The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

Sue-Ellen Welfonder The Seventh Sister

Howth Village, Ireland — twelve years ago

Maggie Gleason, American tourist, self-declared adventurist and soon-to-be college student, stepped off the bus from Dublin and straight into her dreams. At last, she was following 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 still and simply absorbed. Without doubt, she’d never experienced a moment more thrilling.

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, full 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 wall, 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 filling 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 yellowed pictures of Howth in her grandmother’s old photo albums.

She was someone who belonged.

Above her, a seagull 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 tall, dark-haired young man working on one of the boats in the harbour. The boat — a sturdy, blue-hulled craft called 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 rolling clouds and she caught a glimpse of his sky-blue eyes, she really 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’ll see, Maggie girl. The glory of Ireland isn’t just the green of our hills and the blue of the sea. Nor is it all 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 fullness of our hearts. The way we can move forward when we must, yet still keep our traditions alive.»

Maggie blinked and swallowed, 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 collie 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 colliding 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 full of warmth. And if her clothes were a bit old-fashioned, her small 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. «Well, 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 college. And, yes, Ireland does feel like home.» She didn’t feel silly 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’ll not be finding a soul in the land who’ll tell you different. It’s a truth we all 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 called 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 filled 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-smelling 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 tell of the Seven Sisters?» She cocked her head again, her eyes almost eager. «The stone circle up on the hill 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’ll 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.

«All ancient places have a touch o’ enchantment.» The woman spoke as if such things were real. «The Seven Sisters aren’t well 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 follow the path up the hill. 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’ll spot it easy enough.»

«You’re sure?»

«Look for where the roses tumble over a break in the stone wall behind the pub.» The old woman winked. «Once you slip through there, you’ll find your way just fine.»

«Well.» Maggie turned up her jacket collar. 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-walled 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 all 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 hill. So she crossed the road and nipped behind Flanagan’s. She saw the gap in the wall right away. Dusky pink roses spilled 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 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.

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?»

«They’re neither.» Maggie reached for the teapot and poured them both a cup. «The Seven Sisters are a stone circle. You can see them there»— she twisted around, indicating a section of the mural near the tea room’s gift shop «—just above the little harbour and its fishing boats.»

Darcy peered across the room, her eyes narrowing on the silvery stones, rising eerily from a swirl of mist. «But there are only six of them. You said»—

«The Seven Sisters, I know.» Maggie sipped her tea, welcoming its soothing tang. «They’re called that because there once were seven sisters. Now»—

«I feel a tall tale coming.» Darcy reached for her own teacup, her lips twitching. «I just don’t understand why you’ve never mentioned it before, seeing as you painted the stone circle on my wall.»

«There is a legend, yes.» The words caught in Maggie’s throat. Even now, it was so hard to speak of the place. «But it’s very sad and»—

«All good Irish legends are sad.»

«This one is different.» Maggie felt the skin on her nape prickle, then a stab of deep longing inside her. «I think this story is real because I’ve been there and have felt the power of those stones. The circle shimmers in the air, I swear. And once you’ve stood there.» She bit her lip, pausing. Heat was swelling in her chest, clamping around her ribs like a vice. It was the yearning, she knew. And just now, it was sweeping her so fiercely she could hardly breathe.

«I have to go back, Darcy.» She curled her fingers around her teacup, feeling the cold grit of ancient stone instead of the delicacy of tea-warmed porcelain. «We both know I’m obsessed with Ireland. But my life is here, whether I like that or not. I need to undo whatever spell those Sisters cast on me. I’m turning thirty. It’s time to move on.»

«So who were the Sisters?» Darcy was watching her over the rim of her teacup.

«They were the seven daughters of a lesser Irish king who lived in the days when the Vikings first began raiding Ireland.» Maggie closed her eyes, returning in her mind to that distant, windswept cliff. «Though some legends claim the Sisters are even older than that, going back to a hoary time perhaps even before the coming of the fabled Tuatha Dé Danann.»

«The King loved all his daughters, but there was one he favoured above the others. She was the youngest and also the sweetest. Men in all the land vied for her hand, but her father would see her wed to none but the great champion he loved like a son — for the young warrior had once saved the king’s life in battle.»

Maggie peered at her friend, not surprised to see Darcy scoot her chair closer. «Many of the other kings and their sons were disappointed by the King’s choice, but everyone understood, for the valiant warrior had a good and noble heart. He was also said to have been so handsome that even the stars in heaven envied his beauty.»

