Return of the Gulls: Stacey & Peter Trilogy, #1

By Maureen McMahon

A small fishing village in Ireland. A haunted castle with dark legends and deep secrets. Former lovers are irrevocably drawn to disaster.

Return of the Gulls, the first novel of the trilogy, introduces paranormal sleuths, Stacey Christian and Peter Mansfield.

In Return of the Gulls, Stacey Christian unexpectedly runs into her ex-boyfriend, Peter Mansfield, while touring Ireland. They join forces to help solve the puzzles surrounding Lady Katherine O'Flannery, Peter's formidable great-aunt.

Finding herself implacably installed in Katherine's eerie castle, referred to by the locals as Faoilenn Màrrach, or Gull Castle, Stacey quickly becomes obsessed with the castle's disturbing legends – legends of suicide, desertion, embezzlement, and revenge culminating in dark mysteries and ghostly hauntings.

Skepticism quickly turns to incredulity and finally terror as Stacey and Peter come face to face with a reality that neither could ever have imagined.

Readers who yearn for more of Mary Stewart's blend of romance with mystery will love Return of the Gulls. Make sure to pick up your copy today.

Stacey Christian & Peter Mansfield Trilogy
Book 1: Return of the Gulls
Book 2: Ghost of Auld Lang Syne
Book 3: 'Neath Hallowed Halls and Ivied Walls

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maureen McMahon
• Release date: Dec 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781533765710

Book preview

RETURN OF THE GULLS

Stacey Christian & Peter Mansfield

Book 1

MAUREEN MCMAHON

COPYRIGHT

Return of the Gulls

© 2016 by Maureen McMahon

http://www.maureenmcmahon.com/

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Name, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission of the author in writing.

DEDICATION

I wish to dedicate this book to my father, Foster Brandon, whose encouragement and support kept me writing through even the toughest times. And to my mother, Kathleen Brandon, whose strength of character and resilience is a continuing source of inspiration.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to thank Mary Esler, who grew up and still lives near Belderrig, County Mayo, Ireland. Her expertise and input in regard to research and dialogue has been invaluable.

A special thanks to my production manager, Kim Cox, for providing her expertise, time and efforts in getting my books out to you. Visit her website for further information at http://www.kimcoxauthor.com/.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue - Lady Mary

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

Dear Reader,

SNEAK PEAK: GHOST OF AULD LANG SYNE, BOOK 2

THE WRITING OF RETURN OF THE GULLS

REVIEW THIS BOOK ONLINE

OTHER BOOKS BY MAUREEN MCMAHON

REVIEW QUOTES: SHADOWS IN THE MIST

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Prologue - Lady Mary

...to listen to stars and birds,

to babes and sages

with open heart,

to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely,

await occasions, hurry never,

in a word to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious,

grow up through the common,

this is to be my symphony.

William Henry Channing, Symphony

The breeze drifted like a fresh mountain rill, gently gathering up the scent of full-blown roses and pressing it against her nostrils so she felt compelled to inhale deeply—as though by letting the fragrance fill her lungs, it would be preserved in memory forever.

Behind her, the stone walls of the castle loomed protectively, a silent, faithful guardian of this delicate mistress. She felt it holding her, joining her with the lives of the many who had gone before, offering her strength in unity with them. And though her body was weak, she knew her physical self was only a temporary encumbrance for a soul that was magnificent and powerful, and longing to be free.

She looked out past the hedgerows and flowering herbs, past the ancient, crumbling perimeter wall to the cliff edge. The sky was golden in the evening dusk—cloudless and soft, aglow with gentle warmth. Fuzzy catkins swayed against the tumble of moss-covered stones. The breeze danced past again, bringing with it, this time, the smell of the sea, sharp with salt and seaweed, cooler now as the sun drew in its bright rays in preparation for another day's end.

She closed her eyes and listened. The grasses shushed softly and a few relentless bees buzzed nearby. The stronger winds moaned high above, past the tower parapet, slapping in low, gusting thuds against the upper walls. An early cricket began its evening symphony somewhere just behind the stone bench on which she sat.

She raised her head higher—still not opening her eyes, her hands relaxed and peaceful in her lap—and listened more carefully. The sound of the rose blooms ruffling as the breeze teased their petals. The ocean waves as they rushed in to break in a regular, rhythmic roar against the cliff base.

Then she smiled, her lips turning up at the corners with contentment as the sound she waited for—longed for—carried, softly at first, across the garden, teasing her, then surrounding her, filling her until she felt it would sweep her up and carry her away...

The sound of gulls, hundreds of gulls, screeching and fluttering in the twilight air.

Chapter One

Alone and palely loitering;

The sedge is wither'd from the lake,

and no birds sing.

John Keats, La Belle Dame Sans Merci

Iran into Peter in Ireland. I always knew we'd come together again and hoped that the encounter would demonstrate my newfound dignity and sophistication. Unfortunately, this was not the case.

