The Celtic Captive: A Kilts Book, #2

By Jeanie M. Martin

On tour with his Irish music group, all Cáel Moore wants is a latté, and instead he witnesses a brutal crime. Taken by gunpoint, he escapes his captors and turns up injured in Molly Evans' front yard.

Molly is in hiding. She has escaped her celebrity life for the time being, and is relishing the peace when a hot, Irish guy passes out in front of her cabin just outside of Mount Rainier Park. She wrestles him inside and tends to his injuries.

Trapped in the cabin by a mudslide, the two strangers are on their own. Molly nurtures Cáel back to health, and discovers in the process that not only has he lost his memory, he only speaks Irish. Despite this, their attraction to each other can't be denied, and passion grows hot.

But Cáel is hiding a secret--one that will devastate Molly when she learns the truth. As both danger and rescue close in, will he have the courage to tell her, before it's too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeanie M. Martin
• Release date: Jan 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9781502468253

Jeanie M. Martin

Jeanie Martin lives in Tacoma, Washington. She has a daughter, and soon-to-be son-in-law, and spends her nights driving in circles. Her interests include reading, languages (especially ASL and Irish) and listening to the music of Celtic Thunder (Thunderheads!), Ryan Kelly, Neil Byrne, Colm Keegan, Emmet Cahill, and Josh Groban. She has been taking classes in Irish, Irish History, and Music Theory from Colm, through his CKonLine Teaching website. She highly recommends his classes. Facebook:  www.facebook.com/jmartinstories Twitter: m_jeanie11 Instagram: Jeanie.martin.714 Email:  [e-mail]

Book preview

Chapter One

Cáel Moore leapt over fallen logs, ducked low-hanging pine branches and shoved his way through thick brambles of thorny wild blackberry bushes, his only goal to survive. The two men chasing him had the opposite goal in mind, and the guns in their hands gave them a distinct advantage.

Drawing upon his knowledge of how to evade bad guys with guns, gleaned solely from the television shows Psych and NCIS, Cáel zigzagged his way through the trees, only chancing an occasional glance behind him to gauge distances. The ground was surprisingly dry, though they were deep in the forest. Washington State’s weather was much like his home in Ireland—rainy and windy—but today the ground was hard and easy to run on, despite the pine needles slipping under his feet. The sky—what he could see of it through the giant treetops—was a pure, deep blue. On any other day, he’d enjoy being outside in this weather, breathing the fresh clean air.

That’s what I get for venturin’ out on my own, he thought as he ducked under a fir branch, feeling the smaller branches tear at his shorts and t-shirt as he ran. He continued his self-recriminations silently while he used his teeth to tear at the duct tape circling his wrists.

What did Terry tell me? Don’t go out without your escort. (Even in his fear, he said these words to himself in his tour manager’s authoritative Scottish burr). But did I listen t’him? No. O’course not. I can handle getting meself a cuppa—Tully’s was just around the corner from the hotel, after all. Ah sure look it—now I’m runnin’ for my life.

Cáel risked another quick look behind him and was surprised to see the men were nowhere in sight. He scoured the forest, struggling to get his bearings. Where did they go? He searched the trees around him, drawing in several deep breaths as he did so. He was in good shape physically, due to his love of sports and the daily runs he put in, but he had been running for an eternity. Or so it seemed—and the pain in his side was murder.

He finally gnawed through the last layer of tape covering his wrists, and gratefully leaned back against the trunk of one of those soaring evergreens, rubbing his wrists in an attempt to get the circulation going again.

He had no idea where he was.  Judging by the watch on the wrist of the dead man who had ridden along with him in the back of the van, it had been nearly two hours since they had left Tacoma. Forced at gunpoint into the ride from hell, Cáel had been knocked out, but had recovered quickly. He estimated he had been unconscious no more than fifteen minutes since one of the men now chasing him had clocked him with his gun. After he had come to, he had spent the remaining time trying to free himself of the duct tape around his wrists, and wishing he was still passed out; the two men had taken sadistic glee in turning each corner so sharply, Cáel was unable to prevent himself from rolling into the puddle of blood that belonged to the dead man.

Being a witness to a crime was not nearly as cool as he had thought it would be, had he ever given it any thought.

After the white panel van had finally stopped, Cáel had braced himself and kicked out at Short Guy as soon as the back door had opened. His legs were strong, toned from years of Gaelic and curling, and he had knocked Short Guy into Angry Guy, causing them both to fall over like a very short game of hit-men dominos.

He had wasted no time legging it for the cover of the trees alongside the dirt road they were parked on, and heading back in the direction of safety.

