Mismatched (11 page)

“Och, Paddy, you exaggerate.” His friend has half the amount of empty pints in front of him. “Selkies? Come on, man.”

“I’ll tell you about the hag if ye like,” Paddy offers to me, ignoring the naysayer next to him.

I turn my chair more fully around and cross my legs. “Do tell. I love me a good Irish legend.”

He rubs his hands together and leans in a little. “Ye have to be careful about who hears ye tell the story.”

I lean in too. “Why?” I’m speaking as low as I can in a busy pub and still be heard.

“Because.” He looks around. “The witches aren’t gone. They’re just more quiet about their business.”

His friend snorts and takes another pull from his beer. “Go on then, y’old codger. Tell her the legend.”

“I was gettin’ to it. Just sit back and relax, there, William, and leave the storyteller to his business.”

William flicks his hand at his friend. “Away, then, wit’ it. We’re all ears.”

Paddy gives it all he’s got, and I almost feel like I’m in his little story from long ago the way my head is swirling inside with his accent and the effects of the dim lighting and way too much alcohol…

“Over a thousand years ago, when druids did the work of magic, Erin was covered in green grasses, bold and deep as a polished emerald, and warriors ruled the land…”

I hold up my hand. “Wait. Stop for a second. Did you say
Erin?
”

“Of course. This is a story about Ireland, lass.”

“But you said Erin.”

“Aye, I did. That’s the Irish word for Ireland.”

My mouth drops open. “Oh my god. She never told me.”

“Who never told ye?”

“Erin.”

“You’re expecting the island to speak to ye?” He turns to his friend. “She’s a witch. I knew it.”

“I’m not a witch. I have a friend named Erin.”

“Erin Mulligan?” Paddy asks.

“No.”

“Erin Greene?” William suggests.

“No.”

“Erin McClanahan?” They both say together.

“No.” I’m trying not to laugh.

Paddy frowns in confusion.

William hits him on the arm. “Just ask her the name and be done with it.”

“No, I’ll get it. Just give me a moment.” He taps his finger on his lips and stares at the ceiling. I see him sway in his seat.

I decide to spare the poor leprechaun the headache. “Her name is Erin O’Neill. She doesn’t live here.”

He scowls at me. “Well, why didn’t ye say so?”

William pushes his friend sideways. “Ye didn’t give her the chance, ye old fool. Didn’t you have a story to tell?”

Paddy has shifted to pouting. “Well, I did, but then I was interrupted.”

“I’m listening now. I’m sorry.” I fold my hands over my knee and smile, nodding in the least-witchlike way I know how.

Paddy sniffs. He might want to keep pouting, but it appears the lure of telling the story is too strong to resist. “Okay. So … as I was sayin’ … there lived in
Ireland
a hag who hailed by the name of Mal. At the same time, there lived a great warrior who hailed by the name of
Cú Chulainn
. He was one of the Red Branch Knights, the warrior band of the High Kind of Ulster,
Conchobar mac Nessa
…”

I have to blink my eyes several times just in an attempt to keep all these Irish words straight, but I give up shortly after the hag’s name. I’ll have to do some Googling later to see what I can resurrect from this conversation. I encourage him with smiles and nods, pretending I’m totally comprehending every word.

“…
Cú Chulainn
was said to be handsome and fierce, the kind of man all the ladies fancy. Unfortunately for him, he caught the attention of Mal the hag. She’s said to have fallen in love with him upon first sight and became dogged in her pursuit. She refused to take no for an answer. His only recourse was to run, and run he did, indeed … all the way to the edges of the Cliffs of Moher.”

“Where are those cliffs?” I ask.

“Just a skip from here, lass. You could go on foot and be there in less than an hour.”

“Really?” I take a sip from my beer, suddenly very intrigued by the idea of a late-night walk by a cliff. I must really be drunk.

“I wouldn’a lie to ye.” Paddy’s ready to be offended.

“No, of course not.” I wave his worry off, anxious to hear the rest. “Tell the rest of the story.”

“Right, so, he reached Loop Head at the mouth of the Shannon River and is said to have jumped from there to the Diarmuid and Grainne’s Rock.”

“He tried to escape by jumping onto a rock? Was that just a short-term solution or what?”