«You’re making this up.» Darcy refreshed Maggie’s tea. «But it’s a lovely tale.»

«It is. And I’m telling you the legend exactly as it was told to me.»

«And who would it be who told you. Hmm?»

«Someone who lives near the stones.» The truth slipped out before Maggie could catch herself. «Someone I met on my college trip to Ireland.»

«Would that someone be a man?» Darcy twinkled at her.

Maggie stirred milk into her tea, ignoring the grin spreading across her friend’s face. «It was a man, yes. Ireland is full of them, you know. And they’re all born storytellers. They enjoy sharing their tales with visitors. They»— Maggie glanced at the window, sure she’d caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. But nothing stirred except the mist curling above the smooth surface of the duck pond. «You’ve sidetracked me.» She turned back to Darcy. «Do you want to hear the rest of the legend or not?»

«Of course, I do.»

Maggie took a deep breath, fighting the urge to look out the window again. «Well,» she began, remembering, «the wedding day approached and the King ordered preparations made for a grand feasting the likes of which had never been seen in his small but mighty kingdom. The bride thought her heart would burst with happiness. She’d always feared she’d be made to wed a king or prince whose land would be far from her father’s and she loved her home dearly and dreaded having to leave. She’d also fallen deeply in love with the young champion who was to be her husband. But as often happens when life seems so good, the young girl’s happiness was about shatter.»

«Her champion dies.» Darcy made the words a statement. «And she pines away until she’s an embittered old woman, mourning her lost love forever.»

«That’s close, but not quite how it was.»

«Then what did happen?»

Maggie slid a glance at the window again, unable to help herself. Nothing sinister or faelike lurked in the drifting mist. But there was an elderly woman down by the pond. She moved slowly along the water’s edge, feeding the ducks from a brown paper bag. She didn’t look Maggie’s way, but something about her sent a chill down Maggie’s spine.

«Hey!» Darcy poked her arm. «I’m waiting. How does the story end?»

Maggie reached for her teacup, needing a bracing sip. «According to the legend, sea raiders landed on the eve of the wedding. The King and his men and all their guests were taken by surprise, the raiders storming into the hall in the middle of the celebrations. Many of the King’s men and his friends were slain, including the valiant young warrior. But the bards claim he fought ferociously, once again saving the King’s life, this time through the giving of his own.»

«Of the girl’s fate, nothing can be told. She was seized by the attackers and carried away from Ireland in one of their war galleys. No one ever saw her again.»

«Damn, that’s sad.» A frown creased Darcy’s brow. «Now I know why I read so many romance novels. You’re always guaranteed a happy ending. Wait»— she looked at Maggie sharply, the furrow on her forehead deepening «—you still haven’t told me why the stone circle is called the Seven Sisters.»

«Ah, but I have.» Maggie glanced across the room to her painted likeness of the stones. «The King’s daughter is the seventh sister. The stones are named in her honour and in memory of the six sisters who never forgot her. In fact, it’s said that they spent so much time standing on the cliff, looking out to the western sea and grieving for her, that their sorrow turned them to stone.»

«So that’s why there are only six stones?»

«That’s how I heard the tale.»

«Well, I’ll never walk into the gift shop now without glancing at those stones on the wall and feeling a shiver.» Darcy stood, smoothing her frilled white apron. «Now, dear heart, I’d better get back into my kitchen. I’ll have someone bring you more colcannon»— she snatched Maggie’s unfinished portion off the table «—you’ve let this turn cold.»

Maggie watched her stride away, expertly manoeuvring a path through the crowded, linen-draped tables to the back of the tea room. Any other time, Maggie would have smiled. She loved her friend and was proud of her success. The Cabbage Rose was one of those irresistibly cosy places, bursting with character and charm. There wasn’t a corner that didn’t delight the eye of those who appreciated the appeal of quaintness. It was a rare day that Maggie visited without the tea room’s magic banishing her cares.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of those times.

It’d been a mistake to tell Darcy about the Seven Sisters. Doing so had only set loose a cascade of painful memories. And even Darcy’s delicious colcannon and her perfectly brewed Irish breakfast tea wasn’t enough to get Maggie’s mind off the part of the tale she’d kept to herself.

Like how she’d lost her heart to a black-haired, blue-eyed Irishman on her long-ago trip to Ireland and how they’d spent her last night on Irish soil making love on the cold, damp grass in the centre of the Seven Sisters.

