Page 69 of Captivated
He’d only removed his deerstalker hat and cape because his wife, Camilla, had refused to eat with him otherwise.
Camilla, often thought of as the baby of the brood, was pretty and plump as a pigeon, and she had a will of iron. She matched her husband’s eccentricities with her own. This morning, she was trying out a new hairstyle of blazing orange curls that corkscrewed around her head. A long eagle feather dangled from one ear.
Maureen, as skilled a medium as Morgana had ever known, was tall and stately and had an infectious, bawdy laugh that could rattle the rafters.
Together with Morgana’s serene mother and dignified father, they made a motley crew. Witches all. As she listened to them bicker around her, Morgana was nearly swamped with love.
“Your cat’s been climbing the curtains in my room again,” Camilla told Maureen with a wave of her fork.
“Pooh.” Maureen shrugged her sturdy shoulders. “Just hunting mice, that’s all.”
Camilla’s massive curls jiggled. “You know very well there’s not a mouse in this house. Douglas cast them out.”
“And did a half-baked job,” Matthew muttered.
“Half-baked.” Camilla huffed in her husband’s defense. “The only thing half-baked is this pie.”
“Aye, and Doug made that, as well,” Padrick interjected and grinned. “But I like my apples crunchy.”
“It’s a new recipe.” Douglas peered owlishly through his magnifying glass. “Healthy.”
“The cat,” Camilla insisted, knowing very well she’d lose control of the conversation.
“Cat’s healthy as a horse,” Padrick said cheerfully. “Isn’t that right, lamb chop?” He sent his wife a lusty wink. Maureen responded with an equally lusty giggle.
“I don’t give a tinker’s damn about the cat’s health,” Camilla began.
“Oh, now, now...” Douglas patted her chubby hand. “We don’t want a sick cat around, do we? Reenie will brew him up a nice remedy.”
“The cat’s not sick,” Camilla said in a strangled voice. “Douglas, for heaven’s sake, keep up.”
“Keep up with what?” he demanded, indignant. “If the cat’s not sick, what in Finn’s name is the problem? Morgana, lass, you’re not eating your pie.”
She was too busy grinning. “It’s wonderful, Douglas. I’m saving it.” She sprang up, dancing around the table to smack kisses on every cheek, “I love you, all of you.”
“Morgana,” Bryna called as her daughter spun out of the room. “Where are you going?”
“For a walk on the beach. For a long, long walk on the beach.”
Douglas scowled through his glass. “Girl’s acting odd,” he pronounced. Since the meal was nearly over, he plucked up his hat and dropped it on his head. “Don’t you think?”
***
Nash was feeling odd. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he hadn’t slept in two days. Traveling steadily for approximately twenty hours in planes, trains, cabs, and shuttle buses might have contributed to the dazed, dreamlike state he was currently enjoying. Still, he’d managed to get from the West Coast to the East, to catch another plane in New York and snatch a little twilight sleep crossing the Atlantic. Then there’d been the train south from Dublin and a frantic search for a car he could buy, rent, or steal to carry him the last jarring miles from Waterford to Castle Donovan.
He knew it was important to stay on the right side of the road. Or rather the wrong side. He wondered why the devil it should matter, when the rutted, ditch-lined dirt track he was currently bouncing along couldn’t remotely be considered a road of any kind.
And the car, which he’d managed to procure for the equivalent of twelve hundred American dollars—nobody could say the Irish weren’t shrewd bargainers—was threatening to break apart on him at every bump. He’d already lost the poor excuse for a muffler, and was making enough noise to wake the sleeping dead.
It wasn’t that the land didn’t have style and grace, with its towering cliffs and its lush green fields. It was that he was afraid he’d end up staggering up the final hill with nothing but a steering wheel in his hands.
Those were the Knockmealdown Mountains to the west. He knew because the same slippery horse trader who’d sold him the car had been expansive enough to offer directions. The mountains to the west, St. George’s Channel to the east, and you’ll trip right over the Donovans before teatime.
Nash was beginning to believe he’d find himself buried in a peat bog before teatime.
“If I live,” Nash mumbled. “If I find her and I live, I’m going to kill her. Slowly,” he said with relish, “so she knows I mean it.”
Then he was going to carry her off to some dark, quiet place and make love with her for a week. Then he was going to sleep for a week, wake up, and start all over again.
