Patrick's Promise

  Patrick’s Promise

  by

  JoMarie DeGioia

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Bailey Park Publishing at Smashwords

  Copyright © JoMarie DeGioia 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-944181-03-1

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Discover other books by JoMarie DeGioia

  Connect with me online

  Prologue

  Meath Province, Ireland 1810

  “MacDonald…”

  The voice reached out to Patrick MacDonald, winding itself around him in a teasing caress. He walked through the cool twilight, into the shadowed woods. His stumbling feet seemed to move of their own accord, taking him away from his home. Away from his family. The lure of the voice was too great to ignore.

  A laugh came through the mist then, high and soft and promising pleasure. His body reacted and he searched through the trees for the source of the beguiling sound. There, in a shaft of light from the rising moon, stood a beautiful woman. He stared into large eyes the color of the darkening night.

  “Who are you?” he asked the vision.

  The woman laughed again, throwing her head back as her long golden hair floated around her. Her dress of white clung to her curves, and the sight made his throat go dry. The whisper-thin fabric brushed over shapely legs and touched the tops of her delicate bare feet. With graceful hands, she gestured to him to come closer. He watched, mesmerized by her motions as desire pounded deep in his veins.

  “Come to me, MacDonald,” she purred.

  This is wrong. His mind whispered within, telling him to leave the woman alone. His honor demanded it. He swallowed hard and shook his head. “Nay.”

  The girl reached out and grabbed his hand. A spark flashed through him, setting him on fire. Under her spell, he stepped closer to her. She kissed him. Caressed him. His body burned as his mind’s protests weakened. Deeper into the woods she pulled him, urging him closer and closer.

  Patrick glanced down then and saw she floated above the ground, the grass barely touching her toes. A moment of clarity struck him and he pulled away.

  “You… you’re a Banshee!”

  She smiled, and any protest he’d thought to make was lost.

  “Aye, Braunach,” she purred. “Make me scream…”

  Chapter 1

  Meath Province, Ireland, 1814

  Patrick came awake with a jerk, his body drenched with sweat despite the chill in the room. The nightmare had come again. The memory tortured him with startling regularity as it had the past four years. He rose from the bed and crossed to the washstand, the dark desire slowing ebbing from his body. He splashed his face with cool water from the basin and took a deep breath.

  “When will these bloody dreams stop?” he growled.

  He settled back on his rumpled sheets and hung his head. Those weeks of insanity four years ago, that time when lust ruled any good sense he had, still preyed on him. Lord, the bitch had left her mark on more than his mind.

  He reached up with his right hand and brushed the lines of ridged skin over his left shoulder blade. He tore his hand away and fisted it. The mark still burned on nights like this, a reminder of his sin with the Banshee. He kept the scar hidden from his family and would continue to do so. But it grew harder and harder to live the lie.

  He stretched out on the bed once more, his heart finally slowing its beat. His brother slept on the other side of the wall, his uncle in the wing at the back of the house. They were Meath Braunachs all, and as honorable and true as those who had come before. He had been proud to count himself among that pure tradition. Until the Banshee had bewitched him.

  His Uncle Seamus made much use of a magic amber pendant over the years, traveling to many different times and places to bring back tales to delight Patrick and his brothers. Were Patrick to make use of his uncle’s amber and leap to the future, his looks would ensure his acceptance among the mortals. And he was handsome enough to draw the notice of the mortal females, though that meant nothing to him now.

  Patrick grunted. Escaping to the future wasn’t an option for him. He’d committed his sin, and had since sworn himself to celibacy. Never again would passion rule him. He would continue his work in his family’s workshop, crafting the finest shoes and boots for those in Meath Province and beyond. He would keep to himself and endeavor to be the man he was before that first fateful walk into the woods: a man his family—and he himself—could be proud of again. ‘Twas a pity he had no idea how to accomplish that.

  Patrick stood at his workbench the next afternoon, polishing a leather boot until he could see his reflection in its surface. His younger brother, Sean, stood at the other side of the space, hammering tiny nails into the thick sole of a sturdy work boot. Like Sean, Patrick wore breeches and fine MacDonald boots. The men worked in their shirtsleeves, rolled up in deference to their work. Sean hummed a song to himself, but Patrick remained quiet.

  Through the open windows came the sounds and smells of spring in the dell, and Patrick breathed in the scents of earth and grass and flowers. Warm sunshine slanted across the room, glowing mutely over the wide plank floor. Yet Patrick felt disconnected. A bird called in the distance and he felt an icy shiver crawl up his spine.

  “What ails you, brother?” Sean asked.

  “Hmm?” Patrick shook his head to dispel his unease. “It’s nothing.”

  He looked out the nearest window, seeing only sunshine and the fresh colors of the growing earth. There was no sign of the bird that had called. Well, he wouldn’t look to the woods. Nay, not after last night’s dream. Dark shadows still clung beneath the thick trees there, huddled and hiding among the brush.

  “Luke should be back soon,” Sean remarked. “Been gone nearly a fortnight.”