Then, as now, it was raining, she remembered, as she stepped out of the Cabbage Rose. She paused beneath the tea room’s covered back porch, debating whether she should make a run for her car or wait until the deluge lessened. Not that rain ever really bothered her.

Actually, she loved it.

But something was niggling at her.

And whatever it was lifted the fine hairs on her nape and filled her with an odd reluctance to move or even think about anything else until she could pinpoint what was making her all shivery.

Frustrated, she stared out into the rain. The mist was thicker now and drifted across the meadow in great, billowing curtains so that she could barely see the trees on the far side of the duck pond.

She focused on the dark, rain-pitted water, trying to concentrate.

Her heart gave a lurch. «Oh, God!» She raised trembling hands to her face, pressing them hard against her cheeks. It can’t be. The words froze on her tongue, denial holding them there.

But she’d seen what she’d seen, even if it had taken her till now to remember.

There was something odd about the old woman feeding ducks by the pond.

She’d worn small black boots with red plaid laces.

Howth village, Ireland: Flanagan’s on the Waterfront

Conall Flanagan was in trouble.

His Celtic blood smelled it as soon as he’d spotted the wizened old woman sitting in a darkened corner, sipping a glass of whiskey. The woman wasn’t local, yet she also wasn’t a tourist. From the looks of her, she could have been every Irishman’s grandmother. Or, judging by the old-fashioned black clothes she wore, perhaps even every Irishman’s great-great-great-grandmother.

Although her red plaid boot laces were a little trendy.

But it wasn’t her outlandish appearance that bothered Conall. It was his certainty that he hadn’t noticed her enter the pub. He was also sure he hadn’t poured her whiskey.

Something wasn’t right. He could feel it in his bones, with or without a strange old lady sipping a drink he hadn’t served her and who apparently favoured red plaid bootlaces.

He really knew it when the door of the pub flew open and his life-long friend Morgan Mahoney burst in on a blast of chill, damp air. Conall set down the pint glass he’d been polishing and waited. Morgan yanked off his waterproofs and hung the dripping jacket on a peg by the door. His face was as dark as the cold, rainy night he’d just escaped.

Not that anyone could be blamed for a sour mood when the wind howled like banshees and the seas churned and boiled as if the little harbour had been spell-cast into the devil’s own cauldron.

It was wild weather, not fit for man or beast.

But inside Flanagan’s, it was cheery and warm. A turf fire glowed in the old stone fireplace, filling the pub’s long, narrow main room with the earthy-rich tang of peat. The delicious smell of fried herring wafted from the kitchen, tempting palates. And the heavy black ceiling rafters glistened with age, reminding patrons that this was a place where time and tradition were honoured.

Those who spent their evenings at Flanagan’s liked it that way.

This night, several local fiddlers had claimed a corner, their bows flying as they played a lively reel, much to the delight of the appreciative crowd. No one cared how hard the rain beat against the windows or how many bolts of lightning flashed across the sky.

But heads did turn as Morgan elbowed his way to the bar, his scowl worsening with each long-legged stride.

Morgan Mahoney was a man known for his belly-deep laughs and smiles.

Just now he looked ready to murder.

«Gone daft, have you?» He grabbed the edge of the bar and leaned forwards, glaring at Conall. «I’m thinking all those years in the hot Spanish sun fried your brain! Or am I home asleep in my own fine bed just now, having a nightmare? Only dreaming that I heard you»—

«If you mean the farm»— Conall knew at once why his friend was upset «—the rumours are true. I’m putting the old place up for sale and all the land with it. I haven’t yet chosen an estate agent, but»—

«You’re mad, you are!» Morgan’s hazel eyes snapped with fury. «Flanagan’s have held that land for centuries. Longer! And the house.» He raised his voice, seemingly unaware that the pub had gone silent. «That farm isn’t just where you sleep and eat, laddie. It’s where you come from. Your parents will be turning in their graves.»

Conall looked at his friend’s angry, wind-beaten face — at all the well-loved faces turned his way — and bit back the only answer that would have chased the unspoken accusation from their eyes.

If he didn’t put the past behind him, he’d soon be in his own grave.

Regret and the impossible yearning for a woman he hadn’t seen in years and couldn’t ever call his own, would put him there.

And much as he’d always shared with Morgan Mahoney and the well-meaning locals crowding the pub — Howth was that kind of place — his feelings for Maggie Gleason were his own.

