The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (70 page)

Maggie stirred milk into her tea, ignoring the grin spreading across her friend’s face. “It was a man, yes. Ireland is ful of them, you know. And they’re al born storytel ers. They enjoy sharing their tales with visitors. They—” Maggie glanced at the window, sure she’d caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. But nothing stirred except the mist curling above the smooth surface of the duck pond. “You’ve sidetracked me.” She turned back to Darcy. “Do you want to hear the rest of the legend or not?”

“Of course, I do.”

Maggie took a deep breath, fighting the urge to look out the window again. “Wel ,” she began, remembering, “the wedding day approached and the King ordered preparations made for a grand feasting the likes of which had never been seen in his smal but mighty kingdom. The bride thought her heart would burst with happiness. She’d always feared she’d be made to wed a king or prince whose land would be far from her father’s and she loved her home dearly and dreaded having to leave. She’d also fal en deeply in love with the young champion who was to be her husband. But as often happens when life seems so good, the young girl’s happiness was about shatter.”

“Her champion dies.” Darcy made the words a statement. “And she pines away until she’s an embittered old woman, mourning her lost love forever.”

“That’s close, but not quite how it was.”

“Then what
did
happen?”

Maggie slid a glance at the window again, unable to help herself. Nothing sinister or faelike lurked in the drifting mist. But there was an elderly woman down by the pond. She moved slowly along the water’s edge, feeding the ducks from a brown paper bag. She didn’t look Maggie’s way, but something about her sent a chil down Maggie’s spine.

“Hey!” Darcy poked her arm. “I’m waiting. How does the story end?” Maggie reached for her teacup, needing a bracing sip. “According to the legend, sea raiders landed on the eve of the wedding. The King and his men and al their guests were taken by surprise, the raiders storming into the hal in the middle of the celebrations. Many of the King’s men and his friends were slain, including the valiant young warrior. But the bards claim he fought ferociously, once again saving the King’s life, this time through the giving of his own.

“Of the girl’s fate, nothing can be told. She was seized by the attackers and carried away from Ireland in one of their war gal eys. No one ever saw her again.”

“Damn, that’s sad.” A frown creased Darcy’s brow. “Now I know why I read so many romance novels. You’re always guaranteed a happy ending. Wait—” she looked at Maggie sharply, the furrow on her forehead deepening “—you stil haven’t told me why the stone circle is cal ed the Seven Sisters.”

“Ah, but I have.” Maggie glanced across the room to her painted likeness of the stones. “The King’s daughter is the seventh sister. The stones are named in her honour and in memory of the six sisters who never forgot her. In fact, it’s said that they spent so much time standing on the cliff, looking out to the western sea and grieving for her, that their sorrow turned them to stone.”

“So that’s why there are only six stones?”

“That’s how I heard the tale.”

“Wel , I’l never walk into the gift shop now without glancing at those stones on the wal and feeling a shiver.” Darcy stood, smoothing her fril ed white apron. “Now, dear heart, I’d better get back into my kitchen. I’l have someone bring you more colcannon—” she snatched Maggie’s unfinished portion off the table “—you’ve let this turn cold.” Maggie watched her stride away, expertly manoeuvring a path through the crowded, linen-draped tables to the back of the tea room. Any other time, Maggie would have smiled. She loved her friend and was proud of her success. The Cabbage Rose was one of those irresistibly cosy places, bursting with character and charm. There wasn’t a corner that didn’t delight the eye of those who appreciated the appeal of quaintness. It was a rare day that Maggie visited without the tea room’s magic banishing her cares.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of those times.

It’d been a mistake to tel Darcy about the Seven Sisters. Doing so had only set loose a cascade of painful memories. And even Darcy’s delicious colcannon and her perfectly brewed Irish breakfast tea wasn’t enough to get Maggie’s mind off the part of the tale she’d kept to herself.

Like how she’d lost her heart to a black-haired, blue-eyed Irishman on her long-ago trip to Ireland and how they’d spent her last night on Irish soil making love on the cold, damp grass in the centre of the Seven Sisters.