“It’s not a rock. It’s an island.”

“Oh. That makes complete sense.” I have to battle not to roll my eyes.

“Aye. But the problem is, this hag was veeerrrra determined. So she jumped too, and although she was a smaller sort, and bent over and stone-ugly as hags tend to be, the wind caught her skirts like the sail of a ship and sent her over to the island as well.”

“Oh, bad news for that warrior guy,” I say. “Talk about a Survivor episode gone really wrong.”

“I don’t folla ye.”

“Never mind. Wrong century. Continue, please.”

“Well,
Cú Chulainn
realizing he was trapped, made another leap, this time in the other direction.”

“Back to Ireland?”

“Yes, back to the Loop Head, over the Shannon River.”

“Did he make it?”

“Yes, he did.” Paddy beams at me.

“Did she follow?”

“Yes, she did.” He beams again.

“And?”

“And she crashed into the rocks and died. The end.”

My jaw drops open, and I look from Paddy to William. The slightly larger man has dropped his forehead into his hand.

“Och, Paddy. Ye’re hopeless when it comes to a punchline.”

“What? That was classic storytelling procedure, that was. Build em up and then let ‘em plummet back down to earth.” He pokes his finger into the table for emphasis and then he leans back in his chair, raising his hand for the bartender’s attention.

William picks up the story while Paddy focuses on getting his next pint. “He had it mostly right. The hag jumps as well, still pursuing yer man there, but the wind is going against her this time, ye see, and so her skirts fly up like a sail in the wind and she’s pulled out to sea where she’s dashed against the rocks below and shattered into a million tiny pieces.” He grins, obviously very proud of himself. “Now there’s how ye tell a punchline.”

“A million pieces?”

“A million or so. Mebbe two. And if ye look, ye can see a rock down there in the shape of her ugly face, staring out to sea. We call it Hag’s Head and it lies in Malbay, the water named for her.”

“And I could walk there from here?” My Guiness-buzzed brain is picturing it already. I could use some fresh air. It’s getting really beer-stinky in here. It could be my breath.

“The cliffs are no place to be walkin’ at night,” says a voice over my shoulder.

All of us look up in time to see a broad-shouldered mountain of a man standing behind me. He looks like he just came back from the cliffs directly to this pub, the way his hair is scattered all over his head and his clothing rough with what looks like sea salt. Hubba, bubba, he is
hot
.

“Oy, William, look what the cat dragged in!” Paddy whacks his friend on the upper arm. “It’s Donal, the old man o’ the sea.”

William pulls out a chair. “Take a load off. Have a pint.”

“I’ve already had one. Now it’s time to go home. Lots of work to do and not enough hours in the day to do it.”

“Ye work too hard, lad. Look, we found a pretty lass to take yer mind off all o’ that farming business.”

I stand, seeing that he doesn’t want to be lured in any more than that old warrior did. “That’s okay. I’m leaving too. It was nice meeting you and I really enjoyed the story.”

“Ye’re leavin’ too?” Paddy frowns and then looks at his friend. “Is it me or is the younger generation failing to appreciate the fine art of having a pint and a gab to settle the stomach?”

“Oh, trust me, I have mastered that whole program,” I say. “I’ve already had way too many pints as it is and all I’ve done all night is gab.” I take my purse and jacket off the back of my chair. “So, which way to the bed and breakfast called … uh … oh, crap. I forgot the name of it.” Did I ever know the name of it? At this point my brain is too fogged in to remember.

“What’s the name of the
bean an ti
?” asks Donal. “We’ll probably know her.”

“O’Grady? I think?

“Aye,” says Paddy, smiling as he rubs his stomach absently. “Siobhan O’Grady of Doolin. I knew her well, once.”

William rolls his eyes. “Oy, that’s enough, Paddy. You didn’t know her a’tall.”

“Yes, I did. I knew her verra well, as a matter of fact.”

William waves him off. “Donal here can take ye.”

I look at Donal and he nods.

I’m only a little concerned about the fact that he looks like he weighs about two hundred and fifty pounds of pure, solid muscle. A glance at his hands tells me he could wring my neck with just one while he drinks a pint of beer with the other.
Holy shit.
It takes everything I have not to let my eyes stray farther down.

