The Fire and the Earth: Glenncailty Castle, Book 2 Read Online Free

fainter it got.
    In the end Seamus had the castle blessed, the new parish priest having no idea that the church had already done its best to help the souls here. Séan had attended the blessing, hanging back and scanning the shadows, tense as a cat in a boot factory as he waited for the horrifying ghost to reappear. But nothing happened, and when he caught sight of Sorcha, she was looking at him with a mix of anger and pity.
    Years had passed, and yet he was still wary of Glenncailty—and still longed for Sorcha every time he saw her. Séan carried his cooler around the outside of the pub to the kitchen.
    The pub took up the whole first floor of the east wing, which was connected to the central wing by a short stone and glass hallway. Guests who went between the buildings got a look at the weather and the gardens behind the castle. The view of the gardens was somewhat obstructed by the kitchen, which had been built off the back corner of the main castle. The one-story structure was out of place, though they’d tried to make it fit in by adding stone facing. No matter what they did, it would always be a glaring modern addition to a centuries-old structure.
    It was the one place Séan felt truly comfortable.
    He nodded to a couple he knew who were smoking on the back patio of the pub. He tried not to think about what could have happened there, if only he hadn’t gotten it into his head to go wandering.
    When he reached the kitchen door, hidden by a prickly shrub, he balanced the cooler on his knee and knocked.
    “Hello there,” he greeted Jim, who held the door open for him. As always, Jim smelled like chips and other delicious fried things.
    “And hello to you. James busy?” Jim held the door open with one hand while Séan entered.
    “Spring’s always busy for him. Plenty of people looking to butcher now that calves are weaned.”
    Séan headed for one of the prep tables. The kitchen was immaculate, from the gleaming silver counters to the white walls. The only spots of darkness were the heavy rubber mats on the floors that cushioned the chefs as they stood for hours, preparing food for both the pub and restaurant.
    “Tristan here?” Séan asked.
    “He is. He’s in the dining room, let me find him for you.”
    “Thanks, Jim.”
    Séan looked around, hoping for someplace to sit, but there was nothing. With a sigh, he leaned back against a counter and scratched his jaw. His beard needed a trim and had for a week now, but there’d been too much to do—he’d fallen into bed each night too tired to move, and last night he hadn’t even made it to the bed, falling asleep in a chair with paperwork on his lap.
    “Séan, such a pleasure,” a man said in an elegant French accent. He looked up to see the head chef, Tristan, walking toward him.
    Séan straightened and held out a hand, pretending not to notice when Tristan quickly examined his hand before shaking. It seemed Tristan still hadn’t forgiven him for the time he’d come in covered in slurry.
    “What do you have for me today?” Tristan’s French accent deepened as he turned to the cooler. He stroked the top with all the care a child gave a pretty box on Christmas morning.
    “Good beef, plenty of fat in the meat.”
    “No lamb?”
    “The ewes and lambs are happily eating and getting fat.” Séan grimaced.
    Tristan must have heard it in his voice. “You still don’t like the lambs?”
    “Sheep are a waste of grass for my cows.”
    “Aw, but they are so cute, and so tasty.”
    Personally, Séan liked beef better and thought sheep were stupid. When Tristan arrived from Paris with expectations that he’d turn the restaurant into a major culinary destination, the chef had approached Séan about supplying meat.
    Séan was a dairy farmer. His creamery had been in his family for over one hundred years, and he had seventy-five pedigree dairy cows. He’d always done a bit of beef, since there wasn’t use for bulls in the milking parlor, and he had the