Once Upon a Forbidden Desire, page 57
AISLING LAY IN the bed in the dark hotel room and she tried to remember where she was. She knew it was a hotel because what else could it be, but where, now that’s what the problem was. She looked over at her phone, could see that it was just gone midnight, but there were no more clues than that. She rolled back over. Did it matter?
There was a low knock on her door and she heard Harry call out her name softly. She stared at the door, puzzled. Slowly, she got out of bed, padded to the door and checked through the peephole. It was Harry all right, holding two takeaway coffee cups, looking dishevelled in his designer shirt and trousers, the jacket missing. It wasn’t California casual she was looking at. It was anxiety and sleeplessness. He hadn’t been around that day, which she now remembered she’d spent in some photographer’s studio. London. Yes, that’s it. She was in London.
She sighed and opened the door, deeming her yoga attire suitable enough not to make them both uncomfortable. Well, her, primarily. She couldn’t imagine Harry being uncomfortable with any state of a woman’s undress.
He entered the room and after she closed the door behind him, he offered her one of the cups.
“We have to talk,” he said, the anxiety clear in his voice.
She took the offered cup and gestured to the small sofa at the other side of the room. “You better sit then.”
He did as she suggested and she took the small chair opposite, giving her coffee a few sips before she spoke. Fortification. “What’s happened?” she said.
Harry shifted his feet and looked away. This wasn’t like Harry. Not at all.
“Harry, tell me.”
She couldn’t imagine there would be anything more that she would find as upsetting as Harry’s demeanour suggested.
He looked down at his shoes. Cleared his throat. “You know a few weeks ago, you said you wanted a break?”
“Yes.”
He paused again, filling the silence with more shifting before he spoke. “Well, maybe that’s a good idea.”
He had her attention now. “What do you mean?”
He licked his lips nervously. “Well, we could maybe do that. Arrange for a break. Somewhere, you know, um, remote.”
Aisling was puzzled now. Why would Harry be offering something like a break now? Hadn’t he, amidst the latest monologue, said something about being booked out for the rest of the year? She took a long drink of her coffee, trying to puzzle out his sudden support for her request.
“I don’t understand, Harry. Why now?”
He took a deep breath. “It’s Jade,” he said in a whisper.
“Jade?”
“Yeah. She wants you gone.”
Aisling blinked. “Gone?”
“Yeah. Like out of the picture. Completely.”
Aisling fought the urge to laugh. “Of course she does. She’s always wanted that.”
“Maybe, but this time she’s serious.”
“Serious?”
“Yeah. Serious. Like ‘get that bitch off the scene now’ serious.”
Aisling pulled back instinctively. “Well, I’m sure she does want that.”
“Yeah, you’re just too good, you know. Competition wise. She doesn’t like it. She’s not tops, now. You are.”
“And so she told you that I’m to have a break.”
“Well, something like that.”
“And why would you obey her?”
Harry looked away again, biting his lip. “She knows stuff. Has stuff to prove it.”
Aisling could only imagine what that was. “Drugs?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe other things.” He looked at her now. “But she’s serious. Trouble serious. I-I have no choice, Aisling.”
He was whispering again and the fact that he’d used her real name hadn’t escaped her attention.
She shrugged. “So, I’m to go on a break. Grand, so. It’s what I wanted.”
Harry leaned towards her. “A permanent break,” he said, his words nearly swallowed.
She shrugged again, but her focus was beginning to go and the room started spinning and the last words she heard before she blacked out was “I’m sorry.”
AISLING STOOD ON the rocky shore and stared at the vast expanse of sea before her. Clouds scuttled across the sky, gathering and promising rain. There was no sign of the small biplane that had taken off an hour before, just as she had awakened in the lone little farmhouse behind her, whose fireplace was the only thing that marked it from a stone outbuilding. She had been unceremoniously dumped on the plain wooden cot that was the only piece of furniture in the farmhouse beside a chair. And the fireplace crane, if you could call that furniture. At least the yoga clothes were now accompanied by socks, her old Doc Martens, and parka. God alone knew where they’d come from.
It hadn’t taken her long in the time she’d emerged from the one-roomed farmhouse to understand that she was alone. The small island that contained the building and a few cattle pens was treeless and small enough that she could see its ends. And by climbing the small rise behind the house, she could see the other shore as well.
The waves, lapping against the rocky shore, began to show intention. Might. Spray hit her and she saw that the clouds to the west had become purple. At least she assumed it was west. With no sun, she was only using what everyone knew. Most storms came from the west. Well, in Ireland. Was it Ireland? The crane hinted Ireland. Shouted, really. A summer grazing place? Surely she would see the mainland then, if that’s what this was. But there’d been none that she’d seen, when she looked out. West. Feckin’ eejit. She turned and climbed the rise once more to look out on the other side, to the east, the wind blowing fiercely behind her. She stared out, straining her eyes, willing them to see something. And something did appear. The faint outline of land in the distance. Hope stirred within her until it died before it could fully ignite. What did it matter? She had no boat, no phone, no way at all of contacting anyone. There was no food that she could see, or water for that matter. She had nothing but shelter.
