The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

Ciar Cullen On Inishmore

Inishmore, Aran Islands, Ireland — 1890

Maeve wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders against the howling wind, biting back laughter as the new master of Kildooney House made his way up the path. Green as moss, he was, from the ferry crossing. How did the Americans make the crossing when they couldn’t stand the few miles from Rossaveal?

He was soaked, was Brian Fitzgerald, late of Boston. Maeve had known his father, and his father’s father, and no doubt a few ancestors before them she’d since forgotten. All drawn to Inishmore, searching, longing for meaning in their life, a phantom that never materialized, or perhaps a love that was under their noses all along. A welling of her own longing filled her but she brushed it aside, not willing to open a wound she no longer cared to stitch close. The pain of that mending wasn’t worth the risk.

Fitzgerald took the few steps to the porch and stopped short at the sight of Maeve. She could practically read his mind. He’d expected a housekeeper, but not one of Maeve’s advanced years and ugly countenance. He took a deep breath and pulled off his bowler, shaking water in a near stream from the rim.

«Mrs MacGearailt? I am Brian Fitzgerald.»

«That much is obvious, lad. Welcome to Kildooney House. Welcome to Inishmore.»

He nodded his thanks and stood in awkward silence, as if he needed further permission to enter. He didn’t. He owned Kildooney since the recent death of his father.

«It might be best if you come in out of the rain. You need a hot meal, dry clothes and a good night’s sleep. All will look better in the morning. Except for me.» She winked and Brian Fitzgerald laughed in embarrassment.

«I am very pleased to finally meet you.» He seemed sincere.

Maeve peeked in at him as he warmed his feet near the fire, half asleep with exhaustion. The young woman enchanted within the crone stirred restlessly at his fine figure, long legs stretched out, broad shoulders wrapped in a blanket of her own making, silky auburn hair brushing his once-starched collar. No, she reprimanded herself, do not imagine he is the one who will lift this enchantment.

He was the first of the Fitzgerald men to travel without a manservant, and Maeve wondered idly how long he would stay in the rambling mansion with the quiet bearing down on him and the luxuries of Boston an ocean away. The young woman in her surfaced again momentarily, wondering too what life alone under the same roof would bring. No doubt disappointment. She would put that dream in a box and lock it with a key, throw the key into Galway Bay.

«You must let me help, Mrs MacGearailt.» Brian bit back a testy tone, anxious to make headway on his writing. She dropped an enormous basket of laundry near his desk.

Maeve MacGearailt was the toughest, most stubborn woman he’d ever had the fortune, or misfortune as the case may be, to encounter. Maeve looked to be a thousand years old, give or take a few centuries. How she carried pails of water with her crooked back and withered limbs confounded him. Her body looked like one of the aged scrubby trees dotting the landscape, grown twisted and knotty against a cruel climate.

She rose in the morning before him, tidied up the mess he left in his study, cooked a hearty breakfast, and scrubbed the floor or washed the curtains by the time he brushed sleep from his eyes. He’d grown accustomed to her haggish appearance — at least it no longer startled him. Although the first sight of her, standing in the doorway of the mansion, with lightning and wind as a haunting backdrop, had nearly sent him to his knees in prayer against an Irish curse.

«How far along are you now, Mr Fitzgerald?» She folded clothes in his study, a habit that irritated the hell out of him.

Further by thousands of words if you would leave me be, he thought. «Please, let us stop this formality. Call me Brian.»

«I am Maeve.»

Brian frowned, feeling a bit guilty he’d never even asked about her given name, never asked her a thing about her life. How did she come to be alone at Kildooney House? Did she have family or friends? She never spoke of anything but his comfort, listening to him rant away about the difficulties of penning his grand novel. The barristers had always seen to the house, and no doubt to the pittance Maeve earned keeping the place standing.

At times in the last few months, he’d questioned the wisdom of selling the Boston Daily Traveler, the newspaper that had brought wealth and esteem to the family. At twenty-four, he’d yearned for a different life. Without a compass, he’d latched on to the first intriguing notion introduced at the reading of his father’s last will and testament.

