The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (49 page)

Wel , with Fiona gone, Maeve was the priority, for sure. He hitched the jaunting cart to old Eamon and headed for Kilronan, intent on finding his aged friend and, with any luck, becoming friends with the younger MacGearailt.

The road to Kilronan took him past tiny estates, so smal they seemed fit only for the faery folk Maeve loved to speak of. He wound his way down to the sea, looking for Maeve and taking in the grey vista of the port and bay that would one day start his journey back to Boston. Without a novel in hand, at least one worth reading.

The best source of information in any Irish community, even in America, is the local pub, so that’s where he hitched Eamon. When his eyes adjusted to the low light and his nose to the strong odours, Brian settled on the oldest patron he could find – the most likely source of information. He was nearly as wizened as Maeve and, for al Brian knew, could have been her brother, so interrelated were these Aran folk.

Brian removed his hat and indicated the stool next to the man. “Do you speak English?”

“When I like.”

Brian bit back a groan and didn’t bother sitting. “I don’t suppose that this might be one of those times?”

“Depends on what you want with me, Brian Fitzgerald of Boston, Massachusetts.” Lord, of course. There wouldn’t be a soul in Kilronan who didn’t know his identity and his business, and probably his hat size as wel .

Brian put a coin on the bar and motioned to the keep to bring another round to the stranger.

“I’m looking for Maeve MacGearailt, and her granddaughter, Fiona. Have you seen either?”

“Fiona?” The man turned to face Brian and narrowed his eyes. “There is no Fiona of Maeve’s blood, you fool. Daft, are you? Looking for the Tuatha Dé Danann?” Brian stared blankly, wondering frantical y how to avoid another long tale.

“The Gentry, lad. You don’t look for them; they find you. Now be off with your Fiona and Maeve.

Find one and find both. You’l be in Boston before Samhain, for sure, with Maeve’s boot print on your arse.”

Brian picked up his coin and turned on his heel, hearing the stranger mutter
“Imeacht gan
teacht ort”
behind him.

“I certainly won’t come back,” Brian cal ed over his shoulder. He’d not found poor Maeve or irate Fiona, and had only a thirsty horse and a fierce headache for his trouble. Perhaps it was time to think about going home. They were al crazy, superstitious and il -tempered, these island natives.

Stil , the whole ride home, the vision of Fiona danced in his head, and started an enchanted spiral ing journey into his chest.

Maeve pul ed her shawl over her head as she walked the grey strand, thinking of Brian, as she did most waking moments. For four months she’d endured the torture of his closeness. Torture because it was not close enough. He was a good man, and a good man deserved the truth, but she was not free to give the truth to him. Within weeks, he would tire of his would-be sanctuary, tire of his hag of a housekeeper, and sail away forever.

Didn’t she deserve his touch, a bit of closeness, a kiss, an embrace? Could she stand, just one more time, to enjoy the attention of a man without fal ing in love with him?

Too late, she thought, wiping a tear from her cheek. Unrequited love was her fate, the fate of al the women of her kind, for al eternity. And indeed, she did love Brian.

Maeve fretted with a tangle in her hair as she walked, wishing now she had not left a note for him. For as sure as day would turn to night an hour hence, Brian Fitzgerald would be happy to have a beauty under his roof instead of a hag. But he would not stay; he would not love her.

Be strong, Maeve, she chastised herself, and made her way up the path towards Kildooney House. Enjoy this time you have. You may not see the likes of this man for a long time.

He sat on the steps and rose as she approached the house. “Miss Fiona! I’ve looked for you.

I’m very sorry to have angered you.”

Maeve smiled at his blush. “Was I angry? I cannot recal .” She winked and his blush deepened.

“I am forgiven? I saw Maeve’s note saying that she must visit her sister in Galway for a week. I had no idea she had a sister!”

“Aye, a twin sister.”

“Imagine, two of them! I have been the worst friend to her. Thinking only of myself and my petty cares.”

“You are the master of the house, Mr Fitzgerald. Your cares are ours.”

“I do not need care, Miss Fiona. I can take care of myself, and you can return to Kilronan if you like.” Maeve saw it pained him to suggest it, and wondered what manner of man turned away a beautiful young woman ready to serve him.

