The Irish Lady's Spanish Lover PDF
Tammy Wilde came to Ireland seeking escape from memories of the accident ending her career, her abandonment by her celebrity-seeking husband, and a series of haunting dreams, only to fall in love with a man sharing her unfaithful ex’s name.
Padraic Shea is gentle, understanding, and helps her forget her pain as he introduces her to the beauty and mystery of the Irish countryside.
When he tells her the tale of the Irish Lady's Spanish Lover, the ghost which haunts his family, Tammy recognizes the legend as the story in her dreams. Soon, she and Padraic will be threatened by a force surviving centuries, as her presence awakens the spectre who rises not only to claim the woman he loves, but to kill the last living relative of the man who cursed him.
Sensuality rating: 3
Cover Art by Bev Haynes
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Eamonn O’Reilly was making a tidy profit.
And why not? If the young lady wanted him to take her to Grådhgarrai, though it was forty-eight kilometers from Shannon Airport and all—sure now, he was only too glad to do so. Besides, ’twas a pleasant drive, and a decided change from his usual fares.
He’d been a mite astonished when he’d learned where she wanted to go.
She caught his attention immediately as she came out of the terminal, a wee scrap of a lass, lugging those two heavy bags. Why hasn’t she hired a porter? He’d wondered that but didn’t have time for further thought because she was coming straight toward him.
“Welcome to Shannon, Miss.” He touched two fingers to his cap in a brief salute. “Can I be helpin’ you with those?” He was already reaching for one of the large cases as he spoke.
“Thank you.” Gratefully, she released the bag. “I need to go to Lah Ch-Charri... Am I saying that correctly?” She held out a brochure, pointing to the words on it.
Láhm Dearg, it said in pseudo-Celtic script.
“Not quite. Lahw Charrig, it is,” he corrected, smiling at her odd accent, the way she seemed to drawl some of her words. He was thinking maybe he’d been wrong in believing her a Yank.
“Do you know the place?”
“Do I know the place?” he repeated with a smile, blue eyes twinkling. “Isn’t me kinsman Liam the proprietor?”
The Red Hand. A silly name he always thought, though he didn’t say so aloud. It was supposed to represent Lámh Dhearg Uladh, the Red hand of Ulster, after the myth of how one of the Uí Néill clan claimed the throne of Ulster. Being told the first to place a hand on Ireland’s shore would be its king and thinking he was losing the race, he’d cut off his hand and tossed it to the beach and claimed the crown. Liam’s relative was an O’Neill so perhaps he figured he had a right to give the inn that fanciful name.
In spite of the title or perhaps because of it, the place did a thriving business, he had to admit. Mostly tourists, who seemed enchanted by its quaintness, not seeing it was merely a visitor’s idea of how an Irish inn should look and nowhere near the real thing.
“Really?” She seemed startled by his claiming kinship to The Hand’s owner.
“That I am. Owned by me cousin’s daughter’s nephew, it is.”
He knew he was laying on the blather a bit thick but Eamonn had learned tourists expected it, especially the Yanks. He’d discovered quickly enough a thick layer of Gaelic accent would earn him a bigger tip than his normal manner of speech. Hadn’t he made a trip to Blarney Castle and kissed the Stone to insure his tongue didn’t forget that when he had a paying customer in tow?