Fire of My Heart
Authors: Erin Grace
| Fire of My Heart |
| Erin Grace |
| (2014) |
Love is timeless…and vengeance burns forever.
When Australian botanist Ellen Quinn travels to her ancestral home in Ireland determined to complete her family tree, she expects quaint villages and a rustic countryside. What she finds are the cold dark walls of Banth Manor and much more than just dusty old books. The manor’s handsome but mysterious caretaker has captured her imagination…and her heart. As terrifying nightmares and visions of the past threaten to send Ellen to the brink of madness, a shocking truth will put her life in jeopardy.
Rowan O’Connell wasn’t expecting to find a stranger wandering Banth Manor’s conservatory. But Ellen is no ordinary trespasser. Though many visitors have come and gone over the years, few stayed long enough to get to know him. Ghosts rarely make a good impression.
Faced with a future more haunting than the past, Ellen would rather sacrifice life itself than lose the man who brings out her deepest desires.
Fire of my Heart
Republished March 2014 Erin Grace
This book
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © December, 2011 Erin Grace
All rights
reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form
or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact
the author.
Table
of Contents
Banth Manor, Ireland, 1759
Battle cries echoed along
with the clash of steel throughout the green, mist filled valley of Shaughnessy.
Barely past dawn, the early summer sun shed streaks of orange light upon the
tragic scene unfolding below Lord Seamus Donegal, Fourth Viscount Banth.
The entire
estate had been thrown into chaos. People grabbed what little possessions they could
before fleeing the oncoming tirade. Stumbling over her skirts, a woman
clutching a crying babe dragged another child toward the safety of the woods. A
sea of armed warriors flowed over the ancient stone walls that formed the
border of Donegal lands, burning and destroying thatched roofed cottages in
their path.
Turning his
back on the hellish scene, he bade a hurried farewell to his frantic wife and children
then bundled them into a waiting carriage. And though the words he’d spoken
were filled with reassurance, a part of him suspected he might never see them
again.
As the
buggy disappeared into the forest, a heavy sigh escaped him. “At least they’re
safe and away from this madness.” Glancing upward, he closed his eyes. “Pray
the saints will be watching over them.”
He’d never
wanted to believe his neighbor, Lord O’Connell, would carry out his threats.
Not now, after so many years. Nothing would be gained from such misguided
revenge anointed with the blood of innocents.
Removing
his sword from its sheath, he turned to the few guards surrounding him. “Get everyone
away from here as fast as ye can, including yerselves. There is nothing more to
be gained by staying.”
In the
distance, a tall menacing figure strode through the lower fields, headed toward
the house.
Damn.
“But, my
lord--” one of the men tried to protest.
“I said to
get them away.” Frustrated, he shook his head and placed his hand on the
shoulder of the young man willing to give his life for him. No. He didn’t want
any more blood spilled in his name. “They are farmers fer God’s sake, yer
friends, yer family…not soldiers. If they stay it would be a blood bath and
nothing more. The quarrel lies with me, not them. Now go!”
He turned
without another word and strode into the hall. Normally filled with torches and
a welcoming fire blazing in the enormous hearth, the entrance of Banth Manor
was dark and cold, eerily silent. Entering a room off the grand hall, he sat
down at an old oak desk and placed his sword beside him. The chamber he’d so
often shared with his father gave him little comfort now from the tirade
sweeping his land. So many memories were etched into the ancient walls of that
room from generations of Donegals. And so many questions left unanswered.
Whatever his destiny, he’d meet it head-on.
He wasn’t
going to run.
* *
* *
Cork, Ireland, 2008
The speaker system crackled
into life. “Ladies and gentlemen, European Airways would like
to welcome you to Cork
International Airport. The pilot and crew thank you for choosing to fly with
us. Please wait until the aircraft has come to a complete stop before moving
about the cabin.”
Bloody
hell. After twenty-seven hours of flying in sardine cans, she’d be lucky to
ever be able to move again. To ease her stiff neck, Ellen Quinn tried to
stretch her aching limbs. A passenger sitting in the window seat next to her
stood and pushed past her to the aisle.
