The Crow of Connemara (19 page)

“Up ahead a bit.”

“What were you in town for? It doesn't look like you've been shop—” Colin stopped, suddenly guilty. “I hope that you paying for the book didn't mean that you couldn't get whatever you came to town for. If that's the case, then let's take the book back to Mr. Mullins . . .”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “No worries,” she told him. “Some of the others are doing the shopping for the island. Not me. I found what I came for.”

“You did?”

“Did.”

He didn't want to ask the question, but it seemed to slip from his mouth before he could stop it. “And what was that?”

“A linen stole,” she said, and Colin had to fight to keep the disappointment from showing in his face. “It had such lovely embroidery and needlework. I saw it in a window the last time in and I decided I had to have it. I gave the stole to Keara to take back to the boat for me.” She paused; they continued to walk along, the hush of small waves lapping at the rocks the loudest sound. “I was hoping to see yeh also,” she said. “Does that help?”

She was smiling at him, and he had no idea how to answer that. “You showed up at just the right time,” he told her.

“It's a gift I have,” she answered.

“Like twisting someone's ankle?”

She grinned. “Think of what I could do to yer guitar playing if yeh get on me bad side.”

He laughed at that. Out in the water, the seals answered. “I guess I'd better stay in your good graces, then.” He glanced up at the sky again. The clouds had gotten darker and lower, and the wind was picking up. “Listen, how about we head back to Regan's and I buy you that pint I owe? We can talk there without worrying about getting wet.”

She released his arm as she shook her head. “Not right now,” she told him. “I'm going to head on to the boat, and yeh should get back to your place. Yeh have about twenty minutes before the rain, so yeh can just about make it.”

“If you can be that precise, you
really
missed your calling.”

She laughed again, and again he was struck by her amusement, which was so free and enchanting. It made him want to laugh with her, to pull her into an embrace, and . . .

...And he
was
in her embrace. She kissed him hard, her mouth opening under his. When she pulled away again, she kept her arms around him, speaking into his ear. “When do yeh play at Regan's again?” she asked.

“Tomorrow night.”

She kissed the side of his neck. “I'll be there. Promise. And yeh can buy me that pint then.”

With that, she released him, squeezing his hands with her own before striding off down the Beach Road. She waved to him without looking back, her hair lifting in the breeze. “Tomorrow, then!” he called after her, and she waved again. He watched her until she vanished around a curve in the road. The seals out in the water had disappeared with her.

Colin hefted the gig bag on his shoulders, and started back the other way toward Ballemór and Mrs. Egan's.

The first drops of rain began to fall just as he opened the door to her house.

17

H
E WONDERED WHETHER MAEVE had forgotten her promise. When Lucas led the band onto the stage to start the first set, Maeve hadn't yet arrived at Regan's.

Colin went through the first few songs feeling significantly disappointed and out of sorts. He played and sang desultorily, doing what he had to do but forcing the smile he gave Lucas and his fellow bandmates and mostly keeping his head down. The crowds had been growing steadily during his stint with Lucas' group, and it was obvious his performance was off—their applause was thin, and people seemed more interested in drinking than in listening. The rest of the band noticed, too; the group was loose and the rapport they'd established over the last few weeks was missing.

During the third song, he saw Maeve, Niall, Keara, and Aiden enter the pub and slide into one of the booths near the door. Maeve waved to Colin; she was wearing a long, loose skirt over a pair of high boots, a peasant-type white blouse, and her blood-red cloak around her shoulders, though she was taking that off as he watched. He nodded back to her, smiling. Lucas had seen the wave as well; his glance at Colin seemed tinged with either irritation or disappointment, or perhaps both, but Colin could feel the energy return to him, and when he ended the next song, a ballad that showcased his range and ended on a long high note, the audience broke into loud applause and whistling approval.

When Lucas finally announced their break, Colin put the Gibson on its stand as Lucas laid his fiddle in its case and the pub's jukebox kicked on in mid-song, drowning out the conversations around the tables and booths. Bridget and John were already stepping down from the stage and heading to friends' tables. “I t'ought that you knew to be careful with the Oileánach,” Lucas said, grabbing at Colin's arm as he passed, hard enough to turn him.