Then, as now, it was raining, she remembered, as she stepped out of the Cabbage Rose. She paused beneath the tea room’s covered back porch, debating whether she should make a run for her car or wait until the deluge lessened. Not that rain ever real y bothered her.

Actual y, she loved it.

But something was niggling at her.

And whatever it was lifted the fine hairs on her nape and fil ed her with an odd reluctance to move or even think about anything else until she could pinpoint what was making her al shivery.

Frustrated, she stared out into the rain. The mist was thicker now and drifted across the meadow in great, bil owing curtains so that she could barely see the trees on the far side of the duck pond.

She focused on the dark, rain-pitted water, trying to concentrate.

Her heart gave a lurch. “Oh, God!” She raised trembling hands to her face, pressing them hard against her cheeks.
It can’t be.
The words froze on her tongue, denial holding them there.

But she’d seen what she’d seen, even if it had taken her til now to remember.

There
was
something odd about the old woman feeding ducks by the pond.

She’d worn smal black boots with red plaid laces.

Two

Howth village, Ireland: Flanagan’s on the Waterfront

Conal Flanagan was in trouble.

His Celtic blood smel ed it as soon as he’d spotted the wizened old woman sitting in a darkened corner, sipping a glass of whiskey. The woman wasn’t local, yet she also wasn’t a tourist. From the looks of her, she could have been every Irishman’s grandmother. Or, judging by the old-fashioned black clothes she wore, perhaps even every Irishman’s great-great-great-grandmother.

Although her red plaid boot laces were a little trendy.

But it wasn’t her outlandish appearance that bothered Conal . It was his certainty that he hadn’t noticed her enter the pub. He was also sure he hadn’t poured her whiskey.

Something wasn’t right. He could feel it in his bones, with or without a strange old lady sipping a drink he hadn’t served her and who apparently favoured red plaid bootlaces.

He
really
knew it when the door of the pub flew open and his life-long friend Morgan Mahoney burst in on a blast of chil , damp air. Conal set down the pint glass he’d been polishing and waited. Morgan yanked off his waterproofs and hung the dripping jacket on a peg by the door. His face was as dark as the cold, rainy night he’d just escaped.

Not that anyone could be blamed for a sour mood when the wind howled like banshees and the seas churned and boiled as if the little harbour had been spel -cast into the devil’s own cauldron.

It was wild weather, not fit for man or beast.

But inside Flanagan’s, it was cheery and warm. A turf fire glowed in the old stone fireplace, fil ing the pub’s long, narrow main room with the earthy-rich tang of peat. The delicious smel of fried herring wafted from the kitchen, tempting palates. And the heavy black ceiling rafters glistened with age, reminding patrons that this was a place where time and tradition were honoured.

Those who spent their evenings at Flanagan’s liked it that way.

This night, several local fiddlers had claimed a corner, their bows flying as they played a lively reel, much to the delight of the appreciative crowd. No one cared how hard the rain beat against the windows or how many bolts of lightning flashed across the sky.

But heads did turn as Morgan elbowed his way to the bar, his scowl worsening with each long-legged stride.

Morgan Mahoney was a man known for his bel y-deep laughs and smiles.

Just now he looked ready to murder.

“Gone daft, have you?” He grabbed the edge of the bar and leaned forwards, glaring at Conal .

“I’m thinking al those years in the hot Spanish sun fried your brain! Or am I home asleep in my own fine bed just now, having a nightmare? Only dreaming that I heard you—”

“If you mean the farm—” Conal knew at once why his friend was upset “—the rumours are true.

I’m putting the old place up for sale and al the land with it. I haven’t yet chosen an estate agent, but

—”

“You’re mad, you are!” Morgan’s hazel eyes snapped with fury. “Flanagan’s have held that land for centuries. Longer! And the house . . .” He raised his voice, seemingly unaware that the pub had gone silent. “That farm isn’t just where you sleep and eat, laddie. It’s where you come from. Your parents wil be turning in their graves.”

Conal looked at his friend’s angry, wind-beaten face – at al the wel -loved faces turned his way

– and bit back the only answer that would have chased the unspoken accusation from their eyes.