Or so he hoped. He had found it an unpleasant experience to feel bullets whizzing by him, thunking into the ground behind his feet as he ran.

It was his own fault he was in this mess. Needing time alone to just think for a minute, he had not only ventured out without his escort, he hadn’t told anyone he was leaving. And then, to make it worse, for the first time ever he had ducked out the back door of Tully’s to avoid the fans that had spotted him out front. He always took the time to meet his fans and sign autographs—he just hadn’t wanted to be Cáel Moore—frontman for Kilts right then.

All he had wanted was a latté.

Instead, after slipping out the back door, he had turned the wrong way and—

The dirt in front of Cáel’s feet suddenly flew up in front of him and he stared in shock for a dangerously long time, although it was just a few seconds. When he looked back up, both badly dressed shooters were coming his way, and their guns were pointed right at him.

Right.

Cáel pushed off the tree and took off again, instinctively heading downhill, Short Guy and Angry Guy in pursuit.

Suddenly, his right arm jerked forward and pain lanced through his bicep. He glanced down to see blood streaming from a gash that had just appeared there.

He’d been shot!

Clamping his other hand over the wound, he gritted his teeth against the pain—that feckin’ hurt!—and kept running.

His heart was pounding so loudly, he didn’t hear the water until he was right up at the edge of the cliff. Skidding to a stop, his feet perilously close to empty space, he found himself looking out on a deep ravine, a tumbling, fast-moving river cutting through the rocks below.

The distance across the chasm was huge, and the distance to the water below alarming. There was no safe way to get down, and Cáel knew he was fecked.

He carefully glanced behind him, and confirmed his fears. Short Guy was coming up on his right, an evil smile on his shiny, pock-marked face, his cheap suit jacket drenched in sweat. To Cáel’s left, Angry Guy was making his way much more slowly, gasping for breath. He had removed his suit jacket, and his Wal-Mart white dress shirt was practically see-through with moisture.

Taking a deep breath, Cáel offered up a short, but entirely sincere prayer. Go bhfóire Dia orm. 

And, facing the ravine again, he jumped.

Chapter Two

The first raindrops began to fall just as Molly Evans unloaded the last of her bags of groceries and supplies onto the porch. Pulling the hood of her rain-jacket up over her head, she ran to her Jeep Rubicon and grabbed her purse and phone out of the passenger seat, then shut and locked the driver’s side door and tailgate. Even out here—way out here—just east of Ashford, Washington, she knew better than to leave her safety to chance.

It wasn’t so much a life in danger, stuff will get stolen type of safety issue, but a no pictures please kind, and she was determined to keep it that way. Bianca—megastar, spoiled über-rich celebrity, singer—and Molly’s alter ego—was in hiding.

The sprinkles turned into a downpour. The rain hit the ground with countless mini-explosions of dirt, instantly turning the just-was-dry land into one big mud puddle. She was grateful she had taken the weather forecast seriously, and driven all the way to Eatonville to stock up on enough groceries to last for several weeks. She already had plenty of wood. The caretaker of this rental cabin kept her little shed behind her one bedroom/one bathroom temporary home always stocked.

She felt better having restocked her supply of food. With the rain coming down the way it was now, she was sure the Nisqually River would flood and her little pathway into this cabin—situated as far out in the woods as she could get it and still have electricity—would be blocked. There would be no way out via the road, and no way for anyone to come in, once the bridge was overtaken by the fast-moving waters coming from Mt. Rainier. It was the rainy season, after all. It was always the rainy season.

Molly unlocked the front door and went inside. She unloaded her purchases quickly, putting away the eggs, cheese, milk and meat first before tackling the canned and paper goods. She had over-shopped again. She couldn’t help it. Every time she was in a grocery store, even one as small as the all-purpose general store Eatonville boasted, she was bombarded with ideas for gourmet meals. So she bought everything that appealed to her. It was a good thing she seldom followed through on making or eating the food she craved—otherwise 5’2" would be her width measurement, instead of her height. She had all these great ideas, sure, but with only herself to eat the food she created, she rarely bothered.

She finished putting the rest of the supplies away and immediately went to work rekindling the fire. It would be getting dark soon, and cold, and she tried to avoid using the electricity as much as possible. This late in April, she had enough natural light to read after dinner and, more importantly, to avoid doing her real job.

One day, she would finish the set of songs she had come out here to write.

Probably, she should start them first.

