Cat Adams - The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

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 and brushed 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.

«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 hiding 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?»

«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 travelled 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 honoured 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.

«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.»

Maggie dashed at her cheek, not liking his story at all.

«I thought you were Irish, too?» He lifted her chin with a finger, peering deep into her eyes. «Can you not guess why I’m not worried about the Sisters?»

Maggie puffed her hair off her forehead. «I suppose I’m more American than I thought.»

«Or you’re not thinking hard enough.» Conall kissed her softly. «Maybe I should tell you there are some hereabouts who believe only those closely involved with the wise woman’s magic can see the seventh sister’s return.»

«What are you saying?» Maggie’s heart skittered.

«Only that once the returning is seen, it can be said that the seventh sister’s mortal counterpart has also returned to her beloved homeland. And when she does, she always looks after the others. She tends the stones as if they were living flesh still.»

«Oh, God!» Maggie stared at him. «You can’t mean.»

«Who knows?» His eyes said he did. «But I’ll share something else with you. A few nights ago, a very strange old woman came into Flanagan’s. She had a touch of the fae about her and she was dressed oddly, even wearing»—

«Small black boots with red plaid laces!»

This time Conall looked surprised. But he caught himself and grinned as quickly. «So you’ve seen her?»

Maggie nodded. «Yes, several times. On my first trip here, then more recently outside a friend’s tea room in Pennsylvania. And today when she kept me from leaving after I saw you with that woman. She pushed me forwards into the sheep field. That’s why I stumbled.»

«Then I say a thousand blessings on her and may she rest well for another seven generations. Or»— he rocked back on his heels «—will you be keeping the poor woman busy by running home to your America?»

«Oh, no, I’m not going anywhere, Conall Flanagan.» Maggie hoped it was true. «At least not until I have to fly back to Philly in fourteen days,» she added, needing to hear him say the words.

«Fourteen days?» The glint in his eye told her he was playing along. «That’s the same amount of time we had years ago.» He stepped close, sweeping her into his arms. «I’m thinking that’s not nearly long enough for you to enjoy being in Ireland. Everyone knows»— he began walking towards the low, thick-walled farmhouse that had belonged to his family for centuries «—it takes longer than that to fully appreciate such a pleasure. A lifetime at my side, as my wife and the only woman I’ve ever loved.»

«Conall!» Maggie squirmed against his chest. «Put me down so I can kiss you!»

«But will you be saying yes?» He set her on her feet and stood back, his arms opened wide. «That’s what I’m waiting to hear.»

«Then yes!» Maggie threw herself at him, her heart almost bursting.

He crushed her to him, kissing her hard and fast. «Then let’s go home, Maggie Gleason. We have a lot of catching up to do.»

Maggie smiled. «Yes, we do.»

She was eager to get started. They’d waited longer than she’d known.

Sligo, Ireland — 1911

The black mare started up the hill too fast. Tom O’Byrne shifted on the wagon seat and tugged the reins to curb her quickened gait. He couldn’t blame her for hurrying. Grass and water awaited her. Her weary bones required rest, just as his troubled soul craved the peace of Tobernalt, as sacred a place in the year of Our Lord 1911 as it had been in Ireland’s pagan times.

Tom often stopped at the holy well when he returned to Sligo from the north. Each time he did, he met other visitors, but no carts or wagons occupied the clearing on this sunny afternoon. His favourite spot, the one near the entrance, was free. He guided the mare to the dappled shade of the old oak tree and set the brake.

His driving skills had impressed Davy Bookman, the Ballymote merchant who owned the wagon. Small but sturdy, the unadorned vehicle had a flat roof and panelled sides painted slate blue. An overhang above the driver’s seat protected Tom from the weather, and he’d given thanks more than once for the shelter. He travelled the roads for miles at a time delivering Bookman’s tea to shops all over Ireland.

«A good job for a trusty young buck of twenty-five,» the jovial merchant had said. «See a little of the world before the farm ties you down.»

Tom’s neat leap from the footboard set the bag of coins in his pocket jingling. He’d sold most of the tea this trip. He’d make a fine commission. His sister Kate would grumble and say it wasn’t enough to fatten her meagre dowry, but the gold would please his father, for all the good it would do him. The old man would always be tipping his hat to the Anglo-Irish landlord who owned his farm.