Too bad her reason for visiting concerned more than her passion for Ireland. Even if Howth was still a place of magic, she knew that if she ran into Conall Flanagan, she’d find him much changed.
Likely, he wouldn’t even remember her.
Not that she expected to see him.
He might have forgotten her over the years, but she remembered he’d gone to Spain. After so much time, he was probably married to some fiery Andalucian siren who’d seduced him with hot Flamenco dances, Sangria, and torrid sex on a moonlit beach.
Maggie frowned.
She blotted the images from her mind and walked to the seawall, finding the place she’d stood so long ago. Her pulse jumped when she spotted the Morna, looking not a day older, but moored deeper out in the harbor. The fishing boat bobbed on the waves and its hull was still painted blue.
Only this time the Morna was empty.
Maggie shivered. She couldn’t shake the urge to close her eyes and reopen them, sure that if she did, she’d see Conall on the boat. Everything felt so familiar, as if she hadn’t stepped off a bus, but back into the fateful day that had changed her life.
So much was the same. The waters of the harbor tossed and danced, with the waves smacking the seawall, the larger ones sending up spray. Seabirds wheeled and screamed, some of them swooping low as if to greet her. Fitful autumn sun tried to pierce the clouds and it was colder than summer, but the damp sea air still smelled of salt and tar. Many of the houses and pubs had fires going, the rich, earthy tang of peat smoke adding charm. And – her mouth watered – she also detected a tantalizing trace of fish and chips in the chill wind blowing down the waterfront.
She turned her face into the gusts and breathed deep, appreciative.
How she’d yearned to drink in this heady brew. To her, the scents were an elixir. The essence of Ireland. And to fill her lungs with them again was a privilege. Wishing she could do so every day, she pressed a hand to her heart, savoring each inhale, regretting the exhales.
It also stung that she might not have the nerve to enter Flanagan’s. The popular tavern had already blindsided her. She’d caught a quick glimpse of the pub’s bright blue door and diamond-paned windows from the bus window.
Even the flower tubs had been there. Seeing them, along with the pub’s gold-lettered name, had felt like a kick to the ribs.
She wasn’t sure it’d be good for her to go Flanagan’s.
But she would see the Seven Sisters.
They needed exorcising.
Hopefully once she made her peace with them, vanquishing the stones from her heart and her dreams, she’d also be free of Conall Flanagan. Something inside her pinched and twisted, resisting the notion. Her heart thumped hard against her chest, equally anguished.
Maggie set her jaw, determined.
She had to do this.
So she gave the harbor one last, embracing glance and treated herself to another greedy gulp of the tangy air. Then she set off down the waterfront. She walked determinedly away from Flanagan’s, grateful that the hill path behind the pub wasn’t the only way to reach the stones. She wouldn’t make that mistake twice.
This time she was taking the tourist route.
The wind picked up as she walked, the chill gusts tossing her hair and bringing a hint of coming rain. Maggie hunched her shoulders against the cold and quickened her steps along the castle road.
She was not going anywhere near the stone circle in the rain.
Even a light drizzle would undo her.
Too many hurtful things lurked in Irish rain.
So she walked as fast as she could, hurrying past quiet, thick-walled houses with wood-or-peat smoke curling from their chimneys and soft, yellow light shining dimly in the windows. She pretended the sight didn’t bother her. But it was so hard not to let envy eat her alive each time she glanced at such a window and imagined the coziness behind the pretty white lace curtains.
In her mind, she saw Conall sitting before the hearth fire, a whiskey glass in his hand and his dog at his feet. She’d be busy in the warm, stone-flagged kitchen, stirring a pot of steaming soup or taking a round of fresh-baked bread from the oven. After they’d eaten, they’d enjoy a late night stroll around the village. They’d talk about whatever pleased them, occasionally stopping to admire the stars.
Such a life might not be every twenty-first century American woman’s dream.
But, it sure was hers.
