The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (69 page)

“You!” She could feel her eyes rounding. She noticed other things, too. Like the way the air around her seemed to crackle. And how a wildly exhilarating mix of eagerness, joy and longing spun inside her. She hoped he couldn’t hear the hammering of her heart. She also strove to speak in a halfway normal tone. “I saw you at the harbour.”

“Aye.” He stopped, panting a bit as he leaned forward to brace his hands on his jean-clad thighs. As if he knew how he affected her, he looked up and flashed her the most blinding smile she’d ever seen.

“That would’ve been myself. Conal Flanagan. You saw me on my uncle’s boat, the
Morna.
My dog, Booley, almost knocked you down. I’m sorry for that. He can be a bit rowdy at times.” He straightened, his eyes twinkling. “But there was no harm done, was there?

“Though just now—” he stepped aside as Booley cannoned into view, skidding to a halt beside him “—I’m thinking you’re lost.”

Booley barked as if he agreed.

But they were wrong. She was right where she was meant to be. She could feel it in her soul.

This was her place and the rightness of being here was as strong as her attraction to Conal .

Nor was she going to sound looney by tel ing him so.

“I’m Maggie Gleason, from Philadelphia, and I’m not lost. I wanted to take this path.” It was al she could think to say. On the boat, he’d caught her eye. Here, standing so near, he dazzled her.

“So-o-o, Maggie Gleason of America—” he smiled again, dimples winking “—is the old country everything you thought it would be?”

“It’s a dream. Like a living fairytale, but—” She bit her lip, not wanting to gush. “How did you know—”

“That you’re Irish?” He rubbed his chin, pretending to consider. “Could be the name Gleason. Or maybe that wild tumble of fiery-red hair spil ing down your back.” Maggie’s pulse quickened. She couldn’t think straight. But she
had
heard his name.

“Do you have anything to do with the harbourside pub? Flanagan’s?” Booley barked again, this time swishing his tail.

Conal put a hand on the dog’s head, stroking his ears. “My father owns Flanagan’s. It’s been in the family for generations. I was in the back when I saw you nip through the wal . That’s why I came after you. This isn’t a tourist path. The way is steep and—”

“I know where I’m going. An old woman gave me directions to the Seven Sisters.” Maggie adjusted the strap of her rucksack. “She was local.”

Conal lifted a brow. “Any local wanting to do their part for tourism would have sent you to the marked route, down by the castle ruin. This path leads to our family farm and nowhere else.”

“I don’t understand.” Maggie frowned. “The woman seemed so nice. And she did say that the path cut through the stone wal behind the pub.”

Conal shrugged. “Aye, wel . There is a another way to the Sisters. I can take you there. If—” he glanced at her shoes “—you don’t mind pushing through some thorn bushes and getting your feet muddy?”

Maggie dismissed his concern. “I’m already pretty mud-splattered.”

“Then watch your step, Maggie Gleason. The ground beneath the rhododendrons is slippery.

Getting through the brambles beyond is even trickier.” He reached to pul back an armful of dripping branches. “We’l have to hurry if we want to get to the Sisters and back before the storm breaks. If we do get drenched, you can come with me to Flanagan’s and I’l give you something to warm you.”

“I’d like that.” Maggie knew he meant food and likely whiskey.

She wanted his kisses.

But he only curled strong fingers around her wrist, helping her as she ducked beneath the branches. “My band, Two Jigs, is having a session tonight.” His free hand touched her shoulder as she passed, guiding her. “I play fiddle and sing. We’l be ful to the rafters and there’l be dancing.”

“I love to dance. I—” Maggie straightened, her jaw slipping. She’d stepped through the bushes on to the edge of a large field of rol ing green, boulder-studded and dotted with sheep. She could see the stone circle in the distance. Her breath caught, everything in her that was Irish crying out in wonder and appreciation.

Beautiful and eerie, the stones stood silent, rising out of a drift of rol ing mist. They were tal er than she’d expected and looked almost lifelike. Slender, graceful and evenly spaced, they al seemed to be facing the sea and did resemble women.

But something wasn’t right.

There were only six stones.

“Did I miss something?” She glanced at Conal . He was stil holding her wrist. “I thought they were the
Seven
Sisters?”

