The Mist (27 page)

Beara Peninsula, Southwest Ireland
4:00 p.m., IST
August 29

L
izzie sat at what she now considered her table by the fire in Eddie O'Shea's pub. She had Keira's book of Irish folktales opened to an illustartion of trooping fairies. She sighed. "I wish I could draw."

"You have other talents," Eddie said, sitting across from her. His dog, settled on the hearth, kept staring at her as if he knew she'd been kissed a by British lord and didn't approve.

"This place feels different than it did the night I was here," Lizzie said.

Eddie reached down and patted the dog. "I'd hope so. Simon's returned. He'll be here soon to start up an argument." The barman seemed to relish the idea. "Have you heard his Irish accent?"

"I understand it's very good."

"Not to a real Irishman."

Lizzie laughed. "Keira will be happy to see him, now that the guards are satisfied she's safe." She turned to another illustration, one of a beautiful fairy princess and a handsome fairy prince. "Imagine loving someone that much. Having someone love you that much."

"There are rules about weddings in Ireland, but I have a feeling Keira and Simon will figure them out." Eddie sat up straight, and the dog rolled onto his side close to the fire. "Your mum was Irish."

"Yes, she was. When I lived in Ireland, I found the cottage where she was born. It's been abandoned, but it's structurally sound, tucked in a quiet, isolated valley not that far from here."

"A magical valley?"

Lizzie smiled at the Irishman across from her and decided he wasn't as skeptical about the wee folk as he liked to pretend. "I have an open mind. I'd like to take Keira there. Maybe it'll inspire a painting. We can find old stories."

"You've a new friend in Keira."

"I hope so. I'm also good at wishful thinking."

Eddie kept his eyes on her. "You've fallen for your Brit, haven't you? Well, your mother fell for a Yank."

"You like Will. My Irish ancestors--"

"They'd want you to be happy. I hear there's no Rush hotel in London."

"Imagine that."

"Convenient, wouldn't you say?"

Josie Goodwin entered the pub and walked behind the bar, helping herself to a bottle of expensive whiskey. She collected a glass and headed to Lizzie's table. Eddie rose and gave her his seat.

"I've become very fond of the Beara Peninsula," Josie said, setting down her glass and opening the bottle. "Should I have brought you a glass?"

Lizzie shook her head. "I've a weakness for Eddie's blackberry crumble."

"Ah. Who doesn't."

Josie poured her whiskey and, after taking a sip, produced a handwritten invitation to Abigail and Owen's wedding in Scotland, along with arrangements for transportation. "And I wasn't sure if you'd have time to shop, so I've a dress for you, too. I've had it sent to Scotland. It's pale blue, flowing, I'm sure just the right size. Your auntie's a dear. Your cousin Justin in Dublin put me in touch with her." Josie took a breath and another swallow of her drink. "How are you? It's all a bit of a crush, I know, but that's how these people are. Will and his American friends. I expect you'll fit right in."

"I love weddings," Lizzie said.

"I expect you do. Will's delayed, but he plans to arrive in time for the ceremony. Whatever's between you is more than the heat of the moment." She pursed her lips, as if debating how much to say. "His family's complicated."

Simon had come into the pub. The local men moaned but were obviously delighted to see him. They exchanged a few good-natured barbs as he dragged a chair over to Lizzie's table and joined her and Josie by the fire. "All families are complicated, Josie." It seemed to be a familiar exchange between them, but he was serious as he addressed Lizzie. "March should have told me about his connection to you. I should have found out on my own. I shouldn't have left you out there alone for so long."

"I was never alone," Lizzie said. "I'd only to give Director March my name, and I'd have had help. I knew that, even when I was most convinced I was on my own."

"This was a tough mission from start to finish. Norman was manipulative and deceptive, but even he didn't have all the pieces."

"Did John March?"

It was Josie who answered. "One never knows."

Simon reached over and tapped the wedding invitation. "Time to sing and dance." His deep green eyes sparked with mischief. "I haven't a clue whether Will knows how to do either."

"As a matter of fact," Josie said, "I don't, either."