Her chores finished, Molly put a pot on the fire to warm up some water for her nightly hot chocolate and inserted her iPod into its port, bringing up the album featuring Colm Keegan and Emmet Cahill on screen. She hit the play icon and instantly found herself relaxing to the smooth Irish voices coming from the speakers. Grabbing the new paperback she had bought at the little store and kicking off her shoes, she sank down on the loveseat conveniently placed right in front of the now-roaring fireplace, and snuggled into her blanket. As she always did after returning from one of her rare day trips, she took a look around the little place she had come to love.

It was a far cry from the eighteen room mansion she had called home back in Santa Monica. That house had featured twelve bathrooms, an indoor and outdoor swimming pool, a huge gourmet kitchen, and many other so-called necessities. She had filled it with all the accoutrements of celebrity life—huge pictures of herself by famous artists, lots of marble and stone features, mini-water fountains, the obligatory interview room. She had decorated it, and redecorated it, and redecorated it with all the hottest styles—it had been written up so many times, the house practically had its own Facebook page.

She had hated it.

This little cedar plank cabin consisted of two rooms—well, three if you counted the bathroom. There was the bedroom, tucked in the right corner, a king-size white iron-railed bed covered with a patchwork quilt taking up a majority of the space. Crammed into the corner of the bedroom was an oak chest and an armoire; at home, they wouldn’t have even been big enough to hold half her shoes. She had purposely limited herself to just two suitcases, exactly for this reason. The other room was the one she was in, a multi-purpose room. The kitchen area was in the left corner, a normal-size stove and refrigerator competed for space with a small table and the set of cabinets. The sink was one of those one-basin kinds. It had taken Molly a long time to figure out how to wash her dishes in that.  

Actually, it had taken her a long time to figure out how to wash the dishes in the first place. She had never had to do that before.

There was a short hallway that divided this kitchen space from the bedroom, and the bathroom was down that way. A small white washer and dryer set was nestled in a nook just across from the bathroom door. (Another adventure in learning. Apparently, putting in white sheets and red shirts made pink everything).

The fireplace took up the central space of the room. Constructed out of huge stone blocks, it was open to both the front of the living room space and the back. Molly always slept with her bedroom door open in order to keep the heat flowing through the little space. She was sitting on one of the few pieces of furniture, a dark-blue loveseat, its frame made from slender logs, its cushions worn but comfy.  A small coffee table was positioned in front of the couch. There was a rocking chair to her right, with a matching ottoman, and an end table rested in the space between the two pieces. And that was it.

Well. Her eyes had automatically passed over the keyboard set up in the right corner, just in front of the bedroom. A piano bench was neatly lined up in front of it, and a guitar, still in its case, rested against the wall behind the bench. Ignoring the tools of her trade meant she could put off writing a little longer. Forget that she had people depending on her to come out of hiding. Finish the next big album.

Molly’s only indulgence was the bathroom. She had insisted on renting a cabin not only big enough to hold a shower, but a hot-tub, also. She liked to soak in it, feel the bubbles pound into her back, and she loved watching the night sky through the skylight. She was looking forward to the time she could actually open the skylight, and see the stars without the blur of glass.

She wasn’t still supposed to be here by then, but the way things were going...

She had just poured herself some hot chocolate, and put the kettle back on the fire when she heard the noise. It sounded like someone was calling out, but that was impossible. No one came around here except the caretaker, and he wasn’t due for a week. The campers and hikers that visited this area generally stayed away from her cabin, preferring the prettier, more challenging climbs on their way to the glaciers for which Mt. Rainier was well-known.

She sat up straight, and strained to listen over the sound of the rain pounding on her roof. There! She heard it again. Someone had called out.

Now she was nervous. Jumping up from the couch, she slipped her shoes back on her feet and ran to the door, grabbing the only weapon she had at her disposal, a giant, cast iron frying pan. She hefted it with a grunt, nearly knocking herself over, and lugged it to the door.

Molly peeked out the window to the left of the door, nudging aside the curtains in order to see. It was getting dark out, but there was just enough light to see a single figure staggering towards the front door. She couldn’t make out any of the details, not even enough to know if it was a man or a woman, but she didn’t plan to find out anyway. If she had to, she’d throw the car keys at whoever it was and let him or her leave, if the bridge was passable still.

Then the figure stretched out one hand to the door and fell over, flat on his—her?—face and was still.

Molly didn’t move. This could be a trick. Paparazzi were well known for their ingenuity at getting the perfect shot, the chance for a candid moment with the big stars—she should know. 

But the man or woman still didn’t move and now Molly was a little concerned. Maybe she should check on...It?