He owned a mansion in Ireland. Brian glanced at Maeve, her tattered dress and shawl blending with the tattered furnishings of Kildooney House. A mansion in Ireland had a different meaning, no doubt.

Still, it was lovely and wild and quiet on Inishmore. No social obligations pulled him away, no insipid young ladies sent unsolicited notes and invitations. There was only a warm house, a bluff overlooking a wild bay, a town four kilometre’s walk away with nothing but a pub, a smithy and a few poor shops, and Maeve.

To Brian, Maeve embodied all he knew of Ireland. As far from the ton of Boston as a person could be, Maeve was ugly, evidently poor and filled with a mixture of what seemed like fortitude and longing. She tugged at his heart, and he wondered why. No doubt just melancholy for his own mother and grandmother, long since crossed.

«Well, Brian, it seems you’re in need of a Leannán Sidhe, but do take care should you meet her.»

«Please, Maeve, no young women. I’ve had my fill, begging your pardon for mentioning it. I came for quiet.»

Maeve cackled out a laugh so hearty she collapsed on to the couch hugging her stomach. «You don’t know of the Aos Sí? The faery folk? The Gentry?»

Brian rested his head on his typewriter. He’d been warned that to open the door to an Irish story could mean the waste of hours of precious time. He turned and glanced at Maeve, still red in the face from laughing. How could he be rude to her?

«Go ahead; tell me about the wee faeries.»

«Wee? Ah, I see. Little brownies and such, is that it?» Maeve rose and brushed at her apron, which no amount of straightening would ever make crisp, and tucked her parchment white hair under her kerchief.

«I meant no offence! Do tell me.» Brian bit back a curse, knowing that he had to mend this rift lest guilt haunt him the rest of the day. The novel would have to wait. It seemed it always had to wait.

«If you truly insist?» Maeve sat again, and folded her hands reverently.

«I do insist.» Brian pulled the paper from his typewriter to show his willingness to listen, and lit his pipe.

«You are a writer, an artist, is that not so?»

A subtle smile pulled at her lips and Brian saw the joke. «As you well know, I have yet to write a thing of any import. I take that is an example of the famous Irish sense of humour.»

«That is why you must find your Leannán Sidhe!» She clapped her hands as if she’d made the cleverest announcement. «Your muse, Brian. A Leannán Sidhe is a lovely young woman, one of the Gentry. She imbues artists with intense creativity, and from her, they rise to the summit of their abilities. But one must take care, for your muse may also torture your spirit, so alluring is her form and well. ways, shall we say?»

«I’m finding that writing is torture enough, without throwing a Lea—?»

«Leannán Sidhe.»

«Without complicating matters with one of those.»

«Ah, all matters are already complicated, whether you wish for them or not.»

Brian wondered if Maeve had ever been lovely, had ever inspired a young man to great heights. And as he looked into her twinkling eyes, a fine shimmering mist arose between them. Beyond the veil of mist, sat a young Maeve, a much younger Maeve. The most beautiful girl Brian had seen or imagined. He shook his head and the illusion lifted as quickly as it came. I have the imagination of an artist, he thought. If I only had the talent to match.

«Well, Maeve, if you ever run into one of the Gentry, I will gladly accept any help they are willing to bestow. For I am now one month behind in my work. I may as well have stayed in Boston. No doubt I will return there as a failure. At least, I now wish I’d not told my friends that I would return a novelist.»

Maeve cheated every morning, as she had for hundreds of years. While the master of the house slept, she assumed her youthful form to perform the most arduous tasks. Technically, as a Corrigan, she could assume either of her personas at will, as long as she gave them equal time. Long ago, she’d found it easier to drift through the years as a crone. The bones ached, the muscles were weak, and there was no joy in glancing into the mirror, but men left her alone. Because no man cared about an old crone.

This is exactly what was required to break the spell of her kind. A man needed to love the crone as much as the beauty. She’d learned after much heartbreak, more than once, nay, more than a dozen times, that beauty was the only prize men cherished. Wasn’t this the curse of womankind, faery or human?

