The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  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 shivery.

  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, 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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, 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 bastard 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 shining 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 grass 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 . . .

  It’d been her last night in Ireland.

  And he’d known it would break her he
art 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 well, as they’d believed.

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

  Conall 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.

  She’d been about to start college.

  No one in his family had ever achieved a college degree. He could not have been the cause for her to turn her back on such an opportunity. He curled his hand around the empty pint glass, his scowl deepening.

  They’d just been too damned young . . .

  “Well?” Morgan poked his arm. “Don’t think I’m going away until you answer me. What of the Seven Sisters? Would you just abandon them?”

  Conall drew a tight breath. “They won’t crumble if I can’t see them from my bedroom window.” He cast an irritated glance at Booley. The old dog hadn’t even growled when Morgan had all but punched him.

  Looking back to Morgan, he aimed for a light tone. “You’re worrying for nothing. Those stones are older than time. They stood long before a Flanagan ever came to these parts and they’ll go on standing when someone else’s name is scrawled on a land deed.”

  “Humph.” Morgan snorted. “We both know what happens when incomers get their hands on prime land in areas popular with tourists.”

  Booley whined.

  “See?” Morgan flashed a triumphant smile. “Even he knows the way of it.”

  “He wants crisps.”

  “And you?” Morgan’s hand shot out again, this time gripping Conall’s elbow. “What do you want?”

  Again, Booley didn’t raise a hackle.

  “Bloody peace is what I want.” Conall jerked free and turned away from them both. “You should know I’ll not be selling the place to some greedy developer who’ll smother the cliffs beneath a five-star American-style hotel.”

  He looked out across the pub, waiting for Morgan to argue. Rain still blew past the windows and although the fiddlers were performing a lively rendition of “The Irish Washerwoman”, he could hear the thunder of the sea, booming just steps beyond Flanagan’s thick, smoke-blackened walls. Lightning still cracked across the heavens and a full white moon was just sailing behind thick, dark clouds.

  It was the kind of night Maggie Gleason would have called exhilarating.

  Magical.

  She’d understood such things.

  And he was a fool to grieve for her. They’d shared the same path for only two weeks. Yet those fourteen days had felt like a thousand years. When he’d followed her up the hill and she’d whirled to face him in the rhododendron wood, it wasn’t like a first meeting. It was recognition. As if their souls had run together forever and had found each other again at last.

  They’d been so perfectly suited.

  And he’d let her go.

  “A monster-sized resort isn’t the only threat.” Persistent as always, Morgan appeared at his elbow. “Have you not heard how many big developers use harmless-seeming chaps as buyers these days? They want you to think you’re selling to another farmer who’ll keep things as they are. Then, lo, some inflated arse in a suit arrives in a sleek black car, waving planning permission and telling you there’ll soon be a new community of executive homes covering land you thought would remain empty!”

  Conall stiffened. “I won’t let that happen.”

  “You might not be able to prevent it. Unless you give up this fool notion and don’t sell.”

  “My decision is made. I’ve already started cleaning out the storerooms above the pub. I’ll be staying here as soon as I’ve made the loft habitable.” He gazed out across the crowd, not wanting to see his friend’s face. “It’s not like I’m selling Flanagan’s.”

  “Then what is it? Do you need the money?”

  “It has nothing to do with my finances.” Under different circumstances, Conall would have laughed. Flanagan’s was the best-doing pub in Howth. In the few years since he’d returned from Spain and the Fiddlesticks disaster, he’d earned back his losses threefold.

  “I won’t be keeping the money.” He paused, watching Morgan’s surprise. “I’m putting most of it in a college trust for my nieces and nephews. The rest—” he shot a glance at Booley, winding his way through the busy tables, hoping for a cuddle or a treat “—is going to my favourite dog rescue organization.”

  “Then some woman has influenced you.” Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “Not that I’ve seen you with one for years.”

  “It has nothing to do with a woman.” The lie sent heat shooting up the back of Conall’s neck. Equally annoying, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Booley sitting beside the old woman in the corner. She was feeding him crisps. “Damnation.” Conall snapped his gaze away. Something about the woman gave him the willies.

  “I’ve got it!” Morgan slapped his forehead. “It’s her. The American.”