Simon smiled. "You'll have to find out, Lizzie, and tell us."

She felt a surge of heat that, she knew, had nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with the thought of dancing in Scotland with Will Davenport. "Is that a challenge, Special Agent Cahill?"

He got to his feet. He truly was a bruiser of a man. "Designed to appeal to the daredevil in you." His eyes were warm now, a promise in them. "You'll be among friends in Scotland."

The local men teased him, and he them back. He was affable and well liked, but he didn't linger. He headed out, and Lizzie rose, restless, uncertain, suddenly, why she'd even come here.

She thanked Josie, who'd given up on her whiskey and was providing Eddie O'Shea with precise instructions about the blackberry crumble she was ordering.

Lizzie followed Eddie's dog out to the pretty village street. The spaniel trotted ahead of her and turned, tail wagging. Hugging her Irish sweater close to her, she let him lead her onto the lane along the ancient wall above the harbor.

As they turned onto the dirt track, she saw a woman running across the field from the stone circle, and recognized Keira Sullivan.

Simon was by the fence, the barren hills quiet except for the intermittent bleating of sheep. Lizzie stopped, and the springer
spaniel wandered back down to her in the fine, gray mist. Together they watched as Simon climbed over the fence. Keira cried out as she spotted him and started to run, and he scooped her up into his arms.

They held on to each other as if they'd never let go.

"Soulmates," Lizzie whispered, and she and the dog headed back down the lane.

When she reached the village, she had a panicked text message from Justin in Dublin.

Help. Uncle Harlan is here.

She called her cousin. "Lizzie," Justin said, still worked up, "Uncle Harlan's taking me to the Irish village where your family's from. I'm touched, I swear I am, but I have a feeling he's going to teach me how to survive a night in an Irish ruin. And he wants to drive."

"Maintain situational awareness, and you'll be fine."

"Situational--Lizzie!"

She laughed. "I'm going to a wedding."

Highlands of Scotland
3:00 p.m., BST
September 2

W
ill Davenport's "house" was a stunning Regency period mansion in the Scottish highlands. Lizzie found Abigail Browning on a path that meandered through the extensive gardens. The detective, more or less healed from her ordeal, was in her element. "I'm so glad you're here," she said. "The Davenports have been so generous. Will's sister, Arabella, had a rack dress that fits me. Will arranged for a private plane so that Scoop could make it. I don't know how he did it. Josie Goodwin said she'll have an ambulance on call. He looks awful, but he says it's because he spent hours trapped on a plane with Bob complaining about another cross-Atlantic trip. My folks are here. The Garrisons. I don't know how a small wedding got so big so fast." She caught herself. "I'm talking a mile a minute."

Lizzie smiled. "It's a special day. Your family and friends are all delighted to see you happy and well."

"It's perfect. And I've never..." Her dark eyes, no longer filled with pain and fatigue, settled on Lizzie. "Thank you for saving my life."

"Myles Fletcher wouldn't have let you be killed."

"He'd have done what he could, but you had instincts and information and doggedness. They're what made the difference. Without you, Estabrook..." She made a face. "Never mind. Let's not ruin a perfect day by mentioning him."

"Your father--"

"He arrived last night. And here comes my mother. She's so nervous, she's making me nervous."

"She's had a rough time."

Abigail grimaced. "I love her, and I don't take her for granted--"

"No, it's all right. Go let her fuss over you. Be a mum and daughter."

Lizzie wandered the grounds until a few minutes before the ceremony started in a large, airy room with tapestries on the walls and giant urns of hydrangeas. She was seated next to Arabella Davenport, who had her brother's hazel eyes. She whispered to Lizzie, "Will is due back any moment."

He arrived in time for the ceremony and stood in back, elegant, reserved, well mannered and thoroughly sexy. Their days apart hadn't changed anything, not for her. She was as attracted to him as ever. It hadn't been a passing fancy fueled by the danger and fears they'd faced together.

And he couldn't dance. Neither could Lizzie.

"Your family, Will. They're proud of what you do?" She stumbled in his arms, righted herself. "Or don't they know?"

