The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (68 page)

Devlin kissed the wounds on her neck, his warm lips soothing, removing the sting. “You were afraid of me?”

“Quaking in my boots, my lord. You have a most powerful sword.” Devlin said, “And now what do you feel?”

“I feel the evil has been captured as surely as the hounds, save one.” He smiled broadly. “Aye. Enough so the triumphant hound wishes to marry the hare.” He held out the chalice. “Would you give up your quest to see your mother reborn? Wil you have me?”

Branna placed her hand over his, moonlight glittering off the chalice’s green emeralds.

“Aye, I’l have you.”

Branna knelt beside Devlin at the altar of the little stone chapel. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, projecting the tree and colours on the stone floor. Branna’s freshly cleaned yel ow gown flowed about her ankles. A garland of white flowers had been woven in her dark hair and streamed down her back.

“I, Devlin, take thee, Branna, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, til death do us part, if the holy church wil ordain it: and thereto I plight thee my troth.” The priest handed Branna the golden chalice, embedded with bril iant emeralds. She took a sip, her eyes meeting Devlin’s over its gilded rim. She passed the chalice to him. He took a sip and then held the cup high.

Branna placed her hand over his, both their hands wrapped around the chalice’s centre.

They said in unison, their voices blending as strong as their love: “’Tis my heart’s desire.”
The Seventh Sister

Sue-Ellen Welfonder

The Beginning

Howth Village, Ireland – twelve years ago

Maggie Gleason, American tourist, self-declared adventurist and soon-to-be col ege student, stepped off the bus from Dublin and straight into her dreams. At last, she was fol owing the path of her ancestors. She glanced about, her pulse quickening. Shivers of excitement raced through her.

She wanted to lift her arms and twirl in a circle. Instead she stood stil and simply absorbed.

Without doubt, she’d never experienced a moment more thril ing.

Dublin was wonderful, but busy. This was the Ireland she’d come to see.

The little quay was everything she’d imagined. Colourful fishing boats bobbed in the harbour.

The curving stone pier looked just like the photos she’d seen. And the neat line of cottages and pubs stretching along the waterfront couldn’t be more perfect.

Howth was magic.

It was a living postcard, ful of charm and quaintness.

Even the weather gods greeted her kindly. Low grey clouds made a picturesque backdrop and the light wind off the sea let the waves dance cheerily. Maggie pressed a hand to her breast and walked over to the sea wal , enchanted. She took a deep breath, savouring the cool, damp air. It was so different from the stifling heat and mugginess of summer back home in Philadelphia.

Everything around her felt so welcoming and special.

So Irish.

Maggie smiled, the Gael in her fil ing her soul and making her pulse race with a giddy sense of recognition. Tingling happiness rippled through her, even warming her toes. Suddenly she wasn’t a tourist standing on the quay, here because she’d seen a few yel owed pictures of Howth in her grandmother’s old photo albums.

She was someone who belonged.

Above her, a seagul wheeled and cried before settling on to the swaying mast of a yacht. The bird angled its head and peered down at her, looking on as a wave smacked the jetty, dousing her with a mist of spray.

Laughing delightedly, Maggie swiped the moisture from her cheek, secretly deciding that Ireland had kissed her. Sweet, too, would be a few kisses from the tal , dark-haired young man working on one of the boats in the harbour. The boat – a sturdy, blue-hul ed craft cal ed
Morna
–

was moored only a stone’s throw from where she stood, but the cute Irishman didn’t appear to notice her.

Which was fine as it gave her a better chance to admire his deeply cut dimples and how his black shoulder-length hair whipped in the wind. The way he wore his faded jeans, Aran sweater and thick work boots wasn’t too shabby either. When he glanced up at the rol ing clouds and she caught a glimpse of his sky-blue eyes, she real y wished he’d kiss her.

He made her breath catch.

From nowhere, or perhaps from her heart, her grandmother’s words flashed across her mind.

“Someday you’l see, Maggie girl. The glory of Ireland isn’t just the green of our hil s and the blue of the sea. Nor is it al those soft, misty days. Or the way the light shimmers, polishing the sky until you’d swear you’re looking at the world through a swirl of finest gossamer silk. That’s part of it, true. But the real magic is inside us.” Here, Granny Gleason would lean forwards, clutching the arms of her rocker. “It’s the music in our voices and the ful ness of our hearts. The way we can move forward when we must, yet stil keep our traditions alive.” Maggie blinked and swal owed, half-sure her long-dead grandmother had just stood beside her, whispering the words in her ear.

Now she knew the truth of them.

She also knew the dishy Irishman on the boat was looking at her.

Maggie’s heart slammed against her ribs. The Irishman grinned. His blue gaze locked on hers and the pleasure in his eyes made the ground tilt beneath her feet. Heat swept her, tingly and delicious. She touched a hand to her cheek, feeling the warmth of her blush.

It was then that a large black and white dog bolted past her, almost knocking her down as he made a sailing leap into the
Morna.
The Irishman bent to scratch the dog’s ears as the col ie leaned into him, his plumed tail wagging in enthusiastic greeting.

Maggie stared, embarrassment scalding her. She wished she could disappear.

The Irishman hadn’t been flirting with her.

He’d been watching his dog’s running approach.

And she’d had no business making moony eyes at a local cutie who was surely tired of being gawked at by love-struck American tourists.

Certain she must be glowing a thousand shades of red, she wheeled about, nearly col iding with a tiny, stoop-backed old woman.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Maggie reached to steady her. But there was no need. The woman beamed, her lined face wreathing in a smile.