He found me in one of my less attractive poses—head and shoulders dangling precariously over a 90-foot chasm, lips stretched to contortionist length as I tried to plant a kiss on the famed Blarney Stone. He stood in the shadow of the castle battlements a few feet away, arms crossed, observing me with amusement.

Even upside-down I recognized him, and the shock of it nearly sent me toppling backward to my doom. Fortunately, I was able to grab one of the support rails nearest me and wriggle back to safety. I managed to regain my feet and plastered a composed expression on my face, mentally berating myself. Outwardly, though, I faced him with impeccable aplomb.

Why, Peter Mansfield, what a surprise. I spoke lightly, brushing the dirt from my hands and clothing.

He met my gaze and his amused blue eyes assured me that my attempt to gloss over the situation was useless. I was still the stubborn non-conformist he'd known three years ago, and as usual, he could see right through me.

I winced, acutely aware of my flaming cheeks.

He moved into the sunlight. He hadn't changed much since I'd seen him last—still tall, dark, lean and wrapped in an aura of self-assurance. But I couldn't help my heart beating just a little faster as all the memories of our college days together came tumbling back.

Stacey, it's good to see you. His voice was warm. You obviously haven't changed—still determined to take on the world all by yourself. Don't you know you could get hurt doing things like that? You need someone to hold you. Where's your tour guide?

I felt my face redden even more. I'd have managed if you hadn't given me such a fright, I retorted.

No one else in my tour was interested in kissing the stone, and I'd shied away from making a spectacle of myself in front of them. Instead, I'd lagged behind, determined to do it alone. But I knew Peter was right. To safely reach the stone, it was necessary to have someone hold your legs to keep you from falling backward down the chasm.

But I didn't tell him this. Instead, I changed the subject. Where did you come from?

I've been watching you for some time, he said, smiling. He squatted and peered through the gap. Do you really think that stone will work?

Of course. What kind of Irishman are you?

Not a very good one, I'm afraid. But if you're so set on experimenting with the local lore, I'll certainly not stand in your way. He reached up, took my arm, and pulled me down. Come on. I'll hold you while you lean out, okay?

I nodded.

Hang on, he said, wrapping his arms around my legs.

His touch was warm, and my flesh tingled. I felt a fiery knot in the pit of my stomach. But I did as he told me and slid out awkwardly to plant a firm kiss on the stone, then slithered back and grinned at him impishly.

He chuckled and cocked his head. Well, did it work? Do you feel an oration coming on? Go ahead and dazzle me with golden words!

Hmmph, I sniffed, pushing my disheveled hair out of my face and reaching out a hand so he could pull me to my feet. I certainly wouldn't waste golden words on you.

Then perhaps if you're just passing out kisses... His fingers tightened on mine, and he moved closer.

My breath caught in my throat, mesmerized momentarily by his lips, now so close to mine that I could feel the warmth of his breath and smell the distinctively musky scent of his aftershave. But this wasn't how it should be. He couldn't simply waltz back into my life and expect me to fall for him all over again.

I gave myself a mental shake and donned my best Scarlett imitation, placing my free hand on his chest and giving a firm push. Why, Mr. Mansfield, I drawled. I can't imagine what you mean!

He lifted an amused brow, and I slid my hand free and stepped nimbly away, gathering up my purse and camera. I was starkly aware of how easily the old feelings flared up.

You haven't answered my question, I said, hooking the strap of my bag over my shoulder. What're you doing here?

He shrugged and thrust his hands into his pockets. "Unfortunately, I'm only here on business. It seems I've a great-aunt living hereabouts—the keeper of our ancestral castle. She's apparently running short of funds and wrote to her nephew, the banker—my father—for help sorting out her finances.

Dad is tied up at the moment, so he suggested I come over and check it out. A little test, I presume, to see if I'm worthy of filling his shoes.

There's no doubt in your mind, I'm sure, I remarked dryly. How did you know I was here?

I didn't, he replied. Not until I checked in at that quaint little hotel in Blarney. I saw your name on the register. It was a pleasant surprise. The clerk told me where your tour group was headed, so—he bowed—here I am. Now how about you? What are you doing here?

Well, you could say I'm here on business, too, I said. "But only partially. I'm doing research for a piece for World Traveler magazine. I figured I'd come over on one of those package deals and play the tourist—see if I could come up with a unique slant.

So far, though, no luck. The tour ends tomorrow, so I'm hoping to strike out on my own. I want a better look at Galway and Mayo. I've heard the Céide Fields are interesting. Such a fantastic find—a five-thousand-year-old city preserved almost intact beneath the bogs!

His eyes lit. Yes. Fantastic. But even better is that's where I'm headed—Belderrig, actually. It's near the Céide digs. He paused, gazing at me so intently I felt a self-conscious blush creep into my cheeks. Why don't you come with me, Stace? We could take in the sights together.