Somewhere a dog barked and she also heard the distant bleating of sheep. If she listened closely, she could still catch the roar of the sea.
It was all so idyllic.
And felt a trillion light years removed from the hectic and bustle of Philadelphia and the mad, rushed world waiting for her return. How sad that she’d rather have someone pull out her toenails than board the plane that would carry her away from Ireland.
She swallowed a sigh and threw another glance at the houses lining the road. They were spaced a bit farther apart now, each neat little cottage boasting tidy, well-kept gardens that, she knew, would absolutely burst with flowers in the summer.
“Damn." She felt her chest tighten, the images she’d conjured thrust a spear through her heart.
She was so pathetic.
It was pointless to let such things get to her. Circumstances she couldn’t change, dreams she couldn’t possibly seize. She did lengthen her stride, careful now to keep her gaze on the road.
She could see the ivy-covered shell of Howth Castle up ahead, its half-standing walls and empty, black-staring windows beckoning her. She could spend days exploring the castle’s warren of hollowed rooms and long, grass-grown passages. Just now the ruin meant she should soon spot the marker for the Seven Sisters.
Howth Castle would have to wait.
It was time to put the past behind her.
But when she did find the trail sign, her heart started hammering so fiercely that she almost wished she hadn’t made the trip.
She was fooling herself.
Coming here had only made things worse.
Each step she took up the wide, well-marked tourist path to the stone circle proved her folly. Hot, throbbing pain stabbed her in the side and every indrawn breath was a struggle, each onward stride an agony. Her insides were on fire and it wasn’t because the trail was steep or difficult.
It was because being here again was torture.
And it burned her soul.
“Damn you, Conall Flanagan." She pressed a hand to her hip and soldiered on, her breath ragged and her heart in shreds. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
One, two, three more steps, and then she could feel the Sisters’ presence. The low humming in her ears that she’d only ever experienced here. And the way the air thickened and crackled. It was like walking through a sea of invisible Fourth of July sparklers.
She was almost at the top of the hill and thin mist was already twisting through the trees. Wispy blue-gray threads of it rolled across the ground, curling around her ankles, pulling her onward.
Then the path ended, the woods fell away, and she found herself at the edge of the sheep field she remembered so well. The Seven Sisters loomed before her, shimmering silver as always, close enough to touch.
She was there.
And so was Conall Flanagan.
Maggie froze, staring. He stood near the stone circle and had his back to her. His hair was shorter and his shoulders broader, but she knew it was him. She’d recognize him in the darkness of a thousand eons. Just as she’d spent the last twelve years feeling his touch, his kisses, and his lovemaking, even though endless ocean miles had stretched between them.
Conall was hers.
And seeing him now sent every imaginable emotion whipping through her. Her heart hammered painfully and her knees buckled, making her sway. A wave of dizziness washed over her and, for a moment, she feared she was going to be ill.
For sure, she couldn’t breathe.
She did press her hands hard against her chest, trying to inhale. But each great
gulp of cold air that she pulled in felt like ingesting fire.
Conall wasn’t alone.
And the woman leaning in so close to him, her hand resting possessively on his arm, was so sophisticated, so stunning and polished, that Maggie hated her on sight. She had glossy black hair, stylishly cut. And she was wearing a sleek leaf-green suit and a cream silk blouse. Maggie couldn’t tell, but she knew instinctively that the woman’s nails would be perfectly manicured.
Maggie swallowed, feeling nauseous.
Even in New York, she’d rarely seen a creature so elegant.
And she wasn’t about to shame herself by butting into their intimate rendezvous.
Shaking, she took a step backwards, but something that felt like a firm hand stopped her. She tried to wheel around, but couldn’t.
“There’ll be none of that now." An old woman’s voice lilted the words. “No running away after all the years of waiting and the long miles you’ve crossed to be here.”