He wasn’t going to pour out his heart on this black autumn night. No one needed to know how fiercely he wished he’d never chased his youthful dream to run an Irish tavern on the sun-baked coast of Andalucia. Or that the adventure had cost him so much more than toil, hardship and the eventual shame of admitting failure.

Flanagans kept their troubles to themselves. He wasn’t going to be the one to break family tradition.

He nodded at the fiddlers, signalling them to take up their tune. They did, and his patrons returned to their craic. The noise level in the busy, smoke-hazed pub quickly reached its usual level.

Only Morgan refused to pretend nothing was amiss. He set a fisted hand on the bar counter, ignoring the pint Conall set before him. «What about your brother and your sisters? They’ll never agree»—

«Do you think they care?» That they didn’t, twisted Conall’s innards. But that sorrow, too, he kept to himself. «You know my brother moved to Australia decades ago.» He reached for the perfectly good pint Morgan wasn’t touching and took a healthy swig. «Two of my sisters married Scots and are now in Glasgow. And Kate»— his heart squeezed when he thought of his youngest sister who, in his view, worked way too hard «—has her hands full with her own family, up in Donegal. You know they run a farm three times the size of our old home place. They take in guests, too.»

Conall’s aging collie, Booley, padded out of the kitchen then and came to stand beside him. The dog pressed his black and white bulk against Conall’s legs and swished his tail. He looked up hopefully, expecting Conall to tear open a packet of bar crisps and give him a few. They were Booley’s favourite treats.

But Conall simply reached down and rubbed the disappointed dog’s ears.

He’d give Booley a big bowl of minced beef later. He’d even crumble a handful of crisps on top of the mince. But first he needed to deflect Morgan’s prying and steer the nosy bastard from a topic that left Conall feeling like he’d been cut off at the knees.

«Is that all you have to say?» Morgan proved his stubbornness. «Kate’s busy and the others are scattered to the winds?»

«If you’d hear the truth»— Conall continued to stroke Booley’s head «—my siblings don’t have the right to object. I bought them out years ago, when I was still in Almeria and Fiddlesticks was doing well. They might not be happy about my decision, but»—

«It still isn’t right.» Somehow Morgan had come around behind the bar. «You can’t sell ground that is sacred. What about the Seven Sisters?»

Conall flinched. The name sent images whirling across his mind. A wild, dark night full of wind and rain, then a beautiful young girl linking her fingers with his, her eyes shining as she leaned in to kiss him. He remembered how he’d clutched her to him, kissing her frantically even as they’d ripped off their clothes. He’d swept her into his arms and carried her into the centre of the stone circle, rain sluicing down their naked bodies, the wind buffeting them as he lowered her to the cold, wet grass where.

Conall scrubbed a hand over his face, forcing the memories to fade. They withdrew slowly, the last one a painful echo of Maggie’s words. I could stay here for ever. In this place, loving you.

It’d been her last night in Ireland.

And he’d known it would break her heart to leave.

But he and his Two Jigs mates had already poured their savings into a cheap, much-in-need-of-repair pub on the beach at Almeria. They’d renamed the tavern Fiddlesticks. And with the arrogance of youth, they were sure the venture would bring them a fortune. British tourists would flock to an authentic Irish pub offering good, reasonably priced bar food, fine spirits and nightly music. Locals would appreciate a change from the tapas bars.

Fiddlesticks had done well, as they’d believed.

Until a thousand other Irish expats had the same idea and business dwindled.

Conall frowned and finished the pint he’d poured for Morgan, downing the remaining ale in one long gulp. It didn’t chase away the frustration that was forming a cold hard knot in his gut. Gnawing anger because, he knew, even without Fiddlesticks, he wouldn’t have asked Maggie to stay.

She’d been about to start college.

No one in his family had ever achieved a college degree. He could not have been the cause for her to turn her back on such an opportunity. He curled his hand around the empty pint glass, his scowl deepening.

They’d just been too damned young.

«Well?» Morgan poked his arm. «Don’t think I’m going away until you answer me. What of the Seven Sisters? Would you just abandon them?»

Conall drew a tight breath. «They won’t crumble if I can’t see them from my bedroom window.» He cast an irritated glance at Booley. The old dog hadn’t even growled when Morgan had all but punched him.

Looking back to Morgan, he aimed for a light tone. «You’re worrying for nothing. Those stones are older than time. They stood long before a Flanagan ever came to these parts and they’ll go on standing when someone else’s name is scrawled on a land deed.»