“No, I promised Maeve I would look after you. Especial y your meals.” Maeve winked again and this time, Brian laughed ful y. What a sight, she thought, as his handsome face came to life. I’l have him for a time, and Goddess wil ing, it wil be sweet enough to help me swal ow this bitter pil of fate.

“I wil eat what you put before me, without a word. Please, wil you let me do any heavy work? I am tired of watching Irish women work their fingers to the bone on my account.”

“We shal see.” Maeve swept by Brian into the house, letting him catch a whiff of her magical scent to set the wheels in motion. He’d be on her in an instant.

To her amazement, Brian strode into his study, lit his pipe, and settled in at his desk. She stood and watched from the doorway as he threaded a new sheet of paper into his machine, cracked his knuckles, and starting tapping away.

Maeve ran to the great room and scurried before the ful -length mirror, terrified she’d morphed permanently into an ogre. The exquisite image she’d seen for centuries stared back at her in concern. She’d flirted, and he’d sat down to work. Wel , that would not do at al ! Maeve hadn’t imagined that Brian had undressed her with his eyes, that he’d had to pick his tongue off the earth at the first sight of her.

Perhaps the isolation had final y taken its tol ? Had he gone mad?

Maeve hurried to the kitchen to brew a kettle of tea, tapping her foot as she waited for the water to churn. When she entered the study, Brian did not look up, but continued tapping away.

“Excuse me, Brian. Tea is on.”

He looked up, confusion etched on his face. “Tea?”

“Certainly Maeve brought you tea while you worked?” Maeve poured and sat on the couch near his desk, not waiting for an invitation to join him.

“Yes, sorry. I say, my brain has sprung a leak on to the page! Oh, I wish Maeve were here to tel .

She’d be so happy for me. I have you to thank.” He smiled and Maeve’s heart lurched in her chest.

“Me?”

“Yes, I believe you may be the muse she warned me about! An exquisite beauty who would bring me to my highest level of creativity.”

“Do you mean a Leannán Sidhe?”

“That’s it exactly! Now, I don’t believe al of Maeve’s tales, but she did warn me to take care should such a beauty appear. As soon as I sat down, the words came pouring from my fingertips. I fancy they’re good words.”

Maeve covered her mouth with her hand. The man thought her a threat?

“I’m no muse, Brian. Just a pretty face. You can’t honestly believe that I could torture you into a terrible lovelorn state?”

“Oh, I believe you could wear down a holy man. Your beauty has inspired me to write a tale of unrequited love.” He sipped at his tea and smiled sincerely.

“For the love of . . .” You imbecile, she wanted to scream. “Must it be unrequited? Couldn’t it be more . . . requited? Returned? Consummated?”

His eyes widened and he rattled his cup on its saucer. “Miss Fiona, I . . . I can barely imagine . .

. wel , I can imagine . . . I could not dream of . . . could I?”

“I’m not speaking of hopes and dreams, Mr Fitzgerald. They do very little on a cool fal Aran evening to warm the body.”

Maeve bit at her lip, shocked a bit at herself for her open offer. For the first time in aeons, she waited anxiously for a man’s acceptance as her young beautiful self. The crone in her was quite used to rejection.

Brian stood, took off his spectacles, and ran his hand through his hair. Maeve could practical y hear the wheels grinding inside his head, could cut the silence with a knife. He held her gaze and sent her blood racing.

He didn’t make a move, or sound, or even, it seemed, did he breathe. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was a lover of men, perhaps . . . he could actual y refuse her. Shame and hurt clutched at Maeve’s heart and she turned to flee. With a strong grip on her elbow and a firm arm around her waist, Brian turned her around and held her stil . He smel ed of fresh air and sweet pipe tobacco.

His burning lustful gaze at her bosom belied the gentle smile pul ing at his ful lips.

“So, Fiona, you have caught me in a terrible lie.”

“Have I now?”

“I do not care about the cost of your al ure, my muse.” He leaned in and brushed his lips gently against hers, setting her skin tingling.

“I am not a muse, Brian.”

“Stil , you are enchanting. I care only what Maeve wil think of me.”

“She would think you quite the horse’s ass to refuse her granddaughter.” Maeve could stand it no longer, and reached her hands around Brian’s neck, pul ing him down for a real kiss. It may as wel have been her first kiss, for how it turned her bones to jam and her heart racing in her chest.

