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, shining 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 crashing 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 fishing 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 swishing 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 pushing 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 passed, 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 spaced, 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 shivers 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.

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 substitute.

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 glass. «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 flushing 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?»