«Humph.» Morgan snorted. «We both know what happens when incomers get their hands on prime land in areas popular with tourists.»

Booley whined.

«See?» Morgan flashed a triumphant smile. «Even he knows the way of it.»

«He wants crisps.»

«And you?» Morgan’s hand shot out again, this time gripping Conall’s elbow. «What do you want?»

Again, Booley didn’t raise a hackle.

«Bloody peace is what I want.» Conall jerked free and turned away from them both. «You should know I’ll not be selling the place to some greedy developer who’ll smother the cliffs beneath a five-star American-style hotel.»

He looked out across the pub, waiting for Morgan to argue. Rain still blew past the windows and although the fiddlers were performing a lively rendition of «The Irish Washerwoman», he could hear the thunder of the sea, booming just steps beyond Flanagan’s thick, smoke-blackened walls. Lightning still cracked across the heavens and a full white moon was just sailing behind thick, dark clouds.

It was the kind of night Maggie Gleason would have called exhilarating.

Magical.

She’d understood such things.

And he was a fool to grieve for her. They’d shared the same path for only two weeks. Yet those fourteen days had felt like a thousand years. When he’d followed her up the hill and she’d whirled to face him in the rhododendron wood, it wasn’t like a first meeting. It was recognition. As if their souls had run together forever and had found each other again at last.

They’d been so perfectly suited.

And he’d let her go.

«A monster-sized resort isn’t the only threat.» Persistent as always, Morgan appeared at his elbow. «Have you not heard how many big developers use harmless-seeming chaps as buyers these days? They want you to think you’re selling to another farmer who’ll keep things as they are. Then, lo, some inflated arse in a suit arrives in a sleek black car, waving planning permission and telling you there’ll soon be a new community of executive homes covering land you thought would remain empty!»

Conall stiffened. «I won’t let that happen.»

«You might not be able to prevent it. Unless you give up this fool notion and don’t sell.»

«My decision is made. I’ve already started cleaning out the storerooms above the pub. I’ll be staying here as soon as I’ve made the loft habitable.» He gazed out across the crowd, not wanting to see his friend’s face. «It’s not like I’m selling Flanagan’s.»

«Then what is it? Do you need the money?»

«It has nothing to do with my finances.» Under different circumstances, Conall would have laughed. Flanagan’s was the best-doing pub in Howth. In the few years since he’d returned from Spain and the Fiddlesticks disaster, he’d earned back his losses threefold.

«I won’t be keeping the money.» He paused, watching Morgan’s surprise. «I’m putting most of it in a college trust for my nieces and nephews. The rest»— he shot a glance at Booley, winding his way through the busy tables, hoping for a cuddle or a treat «—is going to my favourite dog rescue organization.»

«Then some woman has influenced you.» Morgan’s eyes narrowed. «Not that I’ve seen you with one for years.»

«It has nothing to do with a woman.» The lie sent heat shooting up the back of Conall’s neck. Equally annoying, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Booley sitting beside the old woman in the corner. She was feeding him crisps. «Damnation.» Conall snapped his gaze away. Something about the woman gave him the willies.

«I’ve got it!» Morgan slapped his forehead. «It’s her. The American.»

Conall nearly choked. «What American? Howth is full of them.»

«You know damned well who I mean.» Somehow Morgan knew. «You’re selling out because you’re going after her, to Pennsylvania. Isn’t that where she was from? Her with the hair like a ‘cascade of fire’ and skin so ‘dewy and soft’ you swore just the memory of holding her would drive you mad. Maggie Gleason.» Morgan grinned, looking pleased.

Conall glowered. «Maggie Gleason was twelve years ago.» That, at least, was true. «And I am not going to America. Not for her, not for a holiday, not for any reason. But I will hear how the hell you know about her?»

«Right, well.» Morgan examined his knuckles. «Can it be you’ve forgotten a certain old box carved of bog oak that you kept under your bed? Maybe you should have burned its contents when you went to Spain, knowing your mother would set your sisters to tidying your room after you’d gone. Kate found the box and»— Morgan glanced up, his lips twitching «—it could be your sisters showed me a few love letters you wrote yet never posted.»

«You read those letters?» Conall’s blood boiled. If he weren’t standing behind the bar of his pub, if they were anywhere else, he’d lunge at Morgan and beat him to a pulp. «Those scribblings were my private property. They were locked in a chest beneath»—

«Your sisters took turns with a hairpin until they picked the lock.»