Brian’s moans of pleasure drummed through her body as he slashed his tongue against hers and pul ed at her lips. He brought his hands down her back and cupped her flesh, none too lightly.

The shy would-be novelist was on fire, white-hot and growing more scorching by the second. He fisted her hair and pul ed to expose her neck to kisses and nibbles that sent Maeve’s knees wobbling. He whispered her name, his breath hot in her ear.

“Fiona, I would have you, but only with Maeve’s permission to court you. I love the woman and wil not dishonour her. No matter the cost to my sanity.” He squirmed and adjusted his trousers, then pul ed back.

Maeve could barely breathe. He must be teasing.
Maeve’s permission.
She wanted to scream.

You have Maeve’s permission, you idiot!

“Wel , isn’t this a bloody fine twist on enchantment!” She ran from the room, scurried to her bedroom, and locked the door behind her. He did not even fol ow.

Brian stared at the blank page, wondering if he should get up, go to the cliff, and throw himself into Galway Bay. For he certainly didn’t deserve to go on in this state. Fiona hadn’t thrown herself at him, she’d instead shrunk herself down to the size of a pin and poked at every fibre of his body.

Relentlessly. Was this the torture Maeve warned him about? The burning he’d never felt in his life.

So complete was her hold on him, his blood ran hot each time he heard movement in the house.

She’d avoided him completely, for two days. Breakfast – undercooked – would be waiting upon his awakening. Tea manifested as if by magic when he returned to his study. He’d wandered the hal s, only to see her shadow disappear around a corner.

Now his lust turned to obsession. Now he simply wanted to see her, to speak with her, to learn about her. Why could she not sit in his study and knit as her grandmother had? Could they not go for a strol on the beach? Did she now find him odious?

The Irish were al insane, but those on Inishmore took first prize. Or, perhaps, as the old salt in the pub had warned him, Maeve, Fiona and Kildooney House were enchanted, and he would not leave the island with his own sanity.

Fiona took his breath away when she suddenly swept into his study with a note in hand, which she slapped on his desk with fervour.

“There, Brian Fitzgerald. There is your permission. You may court me should you find me worthy.”

He stared at the envelope and then back at Fiona. She crossed her arms over her lovely breasts and tapped her foot in annoyance. Brian tentatively opened the envelope and read the note: “Mr Fitzgerald, once again I am sorry that I left suddenly. My sister is doing better. I wil return shortly. You may court (or do as you like with) young Fiona. Signed, Maeve MacGearailt.” What a thing! “Do as you like with.” That didn’t sound like Maeve, but here was her note, in the same hand as the one she’d previously left him. His hand practical y shook as he placed the note on the desk and stared at Fiona.

“I know what I want, Brian, so do not look at me so. There is no shame in it. You have your permission. I can be your love or your maid. The decision is yours.”

“As I like your kisses more than your cooking . . .” He held up his hand as she narrowed her eyes to fiery ice-blue daggers. “That was a joke, Fiona. How did Maeve get a note to me in two days from Galway? You have been here the whole time.”

“Have not.” Fiona flushed and pushed her toes at the carpet, eyes downcast.

“Have too.”

“Maeve is now on Inishmore, visiting another sister in town before returning.”

“How many sisters does Maeve have? Oh, never mind I asked.” Brian thought of the large families in Boston and realized he must sound sil y to Fiona. She must already think him the oddity

– only child, parentless, aspiring novelist. What did such a woman want with such an uninteresting man?

“How rich do you think I am, Fiona?”

She slapped him. She slapped the smile off his face, and then did it again.

He grabbed her hand to stop a third slap.

“You are the devil himself. You insult my cooking . . . my grandmother’s cooking and my cooking, you insult my kisses by turning away, and now I’m a
drùth?
As if I care a whit about your money. I can conjure money from the air and cal gold from the sea to wash on to the shore. I can make the skies rain silver and milk emeralds from a cow.”

Her cheeks blazed scarlet and her chest rose and fel quickly with her fury. Brian looked into her eyes and saw she spoke the truth. She could do those things, and more. Icy fingers crawled up and down his spine, and electricity coursed into the hand that clutched her wrist.