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.

Three

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.