The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance Part 53

He'd been watching his dog's running approach.

And she'd had no business making moony eyes at a local cutie who was surely tired of being gawked at by love-struck American tourists.

Certain she must be glowing a thousand shades of red, she wheeled about, nearly colliding with a tiny, stoop-backed old woman.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Maggie reached to steady her. But there was no need. The woman beamed, her lined face wreathing in a smile.

"An American, are you?" The woman's eyes twinkled even more. "But it's home you are now, eh?"

"Home? I . . ." Maggie blinked. Something about the woman seemed otherworldly. Yet she looked solid enough and her smile was full of warmth. And if her clothes were a bit old-fas.h.i.+oned, her small black boots were tied with sa.s.sy red plaid laces that were definitely modern. She also sported a glittery shamrock on her jacket.

"I just got here yesterday." Maggie tried again. "Well, to Dublin. I flew in from Frankfurt. And I'm tired." She paused as the wind kicked up, tossing her hair. "This is the last stop on my grand tour of Europe before I head back to Philadelphia and start college. And, yes, Ireland does feel like home." She didn't feel silly saying so. It was true. "I've never been here before, but my grandmother came from Cork."

"Ah! Sure and I had the right of it!" The woman nodded, seeming pleased. "There's the look of Ireland about you, there is." Her gaze flickered to Maggie's coppery-bright hair. "I once had tresses so fine myself. Back in the day . . . But it was the wonder on your face that gave you away. It doesn't matter how many oceans a body crosses. Or how many generations lie between, the Celtic heart is always drawn back home." She stepped closer, her tone almost conspiratorial. "That's the magic of Ireland."

"You sound like my grandmother." Maggie's heart squeezed, remembering. "She used to say such things."

The woman bobbed her head again, this time sagely. "You'll not be finding a soul in the land who'll tell you different. It's a truth we all share. But enough of an old woman's prattle." She tapped Maggie's arm with a knotty finger. "What do you think of Howth?"

"It's wonderful." Maggie glanced around, dismayed to see the Morna empty. The Irishman and his dog were gone. "I haven't seen much yet." She took a breath, not wanting the woman to see her regret. "The quay, the whitewashed houses and neat little shops, everything, is so perfect."

That was true.

Every corner of Howth beckoned, tempting her.

Although the delicious aroma of fish and chips wafting from a waterfront pub called Flanagan's could tip the scales in the public house's favour.

She was hungry.

A fine half-pint of ale didn't sound bad either.

Just then the sun burst through the clouds to sparkle on the choppy water. The wind filled with the tang of salt air and tar, making a good sip of ale in the cheery warmth of Flanagan's seem even more inviting.

Maggie cast another look at the pub, liking the idea more by the minute.

Flanagan's had atmosphere. Half-barrels of bright red geraniums, daisies and sweet pea flanked the blue-painted door and a curl of pleasant-smelling woodsmoke rose from the pub's squat chimney. Diamond-paned windows lent just the right air of Old World charm and the gold lettering of the pub name added dash.

She found herself smiling, her decision made, when the old woman gripped her arm. "Have you heard tell of the Seven Sisters?" She c.o.c.ked her head again, her eyes almost eager. "The stone circle up on the hill behind the ruin of Howth Castle?"

"A stone circle?" Maggie tried to remember. "My grandmother came here sometimes when she was a girl, but I don't think she ever mentioned such a place."

"Oh, in her day, folk hereabouts kept such places to themselves." The woman released Maggie's arm and lowered her voice. "If she wasn't local, like as not no one spoke of the Seven Sisters. They'll have feared she might take away some of its magic when she left."

"Magic?" Maggie forgot about fish and chips and a half-pint of ale.

"All ancient places have a touch o' enchantment." The woman spoke as if such things were real. "The Seven Sisters aren't well known because they're hard to find if you don't know where to look for them."

Maggie considered. "I saw a signpost for the castle from the bus window. Can I get to the stone circle from there?" She glanced over her shoulder, along the coast road. "Is there a path?"

"You could take the road to the castle and follow the path up the hill. But-" the woman's face brightened "-if you're good by foot, there's a better way. You'd have to climb a wee track that starts behind yon pub." She indicated Flanagan's. "The path isn't marked, but you'll spot it easy enough."

"You're sure?"

"Look for where the roses tumble over a break in the stone wall behind the pub." The old woman winked. "Once you slip through there, you'll find your way just fine."