A youthful body made easy work of scrubbing a floor or pulling weeds from the garden, though. Brian Fitzpatrick was blessedly a sound sleeper. Poor fellow, she mused, wondering if he’d ever finish his book. He’d made good progress in the last few weeks, but he cursed when he didn’t think she heard. She’d found many pages of discarded would-be brilliance balled up under his desk or surrounding the ash can.

She tried to leave him alone, truly she did, but her mixed nature betrayed her at times. She’d knit an Aran sweater for him while sitting on the couch near his desk, eyeing his handsome profile, knowing that she drove him to near insanity with her clacking bone needles. At times she almost wished he’d speak his mind, tell her to leave the room, or worse, send her packing. Then she would reveal herself to his great amazement and shame, she fantasized.

No, Brian Fitzgerald was genteel and mannered, although without airs. He was not the sort to insult an old lady. He seemed to have come to enjoy their evening pipes by the fire nearly as much as she. Once, a bit in his cups after a particularly gruelling day of staring at a blank page, he’d pulled her in for a benign hug. Maeve had forced herself to stay the crone, while her spirit craved to cleave to his warm embrace as a young beauty.

Ah, just one kiss before he left for Boston, she fantasized as she pushed the basket of clean wet clothes on to her hip and set to the lines for hanging in the salt breeze. What would it hurt? One touch of that dark handsome cheek, one rake of her hand through his silken hair, one—

«Hello.»

Maeve jumped with a squeal and turned on her bare foot to see Brian, a bit sleepy, pushing a hand through his hair. His eyes widened as he took her in, and Maeve, for the first time in hundreds of years, fell mute.

«I’m sorry to have frightened you. I haven’t.» Brian went mute as well, and ran his gaze up and down her, sending coils of excitement and fear through her veins. He took a few hesitant strides and extended his hand.

«I’m Brian Fitzgerald, from Boston.»

Think, Maeve, for the love of the Goddess, think.

«Yes, of course you are!» She pinned his shirt to the line and ignored his extended hand. «Just getting this done. I’ll be out of your way presently.»

«That’s my washing.»

«Is it now? Oh my, well, no need for you to see this. Back in the house with you. I’m sure you’ll want some tea and bacon, and Maeve will have that for you shortly.»

«Where is Maeve?»

«I mean, she’ll have that for you when she returns from Kilronan. That’s where she is, Kilronan.»

«How did she get to town? She said nothing of it to me. Please do not say that my dear Maeve walked all that way.»

«Yes, she did. She does so quite often.»

«I must take the horse and cart to retrieve her then. She is not fit for that. Why did you let her go?»

«No! She did get a ride, now that I recall. I am so silly today, you must forgive me.» Maeve, Maeve, you are doing quite poorly here. Pull your knickers on straight and catch your breath.

She turned and faced Brian, feeling the heat rush to her cheeks. He’d think her a simpleton, and he’d be right to do so. «I am Fiona, Maeve’s granddaughter, come from Kilronan to help.»

«Ah, then I’m very pleased to meet you, Fiona.» Indeed he was, eyeing her with the lust that emanated from every man she encountered. He caught himself and straightened up, all but slapping himself in the face to stop gaping.

«So there is nothing wrong with Maeve? She has not called you here because the work is too arduous? I wondered about her family, but she never mentioned a granddaughter.»

Maeve started at his tone, a bit reprimanding. «I do help when I can.»

«I am very glad to hear it. I thought perhaps to hire a man to do the heavy work. It pains me to see her at her chores. I would just as well have her here as a guest. I would not insult her, but she is quite old. And I do believe she is the worst cook on the island.» He laughed lightly as Maeve’s blood started to boil.

«The worst cook, you said? On the island?»

«Perhaps the worst in Ireland. The woman can burn water, truth be told.»

Maeve bit at her bottom lip and narrowed her eyes, holding back a curse that would turn the bastard into a hare.

«Listen, you ungrateful, good for nothing American, with your fancy ways and tastes. My grandmother is a fine cook, a fine cook indeed. Imagine, calling Maeve MacGearailt a poor cook. Why don’t you push her to the ground and kick her? Do you know what it is to say such a thing about a MacGearailt? Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat.»