“No need to worry about Donal,” says Paddy, smiling as he watches me. “He’s as big as a lion but gentle as a lamb. A newborn pink one.”

“Well, now, that’s not exactly true, is it?” asks William. When he sees my look of alarm he corrects himself. “O’ course he’s gentle. Never’d hurt a lady. Only perhaps a man who needs a bit of an attitude adjustment.” He holds up a gnarled finger and shakes it for emphasis. “But even then not without provocation.” He nods as if he’s decided for me that all will be well.

I look at Donal to see how he’s managing this review of his character. He shrugs. “On my honor I never taught a lesson to any man who didn’t ask me for it with a please.”

The three of them chuckle over some inside joke, but it does make me feel a little more safe about the idea of being alone with him, especially when Paddy adds the last little nugget of information.

“I’d trust him to walk me own sister home. And that’s the best recommendation a body can get from Paddy Horahan.”

William nods and points at his friend. “You can count on that one. His sister’s a real looker.”

Paddy whacks his friend on the shoulder. “Watch it, now. She’s a married woman.”

“Doesn’t change the facts.”

“No, I suppose not.”

The two go back to drinking beers and soon the talk of fairies resumes.

“Might I walk you home?” Donal asks me.

I’m struck speechless by the question. I’ve never been asked something so utterly quaint and decidedly sexy in all my life. And then he smiles and whatever ice I might have had left around my heart melts.

“Yes. Okay. That would be nice.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ERIN

THE NIGHT AIR IS MAGNIFICENT. I breathe in the salty cocktail of sea and sky and sigh.

After a stretch on the open sea we tack right and head toward the moon. Micheál slows the boat, and I can make out land. The engine dies away as we float toward another jetty.

Expertly throwing the rope up onto the concrete, he jumps up after it and secures the line before reaching down to help me out of the boat. At this point I have decided to unreservedly throw caution to the wind and just enjoy myself. Ridlee would be proud of me; she’s been telling me for ages now that I’ve become too uptight.

Oh shit! Ridlee! I hope she’s okay…
Oh, well, there isn’t much I can do about that now, so here goes nothing…

We don’t speak as Micheál takes my hand and leads me up a small muddy path that is overgrown the further in we go. He stomps on brambles and long grass and holds back bushes and twigs so that I can pass through. He’s continues to hold my hand, and every so often he looks back and smiles at me. The moon is so bright, it is almost like daylight. Finally, we reach a clearing with a circle of stones set in the ground and on them I can make out faded, swirls and markings.

“Wow! Are these Ogham stones?” I ask running my fingers along one.

“Yep. One of Doolin’s best kept secrets, thank God. They’d be destroyed if people knew they were here. I’ve been coming for years, but I’ve never seen another soul here.”

“Apart from all the girls you bring with you, of course.”

“Nope, you’re the first, “ he says simply, and I believe him.

We stand in the centre of the stones, and the air between us becomes positively electric. I feel intoxicated, but the Guinness wore off long ago. He comes toward me and I can’t move.

“Have you ever had a moon bath?” he asks, his voice deeper.

“No.”

He smiles. “Well, you’re in for a treat, then.”

Ever so gently, he removes my clothing, item by item. Sliding Ridlee’s jacket off my shoulders, he takes it, folds it, and places it gently on one of the Ogham stones. I smile my appreciation. He walks slowly back toward me, and I feel myself begin to quiver.

As he unbuttons my shirt, my nipples harden. Only when he has undone all of them does he touch me, placing his hands in the hollow of my waist before sliding them upward along my ribs.

I shudder at his touch and he grins.

His hands move up over my bra, his thumbs brushing my nipples through the lace. I gasp involuntarily. Intuitively, he stays away from my breast at first; they are definitely my most sensitive erogenous zones. He teases me by moving his hands away and up toward my neck.

I reach my hand out to him, but he puts it back by my side and leans in to kiss my ear.

“Enjoy…,” he whispers, nuzzling gently.

Gratefully, I smile. He’s touching me so expertly I’m afraid my own attempts would seem amateurish in comparison.

Stepping behind me he circles his hands around my waist and unbuttons my jeans.

I reach my hand up to his cheek as he kisses my neck and the hollow near my shoulder. The fizz of pleasure carries me off and I commit to just
letting go.