The value of that shelter was soon made known to her when the wind nearly knocked her off the rise. She made her way back to the house, shut the door behind her, and threw the small bolt across. The fireplace mocked her, so clean and pristine. She searched around near it, remembering from her great auntie’s house in Galway that there would be some kind of press nearby, or nook for matches, or something that she could use to make a fire. The press located, she found a few Farmer’s Journals that looked promising for kindling, though they were damp and musty, and over three decades old. The matches were in the small nook she found as well, and after a bit of searching, she found some decaying old piles of turf in the glass house lean-to that stretched along the south wall.
After no little effort she had a feeble fire going, the small flame lifting her spirits, which were fueled by the satisfaction of creating the fire. The wind whistled through a cracked window pane and she drew the chair close to the fire. At least she could keep warm, even if she had nothing to eat. She stared at the fire for a while but eventually stood up, dragged the cot over and crawled in. Her mind had left again, knowing it was best to get the feck out of this place and join her soul again in what was certainly somewhere better.
SHE AWOKE WITH a start. Darkness enveloped her. Outside the wind blew fiercely and she huddled into her parka. A thump sounded outside the door, followed by a thud. The door shook. A loud pounding started up. Aisling stared at the door in disbelief. What the feck?
“Aisling!” a voice shouted.
Her first thought was rescue. She raced to the door, but caution stepped in. “Who is it? What do you want?” Her voice was brave, but her body shook in “who was she kidding” tremors when that door could barely hold out against a small goat, let alone any person with intent.
“It’s grand, Aisling, it’s fine. We’re here to help,” said a voice in Irish.
“We? Who’s we?”
“Your friends. We’re your friends.”
For some reason that her body could never have explained to the rest of her, she opened the door. In the halo light of a lantern stood those claiming to be her friends. The Tall Men.
She nearly shut the door, except their faces were beaming at her, friendly.
“She looks well enough, considering,” muttered one of the men, who stood behind the darker-haired man at the front.
“What do you want?” she asked, suspicion lingering in her.
“We’ve come to help,” said the dark-haired front man.
She took them in, all bearded, except for the blond man to the side grinning banshee-like. They were dressed in clothes that might have come from the set of The Quiet Man in their wool trousers, plain shirts, battered jackets, and flat caps.
She cocked her head, biting her lip.
“How’d you get here?”
The lead man gestured over his shoulder. “We crossed the water.” He spoke in English now, because of course he would.
“Oh, aren’t you clever. I never would have guessed that. How did you cross the water?”
“Now who’s the clever one? How else would you cross the water but in a boat?”
She looked them up and down. “With the way you lads keep popping up, I would think it’d be something outside the box.”
“Ah, no. It was a boat.”
“I see.” She sighed, shook her head at the ridiculousness of this conversation. Sure, she should be leaping joyfully on the lot of them because they had a boat.
She stepped back and opened the door for them to enter. “Sorry, come in, so. My manners. And thanks for coming.”
They filed in one by one and she counted seven. Seven? She wanted to laugh. It was just so unbelievable. The number and the state of them. The size of them, barely up to her shoulder. And she no great giant at five foot seven, or eight on a good day when posture seemed to be important.
“Well now, lads,” she said when they were all inside. “I can’t offer you anything to eat or drink, I’m sorry to say. I can’t even offer you a chair. But I do have a question, if you don’t mind.”
“You want our names?” said the dark-haired one. “Of course you do.” He pointed to himself. “I’m Aodhán. And next to me is Brendán, followed by Connell, Donal, Eamon, Fergus, and Gearóid.”
Feck if this wasn’t a joke, thought Aisling. “You’re certain it isn’t something like Sleepy, Grumpy, Dozy, and Smartarse, or whatever the feck they’re calling the seven dwarves now?”
Aodhán gave her a strange look. “Ah, no, we’re nothing to do with those fellas, sure we aren’t. I gave you our true names.”
“But who are you? How did you know I was here? I know you’ve been following my … uh, progress, but this is a bit extreme, now don’t you think? Not that I’m not grateful. I’m thrilled you’re here and I can get off this feckin’ island.”
“You can’t leave,” said Brendán, one of the bearded ginger-haired fellas.
“What? Why not?” The words stunned her. She eyed the door.
“It’s not safe,” said Aodhán. “At least not at the moment. Jade wants you dead and she has deep pockets and extensive connections. When your fame fades, it might be possible.”
Aisling looked at them, trying to take in the words. It was obvious, she knew, but still and all. Still. The words confirming the suspicion made it all seem too real.
“Just who are you? And what do you know?”
Aodhán sighed. “Yes, it’s time to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
He glanced at the others and they gave subtle nods. “We are the Watchers. We’re Tuatha de Danann, sent to help. You are a daughter of the Tuatha de Danann.”
She stared at them a moment and then laughed. Long and hard, until the edge of hysteria nudged her. “Oh feck off, the lot of you.”
They shook their heads in unison, boy band-like and filled with meaning.
“Your mother,” said Aodhán. “She was Tuatha de Danann.”
“You mean faerie, or is it fae,” she said in her most earnestly joking tone. “No, wait, it’s ‘little folk.’” She eyed them up and down, making her point to herself. She was full of the craic, so she was.
