She detoured to the desk.

“Good evening, Ms. Kelly, and how was your day?”

“It was wonderful. I wonder if I can leave this with you to send to the falconry school? It’s a little thank-you for Morena—I didn’t get her last name. She let me do an informal hawk walk this morning when I met her and Amish—the hawk—in the woods.”

“Isn’t that lovely?” The young brunette on the desk took the gift bag. “I’d be happy to, of course. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

She intended to. She walked to her room, pried off her boots, let out a long sigh as she wondered how many miles she’d put on them—and her feet—in the last two days.

Worth every step.

Since it was the last night, she decided she could take a minute or two to freshen her makeup.

As she checked the results, a knock sounded on her door.

“It’s been five minutes, Marco,” she muttered. “Okay, ten.”

But she opened the door to the brunette from the desk.

“Sorry to bother you, miss, but I checked with the falconry school—with my cousin, as it happens, who works there. He tells me they have no Morena, nor a hawk called Amish.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It may be you misunderstood the names. My cousin would be happy to check in the morning if any of the falconers met with you, though no one mentioned it through the day. I didn’t want to keep the gift until we find the right person, you see.”

“Yes, of course, thank you.”

“Anything more I can do for you, Ms. Kelly?”

“No, no, thanks. Sorry for the trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Have a lovely evening.”

But she hadn’t misunderstood the names, Breen thought as she shut the door. And she sure as hell hadn’t imagined the experience.

Morena and Amish—she could see, and hear, them both perfectly. She could remember the thrill of watching the hawk fly to her glove, and the way he’d looked right into her eyes.

Then again, Morena hadn’t specifically said she was with the school. Wasn’t it possible she decided to fly her own hawk on castle grounds?

Breen thought that might be frowned upon, even illegal. She wouldn’t push it, she decided as she tucked the bag in her suitcase. She could get the woman in trouble.

And she remembered the way Morena had looked back at her, told her they’d see each other again.

Then she’d just . . . melted into the trees. Just disappeared.

Like the man with the silver hair.

“Maybe I’m losing my mind.” Feeling the pressure in her chest, she closed her eyes, forced herself to breathe through it. “Maybe I imagined it all.”

She opened her eyes again. “But I didn’t. I absolutely didn’t.”

So she wouldn’t worry about it. She’d go have that drink with Marco.

And she didn’t see any point in mentioning any of this to him.

That night she dreamed herself a child, one of no more than two or three. She sat, crying, inside a cage with glass walls. Outside the cage the water flowed, pale green.

She cried for her mother, and her father, but they didn’t come. She cried for someone she called Nan, but no one came.

Outside the glass walls in that flickering light stood a shadow she knew to be a man. But she couldn’t see him. She didn’t cry for him because she feared him, even as a child of no more than two or three.

When he spoke, his voice was smooth and sweet as music. And false, somehow false.

“There now, my child, my blood, my own, your tears are foolish and weak, and no one can hear them. You have lessons to learn, to carefully learn. I’ll teach you to be all you are, and you’ll have toys, shiny and bright, and sweets, all the sweets your heart desires.”

“I want my ma, I want my da, I want my ma, I want my da. I want—”

“Silence!” Not smooth and sweet now, but a boom of thunder. “I’ll teach you what to want. I’ll show you what you can have. I am your mother, your father, your all now. Heed me or you’ll shed more than tears. Lessons to learn, and the first is obedience.”

As the shadow moved closer, she screamed. She screamed first in fear, then in the rage only a child can feel.

And with that scream, with that fisting of her hands, the glass shattered.

She was in her bed in the room with the sloped ceiling in the little house in Philadelphia. And a child still, a bit older, but a child still, she clung to her father as he stroked, rocked, soothed.

“Just a dream, mo stór, only a dream. Da’s here, right here. You’re safe and well and I’m right here. He can’t hurt you. He’ll never touch you again.”

But as she tried to claw herself out of the dream, Breen thought he could.

She thought he would.

CHAPTER EIGHT

She decided not to tell Marco about the dream, and she certainly wouldn’t blog about it. But she wrote it out in what she now thought of as her personal journal.