“And so they were. Once.” He kept his eyes on the stones as he spoke. “I’l tel you about the seventh sister on the way across the field. But be warned—” he was already pul ing her forwards

“—it’s a sad tale.”

Maggie scarcely heard him. She wasn’t worried about some long-ago tragedy spoiling her day.

Conal ’s warm fingers around her wrist were sending the sweetest shivers al through her. And she was sure that when they reached the stone circle, he would kiss her.

She could feel those kisses coming.

Too bad she didn’t sense the heartbreak that would fol ow them.

One

The Cabbage Rose, near Valley Forge, Pennsylvania

“What’s happened?” Darcy Sul ivan, owner of the Cabbage Rose, incurable romantic, and Maggie’s best friend since col ege, took a seat at Maggie’s window table. She leaned forward, her green eyes concerned. “Did another job interview go wrong? Is your landlord refusing to give you an extension on your rent? If so, I can—”

“There’s nothing wrong.” Maggie put down the forkful of colcannon she’d been about to pop into her mouth. “It’s Sunday and I just felt like—”

“Your favourite comfort food.” Darcy eyed the steaming mound of mashed potatoes and cabbage on Maggie’s plate. “You’re forgetting I know you always order an Irish farmhouse breakfast on Sundays.”

Maggie glared at her friend. “I like colcannon.”

“And—” Darcy wasn’t backing off “—you only ever eat it when you’re upset.”

“You’re wrong. I eat it al the time.” Maggie took a bite, bel igerent. “I can make it myself, you know. Even if—” she gave a defiant smile “—my own version is never quite as good as yours.”

“You ordered a turf-cutter’s portion. You never do that unless—”

“Everything is fine.”

Darcy snorted. “And I serve bratwurst and sauerkraut.”

Maggie was about to dig in to her colcannon again. Instead, she ignored her friend’s jibe by glancing out the window. The Cabbage Rose had an idyl ic setting and a light autumn mist was rising from the duck pond behind the tea room. Thick woods edged the meadow beyond the pond and some of the leaves were already turning. It was a chil y day and would surely rain before she started the drive back to Phil y.

It was the kind of weather that reminded her of Ireland.

“You could move out here, you know.” Darcy reached across the table and nudged her elbow, her words proving how perceptive she was. “You in the craziness of a crowded, fast-paced city is as impossible as trying to fit a square peg in a circular hole. You weren’t made for—”

“Phil y is home.” The admission bit deep into Maggie’s substance.

Ireland should have been her real home.

And she wasn’t about to tel Darcy that although she loved visiting the Val ey Forge area on Sundays, anything else would break her. Lovely and pastoral as the countryside was, it would always pale to her memories of Ireland. And if she couldn’t have the real thing . . .

She didn’t want a substitute.

But she did need peace.

“Ahhh . . .” Darcy sat back and folded her arms. “You’re going to tel me now, aren’t you? I can see it coming. It’s about a man, isn’t it?”

Maggie started, almost knocking over her water glass. “No, it isn’t about a man.” She could feel the tops of her ears burning on the lie. “It’s about Ireland.” She opted for a half-truth, knowing that for her Conal Flanagan and Ireland were almost one and the same. “I’m going back to see the Seven Sisters.”

“Maggie!” Darcy’s eyes widened, her face flushing with pleasure. “That’s splendid news. But how are you swinging it? Did you win the lottery?”

“No, it’s better.” This time Maggie did treat herself to more colcannon. “My sisters and cousins pitched in and are giving me the trip for my thirtieth birthday. They’re saying it’s payback for al the times I’ve babysat, painted murals on their wal s or stayed with their dogs when they went on vacation.”

“Good on them.” Darcy looked delighted. “Though, real y, your mural work alone is worth a thousand trips to Ireland.” She glanced across the tea room to where Maggie’s artful hand had turned a plain wal into a whimsical col age of the Emerald Isle. “I’ve had so many customers say they wished they could jump into your painting.”

Maggie fol owed her friend’s gaze, secretly amazed the col age was hers.

It
was
fine work.