I hesitated, feeling that old attraction drawing me into its grip. But I really wasn't sure I could open myself to the possibility of more pain and rejection like I'd experienced before.

I must admit, it's a tempting idea, I said. The sun, gentle on my skin, and his sincere expression were too compelling. I pushed aside my doubts. Perhaps I could meet you there after I say goodbye to my traveling companions.

He let his breath out in a rush. Great! I was hoping you'd give me a second chance. He grinned, and my heart melted as that oft-remembered dimple appeared briefly in his ruggedly handsome cheek. He glanced around the empty castle causeway. Now, how about a lift back? I think your group has completely deserted you.

They're probably glad to be rid of me, I commented wryly. Sure, I'd like a ride.

The rental car was parked just outside the castle grounds—a bright red Porsche, very plush, and I guessed, very expensive. I ran my fingers down one fender approvingly. Still spoiled rotten, I see.

The alarm beeped once as he unlocked the car with the remote. Look who's talking, he said. You know you wouldn't ride any other way. He opened the door and I slid in.

Did anyone ever tell you you're an insufferable egomaniac? I grumbled.

Yes, he replied, unperturbed. I believe you've told me many times.

He turned the car around, and we were off down the narrow winding road toward Blarney. Neither of us thought to ask about the past three years. It was as if they'd never been.

This aunt of yours, I said. How come you never told me about her before?

He shrugged. I guess I never really thought about it. We don't hear much from her. In fact, I've never met her personally. She lives just up the coast from Belderrig. 'Lady Katherine O'Flannery' is her official title. I'm told she's quite a woman, though somewhat eccentric. Her brother, my Uncle Douglas, left Brenton Castle to her after his death a few years ago—Faoilenn Màrrach, or Gull Castle, as it's known to the locals. Since moving in, she's made herself into somewhat of a legend. The fact the castle itself is supposed to be haunted also adds a bit of flavor.

Haunted? I was intrigued. By whom?

He made a move. It's a rather complicated story... He honked at a stray dog that ventured too far onto the road and slowed until it moved safely out of the way. Finally he continued.

"From what I gather, Uncle Douglas and his wife, Lady Mary, lived alone in the castle for quite some time. They received word one day that Douglas' younger sister and her husband were killed in an automobile accident leaving an eighteen-year-old son, Victor. Since the castle was large and empty, and they had no children of their own, Douglas and Mary decided to take Victor in.

About twelve years later, Lady Mary died—she'd always been somewhat delicate, I guess—and soon after, Victor left Gull Castle, presumably to 'make his mark on the world.' But no one seems to know where he went or what he did during that time. Peter paused and glanced at me. Bored?

I shook my head. Please, go on.

Well, about ten years later, Douglas fell gravely ill. Once this news got out, Victor returned and stayed until his uncle died. Naturally, everyone expected the place to be handed over to Victor, but it seems Douglas had other plans. The whole fortune was left to his surviving sister, Katherine. Victor was cut off without a cent.

But what about the ghost? I asked impatiently. Is it your Uncle Douglas? Or is it the delicate Lady Mary?

I'm getting to that, Peter said. A few days after the will was read, Victor again disappeared, but this time with no warning. And he left all his belongings behind. He was supposedly very upset about the loss of his inheritance, so people soon began to wonder about his disappearance. It wasn't until two months later that the truth was uncovered. A fisherman found an engraved medallion belonging to Victor at the base of the cliff behind the castle.

Suicide? I asked, warming to the story.

Yes. The sea's pretty treacherous in those parts, so it was pointless to do a search. And after so long, any remains would've been dragged out to sea and disposed of by scavengers. Apparently there's quite a rip running through, and Victor's not the first to have disappeared from the area.

'The ghost, I urged. What about the ghost?

The ghost appeared shortly after Victor's demise. It's supposed to inhabit only the west wing where his rooms were located. When Aunt Katherine moved into the castle, she locked off that part of the house.

So Victor is the ghost. But does your Aunt Katherine really believe such a thing? Has she had it investigated? I mean, there are people who do that sort of thing.

Really, Stacey, Peter scolded. "What kind of Irishman are you? Don't you know that ghosts are fashionable these days? Also, by using only a portion of the house, Aunt Kate keeps the expenses to a minimum. Castles aren't cheap to run.

Besides, I'm sure she's enjoying the whole thing. Since the ghost story started, she's become a legend herself to the local folks. They see her as a sort of tragic heroine—you know, 'the princess held captive in the gloomy castle by the curse of a restless spirit' scenario. He smiled. Her natural tendencies toward peculiarity only enhance her mystique.

The car weaved its way down the hill and broke into an open stretch. The town of Blarney huddled at the base in the midst of a stand of tall oaks that thrust their green plumes high into the sparkling sunlight. Up ahead, an old, rusting flatbed truck pulled out into the road in front of us, its