Brian had backed up several steps and was dangerously close to falling into a bramble. «What?»

«I said, may you be eaten by a cat that is eaten by the devil!»

«I’m very sorry, I had no idea.» He held up a hand to ward off her ire and tripped into the hedgerow.

Maeve saw her chance and made a break for it, picking up her skirts and running for all she was worth to the path leading to the beach. He’d follow her, she was sure, so she ducked behind a tree and cast a light shadow spell to remain hidden.

«Miss Fiona?» His call was but a whisper, and Maeve regretted lashing out at him so, at least a little. «Miss Fiona, where are you? I’m very sorry. I love your grandmother, and never meant an insult.»

I love your grandmother. Oh, if that were only true, Maeve thought.

He searched the beach, every room of the house, every foot of the grounds. Fiona had disappeared as suddenly as she’d materialized. Her impression on him, however, lingered.

Why was it that the most beautiful woman in the world had the temper of a crazed dog? Who would have guessed that one could become so irate over a comment about cooking? Surely the granddaughter knew that Maeve burned everything? And why hadn’t she come even once in the four months he’d been at Kildooney? Was she so busy in Kilronan, or did she care so little for her grandmère?

And if she was such a shrew, why did she burn in Brian’s mind and body like he’d been branded for eternity by the mere sight of her? What a beauty, with long straight dark hair and bright blue eyes — Maeve’s eyes, for sure, but without the film of the years clouding them. Her pale skin and wide curves figured heavily in his fantasies of kissing her and hovering an inch over her ready, loving and naked body.

Well, with Fiona gone, Maeve was the priority, for sure. He hitched the jaunting cart to old Eamon and headed for Kilronan, intent on finding his aged friend and, with any luck, becoming friends with the younger MacGearailt.

The road to Kilronan took him past tiny estates, so small they seemed fit only for the faery folk Maeve loved to speak of. He wound his way down to the sea, looking for Maeve and taking in the grey vista of the port and bay that would one day start his journey back to Boston. Without a novel in hand, at least one worth reading.

The best source of information in any Irish community, even in America, is the local pub, so that’s where he hitched Eamon. When his eyes adjusted to the low light and his nose to the strong odours, Brian settled on the oldest patron he could find — the most likely source of information. He was nearly as wizened as Maeve and, for all Brian knew, could have been her brother, so interrelated were these Aran folk.

Brian removed his hat and indicated the stool next to the man. «Do you speak English?»

«When I like.»

Brian bit back a groan and didn’t bother sitting. «I don’t suppose that this might be one of those times?»

«Depends on what you want with me, Brian Fitzgerald of Boston, Massachusetts.»

Lord, of course. There wouldn’t be a soul in Kilronan who didn’t know his identity and his business, and probably his hat size as well.

Brian put a coin on the bar and motioned to the keep to bring another round to the stranger.

«I’m looking for Maeve MacGearailt, and her granddaughter, Fiona. Have you seen either?»

«Fiona?» The man turned to face Brian and narrowed his eyes. «There is no Fiona of Maeve’s blood, you fool. Daft, are you? Looking for the Tuatha Dé Danann?»

Brian stared blankly, wondering frantically how to avoid another long tale.

«The Gentry, lad. You don’t look for them; they find you. Now be off with your Fiona and Maeve. Find one and find both. You’ll be in Boston before Samhain, for sure, with Maeve’s boot print on your arse.»

Brian picked up his coin and turned on his heel, hearing the stranger mutter «Imeacht gan teacht ort» behind him.

«I certainly won’t come back,» Brian called over his shoulder. He’d not found poor Maeve or irate Fiona, and had only a thirsty horse and a fierce headache for his trouble. Perhaps it was time to think about going home. They were all crazy, superstitious and ill-tempered, these island natives. Still, the whole ride home, the vision of Fiona danced in his head, and started an enchanted spiralling journey into his chest.

Maeve pulled her shawl over her head as she walked the grey strand, thinking of Brian, as she did most waking moments. For four months she’d endured the torture of his closeness. Torture because it was not close enough. He was a good man, and a good man deserved the truth, but she was not free to give the truth to him. Within weeks, he would tire of his would-be sanctuary, tire of his hag of a housekeeper, and sail away forever.