“You’re
welcome.” She muttered a curse under her breath as the man proceeded to grab
his baggage from the overhead locker. Swinging down, his briefcase narrowly
missed her head. She glared, wanted to give the inconsiderate sod a piece of
her mind, but it wasn’t worth the effort.
No wonder
she preferred to work with plants.
Her mood
wasn’t helped either by the ankle cramps that had plagued her since the
connecting flight at Heathrow Airport, the typical tasteless ‘airline’ food,
and the grumpy old man next to her who’d snored like a bear in hibernation and smelled
just as bad.
Welcome to
Ireland.
She stood,
gathered her carry-on and waited to leave the plane. Another two hours away Banth
Manor awaited, which her very distant cousin, Lord Michael Donegal, tenth Viscount
Banth, had described as an impressive estate shrouded in history.
Mystery,
more like.
Not one to
leave matters to chance, she’d spent several days researching the property on the
internet, hoping to gain some insight into the birthplace of her ancestors.
Nothing. Not even a map on how to get there. Hard to believe any place on the
planet could escape the clutches of the worldwide web. Either way, she would
see it for herself soon enough. And have a long hot bath accompanied by a
generous glass of red wine.
Oh, what
bliss.
As she
collected her bag from the crowded luggage carousel and passed through customs,
a twinge of guilt nudged her conscience. Why was she complaining? After all,
her trip had been a gift, or more precisely a bequest from her great-aunt
Kathleen.
Though
travelling had never been one of her favorite pastimes, the will had stated
she’d receive an open return ticket to Ireland and the amount of five thousand
pounds in spending money.
How could
she say no?
But when
the lawyer had given her the ticket, cold shivers raced along her spine.
Printed with her name,
Ellen Quinn
, her Great-aunt Kathleen had
purchased the fare the day before she’d died, as if the dear woman had known
her time had come. Eerie, perhaps, yet she shouldn’t be surprised. Her aunt
always had a sixth sense about such matters, knowing when to call the moment
problems arose, and you never could surprise her on her birthday.
Even the
family ancestry had become somewhat of a mystery.
Aunt
Kathleen had visited Ireland many times during her life to compile the family
tree, but never brought back a single souvenir. Not even a postcard or
photograph.
Some family
tree.
And, now it
was her turn. She couldn’t go back empty handed.
Problem
was, what little information her aunt’s papers provided gave little detail
about what to expect from her relations. Maybe her cousins in Ireland weren’t
very close. If they were anything like her family back home in Australia, it
was strictly weddings and funerals only.
Or, perhaps
old age had something to do with the lack of information Kathleen had gathered.
She’d never considered her aunt incompetent, but once when she’d given her a
disposable camera to take some photos, not only did she forget to, she lost the
camera. Or so she’d said.
For her,
the timing for the trip couldn’t have been better. She needed to put some
distance between her and Bryant, her latest relationship disaster.
The Plant
Queen had struck again.
As a taxi
pulled up to the rank, she retrieved a crumpled note from her pocket. The only
information her aunt had left. The scrawl contained a brief list of eccentric
relatives, one of whom apparently swatted imaginary flies with a napkin whilst
he ate lunch.
The driver
got out of his cab and opened the passenger door. “Where can I take you to,
miss?”
His chirpy
Irish accent made her smile, and she tucked the note back into her pocket.
“Banth Manor, Shaughnessy Valley, please.”
She was on
her way.
* *
* *
By late
afternoon the taxi had pulled away from the tall stone walls surrounding the
grounds of Banth Manor, leaving her standing there with her small suitcase and
computer bag. She preferred to travel light.
Past the
immense iron gates, a large ratty-looking old house in dire need of restoration
stood in the distance. Having never seen a photo of the manor, she’d visualized
many times what it might look like. And that wasn’t it.
Sighing,
she bent down and picked up her suitcase. Aunt Kathleen should have told her
about this. It was a long way to come and--
She stopped
in her tracks. The gate. The heavy, rusted gates she’d just been looking at
were now open. But how? They’d been closed.
She looked
around, hoping someone would be there to reassure her she wasn’t going crazy, but
the taxi driver had long gone and she was very much alone. Perhaps they’d been
open all along.
