A WOMAN ACHING TO FIND LOVE AND PASSION . . .
Nikki Quinn, fresh off an acrimonious divorce, is lookng for a place to live with her eleven-year-old daughter, a new job--and love. When she inherits her best friend's mansion, she has no idea that her friend's ghost lingers there, nor does she know that the spirit of Paddy Doyle, cursed over two hundred years ago, comes with the property. The truth about what really happened so long ago is buried deep within the recesses of Nikki's mind.
Attracted to her new boss, Michael Williams, but mesmerized by Paddy's spirt and haunted by ghosts of the 1798 Irish Rebellion, Nikki straddles two worlds, as well as her past life and her present one.
A MAN AFRAID TO LOVE AGAIN . . .
Nikki's new boss, attorney Michael Williams, lost his wife in a tragic accident six years ago. When he meets Nikki, his heart tells him yes but his head tells him no. It's always been easy for Michael to walk away from a beautiful woman, but his feelings for Nikki are different. They reach deep into his heart; they transcend pain and time. When he finally opens his heart to her, he cannot begin to imagine how the ghosts of Ireland will affect his future . . . and threaten his life.
Drawn into a loop of reincarnation and the supernatural, their lives hang in the balance.
(260 pages) Spicy
1798, Wexford County, Ireland
As the noose tightened around her neck, Mary Murphy gasped for air and cursed the man responsible for the horrors of this night. Summoning the powers of her pagan ancestors, she uttered a curse to make Paddy Doyle pay for her sister’s death. His soul would never be free; she would make sure of it.
Like many women from Bunclody to Dublin Castle, Mary fought beside the men that day. They were tired of being forced to worship in secret in the woods, tired of teaching their children Gaelic in secret. Freedom from English rule and the cruelty of the Crown was a cause worth fighting and dying for.
When they reached Wexford County, the King’s troops and the loyalist militia overran Mary’s small village. Outnumbered, battle-weary, splintered, and rundown, the small group of United Irishmen scattered. They tried to hide, but there was no hiding from the King’s troops as they advanced. When some of the rebels ran to the Wicklow Mountains, Mary told her betrothed, Paddy Doyle, to join them.
“I’ll distract them and give them false information while you get Bridget to safety. Get my sister away from here!”
“Mary, no! I won’t leave you here,” he cried.
“Paddy, I’ll never make it out of here with her. But you know every blade of grass. You know how to avoid the English and you know the hiding places. Go now! Come back for me when Bridget is safe!”
Paddy kissed her hard, harder than he ever had. “Take the flag, Mary. I’ll be back for it and for you,” he told her. “I vow another Murphy woman will never suffer as long as I can take a breath.”
Before long, the English soldiers found her. She screamed at them in defiance. “I’m Father Murphy’s cousin! I know everything!”
“Father Murphy’s cousin?” the captain said. “Bring her to me. The whore may have some value.”
They took her to a cottage where they had set up headquarters. “Tell the captain where they’ve run, whore,” one of the soldiers screamed. “Tell him where they keep the pikes and muskets!”
But Mary was stubborn. She lied about how many men there were and about how many muskets they had. She lied about their hiding places.
A soldier struck her so hard that her lip split, but she spit the blood in his face. “Our cause is liberty,” she screamed. “The soul of the earth is made of Irish dust and blood!”
The captain pushed her to the floor and held her down with his hands around her throat. She bit and kicked at him, but the soldiers swarmed over her, holding her down, pulling at her skirts. The captain ripped away her blouse and held the green fabric up to her eyes.
“Wearing this color is treason, Mary Murphy. Yet in every village and town, we find women like you, women who defy the King, wearing this in your petticoats and cap ribbons.” He put his face inches from hers; she could smell his putrid breath. His eyes, the blackest eyes she had ever seen, bore through her. “Tell us where they are,” he demanded. “You’re a woman. What man leads you to this treason? Tell us where they hide and save yourself.”
When he loosened his hands around her throat, waiting for an answer, she spit in his black eyes.