Mugs and Monasteries
When Orchid hunter Evie Bourke stumbles across a near deserted monastery deep in the Burren, she doesn’t realize that she’s the first person alive to see it. All she knows is that her life suddenly takes a strange turn and nothing will ever be the same.
Aiden Dunne’s family has been connected to Munster Abbey for generations, he is determined to find it and to find out what happened to his ancestral relative, the former Prior. What happened all those years ago and why does Aiden seem so familiar to Evie when they’ve never met?
Together they must face the Wanderer and dispatch him back to the darkness where he belongs before he destroys everything they hold dear. Can they trust each other before time runs out?
Dare she go upstairs?
No. Someone must be asleep up there, having forgotten they put the kettle on. She ignored the thought of how the hell someone could sleep through the shrieking.
She jigged from one foot to the other, impatiently. Yet again, she cursed herself. Looming clouds that morning should’ve told her to stay in her guesthouse in Ballyvaughan, rather than hike across the rocky terrain in search of her beloved orchids. But staying away from the Burren with its myriad blooms was akin to keeping a kid from a sweet shop.
Cold seeped into her blood and fingered her bones. A kettle had just boiled and the fire was ready to be lit…could she just make herself at home? Rain rattled the window repeatedly; going back into the elements was not an option.
Poised to strike a match, she heard the kitchen door bang open, letting in the howling of the wind and the shush of the rain before a new draft swamped her as it slammed shut. A madcap desire to hide behind the sofa nearly overwhelmed her.
Don’t be daft.
Hurrying around the corner, her ready words died on her lips as she took in the tall, broad-shouldered man in the kitchen, rainwater dripping from the brim of his sodden hat. He startled when he saw her, looking as though she were an extra-terrestrial.
“Sorry…the weather is rotten so I…” her voice trailed off as a feeling akin to pins and needles assaulted the base of her neck at his look of disbelief, a look which was swiftly followed by relief. Relief? He tipped his hat at her, took it off, and hung it off the long silver handle on the Aga. Running a hand through the hair plastered to his head, he ruffled it into damp spikes.
“You’re welcome.” The low timbre of his words vibrated through her, finding an echo somewhere. “I’ve been waiting for you. Where is he?” He brushed past her to look into the sitting room, turning back to her with a frown. “Are you on your own?”
“Um.” Questions raced through her, the most persistent one being, what the hell?
“There are supposed to be three.” He stood by her and gazed out the window at the battering rain. “Time is running out.” The latter words were quiet, murmured.
Despite the almighty strange words, she felt calm stroke her tense muscles. Sure she could trust him, yet without knowing why, she held out her hand, mesmerized by his pale green eyes, reminiscent of the Atlantic on a sunshiny, yet cloudy day.