  Luke was their oldest brother who traveled to the future four years ago to reclaim their family’s gold and restore their uncle’s health. He’d returned with a Pixie for a wife, of all things. Patrick had been stunned to see the girl from the future wrap his brother around her delicate finger. But then again, he had never seen a happier man.

  “The wee one likes to travel,” Patrick smiled.

  Luke’s son, Bryce, was just three years old, yet he already possessed both his father’s charm and his mother’s magic. It seemed like Luke had found more treasure than gold on his journey.

  “Keeps him out of the workshop,” Sean said.

  Patrick managed a laugh at that and the two men returned their attention to their respective tasks. Patrick didn’t begrudge Luke’s well-deserved fortune, a family Patrick would give his life for if their situations were reversed. But now he was marked to live out his life on the fringes of that happiness. To never know what it was like to love and be loved in the purest sense.

  “Master Patrick!” a female voice cried.

  Patrick and Sean exchanged a glance of confusion. Patr
ick looked out the window to see Mrs. O’Grady, the widow who kept their house, hurrying toward the workshop. Her face was red with exertion as she huffed and puffed.

  “What the devil?” Patrick murmured.

  Sean’s eyes grew wide. “You don’t think Uncle’s ill again!”

  “Nay,” Patrick said quickly, refusing to consider the possibility. He wiped his hands on a rag and walked to the front of the workshop as Mrs. O’Grady rushed in. “What is it, Mrs. O’Grady?”

  “Is it Uncle Seamus?” Sean asked.

  The lady shook her head. She mopped her brow with the corner of her apron and straightened the gray curls that had escaped her mop cap.

  “Oh! Nay, nay. Seamus be fine.” She held out a folded piece of paper toward Patrick. “Master Patrick, this arrived for ya’.”

  Patrick stifled a shiver as he glanced at the ordinary-looking letter. It was creased and soiled and bore a glob of wax with no seal that he could recognize.

  “Who brought it, pray?” he asked Mrs. O’Grady.

  She shrugged her round shoulders. “Don’t know.” She took a breath. “’Twas left outside the front door.”

  After a brief hesitation, Patrick took the note from her and turned it over in his hands. No address showed on the back, just his name scrawled in a spidery hand.

  “What is it, Patrick?” Sean asked.

  Patrick shook his head at his brother. He didn’t want to guess what the letter might mean. Just touching the filthy thing caused another chill to chase up his spine. But he wouldn’t worry his uncle’s housekeeper.

  He nodded to Mrs. O’Grady. “Thank you, Mrs. O’Grady. I’ll take care of this.”

  The lady nodded in return, relief clear in her brown eyes. “See you lads at dinner, then.”

  The brothers watched as the lady bustled out of the workshop. When she was good and gone, Sean stepped closer to Patrick.

  “You know who it’s from,” he stated.

  Patrick didn’t want the letter to have anything to do with last night’s dreams. But the odd sensation that had gripped him upon waking wouldn’t leave him be. And all Faery folk knew it was foolish to ignore one’s intuition.

  “I’m not certain,” was all Patrick would say to his brother.

  He broke the dirty wax seal and read the contents of the letter. The note was written in a careless hand, brought about by either haste or illness, and urged him to come at once. He recognized it for the summons it was and a tightness settled around his heart. He was called to a village on the other side of the woods. Damn.

  Patrick stuffed the note into his pocket and grabbed his jacket from a peg near the bench. “I have to go.”

  He strode toward the door but Sean reached out to grab his arm. “What is it, for God’s sake? You’re white as down!”

  Patrick shook free of his brother’s hold. “It’s nothing, I’m sure. But I have to go.”

  Without another word to Sean, Patrick left the workshop and headed for the woods. He’d been called to a cottage he’d never seen in a village he’d only heard of by a person he’d never met.

  It was deathly quiet here, and no children’s laughter or jingles of horses’ harnesses or neighbors shouted greetings could be heard as he left the dell behind him. The smells of decay reached his nostrils, and the air was heavy with the scent of moldy leaves, rotten pine needles and dead wood.

  Shadows seemed to cling to his fine boots as he tromped toward the far village, as if urging him to stay in the dell and leave this dark task to another. There was no one but Patrick for this, however. The letter made that as clear as the water which streamed through the brook behind Uncle Seamus’s cottage. And as cold.

  Patrick exited the woods after nearly an hour’s walk, feeling as though leagues now separated him from home. This village was much like their dell, although shabbier to his eyes. Dirty stoops squatted in front of worn cottages and weeds trailed over the paths leading to their doors. The bright afternoon sun did little to cheer the place as Patrick walked down the center of the dusty street toward his destination. Few inhabitants were out, and those who were showed little joy on their faces. Dingy clothes and unkempt hair were the only impressions he got, since they abruptly turned away from him.

  Patrick took the note from his pocket and read the direction to the cottage. He spied the lane up ahead and soon turned down the overgrown path.

  The cottage he sought was topped with a sagging roof, and its walls were badly in need of white wash. Weeds choked the flowers attempting to color the place in the meager planting beds flanking the low stoop. There was no way to delay this visit, however. Patrick stepped over the scrub and rapped on the rough-hewn door.