“Wait!" Maggie still couldn’t move. “I don’t know who you are, but I can’t go out there. Conall-”
“Conall has been foolish. But he’s a good lad and he needs you." Then the crone gave her a nudge, just as she’d done twelve years before.
Maggie caught a fleeting glimpse of two small black boots with red plaid laces and then she was stumbling forward, out of the wood and into the open sheep field. She caught herself quickly and whirled about, staring at the path.
The old woman wasn’t there.
It didn’t matter.
She’d regained her legs and was leaving. But she’d only taken three steps back into the woods when she heard a shout behind her.
“Maggie!" The surprise and joy in Conall’s voice stopped her.
She turned, slowly because she was afraid to believe what her heart was telling her. Conall was sprinting over to her, his dog hard on his heels. The raven-haired beauty was striding in the opposite direction, away from the Seven Sisters and across the field towards the Flanagan farmhouse.
She looked furious.
Maggie swallowed, sure she knew why.
“You still have Booley." She spoke when Conall was almost upon her. “I’m so glad to see him.”
“You’re glad to see my dog?" Man and beast skidded to a halt. “After all these years, you’re finally here, and you’re more interested in Booley than me?”
Booley pranced, clearly approving the sentiment.
“I’ve always loved dogs." Maggie couldn’t believe her voice was so calm. “You know that. Unless” – she couldn’t help herself – “you’ve forgotten such things.”
“I haven’t forgotten anything, Maggie." He stepped closer, set his hands on her shoulders. “Not one single moment we shared and not an hour since. Hours I’ve spent missing you and regretting that I let you go. Hours that-”
“And the woman you were with just now?" Dear God, had she really said that? “Does she know about those hours?” she added, unable to stop. “I’m assuming she’s your wife. She looked quite angry-”
“She was livid." Conall’s lips twitched. “And with good reason, because she’s one of Dublin’s top estate agents and she just lost the land deal of the century.”
Maggie blinked. “She’s not your wife?”
“God forbid." Conall slid his hands down her arms, linking their fingers. “She’d sell her own granny’s false teeth if it’d put money in her pocket. She was here to persuade me to let her hand-sell my land to someone wanting to build a community of executive homes.
“I declined the offer." He glanced at the Seven Sisters, then back to her. “You of all people should know I could never love such a woman.”
But do you love any woman?
Do you love me?
The words snagged in Maggie’s throat. “So” – she braced herself – “you’re not married?”
“Would I marry a woman I don’t love, Maggie Gleason of America?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is if you’re listening with your heart." He raised her hand then, brushing a soft kiss across her knuckles. “Do you really not know what I’m telling you?”
“I-…" Maggie’s voice broke. “It’s just-… damn!" She jerked free, pressing her fingers to her lips.
“You’re looking fine, Maggie." He circled his arms around her from behind, leaning down to nuzzle her neck. “You’ve become a beautiful woman and” – he kissed her hair – “I can tell by your upset, that you’re still the wonderful girl I fell in love with all those years ago.
“I love you still, Maggie." He turned her to face him, used his thumbs to smooth the tears from her cheeks. “I’ve always loved you. And I’m hoping that your being here means you still care for me?”
Maggie rubbed her eyes, blinking rapidly. She never cried. She ached, but she never shed tears. “You know how I feel. I told you back then and nothing has changed. But I didn’t come here looking for you. I came to forget you, to make peace with the past and move on with my life.
“I never expected you to be here." She was so glad that he was! “I thought you were in Spain and-”
“I came back three years ago. But that’s a story I’ll tell you later. Just now…." He pulled her close and kissed her deeply. “The only thing that matters is that you’re here. And this time I’m not letting you go.
“Unless you think you might get homesick for America?" He looked at her, his eyes twinkling. “You might grow weary of Ireland,” he teased, dimples flashing. “All the storytelling and fiddle music, our turf fires and castle ruins. The long cold nights with the wind howling round the-”
Maggie slipped her arms around his neck, stopping him with a kiss. “I’m not going to answer that. But I think you already know how likely it is that-
“Oh, my God – look!" She jumped back, pointing to the Seven Sisters.