Keeping her weapon of choice firmly in her grip, mostly to prevent an accidental drop on her own feet, Molly slid the lock back on the door and peered outside. The rain was still coming down in sheets, though, and she couldn’t tell who she might be dealing with. Putting the frying pan down on the floor at her feet, she pulled her coat on over her clothes, and then, picking up the pan again, she edged out toward the body, her heart pounding in staccato rhythm. She snorted at herself when a sinister dah-dum, dah-dum shark theme-track began running through her brain.

Hello? Are you okay? she called out, hoping that somehow It would get up and walk off, a cheery just kidding floating behind as he or she went.

No answer. Molly moved closer.

Hello? Do you need help? she asked again, but could only hear the rain splatting into the mud puddles in her dirt yard.

Taking one last step, she found herself at the person’s head, and from here she could see it was a man. And he was in bad shape. He was lying on his stomach, his left arm flung up toward the door, his right arm was tucked underneath his body. He was covered in mud and filth, his exposed skin a Braille page of bites and long, wicked looking scratches. His head was turned on his left side, his right side exposed to Molly’s view, and it, too, was covered in muck. And was that blood? She thought so. Where had he come from, anyway?

If this was a trick, it was the most elaborate one she’d seen. Molly knew she had to help this man. But how? She was little; the man looked to be at least 5’11", and though he didn’t look that heavy, she knew he would be too much for her to carry.

Leaning down, she gently shook the guy’s shoulder. Hey, buddy. Dude. Wake up. She shook his shoulder again, but there was no response, not even a flicker of consciousness reflecting in the handsome face of the man lying so still on the ground.

She set the pan down on the ground at her feet and took a quick look around, searching for some way to get the guy inside. Her eyes swept over her car, parked on the side; the porch, with its wooden swing-for-two; the woodshed...the woodshed! There was a plastic toboggan in there for play days in the snow. Maybe that would work?

Molly took several steps toward the woodshed before whirling around and picking up the frying pan again. Don’t move, guy, I’ll be right back, she said to the body on the ground, and then took off at a run. She reached the small three-sided shelter and saw the toboggan was there. She put down the pan again and reached inside, hoping there were no spiders lurking in the semi-darkness. She hated spiders.

Gingerly, she pulled out the red, hard-plastic toboggan—it looked a lot like the props she had pretended to slide on when filming the show for which she had become famous at the very early age of three. Too bad she never actually got to play on something like that. Grabbing the rope handle with her left hand, she picked up the frying pan with her right and lugged both back to the man still lying on the ground.

He must be really bad off to still be out cold, Molly thought uneasily, and wondered if she should try to load him in the jeep so she could get him to the hospital. She glanced up and over to the little dirt path that served as her road. The road had turned into a giant mud slick, perfect for off-road play, maybe, but not for taking an injured man to the hospital. At least, not with Molly driving. Her jeep was a great vehicle, but there was no way the guy would survive her attempts at getting them across the flooded bridge. Besides, she had no idea where the nearest hospital was—maybe Puyallup?—and he looked like he needed help immediately.

She would have to get him inside and dry, and then she’d call 9-1-1...or was she supposed to call 9-1-1 first and then help him? She shrugged. Either way, she had to get him inside.

Laying the toboggan-thing down at the man’s side, Molly set down the pan and laughed a little at herself. She had purposely placed it out of the man’s reach, but this guy was not in shape to be hurting anyone.

She decided to start with his arms. She stepped just to the right of his outstretched hand and bent down. Grabbing hold of his wrist, Molly gasped and almost dropped it back into the mud—he was so cold!

What idiot comes out in this weather in just a t-shirt and shorts, anyway? Molly muttered. Maybe he really hadn’t meant to be here.  Even she knew that April was an iffy month in Washington. Sometimes the weather was warm, in the sixties, and sometimes very cold. But it was always wet.

Carefully, she tugged his wrist toward the toboggan, and his body moved slightly, too.

Okay, I’m going to flip you to your back, guy. Don’t suddenly wake up and freak out on me, okay?

Molly continued to pull on his arm, seeing his unresisting body slowly start to turn over. She used both her hands, braced her feet on the muddy ground and pulled, sliding him through the muck until he was lying on his back, his right arm now exposed.

She drew in a sharp breath. Ouch! That looked bad—his right arm featured a huge gash, and it looked swollen and red, even through the mud and bits of leaves that clung to his skin. She knew she shouldn’t be pulling on that arm, so she shifted to his feet, thinking if she got them on the toboggan, then she could work on the rest of him later.

Now that she could see his whole face, she could tell he was about her age, twenty-two. He was cute, too...very cute. Even with the mud and blood and bits of leaves stuck to his face, he was Hollywood handsome, and she