“No, Aisling,” said the lead man. “Faerie, fae, they’re make-believe.”
Ah, they were the clever sods, now. She laughed hard. She’d always acknowledge a good joke.
She shook her head. “Now, lads, the closest my mother ever got to those De Danann folk was to attend a De Danann concert. And believe me, they could play like gods, but from what my dad said, they were far from gods at the pub afterwards.”
“Ah, Aisling, Aisling. Your father never knew that he fell in love with someone from the Otherworld.”
“No,” she said, still struggling to remain serious. “I don’t think he knew that, all right.”
Aodhán took her hand. Stroked it. “Your music, your singing, your beauty, it’s all a gift from the gods.”
There was something about his touch, the energy that filled her, and the sudden feeling that this was truth. Truth in the largest, deepest sense. And it was her truth. And her first thought was that she wanted to share it with Conn and her second thought was that she couldn’t.
“Tell me what to do,” she said finally. The thousands of questions she still had would be answered later. She knew now her life depended on these quirky little men. Her seven good dwarves.
THE WIND CARRIED her voice as she stood on the rise, her arms outstretched, her song floating across the sea. The sea was a friendlier prospect than it had been a few weeks ago. A plane had flown over the island last week, and a helicopter a few days ago, but she’d managed to get inside the house before they’d seen her. As instructed. She grinned, thinking of the “Laddaí Ard,” as she thought of them now, using the Irish term for “tall lads.” It seemed to fit better.
A boat appeared in the distance and she squinted to see if it was her “Laddaí Ard” returning from the mainland with more supplies. The boat drew closer and she could tell it was more of a yacht than the boat they used. Alarmed, she stood up and retreated to the house, hoping that she hadn’t been spotted. They had warned her, but of course all these weeks later she thought it was safe.
Inside the house she heard the sounds that told her the boat had arrived, the engine switched off. She stood, back against the door, breathing heavily. Time stretched. A knock sounded and she felt the vibration of its force in her body.
“Hello?” came an American voice. “Is there anyone there?”
Aisling remained still, hoping that this person would go away. Or her lads would return.
“I don’t mean any harm,” came the voice. Aisling couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman.
“I’m just here photographing the scenery. The um, puffins and stuff.”
Puffins? Were there puffins here ever? Sure, and wasn’t it the wrong time of year for them? Aisling searched her memory.
“Fine, I won’t bother you, then. I just wanted to let you know. Maybe ask you a bit about the island too. Its history. That kind of thing.”
“I don’t know anything,” she said. “But work away outside. Don’t mind me.”
The words had been out of her mouth before she knew it, the first thought to get the person away from banging and shouting through the door. But the second thought was that it was a terrible idea.
She heard footsteps retreating and allowed herself to breathe. Maybe it had been the right decision. She slid to the floor, back still against the door. Time passed and through the window she could see the skies darkening with ominous clouds. A storm? Maybe that would encourage the person to leave.
But the first few raindrops brought a heavy knock. “Hello?”
Aisling squatted lower against the door.
“Hello? Sorry to bother you, but can I come in? Just to wait out the storm.”
Aisling bit her lip and sighed. What to do. The person did seem harmless. If there was any mischief intended surely it would have been attempted by now. Slowly, she rose and opened the door. A woman stood there in a bulky hooded parka, short dark hair peeking out from a heavy knit cap. Her eyes were dark, nearly black and her nose seemed to have a kind of hook to it that ruined any kind of beauty the face might have achieved.
Aisling opened the door wide enough for the woman to pass through, the woman’s heavy boots clunking on the wooden floor. They were expensive boots, Aisling realized, and so was the parka.
“I’ve nothing really to offer you but tea,” she told the woman.
“Oh, that’s okay. Tea is fine.”
Aisling pointed to the single chair. The rest of the room was taken up with small pallets and the single cot she slept in. It was a tight enough squeeze but she thought it cozy. Safe.
Aisling busied herself making the tea, glad for the opportunity to occupy herself.
“I’m Karen, by the way,” said the woman.
Aisling nodded. “Mary.” Mary seemed generic enough. Especially in Ireland.
“Good to meet you, Mary,” said Karen. It turned out to be her opening phrase, the one that seemed to turn on the taps for a flood of words that spilled out and got lost in the sound of the kettle boiling on the crane perched over the fire, a sight that caused no end of terms like “quaint” and “picturesque.” A sight that prompted the camera to be set aside and the iPhone retrieved from the pocket to capture the moment and hashtag it to death for all her friends, followers, and anything else that got you hits these days.
“Oh, Mary,” Karen said. “Please take one of me by that cute fireplace.”
Gingerly, she held out the large phone that could only be the latest model iPhone. Aisling took it reluctantly, glancing out the window as she did it. The weather seemed to be clearing. She would get this woman out of here soon. She held the phone up, fiddled around with it, trying to figure out how it worked. Finally she located the proper button. It was slightly wet, coated in something. In front of her, Karen still posed provocatively by the fireplace. Aisling took the shot.
“Take a few, if you don’t mind,” said Karen.