They didn’t
appear to be electronic. God, she didn’t know. Had she gone nuts? Jetlag. Yes,
that was it. She’d feel much better after a good soak and something to eat.
Shrugging
the notion off, she slung her computer bag over her shoulder, passed through
the open gates and began walking up the long, pebbled driveway. Strange. Gray
and barren, the vast grounds inside the estate looked dull and lifeless
compared to the lush rolling hills the cab had driven through on the way there.
Closer to
the old stone building, a twinge of despair tightened her chest. Run-down, dark
and desolate. So much for an impressive estate.
This trip
hadn’t gotten off to a good start.
Something
else was not quite right. She stopped just meters from the manor and looked about.
What was it?
Noise.
There was none. Not a bird sang or cricket chirped. Even the breeze rippling
through the tops of the nearby trees made no sound at all. Eerie.
Shaking her
head, she laughed. “For God’s sake, I’m here five minutes and already I’m spooked.
Come on Ellen, get a grip!” But no sooner had she dismissed the feeling as her
mind playing tricks, than a chilling sensation gripped her. Was she being
watched?
The tiny
hairs on the back of her neck had stood on end, layers of goose bumps rippled across
her skin. Legs heavy, she forced herself to move toward the stone steps.
Running seemed impossible.
Upon
reaching the enormous timber doors, she groaned at the sight of steel chains
and a hefty padlock. What? Oh, come on. This was just stupid. How would she get
in? Besides, Lord Michael what’s-his-name said he would meet her here. Where
the hell could he be?
Stepping
down from the landing, she examined the pitted wooden door frame. There had to be
a bell or intercom so she could get the attention of anyone who might be
inside.
Then out of
the corner of her vision, something moved.
Her
heartbeat jumped.
“Hello.”
Her pulse raced with uncertainty. No one there. A heavy sigh escaped her. Now her
mind really was starting to play tricks. The sun had begun its steep descent
into the mountains beyond, casting long burnt shadows across the scene.
Darkness would come soon.
She had to
get inside.
Following
the edge of the building, she searched for another entrance. Surely, there must
be a back door or kitchen or something. At the rear of the manor, she came
across a large conservatory room. Its cracked dirty glass shone reddish-brown
where the last of the sun’s rays struck. Another door there, but it too was
locked.
Dammit! She
turned away from the room and stubbed her foot on the remnants of an old rock
garden bed. Shooting pain had her wincing, hopping about on one foot until it
subsided. For the love of… What else could go wrong?
Near the
other end of the conservatory, where the glass met the stone, stood a darkened doorway.
Heartbeat racing, she prayed it was open. Running toward the door, she all but
threw her suitcase to the ground and grabbed onto the iron latch.
Locked.
“No!” She
kicked the door, forgot the fact she’d already hurt her foot once, and scowled as
the wood held fast. “Argh!” This was some kind of a cruel joke. What if she
couldn’t get in? She’d be stranded there.
Back home
she’d be sitting down to a nice, quiet dinner about now and a bottle of red,
the strains of her favorite music playing softly in the back ground. But, no.
She had to fly half way around the world to complete some ridiculous task
started back God knows when.
She put her
computer bag on the ground, glanced down and noticed a tiny white corner of something
poking out from under an old doormat. A tiny corner of what?
She bent
over and lifted the mat. Oh, it couldn’t be, of all the places. She picked up a
dirty white envelope and held it up to the fading light.
Her name
had been written in bold letters along the front.
She tore
open the seal, smiling at the irony when a large black key tumbled into her
hand. Clasping it, she removed a note from inside. Lord Michael Donegal wasn’t
coming, it said. He’d been detained overseas.
Perfect.
On
vacation, more like it. Not that she could really blame him. Who’d want to come
here? Apparently, the viscount resided in London and planned to sell the estate
to a hotel developer. Which meant this might be her last chance to visit her
family’s ancestral home and finish their family tree once and for all. Thank
goodness.
The note
did explain, however, that he’d arranged for a hamper of food to be delivered
to the manor and anything else she needed, just to put it on his account at the
town grocer. Hell. It was the least he could do. Crap. Not that she was
ungrateful, but she was just tired and hungry enough to eat airline food.