“An American, are you?” The woman’s eyes twinkled even more. “But it’s home you are now, eh?”

“Home? I . . .” Maggie blinked. Something about the woman seemed otherworldly. Yet she looked solid enough and her smile was ful of warmth. And if her clothes were a bit old-fashioned, her smal black boots were tied with sassy red plaid laces that were definitely modern. She also sported a glittery shamrock on her jacket.

“I just got here yesterday.” Maggie tried again. “Wel , to Dublin. I flew in from Frankfurt. And I’m tired.” She paused as the wind kicked up, tossing her hair. “This is the last stop on my grand tour of Europe before I head back to Philadelphia and start col ege. And, yes, Ireland does feel like home.” She didn’t feel sil y saying so. It was true. “I’ve never been here before, but my grandmother came from Cork.”

“Ah! Sure and I had the right of it!” The woman nodded, seeming pleased. “There’s the look of Ireland about you, there is.” Her gaze flickered to Maggie’s coppery-bright hair. “I once had tresses so fine myself. Back in the day . . . But it was the wonder on your face that gave you away.

It doesn’t matter how many oceans a body crosses. Or how many generations lie between, the Celtic heart is always drawn back home.” She stepped closer, her tone almost conspiratorial.

“That’s the magic of Ireland.”

“You sound like my grandmother.” Maggie’s heart squeezed, remembering. “She used to say such things.”

The woman bobbed her head again, this time sagely. “You’l not be finding a soul in the land who’l tel you different. It’s a truth we al share. But enough of an old woman’s prattle.” She tapped Maggie’s arm with a knotty finger. “What do you think of Howth?”

“It’s wonderful.” Maggie glanced around, dismayed to see the
Morna
empty. The Irishman and his dog were gone. “I haven’t seen much yet.” She took a breath, not wanting the woman to see her regret. “The quay, the whitewashed houses and neat little shops, everything, is so perfect.” That was true.

Every corner of Howth beckoned, tempting her.

Although the delicious aroma of fish and chips wafting from a waterfront pub cal ed Flanagan’s could tip the scales in the public house’s favour.

She was hungry.

A fine half-pint of ale didn’t sound bad either.

Just then the sun burst through the clouds to sparkle on the choppy water. The wind fil ed with the tang of salt air and tar, making a good sip of ale in the cheery warmth of Flanagan’s seem even more inviting.

Maggie cast another look at the pub, liking the idea more by the minute.

Flanagan’s had atmosphere. Half-barrels of bright red geraniums, daisies and sweet pea flanked the blue-painted door and a curl of pleasant-smel ing woodsmoke rose from the pub’s squat chimney. Diamond-paned windows lent just the right air of Old World charm and the gold lettering of the pub name added dash.

She found herself smiling, her decision made, when the old woman gripped her arm. “Have you heard tel of the Seven Sisters?” She cocked her head again, her eyes almost eager. “The stone circle up on the hil behind the ruin of Howth Castle?”

“A stone circle?” Maggie tried to remember. “My grandmother came here sometimes when she was a girl, but I don’t think she ever mentioned such a place.”

“Oh, in her day, folk hereabouts kept such places to themselves.” The woman released Maggie’s arm and lowered her voice. “If she wasn’t local, like as not no one spoke of the Seven Sisters. They’l have feared she might take away some of its magic when she left.”

“Magic?” Maggie forgot about fish and chips and a half-pint of ale.

“Al ancient places have a touch o’ enchantment.” The woman spoke as if such things were real.

“The Seven Sisters aren’t wel known because they’re hard to find if you don’t know where to look for them.”

Maggie considered. “I saw a signpost for the castle from the bus window. Can I get to the stone circle from there?” She glanced over her shoulder, along the coast road. “Is there a path?”

“You could take the road to the castle and fol ow the path up the hil . But—” the woman’s face brightened “—if you’re good by foot, there’s a better way. You’d have to climb a wee track that starts behind yon pub.” She indicated Flanagan’s. “The path isn’t marked, but you’l spot it easy enough.”

“You’re sure?”

“Look for where the roses tumble over a break in the stone wal behind the pub.” The old woman winked. “Once you slip through there, you’l find your way just fine.”

“Wel . . .” Maggie turned up her jacket col ar. The sun had dipped back behind the clouds and the wind suddenly felt much colder. “I would love to—”

“Then away with you and enjoy yourself.” The old woman gave her a gentle nudge and then turned away, hurrying across the road and disappearing down a narrow walkway between two thick-wal ed houses.

For a moment, Maggie wondered why she hadn’t heard the tap-tap of the woman’s sturdy black boots on the pavement as she’d hobbled away so quickly. But just then a fat raindrop landed on her cheek and – she knew – if she didn’t hurry herself, she’d never make it up to the stone circle and back without getting drenched.

A glance at the sea confirmed what she’d guessed: a storm was definitely brewing.

She only had two weeks in Ireland.

And al her Gleason ancestors would turn in their graves if they saw her let a tiny bit of Irish wind and rain keep her from climbing a hil . So she crossed the road and nipped behind Flanagan’s.

She saw the gap in the wal right away. Dusky pink roses spil ed over the stones, marking the spot. The path stretched beyond, leaf-strewn and muddy.

And so exciting in its possibilities that Maggie’s skin tingled.

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 vil age.

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, trol s 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 real y think a wart-nosed trol 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 al .

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 real y 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 thril 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.