Didn’t she deserve his touch, a bit of closeness, a kiss, an embrace? Could she stand, just one more time, to enjoy the attention of a man without falling in love with him?

Too late, she thought, wiping a tear from her cheek. Unrequited love was her fate, the fate of all the women of her kind, for all eternity. And indeed, she did love Brian.

Maeve fretted with a tangle in her hair as she walked, wishing now she had not left a note for him. For as sure as day would turn to night an hour hence, Brian Fitzgerald would be happy to have a beauty under his roof instead of a hag. But he would not stay; he would not love her.

Be strong, Maeve, she chastised herself, and made her way up the path towards Kildooney House. Enjoy this time you have. You may not see the likes of this man for a long time.

He sat on the steps and rose as she approached the house. «Miss Fiona! I’ve looked for you. I’m very sorry to have angered you.»

Maeve smiled at his blush. «Was I angry? I cannot recall.» She winked and his blush deepened.

«I am forgiven? I saw Maeve’s note saying that she must visit her sister in Galway for a week. I had no idea she had a sister!»

«Aye, a twin sister.»

«Imagine, two of them! I have been the worst friend to her. Thinking only of myself and my petty cares.»

«You are the master of the house, Mr Fitzgerald. Your cares are ours.»

«I do not need care, Miss Fiona. I can take care of myself, and you can return to Kilronan if you like.» Maeve saw it pained him to suggest it, and wondered what manner of man turned away a beautiful young woman ready to serve him.

«No, I promised Maeve I would look after you. Especially your meals.» Maeve winked again and this time, Brian laughed fully. What a sight, she thought, as his handsome face came to life. I’ll have him for a time, and Goddess willing, it will be sweet enough to help me swallow this bitter pill of fate.

«I will eat what you put before me, without a word. Please, will you let me do any heavy work? I am tired of watching Irish women work their fingers to the bone on my account.»

«We shall see.» Maeve swept by Brian into the house, letting him catch a whiff of her magical scent to set the wheels in motion. He’d be on her in an instant.

To her amazement, Brian strode into his study, lit his pipe, and settled in at his desk. She stood and watched from the doorway as he threaded a new sheet of paper into his machine, cracked his knuckles, and starting tapping away.

Maeve ran to the great room and scurried before the full-length mirror, terrified she’d morphed permanently into an ogre. The exquisite image she’d seen for centuries stared back at her in concern. She’d flirted, and he’d sat down to work. Well, that would not do at all! Maeve hadn’t imagined that Brian had undressed her with his eyes, that he’d had to pick his tongue off the earth at the first sight of her.

Perhaps the isolation had finally taken its toll? Had he gone mad?

Maeve hurried to the kitchen to brew a kettle of tea, tapping her foot as she waited for the water to churn. When she entered the study, Brian did not look up, but continued tapping away.

«Excuse me, Brian. Tea is on.»

He looked up, confusion etched on his face. «Tea?»

«Certainly Maeve brought you tea while you worked?» Maeve poured and sat on the couch near his desk, not waiting for an invitation to join him.

«Yes, sorry. I say, my brain has sprung a leak on to the page! Oh, I wish Maeve were here to tell. She’d be so happy for me. I have you to thank.» He smiled and Maeve’s heart lurched in her chest.

«Me?»

«Yes, I believe you may be the muse she warned me about! An exquisite beauty who would bring me to my highest level of creativity.»

«Do you mean a Leannán Sidhe?»

«That’s it exactly! Now, I don’t believe all of Maeve’s tales, but she did warn me to take care should such a beauty appear. As soon as I sat down, the words came pouring from my fingertips. I fancy they’re good words.»

Maeve covered her mouth with her hand. The man thought her a threat?

«I’m no muse, Brian. Just a pretty face. You can’t honestly believe that I could torture you into a terrible lovelorn state?»

«Oh, I believe you could wear down a holy man. Your beauty has inspired me to write a tale of unrequited love.» He sipped at his tea and smiled sincerely.