"My sister...but the rest...no."

An answer without answering.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lizzie saw Simon dancing with Keira, keeping her off her feet most of the time. "Now, Simon can dance."

"He can, indeed. Philip Billings could, too. David and Myles and I were always surprised...." Will smiled at her, holding her close. "They were right, Billings and Mears. About you. I've met my match."

"Will--"

But he spun her toward glass doors that led to the gardens. "Tell me what you want, Lizzie."

"I want to live in a castle with a handsome prince and grow hollyhocks and lavender."

"With the occasional holiday to save someone?"

"I suppose I'll have to work, too. I have to find somewhere in the U.K. to locate a hotel."

"An adventure in its own right." He bent down to whisper in her ear. "Let's skip the dancing. I've two left feet, as you can see."

"You're faking it. You can dance as well as any Jane Austen hero."

He walked with her onto a cool terrace, fragrant with roses. "I've told everyone I'll be fishing here for the next few weeks. I thought you might like to see where."

"I don't fish."

"You don't fish and you don't dance. Just what will we do to amuse ourselves?"

He took her to a small stone cottage on a stream amid fir trees.

Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her into the bedroom and lowered her to the soft sheets and undressed her to the sounds of the stream. He worked slowly, patiently, or at least deliberately.

Lizzie shivered at the feel of his breath, his hands, on her bare skin. "Can you fall in love with someone in such a short time?"

"I can," he said, his hands warm on her bare skin. "I've been waiting for you my whole life."

"My Prince Charming."

He smiled, smoothing his palms over her hips. "You're not going to turn into a Sleeping Beauty, are you?"

She sank deeper into the soft bed. "Not for a while."

A breeze floated over her, adding to the sensations of his touch, his kisses. She slipped her hands under his warm sweater and spread her fingers over the muscles of his back, felt his shudder of pleasure.

He shed his clothes and came to her again. She sank into the soft bed and lost herself in the feel of him. Touching him, caressing him, kissing him, until she was quivering and hot. She led him into her, their eyes locking as he whispered her name. He moved inside her, and she was gone, pulling him deep, crying out for him as his own urgency mounted.

Days they had ahead of them...

He seemed to read her mind and held her tight. "We're just beginning," he said, and that was the last either spoke for a long time.

Later, they dressed warmly and walked along the stream, holding hands in the cool late-summer air. Lizzie leaned against him, and suddenly the pressures of the past year--its secrets and dangers--seemed far away.

When they returned to the cottage, they found a basket on the doorstep, with a bottle of champagne...and a sprig of lavender.

Lizzie looked at Will and squeezed his hand.

Myles Fletcher
.

Will took the basket inside without a word. He opened the
champagne and filled two glasses, handing one to her as he slipped one arm around her.

"To friends in harm's way," he said.

They touched their glasses together, and Lizzie whispered, "May they always know they're not alone."

F
or sharing their knowledge and expertise with me, many thanks to Gregory Harrell, my detective cousin; to Fire Chief Stephen Locke of the Hartford (VT) Fire Department; to Hilda Neggers Stilwell, my nurse sister; to Paul Hudson; and to Dave and Margie Carley (ah, Maine!). Any mistakes and liberties are my doing.

A special thanks to Denis Burke in Cleveland for the Irish stories!

There's nothing like visiting Ireland--it's an amazing place. I brought home several books that have helped me better understand what I saw on our trips. For more information on the Beara Peninsula, I recommend
Beara: The Unexplored Peninsula
by Francis Twomey and Tony McGettigan (Woodpark Publications); the Ordnance Survey's
The Beara Way
(Wayfarer Series);
The Stone Circles of Cork & Kerry
by Jack Roberts (Bandia Publishing). Among my favorites of the countless books on Irish folktales is
Irish Folktales,
edited by Henry Glassie (Pantheon Books).

Finally, many thanks to thank my editor, Margaret Marbury, and to everyone at MIRA Books for their support, patience, creativity and thoughtfulness.

Thank you!

ISBN: 978-1-4268-3531-5

THE MIST

Copyright (c) 2009 by Carla Neggers.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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