Since the best explanation for Morena and her hawk equaled trespassing, she didn’t see any reason to mention it.

She wrote her blog, concentrating on the positive and happy—and found that made her feel more positive and happy.

Following habit, she streamed a workout, then took herself out for her final morning walk at Dromoland. The walled gardens offered peace and beauty, so she took it, pulled it into her like the positive and happy.

Bad dreams were just that—dreams—and since she’d been plagued by them most of her life, she wouldn’t dwell on them during waking hours.

Not when she had flowers and birds and soft sunlight through layered clouds. Though what she had left to pack would take about five minutes, she told herself she’d go back in, get it done. Then admitted to cowardice and pushed herself to take a path into the woods.

Nerves bubbled up and, annoyed by them, she pushed herself to take the same route she had the day before. But this time, she walked alone.

She wound her way back as those layered clouds began to drip.

The plan, loosely outlined, put her at the wheel for the first leg north. So with the little car loaded and Marco beside her, she drove away from the castle in a thin, steady rain.

“We slept in a castle, Breen.”

“We slept in a castle, Marco. Now we’re going to take our time and our wandering way and see more on the road to our cozy Irish cottage.”

“How many people do we know who can say what you just said?”

“Absolutely no one.”

They headed north, then west toward the coast, adding gorgeous miles to the journey. In and out of rain, into a patch of strong sun that had cloud shadows sliding over the fields, they pulled off and stopped where they pleased.

On foot, they crossed a field wild with buttercups to explore a ruined keep while behind a fence a little gray donkey watched them. When Marco jogged over, the donkey stretched her head over the fence in invitation.

Gingerly at first, Marco tapped his hand on the donkey’s head. “Look at that. She likes it.”

“Turn around. I’ll take your picture. Urbanite Meets Donkey.”

“I’ll do better.”

To Breen’s astonishment, Marco vaulted over the fence.

“I don’t think you should—”

“It’s not hurting anything, and look, she likes it.”

He actually put an arm around the donkey’s neck, who proceeded to rub against him like a cat.

“That’s something you don’t see every day,” Breen murmured, and immortalized it.

“Come on over. She’s really sweet.”

Though she hesitated, Breen lectured herself on cowardice and moved to the fence. She had to push herself as she had that morning to climb over. And when the donkey turned its head toward her, she let out a muffled squeal that made Marco laugh.

“Gut up, Breen. She’s not going to eat you.”

“She could bite. What do either of us know about donkeys?” But she put a tentative hand on the donkey’s head. “There, done. Now we should get back on the road.”

“Wait. I need to get your picture with her, too. Think of the blog,” he added.

“Think of the blog.” She muttered it, but put her hand back on the donkey. It looked at her, right at her, just as the hawk had done.

“She is sweet, isn’t she?” Now she stroked as she might a friendly dog. “She likes the company. She gets lonely out here when the sheep aren’t around. Isn’t that right, Bridget?”

“Breen, you’re not going to believe this.”

“What?” Smiling at the donkey, stroking its rough hair, she imagined a farmhouse, and a boy with messy brown hair who came out to brush her.

“There’s a butterfly on your shoulder. Don’t jerk! I got a great picture already, but just turn your head to the left. Slow.”

Heart thumping, she turned her head. The butterfly perched, wings as yellow as the buttercups, spread. Astonished, she stared while those wings, dappled with black dots, closed and opened.

Then it flew, a delicate blossom riding the air.

“That was major cool. Here, look at the pictures I got.”

He held out his phone, slowly swiping through, as he’d taken several shots of Breen smiling at the donkey as if they were old friends, and a butterfly on her shoulder.

And the one he’d managed to get after she turned her head. And there she didn’t see shock on her own face, but absolute delight.

“I didn’t know they did that—landed on people.”

“Neither did I.” She touched a hand to her shoulder.

“I think I’d’ve freaked. You didn’t.”

“Inside a little.”

“Didn’t show. That’s sure as hell something to blog about. Gotta book it, girl.” He gave the donkey a last pat. “Bridget?” Grinning, Marco looked back at Breen. “Where’d you get all that?”

She didn’t have a clue. “I guess she looks like a Bridget.”