"Well . . ." Maggie turned up her jacket collar. The sun had dipped back behind the clouds and the wind suddenly felt much colder. "I would love to-"

"Then away with you and enjoy yourself." The old woman gave her a gentle nudge and then turned away, hurrying across the road and disappearing down a narrow walkway between two thick-walled houses.

For a moment, Maggie wondered why she hadn't heard the tap-tap of the woman's st.u.r.dy black boots on the pavement as she'd hobbled away so quickly. But just then a fat raindrop landed on her cheek and she knew if she didn't hurry herself, she'd never make it up to the stone circle and back without getting drenched.

A glance at the sea confirmed what she'd guessed: a storm was definitely brewing.

She only had two weeks in Ireland.

And all her Gleason ancestors would turn in their graves if they saw her let a tiny bit of Irish wind and rain keep her from climbing a hill. So she crossed the road and nipped behind Flanagan's. She saw the gap in the wall right away. Dusky pink roses spilled over the stones, marking the spot. The path stretched beyond, leaf-strewn and muddy.

And so exciting in its possibilities that Maggie's skin tingled.

But she'd only gone a short way, climbing hard and steadily, before her sense of adventure dimmed. This couldn't be the right path. Although she could catch glimpses of the sea, she couldn't see anything of the harbour. Yet she had to be right above the village.

Even more disquieting, each step was taking her deeper into a tangle of gigantic rhododendrons. Huge, dark and with oddly twisted trunks and branches, they towered over the path, forming a canopy. She felt as if she'd entered some weird primordial forest. Drifts of damp, gauzy mist even floated about, turning the wood into a place she could easily imagine inhabited by faeries, trolls and other such creatures she didn't want to consider.

Of a stone circle or even the end of the path there was no sign.

Maggie shoved a hand through her hair.

She had to be lost.

The wind picked up, whistling ominously and tossing the rhododendron's strange, s.h.i.+ning branches. Maggie took a deep breath of the damp, woodsy air. She tried not to worry. She didn't really think a wart-nosed troll was going to jump out of the bushes at her. And her chances of being waylaid by an axe-murderer were slim.

This was Ireland, after all.

But the day had darkened and icy raindrops were beginning to splatter the path. Somewhere thunder rumbled. Or maybe it was just the cras.h.i.+ng of the sea. Or and she really hated this possibility the sound of footsteps charging up the path behind her.

Maggie froze.

Someone was coming up the path.

She whipped around, wondering if she could use her rucksack as a weapon, when she recognized the man striding so purposely up the path.

It was him.

The black-haired, blue-eyed cutie from the fis.h.i.+ng boat Morna.

Maggie's breath caught. Her heart flipped and a thrill shot through her. Thoughts of axe-murderers fled, replaced by the image of a sword-wielding Celtic warrior, fierce and proud, as he stood on a cliff's edge, a wild sky behind him, the wind tossing his hair.

"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. Conall 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 Conall.

Nor was she going to sound looney by telling him so.

"I'm Maggie Gleason, from Philadelphia, and I'm not lost. I wanted to take this path." It was all 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 spilling 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 swis.h.i.+ng his tail.

Conall 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 wall. 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."

Conall 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 wall behind the pub."

Conall shrugged. "Aye, well. There is a another way to the Sisters. I can take you there. If-" he glanced at her shoes "-you don't mind pus.h.i.+ng 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 pull back an armful of dripping branches. "We'll 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'll 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 pa.s.sed, guiding her. "I play fiddle and sing. We'll be full to the rafters and there'll 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 rolling 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 rolling mist. They were taller than she'd expected and looked almost lifelike. Slender, graceful and evenly s.p.a.ced, they all 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 Conall. He was still 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'll tell you about the seventh sister on the way across the field. But be warned-" he was already pulling her forwards "-it's a sad tale."

Maggie scarcely heard him. She wasn't worried about some long-ago tragedy spoiling her day. Conall's warm fingers around her wrist were sending the sweetest s.h.i.+vers all 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 follow them.

One.

The Cabbage Rose, near Valley Forge, Pennsylvania.

"What's happened?" Darcy Sullivan, owner of the Cabbage Rose, incurable romantic, and Maggie's best friend since college, 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 all the time." Maggie took a bite, belligerent. "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 idyllic 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 chilly day and would surely rain before she started the drive back to Philly.

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-"

"Philly is home." The admission bit deep into Maggie's substance.