The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance Part 54

Ireland should have been her real home.

And she wasn't about to tell Darcy that although she loved visiting the Valley 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 subst.i.tute.

But she did need peace.

"Ahhh . . ." Darcy sat back and folded her arms. "You're going to tell 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 gla.s.s. "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 Conall 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 flus.h.i.+ng 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 all the times I've babysat, painted murals on their walls or stayed with their dogs when they went on vacation."

"Good on them." Darcy looked delighted. "Though, really, 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 wall into a whimsical collage of the Emerald Isle. "I've had so many customers say they wished they could jump into your painting."

Maggie followed her friend's gaze, secretly amazed the collage was hers.

It was fine work.

Everything that was the quintessence of Ireland was somewhere on the wall. Dapper city dwellers in their Sunday best strolled 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 rolling green hills and, here and there, gleaming whitewashed cottages caught the eye, their thick walls 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, really, 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 wall held such power over her. "Sometimes I just wish-"

"I know what you wish, dear heart." Darcy's eyes filled with understanding. "But now, thanks to your wonderful family, you're going back. So tell 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 called that because there once were seven sisters. Now-"

"I feel a tall 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 wall."

"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-"

"All good Irish legends are sad."

"This one is different." Maggie felt the skin on her nape p.r.i.c.kle, 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 s.h.i.+mmers in the air, I swear. And once you've stood there . . ." She bit her lip, pausing. Heat was swelling 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 spell 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 h.o.a.ry time perhaps even before the coming of the fabled Tuatha De Danann.

"The King loved all his daughters, but there was one he favoured above the others. She was the youngest and also the sweetest. Men in all 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 n.o.ble 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 telling 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 college trip to Ireland."

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

Maggie stirred milk into her tea, ignoring the grin spreading across her friend's face. "It was a man, yes. Ireland is full of them, you know. And they're all born storytellers. 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. "Well," 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 small 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 fallen 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 chill 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 all their guests were taken by surprise, the raiders storming into the hall 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 galleys. No one ever saw her again."

"d.a.m.n, 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 still haven't told me why the stone circle is called 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."

"Well, I'll never walk into the gift shop now without glancing at those stones on the wall and feeling a s.h.i.+ver." Darcy stood, smoothing her frilled white ap.r.o.n. "Now, dear heart, I'd better get back into my kitchen. I'll have someone bring you more colcannon-" she s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 banis.h.i.+ng her cares.

Unfortunately, this wasn't one of those times.

It'd been a mistake to tell 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 gra.s.s 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 really bothered her.

Actually, she loved it.

But something was niggling at her.

And whatever it was lifted the fine hairs on her nape and filled her with an odd reluctance to move or even think about anything else until she could pinpoint what was making her all s.h.i.+very.

Frustrated, she stared out into the rain. The mist was thicker now and drifted across the meadow in great, billowing 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, G.o.d!" 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 till now to remember.

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

She'd worn small black boots with red plaid laces.

Two.

Howth village, Ireland: Flanagan's on the Waterfront Conall Flanagan was in trouble.

His Celtic blood smelled it as soon as he'd spotted the wizened old woman sitting in a darkened corner, sipping a gla.s.s 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 Conall. 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 chill, damp air. Conall set down the pint gla.s.s he'd been polis.h.i.+ng 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 spell-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, filling the pub's long, narrow main room with the earthy-rich tang of peat. The delicious smell 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 belly-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 Conall. "I'm thinking all 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-" Conall knew at once why his friend was upset "-the rumours are true. I'm putting the old place up for sale and all 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 will be turning in their graves."

Conall looked at his friend's angry, wind-beaten face at all the well-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 call his own, would put him there.

And much as he'd always shared with Morgan Mahoney and the well-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, hards.h.i.+p 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, signalling 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 Conall set before him. "What about your brother and your sisters? They'll never agree-"

"Do you think they care?" That they didn't, twisted Conall'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 full 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."

Conall's aging collie, Booley, padded out of the kitchen then and came to stand beside him. The dog pressed his black and white bulk against Conall's legs and swished his tail. He looked up hopefully, expecting Conall to tear open a packet of bar crisps and give him a few. They were Booley's favourite treats.

But Conall 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d from a topic that left Conall feeling like he'd been cut off at the knees.

"Is that all 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-" Conall continued to stroke Booley's head "-my siblings don't have the right to object. I bought them out years ago, when I was still in Almeria and Fiddlesticks was doing well. They might not be happy about my decision, but-"

"It still isn't right." Somehow Morgan had come around behind the bar. "You can't sell ground that is sacred. What about the Seven Sisters?"

Conall flinched. The name sent images whirling across his mind. A wild, dark night full of wind and rain, then a beautiful young girl linking her fingers with his, her eyes s.h.i.+ning as she leaned in to kiss him. He remembered how he'd clutched her to him, kissing her frantically 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 gra.s.s where . . .

Conall 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 . . .