Everything that was the quintessence of Ireland was somewhere on the wal . Dapper city dwel ers in their Sunday best strol ed the streets of turn-of-the-century Dublin, three fiddlers entertained a foot-stomping crowd in a smoke-hazed pub and rosy-cheeked children tumbled with a dog in a daisy-studded meadow. Winding country roads disappeared across rol ing green hil s and, here and there, gleaming whitewashed cottages caught the eye, their thick wal s and thatched roofs enchanting the Cabbage Rose’s American clientele with the charm of a long-ago, slower-paced world.

Maggie’s heart squeezed, her gaze settling on a particular cottage. A farmhouse, real y, it was long and low in the traditional style and she’d painted a faint curl of bluish smoke rising from the chimney. In the garden, laundry could be seen fluttering in the breeze and, just beyond, a sparkling sea glinted, stretching into the distance.

She lived in that distance and it’d been breaking her for twelve long years.

“Too bad none of those customers loved the mural enough to commission their own.” Maggie regretted the words as soon she spoke them. It wasn’t Darcy’s fault she was a starving artist. “I’m sorry, I meant . . .” She tore her gaze from the Flanagan farmhouse and let out a shaky breath, furious that a few strokes of paint on a wal held such power over her. “Sometimes I just wish—”

“I know what you wish, dear heart.” Darcy’s eyes fil ed with understanding. “But now, thanks to your wonderful family, you’re going back. So tel me—” she nodded and smiled at the server who brought them a pot of tea “—which sisters are you visiting? Are they Gleasons or maybe great-aunts on your mother’s side?”

“They’re neither.” Maggie reached for the teapot and poured them both a cup. “The Seven Sisters are a stone circle. You can see them there—” she twisted around, indicating a section of the mural near the tea room’s gift shop “—just above the little harbour and its fishing boats.” Darcy peered across the room, her eyes narrowing on the silvery stones, rising eerily from a swirl of mist. “But there are only six of them. You said—”

“The
Seven
Sisters, I know.” Maggie sipped her tea, welcoming its soothing tang. “They’re cal ed that because there once were seven sisters. Now—”

“I feel a tal tale coming.” Darcy reached for her own teacup, her lips twitching. “I just don’t understand why you’ve never mentioned it before, seeing as you painted the stone circle on my wal .”

“There is a legend, yes.” The words caught in Maggie’s throat. Even now, it was so hard to speak of the place. “But it’s very sad and—”

“Al good Irish legends are sad.”

“This one is different.” Maggie felt the skin on her nape prickle, then a stab of deep longing inside her. “I think this story is real because I’ve been there and have felt the power of those stones. The circle shimmers in the air, I swear. And once you’ve stood there . . .” She bit her lip, pausing. Heat was swel ing in her chest, clamping around her ribs like a vice. It was the yearning, she knew. And just now, it was sweeping her so fiercely she could hardly breathe.

“I have to go back, Darcy.” She curled her fingers around her teacup, feeling the cold grit of ancient stone instead of the delicacy of tea-warmed porcelain. “We both know I’m obsessed with Ireland. But my life is here, whether I like that or not. I need to undo whatever spel those Sisters cast on me. I’m turning thirty. It’s time to move on.”

“So who were the Sisters?” Darcy was watching her over the rim of her teacup.

“They were the seven daughters of a lesser Irish king who lived in the days when the Vikings first began raiding Ireland.” Maggie closed her eyes, returning in her mind to that distant, windswept cliff. “Though some legends claim the Sisters are even older than that, going back to a hoary time perhaps even before the coming of the fabled Tuatha Dé Danann.

“The King loved al his daughters, but there was one he favoured above the others. She was the youngest and also the sweetest. Men in al the land vied for her hand, but her father would see her wed to none but the great champion he loved like a son – for the young warrior had once saved the king’s life in battle.”

Maggie peered at her friend, not surprised to see Darcy scoot her chair closer. “Many of the other kings and their sons were disappointed by the King’s choice, but everyone understood, for the valiant warrior had a good and noble heart. He was also said to have been so handsome that even the stars in heaven envied his beauty.”

“You’re making this up.” Darcy refreshed Maggie’s tea. “But it’s a lovely tale.”

“It is. And I’m tel ing you the legend exactly as it was told to me.”

“And who would it be who told you. Hmm?”

“Someone who lives near the stones.” The truth slipped out before Maggie could catch herself.

“Someone I met on my col ege trip to Ireland.”

“Would that someone be a man?” Darcy twinkled at her.