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.

Two

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.