“C'mon, Lucas,” Colin said. He blinked at Lucas through his glasses. “They're no worse than anyone else. And that Maeve, you have to admit she's attractive . . .”

Lucas was shaking his head. “I swear to yeh, Colin, the woman's a literal witch—a damned fine-looking one who looks like she'd be lovely to shag, I'll admit, but still a witch. She's hexed yeh, boyo.”

Colin had to suppress a surge of irritation at Lucas' assessment. He glanced down at Lucas' hand on his arm, but the man didn't let go. “You can't believe that.”

“Oh, I can,” Lucas answered. “And so can lots of others around here. I tell yeh, the lot of 'em are no good and dangerous besides.” Colin was still shaking his head, and Lucas released his arm with a gesture of disgust. “I like yeh, Colin. Yer a good person, a damn fine musician and singer, and I know yer the reason most of the seats out there are filled. Yer the best addition to the group we coulda made, and that's why I'm saying this to yeh now. Be careful with those yeh hang about, and keep yer head alert. Both heads, if yeh take me drift. Yer not the first person that one's hexed.”

“Oh?” Colin felt his eyes widen slightly with that. “Who else? Was it you?”

But Lucas only shook his head. “Yeh'd best be very careful, 'tis all,” he repeated. With that, he waved at someone out in the crowd and left the stage. Colin stepped down himself and gestured toward Maeve, but went first to the bar and ordered two Guinnesses. When the bartender slid the pints over to him, he made his way toward Maeve's booth. She was sitting next to Niall, with Keara and Aiden on the other side. Colin noticed that Keara's and Aiden's hands were intertwined on the table between their pints—they were a couple, then. Niall also had a pint cradled in his hands. Significantly, Maeve did not; Colin set down one of the pints in his hand in front of her. She grinned.

“Yeh remembered. That's sweet.” She slid over in the booth to make room for him. His leg, jean-clad, pressed against hers as he sat, though he knew that he was also moving Maeve closer to Niall.

“I always pay my debts,” he told her.

Niall snickered at that, as if the comment fulfilled some private joke for him. Colin glanced over to him. “That's funny?” he asked.

“'Tis when yeh don't know what yeh are being asked to pay,” Niall retorted.

“Shut it, Niall,” Maeve snapped suddenly. “Next time, yeh can stay back on Inishcorr. I can take care of meself.” Colin watched the two glare at each other, then Niall looked away with a huff and took a long swallow of his stout. Aiden and Keara glanced at each and began talking as if nothing had happened, discussing a broken line on their boat that they felt needed to be replaced.

“'Tis a little crowded here.” Maeve leaned against Colin. Her voice was very soft against the roar of the jukebox. “Why don't we step away for a few minutes for a little privacy?”

“Sounds good,” Colin told her. He picked up his pint and slid from the booth; Maeve did the same. As he paused, she walked away from the booth toward the bar area, the skirt billowing out from the fury of her walk. He followed her. He could feel Niall's gaze on his back, as well as that of some of the other patrons. They found a corner of the bar that wasn't too crowded, and Maeve leaned against the wall with her pint. Colin could see her glaring over his shoulder toward the booth where the Oileánach were sitting. “You're not responsible for him,” he said.

“Ah, but I am,” she half-muttered, then she seemed to shake herself and managed a wan smile at him. “So—is that book yeh bought everything yeh hoped it would be?”

“And more,” he told her. “I mean, I have one of the reproductions of the book, and so I knew what was in it, but having this old edition and seeing how some of the pages are creased down, like the person who had it before me was marking their favorite songs, well, it makes me see the whole thing in a different light, and I'm finding myself going back over the tunes in there and somehow playing them differently. Better. It's almost like hearing them again the first time. I suppose the age of the thing is what makes it more attractive to me.”

“'Tis a good thing, that,” she said. “'Tis one of the problems in the world—no one giving proper attention to the old things. They want to discard them, like they mean nothing, like they were never there before all the rest. Like they're either dead or aren't important anymore, an' neither of those is true.”