«For the love of.» You imbecile, she wanted to scream. «Must it be unrequited? Couldn’t it be more. requited? Returned? Consummated?»

His eyes widened and he rattled his cup on its saucer. «Miss Fiona, I. I can barely imagine. well, I can imagine. I could not dream of. could I?»

«I’m not speaking of hopes and dreams, Mr Fitzgerald. They do very little on a cool fall Aran evening to warm the body.»

Maeve bit at her lip, shocked a bit at herself for her open offer. For the first time in aeons, she waited anxiously for a man’s acceptance as her young beautiful self. The crone in her was quite used to rejection.

Brian stood, took off his spectacles, and ran his hand through his hair. Maeve could practically hear the wheels grinding inside his head, could cut the silence with a knife. He held her gaze and sent her blood racing.

He didn’t make a move, or sound, or even, it seemed, did he breathe. Perhaps he was shy, perhaps he was a lover of men, perhaps. he could actually refuse her. Shame and hurt clutched at Maeve’s heart and she turned to flee. With a strong grip on her elbow and a firm arm around her waist, Brian turned her around and held her still. He smelled of fresh air and sweet pipe tobacco. His burning lustful gaze at her bosom belied the gentle smile pulling at his full lips.

«So, Fiona, you have caught me in a terrible lie.»

«Have I now?»

«I do not care about the cost of your allure, my muse.» He leaned in and brushed his lips gently against hers, setting her skin tingling.

«I am not a muse, Brian.»

«Still, you are enchanting. I care only what Maeve will think of me.»

«She would think you quite the horse’s ass to refuse her granddaughter.» Maeve could stand it no longer, and reached her hands around Brian’s neck, pulling him down for a real kiss. It may as well have been her first kiss, for how it turned her bones to jam and her heart racing in her chest.

Brian’s moans of pleasure drummed through her body as he slashed his tongue against hers and pulled at her lips. He brought his hands down her back and cupped her flesh, none too lightly. The shy would-be novelist was on fire, white-hot and growing more scorching by the second. He fisted her hair and pulled to expose her neck to kisses and nibbles that sent Maeve’s knees wobbling. He whispered her name, his breath hot in her ear.

«Fiona, I would have you, but only with Maeve’s permission to court you. I love the woman and will not dishonour her. No matter the cost to my sanity.» He squirmed and adjusted his trousers, then pulled back.

Maeve could barely breathe. He must be teasing. Maeve’s permission. She wanted to scream. You have Maeve’s permission, you idiot!

«Well, isn’t this a bloody fine twist on enchantment!» She ran from the room, scurried to her bedroom, and locked the door behind her. He did not even follow.

Brian stared at the blank page, wondering if he should get up, go to the cliff, and throw himself into Galway Bay. For he certainly didn’t deserve to go on in this state. Fiona hadn’t thrown herself at him, she’d instead shrunk herself down to the size of a pin and poked at every fibre of his body. Relentlessly. Was this the torture Maeve warned him about? The burning he’d never felt in his life. So complete was her hold on him, his blood ran hot each time he heard movement in the house.

She’d avoided him completely, for two days. Breakfast — undercooked — would be waiting upon his awakening. Tea manifested as if by magic when he returned to his study. He’d wandered the halls, only to see her shadow disappear around a corner.

Now his lust turned to obsession. Now he simply wanted to see her, to speak with her, to learn about her. Why could she not sit in his study and knit as her grandmother had? Could they not go for a stroll on the beach? Did she now find him odious?

The Irish were all insane, but those on Inishmore took first prize. Or, perhaps, as the old salt in the pub had warned him, Maeve, Fiona and Kildooney House were enchanted, and he would not leave the island with his own sanity.

Fiona took his breath away when she suddenly swept into his study with a note in hand, which she slapped on his desk with fervour.

«There, Brian Fitzgerald. There is your permission. You may court me should you find me worthy.»

He stared at the envelope and then back at Fiona. She crossed her arms over her lovely breasts and tapped her foot in annoyance. Brian tentatively opened the envelope and read the note: «Mr Fitzgerald, once again I am sorry that I left suddenly. My sister is doing better. I will return shortly. You may court (or do as you like with) young Fiona. Signed, Maeve MacGearailt.»