If he didn’t put the past behind him, he’d soon be in his own grave.

Regret and the impossible yearning for a woman he hadn’t seen in years and couldn’t ever cal his own, would put him there.

And much as he’d always shared with Morgan Mahoney and the wel -meaning locals crowding the pub – Howth was that kind of place – his feelings for Maggie Gleason were his own.

He wasn’t going to pour out his heart on this black autumn night. No one needed to know how fiercely he wished he’d never chased his youthful dream to run an Irish tavern on the sun-baked coast of Andalucia. Or that the adventure had cost him so much more than toil, hardship and the eventual shame of admitting failure.

Flanagans kept their troubles to themselves. He wasn’t going to be the one to break family tradition.

He nodded at the fiddlers, signal ing them to take up their tune. They did, and his patrons returned to their
craic.
The noise level in the busy, smoke-hazed pub quickly reached its usual level.

Only Morgan refused to pretend nothing was amiss. He set a fisted hand on the bar counter, ignoring the pint Conal set before him. “What about your brother and your sisters? They’l never agree—”

“Do you think they care?” That they didn’t, twisted Conal ’s innards. But that sorrow, too, he kept to himself. “You know my brother moved to Australia decades ago.” He reached for the perfectly good pint Morgan wasn’t touching and took a healthy swig. “Two of my sisters married Scots and are now in Glasgow. And Kate—” his heart squeezed when he thought of his youngest sister who, in his view, worked way too hard “—has her hands ful with her own family, up in Donegal. You know they run a farm three times the size of our old home place. They take in guests, too.” Conal ’s aging col ie, Booley, padded out of the kitchen then and came to stand beside him.

The dog pressed his black and white bulk against Conal ’s legs and swished his tail. He looked up hopeful y, expecting Conal to tear open a packet of bar crisps and give him a few. They were Booley’s favourite treats.

But Conal simply reached down and rubbed the disappointed dog’s ears.

He’d give Booley a big bowl of minced beef later. He’d even crumble a handful of crisps on top of the mince. But first he needed to deflect Morgan’s prying and steer the nosy bastard from a topic that left Conal feeling like he’d been cut off at the knees.

“Is that al you have to say?” Morgan proved his stubbornness. “Kate’s busy and the others are scattered to the winds?”

“If you’d hear the truth—” Conal continued to stroke Booley’s head “—my siblings don’t have the right to object. I bought them out years ago, when I was stil in Almeria and Fiddlesticks was doing wel . They might not be happy about my decision, but—”

“It stil isn’t right.” Somehow Morgan had come around behind the bar. “You can’t sel ground that is sacred. What about the Seven Sisters?”

Conal flinched. The name sent images whirling across his mind. A wild, dark night ful of wind and rain, then a beautiful young girl linking her fingers with his, her eyes shining as she leaned in to kiss him. He remembered how he’d clutched her to him, kissing her frantical y even as they’d ripped off their clothes. He’d swept her into his arms and carried her into the centre of the stone circle, rain sluicing down their naked bodies, the wind buffeting them as he lowered her to the cold, wet grass where . . .

Conal scrubbed a hand over his face, forcing the memories to fade. They withdrew slowly, the last one a painful echo of Maggie’s words.
I could stay here for ever. In this place, loving you . . .

It’d been her last night in Ireland.

And he’d known it would break her heart to leave.

But he and his Two Jigs mates had already poured their savings into a cheap, much-in-need-of-repair pub on the beach at Almeria. They’d renamed the tavern Fiddlesticks. And with the arrogance of youth, they were sure the venture would bring them a fortune. British tourists would flock to an authentic Irish pub offering good, reasonably priced bar food, fine spirits and nightly music. Locals would appreciate a change from the tapas bars.

Fiddlesticks had done wel , as they’d believed.

Until a thousand other Irish expats had the same idea and business dwindled.

Conal frowned and finished the pint he’d poured for Morgan, downing the remaining ale in one long gulp. It didn’t chase away the frustration that was forming a cold hard knot in his gut. Gnawing anger because, he knew, even without Fiddlesticks, he wouldn’t have asked Maggie to stay.