The sky had darkened with heavy black clouds, rolling in from the sea and turning day into night. But the stone circle shone brightly, each tall, graceful stone glimmering with an eerie blue light. Thick mist, equally luminous, swirled and eddied everywhere. And the soft humming Maggie had heard earlier now sounded like low singing.
Beautiful female voices raised in a sweet, rhythmic chant.
Most amazing of all, a seventh stone now rose from the middle of the circle. Not quite as tall as the other stones and just a bit more slender, the new stone shone with the most brilliant blue of them all.
It was also translucent.
Maggie stared, her jaw dropping.
Conall reached for her hand, gripping tight.
Booley squeezed between them, pressing close.
“She’s the seventh sister." Conall’s gaze was riveted on the glowing stone.
Chills raced down Maggie’s spine. Her entire body tingled. “But how-”
“Shhh…." He spoke low. “Just watch.”
And she did, looking on in wonder as the stones shimmered and sang. The beautiful blue light seemed to come from deep within them, though their edges glittered like sapphires. Maggie was sure sparkles danced between them, connecting the stones like a web of brilliant jewels.
Then the mist whirling around the stone circle spun faster and – Maggie’s mouth went dry – the Sisters began to dance. They swayed and rocked, tipping slowly in one direction, and then twirling in another. The humming increased, almost sounding like cries of joy when suddenly the stones rushed together in a dazzling blaze of white-blue light.
It lasted only seconds. Then they snapped apart, springing back quickly. So fast Maggie wasn’t even sure she’d seen them move at all.
But she knew they had.
And when the swirling mist settled and slipped back out to sea, she saw that the seventh stone was gone.
She turned to Conall, this time not shaming her tears. “Did we really see that?”
He glanced at her, but kept on stroking Booley’s trembling shoulders. “I’m for saying we did.”
“The seventh sister, too?”
&n
bsp; “Aye." Conall’s gaze warmed. “Her most of all.”
“You don’t sound surprised." Maggie could hardly speak.
Conall shrugged. “I’m Irish.”
“And that explains everything?”
“It’s as good an answer as any." He tweaked her nose. “Or would you hear what the tale-tellers would say about what we just saw?”
Maggie nodded. “I’m for the tale-tellers.”
“Then” – he pulled her to him again – “you might be interested to know there’s an important part of the legend that I didn’t tell you years ago.”
“Oh?" She waited.
“The six remaining sisters weren’t the only ones who wept when the raiders stole the princess across the western sea. There was someone else in the king’s household who grieved her loss.
“The story is that she was a wise woman who traveled the land helping those in need where and when she could. Some say she hailed from Scotland, others insist she was Irish. Whoever she was” – he paused to glance at the sea – “she was often an honored guest in the king’s hall and she loved all seven sisters dearly.
“So when she saw that the other sisters’ sorrow had turned them to stone, she vowed to use her greatest powers to grant them a reunion with their lost sister.”
Maggie rested her head on his shoulder, listening. Each word sent shivers rippling through her and her heart was beating so fast she had to strain to hear above the rush of blood in her ears.
Booley was watching them both, his eyes sharp.
“See you, Maggie Gleason of America, it’s said that every seven generations, the seventh sister returns." He paused to smooth her hair, the touch gentle. “And when she does, she and her sisters dance and sing and are able to embrace each other once more. Such is the gift of the old wise woman who loved them like the daughters she never bore.”
“But that’s so sad!" Maggie could hardly speak for the thickness in her throat. “They were only able to be together for one fleeting instant. Their dance, the embrace, was over in a flash.”
“Aye." Conall nodded, looking suspiciously untroubled.
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“Not really." He glanced at the stones, so silent and still now. “I’m Irish, remember.”
The Seventh Sister Page 4