What a thing! «Do as you like with.» That didn’t sound like Maeve, but here was her note, in the same hand as the one she’d previously left him. His hand practically shook as he placed the note on the desk and stared at Fiona.

«I know what I want, Brian, so do not look at me so. There is no shame in it. You have your permission. I can be your love or your maid. The decision is yours.»

«As I like your kisses more than your cooking.» He held up his hand as she narrowed her eyes to fiery ice-blue daggers. «That was a joke, Fiona. How did Maeve get a note to me in two days from Galway? You have been here the whole time.»

«Have not.» Fiona flushed and pushed her toes at the carpet, eyes downcast.

«Have too.»

«Maeve is now on Inishmore, visiting another sister in town before returning.»

«How many sisters does Maeve have? Oh, never mind I asked.» Brian thought of the large families in Boston and realized he must sound silly to Fiona. She must already think him the oddity — only child, parentless, aspiring novelist. What did such a woman want with such an uninteresting man?

«How rich do you think I am, Fiona?»

She slapped him. She slapped the smile off his face, and then did it again.

He grabbed her hand to stop a third slap.

«You are the devil himself. You insult my cooking. my grandmother’s cooking and my cooking, you insult my kisses by turning away, and now I’m a drùth? As if I care a whit about your money. I can conjure money from the air and call gold from the sea to wash on to the shore. I can make the skies rain silver and milk emeralds from a cow.»

Her cheeks blazed scarlet and her chest rose and fell quickly with her fury. Brian looked into her eyes and saw she spoke the truth. She could do those things, and more. Icy fingers crawled up and down his spine, and electricity coursed into the hand that clutched her wrist.

«Is that why I fell in love with you the moment I saw you? Because you cast a spell on me?»

«Stupid guraiceach. I could have cast any spell.» She dropped her hand to her side and Brian let go of her wrist. Her eyes softened and she wiped her lips. «Did you say something about love?»

Brian nodded, wondering if she’d slap him again. «It makes no sense, but despite how much I seem to anger you, I feel as if I’ve known you for quite a while.»

«For quite a while?»

«And that underneath that beauty and temper is a wise, strong woman.»

«A wise woman?»

«And strong.»

Fiona’s mouth pulled to the side and a frown creased her brow as she considered his words. Brian’s heart raced as he waited for her to say something, anything, to indicate what she thought of him. He’d offered love to an enchantress, to the most beautiful enchantress ever born, if indeed they were born and didn’t spring from the earth full grown. She would think him an idiot. In fact, she was now looking at him as if he were quite the oaf.

«Would it be best if I return to Boston, Fiona? I would understand. I know not how it became so complicated once Maeve left.» Maeve. How could he leave her as well, and without a word of thanks or care? He would find her in Kilronan.

«Because of my very nature, Brian, I am forbidden to tell you why it is so, but I love you too, not as a stranger.»

The world spun beneath Brian’s feet. No, life did not bring such things to him so easily. Was this part of her enchantment? Again, he gazed into her eyes, searching for the truth, and found it. She loved him.

Enchantment be damned, he thought as he rose from the desk and swept Fiona off her feet. She moaned in pleasure as he kissed her and fumbled up the winding stairs to his bedroom. He plopped her on the bed and her surprise turned to mischief as she wiggled a long finger for him to join her.

What then, Maeve? she asked herself. What happens when you must give the crone equal time, when Brian finds you missing, begins to ask questions, becomes obsessive, grows suspicious and angry? No, put it away, she thought. Take this for yourself.

For a few hours, Brian kissed and caressed away all thought. He stripped her bare with torturous slowness, showering every inch of her skin with his hot kisses and tongue. She returned the favour, again and again, adoring the feel of his strong embrace, the wonderful feel of his skin against hers, the cries of pleasure as she took him into her mouth, into her body. They fell into one another’s secret lives, limbs and burning bodies enmeshed as if they would always be one. Brian was not timid, not awkward, not silly or vain. He was the man of Maeve’s dreams.