There was more heat in her voice than Colin expected. He found his eyes widening. “Okay, then,” he said. “Yeah, I guess that's true.”

She reached out with her free hand for his, her fingers curling into his palm, warm and soft. “Sorry,” she said. “It's just . . .” She shook her head, her long, dark hair swaying. “I'm happy to see yeh again. So I'm not going to let anything else bother me. How late yeh playing?”

“Till eleven. Then there may be an open session after closing if other musicians show up.” He watched her nod slowly at that. “I wouldn't necessarily have to stay for that,” he finished.

“But yeh'd want to.” She pressed the hand she was holding. “'Tis fine. I understand. Kayla, Aiden, and Niall will be going back to Inishcorr before then. I thought maybe I might take one of the rooms above Regan's here for the night instead.” She tilted her head, staring at him. Her emerald eyes held him captive. “Sound good?” she asked. “If the session doesn't go
too
late and yer not too fluthered after.” Her smile seemed to harden. “An' if yer not taking all the warnings about the terrible Oileánach too literally. I saw that Lucas talking' to yeh and looking our way.”

A small coal seemed to burn low inside him. He pushed his glasses back. He could feel his stomach tightening with a strange pressure—the same feeling he sometimes had when he was auditioning in front of someone, a volatile combination of eagerness and uncertainty. “Are you telling me you don't eat your dead and steal children away in the middle of the night for horrible purposes?”

“Och, we do, but only if absolutely necessary,” she answered. She tugged him closer, rising up on her toes to kiss him, a fleeting but promising touch of lips. She stayed pressed against him, their entwined hands placed on the rise of her hip. Then her hands left his, she leaned back against the wall again, and took a sip of the Guinness. She nodded toward the stage. “Looks like Lucas is about ready to start up again.”

Lucas had opened his fiddle case, tucked the instrument under his chin, and was beginning to tune up. “Guess so,” Colin said. “Let's talk some more after the set.”

“Good,” she said. She lifted her glass and tapped the rim against his. “I'll have another pint waiting for yeh.”

“You just want me to owe you again.”

“Ah, I see you've figured out my evil plan,” she answered. “G'wan. Sing something good for me. 'Tis a fine, fine voice yeh have.”

“I'll do that,” he told her. He hesitated, their gazes still locked. Then he lifted his glass in salute and went to the stage.

“What's up first?” he asked Lucas.

The set started off well, from “Behind The Haystack” to “Maid Behind The Bar,” then into “Monaghan's Gig.” From time to time, Colin snuck glances out into the audience toward the booth where Maeve and her companions sat.

Those frequent glances meant that he witnessed the start of the altercation, though he wasn't quite sure how it all got started. Playing in pubs and bars in both the States and Ireland, Colin had been a spectator for (and the occasional reluctant combatant in) several bar fights. It was only in movies that these were epic battles dragging on for long minutes, with the two fighters careening from one end of the bar to the other or being tossed through windows and out through splintered doors.
Real
fights ended in a minute or less, with one or the other combatant down or the two quickly separated by their friends and other patrons. Such clashes were generally more bluster than actual blows, with insults hurled along with some pushing and shoving. Usually, the companions of one group or the other would separate the eager combatants, or they might—with the ungentle encouragement of the bouncers of the establishment—take the argument outside to be finished one way or another.

That was the usual situation. This wasn't.

A trio of local young men were passing by Maeve's booth on the way to the bar as the band went into “Rocky Road To Dublin” with Colin taking the vocal. Colin assumed one or more of the youths had made some inappropriate remark, as he saw Niall rise in his seat, point a stubby forefinger at one of them, and shout something that Colin couldn't hear over the music.

There were angry shouts in return from the trio; Colin caught the shouted insult “. . . nothing but a skinful of shite!” above Lucas' fiddle solo, and saw Niall heave his pint at the man. Beer and blood flowed as the heavy glassware slammed into the young man's forehead, and Niall came leaping after him in the same motion. “Feckin' leamh!” Colin heard Niall shout.