Conall shoved a hand through his hair, furious. «Who else saw the letters?»

«Well.» Morgan considered. «I’d guess only your sisters and your mother. Your sisters found the box. And your mother caught your sisters going through its contents. She burned the letters, if I recall rightly.»

«And where do you come into it?»

«I was just there that day.»

«Sure and you were, sweet as you were on my sisters back then.» Conall reached beneath the bar and produced one of his best bottles of whiskey. He poured a measure and tossed it back quickly. «Or»— he set the glass on the counter and wiped his mouth «—were you after mooching one of my mother’s famous bramble pies?»

«That could’ve been a reason, too.» Morgan shrugged. «It was long ago.»

«Damned right, it was.»

«So you’re not going to America?»

«No.» Conall frowned.

«But you’re still in love with her.» Morgan was eyeing him speculatively. «You wouldn’t be so riled if you weren’t.»

«I forgot her years ago,» Conall bluffed, returning the whiskey bottle to its shelf. «And I’m annoyed because I have better things to do on such a busy night than listen to your nonsensical blether.»

«Tell me why you never looked her up and I’ll leave.»

«Because»— Conall’s head was going to explode «—I don’t believe in poking into the business of people I haven’t seen or heard from in years. For all I know, she could be married with a half-dozen children by now.»

«And if she weren’t?»

«Then she could have come searching for me, don’t you think? She’s always known where to find me. She could’ve contacted my parents. Someone could have put her in touch with me, even when I was in Almeria. But»— bitterness rose in Conall’s throat «—she never made the effort.»

«Some might say you didn’t either, my friend.» Morgan bent to fetch Conall’s bottle of prize whiskey. «I’m thinking you didn’t deserve her.»

«You’re an ass, Mahoney.» Conall watched his friend fill a generous glass. «I’m not surprised my sisters wanted nothing to do with you. You’re»— Conall snapped his mouth shut, his gaze on the table in the corner.

The old woman was gone.

Her empty whiskey glass still sat there. And Booley sprawled nearby, enjoying the warmth of the hearth fire. A crumpled crisps packet on the table indicated why the dog looked so content.

That was all.

Conall blinked, disbelieving.

Sure, the woman had been odd. But never in all his years as a publican had he been stiffed by a little old lady. There could be no other explanation. If she’d just slipped away to the loo, he would have seen her. Flanagan’s comforts were down a short hall at the back of the pub.

Frowning, Conall left the bar and strode across the room. He was almost to the deserted table when he spotted something green and glittery winking at him from beside the empty crisps packet.

It was a shamrock brooch.

The pin twinkled at him, its emerald brilliance almost blinding. He stepped closer, intending to put the trinket behind the bar until the old woman returned. But when he reached to pick it up, the brooch vanished in a swirl of green and white sparkles.

Conall froze, staring.

At the hearthside, Booley barked and wagged his tail.

It was then that Conall saw the sweet wrapper. Crinkled and made of shiny green foil, it peered up at him from the exact spot where he’d seen the brooch.

The shamrock pin he’d imagined.

And he’d done so because Morgan — as so often — had annoyed him to the brink of madness.

Pushing the shamrock and his friend from his mind, Conall snatched the wrapper and the empty crisps packet. He also picked up the old woman’s empty whiskey glass. She wouldn’t be back after all, and good riddance.

But if he’d glanced over his shoulder as he stomped back to the bar, he might just have seen a shimmer of her sitting there still.

She was, of course.

And she was smiling for she knew what he didn’t.

Maggie Gleason was on her way.

It was the same.

Maggie stepped from the Dublin bus and took a steadying breath. Howth hadn’t changed. If anything, the harbour village appeared even more dear than in her memories. Her calming breaths weren’t helping. She was trembling and although she prided herself on not being a woman who burst into tears at the drop of a hat, she had to blink to banish the heat pricking her eyes.

She’d come here to rid herself of old hurts, not to be enchanted anew. Yet as soon as the bus had swept into Howth’s curving Harbour Road, she knew she’d been kidding herself.

This was her place.

And, painful or not, being here was a homecoming.

To o 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 sea wall, 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 harbour. 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 harbour tossed and danced, with the waves smacking the sea wall, 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, savouring 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 harbour 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. To o 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 cosiness 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 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 lengthened 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 onwards 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-grey threads of it rolled across the ground, curling around her ankles, pulling her onwards.

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 1,000 aeons. 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.

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 pressed 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 forwards, 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 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.