They lay in a close embrace, hours later, listening to the wind howl in suggestion of a terrible storm to come. Rain pelted the glass, and the candle flickered with the draught that tore through the old rafters.

Brian caressed Maeve’s hair and kissed her forehead. «Tell me this isn’t the only day I’ll have you like this. Tell me this is the first of many.»

«The first of some, for certain.»

He tilted her chin so their gazes met. «How can I make it go on forever?»

Ah, so there it was. The question she craved and feared, that stabbed at her heart. She turned away, lest he see the answer.

A terrible pounding at the front door startled them from their embrace. They both sat up and Maeve scrambled into her dress.

«Oh, let them knock,» Brian said, pulling her back down.

«It will take only a moment.»

He sighed and pulled on his trousers, followed her down the staircase and stood behind her as she unbolted the front door. A young man, soaked from the rain, stepped in and fretted with his cap.

«Why, Padraig, what brings you from town?»

«I do not know you, miss. I was hoping Maeve was about?» He looked past her at Brian, and his eyes widened.

Brian stepped forward. «Come in, lad. Maeve is in Kilronan.»

Maeve stepped in front of Brian. «Oh, I think she went back to Galway. She will be a while.»

«Then it’s true!» Padraig troubled more with his cap and looked to Brian. «Sir, I am sorry to be the one to say so, but the ferry has floundered in the storm.»

Maeve’s heart raced. She would surely know someone on that ferry.

«The fishermen have recovered most aboard, and they are well, or will be. But one old lady. who looked like Maeve MacGearailt.»

«What!» Brian pulled his sweater from the coat rack and slipped on his boots while Maeve and Padraig stared.

«I must go. Fiona, you stay here, out of harm’s way.»

«It’s not her, Brian.» Maeve pulled at Brian’s sleeve and snapped at Padraig to leave.

«It could be her. They named her, Fiona. And you said she was crossing to Galway or back from Galway, which was it?»

«Do not go, Brian, I beg you. The fishermen are putting themselves at great risk to search, and I cannot lose you.»

«Ah, sweet girl. I will be fine. But we must find your grandmother. Please, God, let it not be her. Let no one be hurt.» He made the sign of the cross and pushed Fiona firmly aside.

«If you love me, you will not go.»

Brian hesitated, then took her hand and kissed it. «I do love you, and I will still go. What kind of man would I be if I stayed to please one woman when another I love is in danger? I love Maeve too, Fiona. I trust that you understand that.»

«No, please. She is an old lady, it is her time.»

«How could you say such a thing? You cannot mean it. You are trying to trick me. Fiona, I could not live with myself. Please, sit and wait. I will return, I promise.»

«You love her as much as you love me?» Maeve cried openly, so frustrated at the ridiculous, needless risk her beloved was taking.

«Yes, I do. Differently, of course.»

Maeve nodded and gave up, turned her back on Brian and wept as he rushed out the door. So, she might lose him to the sea, and needlessly. «Goddess, protect him.»

A sudden thought brought her to her feet. If she showed Brian and the rest that Maeve was alive and well, they would call off the search! She closed her eyes and chanted to bring on the change.

And waited.

It must be her anxiety, she thought. Come on with it! This time, she added a prayer to the chant and ran to the mirror.

«Oh!» Maeve fell to her knees and wept like a babe. The crone and maiden were joined, forever. The power lifted, the curse broken, all by the love of one man.

Brian returned, soaked, happy to have helped to rescue ancient Mrs O’Connell from the sea. Well, truth be told, he’d been fairly useless, only helping to clear onlookers as the fishermen carried the old lady to safety. Maeve was indeed safe with her sister or sisters, as all aboard the ferry were now accounted for.

«Fiona!» He called out, running from room to room when she didn’t answer.

He found her sitting in his study, knitting the sweater that Maeve had begun for him, needles clacking. She smiled up at him.

«It was not Maeve! All are safe. Your grandmother is not harmed.»

«I know, Brian.»

«Who told you?» He sat in his chair, dripping on to the floor.

«Why don’t you put a page in that machine of yours? I have a story to tell you.»