath hitched, then broke, and I dug my nails into his scalp, grinding against his mouth. I came so fast I nearly blacked out, the rush flooding my veins.
He didn’t stop. He kept licking until I begged, then slid up my body and thrust inside, hard. I cried out, and he clamped a hand over my mouth, muffling the sound. The world shrank to his weight, his heat, the slam of his hips, the smell of turf and sweat and sex.
We fucked like it was the end of the world, and maybe it was. When he came, he groaned my name into my neck, teeth scraping skin. I held him tight, legs locked around his waist, and wouldn’t let go.
After, we lay tangled, both of us shivering in the afterglow. He kissed my forehead, then my eyelids, then the scar at my hairline.
I laughed, low. “I thought I’d never feel this again.”
He stroked my cheek. “We’ve got time now.”
I shook my head. “Time’s never been kind to us, Sully. It won’t start now.”
He propped up on one elbow. “You want me to stay?”
I punched his shoulder, hard. “Don’t make me say it twice.”
He grinned, wolfish. “Then I’ll stay until the crows eat my eyes, love.”
We listened to the fire, the wind rattling the shutters, the world outside growing colder. I closed my eyes and let him hold me, his chest rising steady against my back.
I knew the world would come for us, sooner or later. The Redcoats would want revenge. The priest would sniff out the devil’s work in my bed. But for now, for this one night, we’d beaten them all.
If Sully was a ghost, then I’d be haunted forever. If I was dreaming, I never wanted to wake.
In the dark, I heard his heartbeat, steady and strong.