“Yes,” I breathe, barely tempering my desire to bounce up on the balls of my feet and clap my hands like a child. “Yes!”
“And when I ask you to recount the memories you do have, you’ll tell me.”
I pause, mulling this over. Not as easy to say yes to. I hesitate, but after some thought, I don’t see any reason not to. “Alright,” I agree, a little less enthusiastically this time. He’s my husband, after all.
He reaches a hand out for me to take. I grin at him. Moments later, we’re walking down the large staircase that leads to the main entrance.
“Will we drive?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. Can’t believe I haven’t really shown you before now. But we live close enough to walk, and it’s a bright, sunny day.” Even though I have permission to walk the grounds, I haven’t gone much beyond the gardens that surround the estate.
We take a right at the stone walkway, the sea at our back, walking down a pathway that leads away from the mansion. He takes my hand and gives me a little tug so that I’m on the inside and he’s on the street side. I have another vague twitch of memory, of him telling me that he’d do this, but then it fades as quickly as it came.
“So your Clan’s mansion overlooks the sea,” I say. “We’ll walk away from the sea to head into town.” I’m trying to get my bearings.
“Aye. Since that’s the east coast of Ireland, we’ll walk southwest to get into town.”
“Makes sense. And your men? Where are they?”
“Behind us, but at a good distance to give us privacy. You won’t even know they’re there.” Not sure I like that they’re nearly invisible, but it serves my purpose well for now.
“Good,” I say. I want privacy right now. “Because I want to tell you the memory I had a short bit ago.”
He sobers and nods. “Go on.”
I tell him about the memory of my parents, my sister, and how my parents made her watch her friend be tortured and beaten.
“Seems about right,” he says grimly.
“You think that’s alright?” I ask him. How could he think that okay? I try to pull my hand away, but he doesn’t let me. He holds tighter, squeezing my hand tight enough so that I can’t get away.
“I didn’t say that, no,” he says. “Aileen. Listen to me.”
His voice hardens. I listen, though I’m still fighting anger.
“All I’m saying is that type of thing’s common among the Martins. It’s a shame the boy didn’t have someone to tell him to stay clear.”
“Many did, though,” I tell him. Remembering, how we had so few friends when we were younger, because we weren’t allowed, and once anyone knew who we were, they kept their distance. “It comes back to me when I talk to you.”
He draws a little closer to me, as if shielding me with his body from the memories that threaten to hurt me. He can’t though. Not even a big, muscular man like him can shield me from memories.
“Keep talking, lass,” he says. “Just let it out. Sebastian says it’s like lancing a wound.”
“Oh, ew.”
“Ach, you’re a sturdy lass. You can take it.”
“Sturdy, is it?” I ask, with mock effrontery. “Is that mob man speak for fat?”
“Don’t you dare,” he warns, but his eyes twinkle at me. “I meant sturdy mentally, silly girl. Not physically. When we get back we’ll see how sturdy y’are physically.”
I snort out loud. “Will we?”
“You have my word.”
I like this, walking hand in hand with my husband. He may drive me crazy, but he’s witty, and I enjoy him. Perhaps I’ll learn to even more. God, but I hope so.
I crane my neck briefly, to get my bearings. It’s a beautiful, sunny afternoon with a light breeze coming from the ocean and wisps of clouds painting the sky above. On the coast like this, it’s often rainy and chilly, but today’s a day to remember. Behind us stands the tall spire of a church, and further in the distance I can see the castle.
“Oh, I remember those,” I tell him, turning back around, as if I just remembered the answer on a test. “Holy Family and Cold Stone Castle!”
“Aye. Good girl,” he says with a smile.
The harbor sits below the cliffs to our left. Ships come and go, and several men and women drag large nets of fish to the shore. In front of us lies a small, cozy little place with a large, hand-painted sign out front that reads “Cottage Brew.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Local coffee and tea shop. Fancy a cuppa?”
“Aye, please.”
He opens the door. I’m still a bit queasy, but a cup of tea might settle my stomach. He pulls out a chair, and leans in to whisper in my ear, “We’ll see what triggers memories, aye? And if you need to tell me, do.”