  Conall nearly choked. “What American? Howth is full of them.”

  “You know damned well who I mean.” Somehow Morgan knew. “You’re selling out because you’re going after her, to Pennsylvania. Isn’t that where she was from? Her with the hair like a ‘cascade of fire’ and skin so ‘dewy and soft’ you swore just the memory of holding her would drive you mad. Maggie Gleason.” Morgan grinned, looking pleased.

  Conall glowered. “Maggie Gleason was twelve years ago.” That, at least, was true. “And I am not going to America. Not for her, not for a holiday, not for any reason. But I will hear how the hell you know about her?”

  “Right, well.” Morgan examined his knuckles. “Can it be you’ve forgotten a certain old box carved of bog oak that you kept under your bed? Maybe you should have burned its contents when you went to Spain, knowing your mother would set your sisters to tidying your room after you’d gone. Kate found the box and—” Morgan glanced up, his lips twitching “—it could be your sisters showed me a few love letters you wrote yet never posted.”

  “You read those letters?” Conall’s blood boiled. If he weren’t standing behind the bar of his pub, if they were anywhere else, he’d lunge at Morgan and beat him to a pulp. “Those scribblings were my private property. They were locked in a chest beneath—”

  “Your sisters took turns with a hairpin until they picked the lock.”

  Conall shoved a hand through his hair, furious. “Who else saw the letters?”

  “Well . . .” Morgan considered. “I’d guess only your sisters and your mother. Your sisters found the box. And your mother caught your sisters going through its contents. She burned the letters, if I recall rightly.”

  “And where do you come into it?”

  “I was just there that day.”

  “Sure and you were, sweet as you were on my sisters back then.” Conall reached beneath the bar and produced one of his best bottles of whiskey. He poured a measure and tossed it back quickly. “Or—” he set the glass on the counter and wiped his mouth “—were you after mooching one of my mother’s famous bramble pies?”

  “That could’ve been a reason, too.” Morgan shrugged. “It was long ago.”

  “Damned right, it was.”

  “So you’re not going to America?”

  “No.” Conall frowned.

  “But you’re still in love with her.” Morgan was eyeing him speculatively. “You wouldn’t be so riled if you weren’t.”

  “I forgot her years ago,” Conall bluffed, returning the whiskey bottle to its
shelf. “And I’m annoyed because I have better things to do on such a busy night than listen to your nonsensical blether.”

  “Tell me why you never looked her up and I’ll leave.”

  “Because—” Conall’s head was going to explode “—I don’t believe in poking into the business of people I haven’t seen or heard from in years. For all I know, she could be married with a half-dozen children by now.”

  “And if she weren’t?”

  “Then she could have come searching for me, don’t you think? She’s always known where to find me. She could’ve contacted my parents. Someone could have put her in touch with me, even when I was in Almeria. But—” bitterness rose in Conall’s throat “—she never made the effort.”

  “Some might say you didn’t either, my friend.” Morgan bent to fetch Conall’s bottle of prize whiskey. “I’m thinking you didn’t deserve her.”

  “You’re an ass, Mahoney.” Conall watched his friend fill a generous glass. “I’m not surprised my sisters wanted nothing to do with you. You’re—” Conall snapped his mouth shut, his gaze on the table in the corner.

  The old woman was gone.

  Her empty whiskey glass still sat there. And Booley sprawled nearby, enjoying the warmth of the hearth fire. A crumpled crisps packet on the table indicated why the dog looked so content.

  That was all.

  Conall blinked, disbelieving.

  Sure, the woman had been odd. But never in all his years as a publican had he been stiffed by a little old lady. There could be no other explanation. If she’d just slipped away to the loo, he would have seen her. Flanagan’s comforts were down a short hall at the back of the pub.

  Frowning, Conall left the bar and strode across the room. He was almost to the deserted table when he spotted something green and glittery winking at him from beside the empty crisps packet.

  It was a shamrock brooch.

  The pin twinkled at him, its emerald brilliance almost blinding. He stepped closer, intending to put the trinket behind the bar until the old woman returned. But when he reached to pick it up, the brooch vanished in a swirl of green and white sparkles.

  Conall froze, staring.