  “Come in,” a reedy female voice said.

  Patrick opened the door and stepped into the dim interior. The room was filthy and smelled stale. Grime from the dirt floor covered his boots after he took but a few steps into the cottage.

  He stood in what must serve as a drawing room, though there was little to recommend the place but sagging furniture and threadbare carpet, all of undistinguishable color. Light flickered from a chamber down a short hall and he walked toward it.

  “Madam?” he called softly.

  Coughing came, along with another summons. “Come here, lad.”

  Patrick stood in the doorway of a narrow bedchamber and eyed the thin form on the bed. An old woman clothed in a ragged nightgown peered up at him. He couldn’t guess her age. Beneath a fringe of tangled white hair, her eyes seemed familiar as she blinked up at him, though.

  “Patrick MacDonald?” she asked, her voice weak.

  “Aye, Madam.” Patrick swallowed and bowed his head. “I am Patrick MacDonald.”

  She smiled her obvious relief and struggled into a seated position. “Oh, the spirits have a bit o’ kindness left for an old woman.” She waved a bony hand in the direction of the chair beside her bed. “Sit, MacDonald. Sit. For I have a tale to tell ya’. And a promise to get in return.”

  Patrick sat, and then his eyes darted about the chamber. A pallet lay on the floor in one corner, covered with what he guessed was once a colorful quilt. He hadn’t seen a dog about the house, but no doubt the animal used the nest of blankets in the cool evenings. He looked back at the old woman, at those eyes that were a watery mix of black and purple.

  “What is this about, Madam?” he asked.

  She coughed again, her body trembling as she sucked in another breath. After she settled back on her pillow she eyed him closely. Her interest was unsettling and his skin tingled.

  “Aye, I see him in ya’,” she said with a nod. “No doubt ya’ will, too.”

  Patrick blinked. “Who, pray?”

  The old woman grabbed his hand and held on with a strength that surprised him. “Yer son.”

  Patrick stared at her, shaking his head. “Nay.”

  She nodded and squeezed his hand tighter still. “Aye, yer son. My witch of a niece left the babe in my care these past three years.”

  In the next moment the truth struck Patrick deep to his soul. He yanked his hand from hers. “The Banshee,” he rasped.

  “Aye.” Another bout of coughing came before the old woman continued. “I can’t care for the wee one no longer, MacDonald. Take him. Take him back to yer family.”

  “Nay!” Patrick struggled to his feet, knocking the chair over in his haste. “I won’t listen to this madness!”

  “’Tis not madness. Well, ‘tis madness of a sort.” Those eyes, so like the Banshee’s, turned toward the doorway. “Ah, here be the wee one.”

  Patrick turned slowly toward the door, at first seeing nothing but a young woman in dingy clothes. She reached behind her and shoved a little boy into the room.

  “Come on with ya’,” she sneered.

  The child stood still, leaning against the girl’s legs. Patrick took halting steps toward him. Though the boy’s hair was dirty, Patrick could see his curls were the same reddish brown as his own. Even his eyes were the same shade of blue. Not t
he Banshee’s eyes then, Patrick realized with relief. But the boy wasn’t right somehow. He stared through Patrick. His mouth was slack and his skin pale beneath smudges of dirt.

  His stomach pulled tight, Patrick whirled on the old lady. “What ails this child?”

  She let out a sigh and shook her head. “Surely ya’ can guess, MacDonald.”

  He turned back to the boy. Reaching out, Patrick touched his cheek. The boy let out a short scream and scurried to the pallet on the floor. He began to rock back and forth as strange sounds came from his slack mouth.

  “Devlin!” the young woman scolded. “Oh, the lad be the very devil.”

  With that, she quit the room. Patrick watched as the boy hugged his bony knees to his little chest, blessedly quiet now as he continued to stare at nothing.

  Patrick began to turn back to the bed. “Madam, what do you propose I do with him?”

  “Take the boy,” the old woman whispered. “I can’t no more.”

  She coughed again, a weak sound now in the darkened room. Patrick saw that the child still rocked on his pallet and his heart ached for the little boy. He faced the old woman once more, but she was gone. Just like that, she had breathed her last. The boy had no one now.

  Patrick’s heart began to pound. He knew nothing of caring for a child, let alone one so disturbed. He could get that girl back, though even as the thought formed he couldn’t condemn the boy to the harridan’s care. Maybe Luke’s Pixie would know what to do with Devlin.

  He came slowly toward the pallet and crouched down. “Hello, Devlin,” he said softly. He stared down at his fisted hands and forced calm in his demeanor. “I’m your father.”

  As he spoke the words, an odd ache began in his heart. This child was born out of lust and not love. The boy was cursed in his mind and his soul. And he was his. His. He felt it.

  The child said nothing, just continued to stare at a spot on the floor. Though fearing he would scream and pull away once more, Patrick touched Devlin. But the child was like he was made of rags, his muscles were so limp.

  Patrick removed his jacket and wrapped it around the boy. He scooped Devlin into his arms. It was as if he weighed nothing at all.